by Barry Sadler
On their return to the hold of Helsfjord, Casca had many hours in which to learn of how Corio had come to his unhappy condition. The little man was a habitual gambler, a disease that afflicted many Romans. The only ones Casca had ever met that were worse than the Romans were the Arabs. Corio had been legally sold to settle the debts owed his creditors. An official ruling from the magistrate at Ostia had been forwarded to the shipyards of Massilia where Corio had been on a subcontracting job laying the keels for a couple of fat merchantmen. Without any fuss he had been duly informed of his changed status and sold the next day to the trader Decius, who was even then on his way to the frontier.
Corio's pudgy face flushed from the strain of using so many muscles he never knew he had, climbing up one crest only to go down and find another awaiting him even more rugged than the previous one. But there was one bright spot when Casca told him he could have his freedom after three years, or sooner if he could save enough to pay him back the money spent on his purchase. All in all, Corio felt he had been lucky in having the Roman barbarian purchase him - not that he had any choice in the matter. So there was no sense of being lost when he finally saw the gray stone walls of Helsfjord. Quickly he had learned that his new master and his friendly giant weren't going to hurt him. In fact, he felt less like a slave and more like one being invited to visit old friends, and he was anxious to meet the Lady Lida.
Chapter Eleven
Besides the great expanse across the Rhine known as Germania, there were also the lands bordering the Danube, that sister river of the Rhine, which ran thirteen hundred miles until it reached the Euxine Sea. Along its banks were found the savage lands of Thetia, Pannonia, Dalmatia, Dacia, Moesia, Thrace, and Macedon. Some of these lands had inhabitants that still savored the taste of human flesh. Others were remnants of ancient cultures far older than Rome that still influenced their lifestyles, such as Macedonia from which the noble Alexander derived his heritage.
The empire had brought much to the world, and even now was contributing greatly to the project of providing a modicum of civilization to those within its borders. The barbarians across the frontiers looked with envy upon the acquisitions of those that had placed their allegiance with the Eagles and had sworn fealty to the emperor of the world. While the barbarians hungered for their wealth, they also despised them for surrendering their pride and letting the Romans rule over them. Wealth flowed in a never-ending stream into the ports and cities of the empire.
Furs from Scythia, carpets from distant Babylon, the wealth of a thousand subject peoples filled the coffers of the imperial city of the Caesars. Trade goods came even from lands so distant that most thought them only to be myths.
Every year on the summer solstice, a fleet of ships would set their sails from Myos-hormos in Egypt to follow the winds that would carry them to the far island of Malabar, where they would trade for the wealth of the Orient. They brought back jade, precious stones, rare animals for the arena, and most valuable of all, silk. A pound of the fine material was equal in value to a pound of gold. In December or January, the ships would set sail again to let the changing currents of the winds return them home, from whence their previous cargo would eventually find its way to the bazaars and markets of Rome itself.
Trade was the life blood of the empire. Without it, the boundaries of the empire would soon have shrunk until it contained no more than the Seven Hills of Rome itself. One may take a land by conquest, but it cannot be held long without trade. Rome had not started out to be master of the world. She had only wanted to provide herself with secure borders. But she found that every time she conquered a savage or hostile land and absorbed it into the framework of her own empire, there was always another savage or hostile land lying just beyond. In order to secure the peace of the lands she had just acquired, she would have to fight and conquer those on the new frontiers.
In comparison, Casca's small lands were poor, but he was satisfied, and indeed would have preferred not to have even the responsibility he did. The dreams of conquest and dynasty were not his. He knew he was not the stuff kings are made of. In his heart and mind, he was still a common soldier and was content with the things a soldier found pleasurable - a little wine from time to time, a roll in the hay with a willing wench, and a little time to occasionally lie in the sun and sleep. The business of ruling a small tribe was almost more than he could deal with. So he ruled as a simple soldier with few rules other than common sense. He was smart enough to know that what the Romans thought of as the good life would destroy his people. Strange, but he did think of them as his people. They were just simple folk with rough rules of honor and justice. They would not have the immunities to corruption that one would inherit if he was brought up in the cities of the empire. It was best for him to keep as much distance between them as he could from the civilizing influences of Rome. The rot would come soon enough without him helping it any. He had no desire to affect the mantle of greatness, but fate always forced him into a path he would have preferred to avoid. He was content to be himself and no more.
But in Rome, the new emperor had a maggot that ate at his soul. Casca knew he came from common clay. The Emperor Maximim wore a heavy crown. Corio, the shipbuilder, had brought Casca up to date as best he could on what had transpired in the empire since he had crossed the Rhine those long years ago, and the news was not good.
Rome was decaying from the inside even faster than he had thought she would. He had first seen the rot setting in when he had served under the Eagles of Avidius Cassius in Persia. In the last thirty years, there had been twelve emperors in Rome, and most had lasted no more than a year or two and some only a matter of days or weeks.
Currently the new master of the world was one Maximim. Born of the barbarian races, he now ruled over the noble bloodlines of the senate by virtue of his favor with the army, who had put him on the throne after watching the empire being sold to the highest bidder by the praetorian guards. They'd decided that Rome would be best served by one of their own - a soldier who had risen from the ranks and had proven his courage in battle fighting shoulder to shoulder along with them. The fact that he was not of fine and noble blood they considered to be in his favor. Maximim's mother was of the tribes of the Alani and his father was a Goth. During the reigns of Septimus and his son Severus, he had attained the high rank of centurion, but the raw sore of frustrated ambition always lay in the back of his thoughts. He'd waited patiently, building his reputation with the legions. Eating their food, and living in the same tents that sheltered the most common of his soldiers, he'd built a bond between him and the legion that he knew would one day serve him well. He waited, biding his time as emperors were assassinated or replaced, knowing the legions were growing ever more discontent with the weak selections of the senate and praetorians.
When Severus had returned from the Persian wars to conduct a new campaign against the German tribes, he had met with Maximim, then Commander of the Ninth Legion, on the banks of the Rhine.
There, when the troops were passing in review, the legion spontaneously, or so it seemed, proclaimed Maximim emperor and proved their devotion to him by murdering Alexander Severus. Maximim was emperor, but the knowledge of his common blood ate at him and he soon set about eliminating anyone who could remind him of his less than noble lineage. While affecting the manners of the nobility in public, he still had the rough courage and temperament of his barbarian mother and father, and proved it time and again, not hesitating to proscribe on any pretext any who got in his way. He knew his power rested on the spears of the legions, and so he set about securing their loyalties even more by giving them donatives of money that they hadn't earned by service in battle. But Maximim forgot that when one gives money to a man who hasn't earned it, the man will take it, but will also grow to despise the giver as well as himself; and it's easier to get rid of the giver than eliminate oneself. It's also a lot less painful.
Maximim's biggest screw-up was when he set to melting down the statues of past emperors
. That he might have gotten away with. But when he took to melting down the statues of the holy gods of Olympus and Rome itself, he went too far. When you get the priests after your ass, you don't last long in this world. He could order a man's wife and children sold into slavery to settle a debt. That wasn't too bad; the man would just usually grumble and bitch about it for a while. But when you messed with his gods, you'd find your ass in a sling soon enough, with the priests whipping it rather soundly. There have been few in history who ever survived the wrath of a righteous priest who has had his easy living taken away.
Casca shook his head and poured another mug of mulled wine spiced with a few bits of rare cloves for himself and Corio. Casca sipped, swallowed, and wondered. Why do men seek that which will destroy them? What is the drive that forces man to seek power over the bodies of even his friends and family, when they should know from history that the same power that they will hold so fleetingly will lead not only to their destruction, but to that of their own children and comrades. It would be better to have a small holding where one could watch his children, as well as his fields and herds, grow tall and strong in the sun, instead of having to worry about seeing them cut down before his eyes by those seeking to replace him on some decaying seat of senseless power.
Corio agreed with Casca's sentiments exactly. Bidding him good night, he stumbled off to his chambers to sleep off what he knew would be a bad head in the morning.
Chapter Twelve
Casca set about reforming the small group of warriors that served him. He kept forty warriors on full-time duty for the security of the hold and the valley.
They also served as a backup force for any of the villages that might come under attack. There were four villages in his valley and about two thousand people that paid him fealty. Out of that two thousand, he could field four hundred warriors if the need arose. That included males from sixteen to fifty. Casca restored the villagers the right of enforcing their own civil laws by the ancient tradition of a council of elders. He reserved the right of appeal for himself and was the only one able to pass down a judgment of death.
The villages were run under the tradition of village ownership of the tillable land. Each year, the elders would meet and decide how much each family needed for its purposes. The houses were mostly of stone and thatch. Many of them were half under the ground, this serving to keep out the worst of the winter chill. They were a tough people with rough rules of honor and chivalry. Of slaves, there were few. Casca himself only owned a half dozen.
His best acquisition was Corio, the Roman shipbuilder, who helped redesign the shallow draft fishing boats and make them better able to deal with the wild currents and storms of the northern waters.
The older warriors were hard to train in new methods. Too long they had fought in the manner of their fathers. Like most of the barbarian tribes, they had little or no armor and went into battle protected at best with shields of wicker or wood with metal rims. Most of their swords were poor things of iron. Casca had more than once, in battle on the Rhine, seen a barbarian have to stop and try to straighten out his blade by placing his foot on it and bending it. The only blades of any worth were sold by traders and were jealously guarded by their fortunate owners. There were still quite a few of the old bronze swords with leaf-style blades around. But Corio also had a knowledge of metal-working, and soon had a small foundry started to produce better blades for Casca's warriors. He just about gave up on trying to discipline the elder warriors and concentrated most of his efforts on their children. It was easier to take a young mind and mold it. Selecting boys of ten to twelve, he made it an honor to be accepted into training. They were to be his insurance for the survival of Lida's people.
They had their fair share of enemies, and after Ragnar's death, several of his old enemies decided to try their luck, much to their regret. Though Casca couldn't get his warriors to obey the discipline of the legion, they still followed his orders better than they had anyone else's, and tried to do as he wished. It was just when the berserker rage came over them that they lost all control. He had managed to keep his young men out of the occasional call to arms for war against the Romans, knowing full well they would have little chance against the legions, even if they weren't as good as those he had served with so many years ago. The legions were still too well-trained for these raw warriors to be able to deal with any hope of success. Besides, he still felt a sense of loyalty to the Eagles, even if they had treated him badly on more than one occasion. In his mind he was still a Roman soldier. No, he could best serve them by keeping them out of the wars, which came almost every spring.
Shields and spears on their shoulders, he marched his men out of the stone walls of the hold to the site where he had taken Lida as his bride. It took two hours to reach the clearing. This was a holy spot. Not so long ago, when the druids still practiced human sacrifice, it was here that each spring, before the first wild flowers appeared or the ground was broken for planting, a virgin would be sacrificed to Mother Earth. Indeed, the grass did seem to be a little richer and the leaves of the brush waxier in this spot. Now, the druids were no more than soothsayers and teachers. Before long they wouldn't even be that.
Casca walked over the ground they would soon be fighting on, looking at the way the Saxons must come, analyzing what he knew of their method of fighting. The Saxons had little use for archers; they preferred the sword, spear, and axe. They would form in a rough line at their end of the field and then start working themselves up to a killer pitch. Then they would start their advance, slowly at first, gaining speed until they charged, trying to overrun the defenders in a rush. Casca knew they would not rush until they were fairly close. He also knew they were pretty damned good with the throwing spear, and especially with the axe. They usually carried at least three or more axes. They would throw these in a wave, then rush. That would be the moment for him to win or lose.
Helsfjord was far enough away from Gaul so that there was little chance of any Roman army ever approaching them. His biggest worry was some of his neighbors, in particular, the Saxon tribes to the north of him. Every spring they made more advances. If they'd had a strong central leader, Casca was sure they would have been able to take over almost all of Germania. But lucky enough, they, as with the rest of the tribes, were fractionalized into small tribal groupings - often no more than individual households that would come together only for a short time in order to make raids and then would return to their homes with their booties or their dead to wait till the next time.
His first real confrontation was with his Saxon neighbors along the coast. He had twice sent their emissaries back with his rejection of their offer for an alliance to raid other tribes. Casca desired no more land. The more you had, the greater your problems. Mostly, he wanted to have a time of peace to be able to stay with Lida. But each season, this was denied him as he had to take to the field to protect his small domain. The Saxons had called him a usurper who had no right to the hold, and were determined to rid their lands of him and all who supported the foreigner.
The Saxons were on the march. He had known for some time that matters must come to a head, and had done the best he could to prepare for it. By now, most of the ten and twelve year olds were grown enough to fill his ranks. True, he had only about fifty of them, but they would be his mainstay, the rock upon which the rest of his small army would depend if they were to have any hope of victory against the larger forces that were even now only two days march from his borders. The youngsters were eager as only young men can be for the coming battle. As in the legion, he formed them into units of ten. For the last seven years, he had drilled them endlessly in attack and defense. Corio had made for them his finest weapons and shields. The swords were longer than his own Gladius and the shields were smaller than the Roman models. He had found a preference for the smaller round buckler. The large shields were of more use when you had greater numbers and were fighting from a predominantly defensive posture. He didn't have enough manpower for th
at luxury. He would have to rely on a more mobile approach to warfare than that.
His scouts reported that the Saxons would be coming from the long end of the valley through the field of Runes.
He decided that was where the battle would take place. That morning, his small force moved to take up positions. To guard the hold, he left behind the older, more headstrong warriors with orders that if they lost the fight, they were to take Lida away and sail to Britannia.
He had fielded 175 of his men, taking only the best and the most fit of his warriors. The rest were either assigned to the protection of the hold or were herding his villagers into the mountains to await the outcome. The warriors escorting them were those he considered to be too old or incapacitated for tomorrow's work. They would have been all right if the fight was to have been from the wall of the hold, but it wasn't. He would need young arms and lungs for the next day's slaughter. He chose to fight in the field away from the walls of Helsfjord, because to do otherwise, he would have had to bring in all his villagers to protect them, and there simply wasn't enough food in the storerooms to be able to withstand even a short siege before starvation would set in. He had seen the results of sieges before and knew the terrible suffering it would have on the women and children inside. It would be better this way. At least, those that died would not have to suffer long. Better a quick cut than lingering hunger and sickness.
His warriors grumbled when, upon arrival, he made them take out hoes and shovels from the supply packs. Hoes were for women, not warriors. With a few quick words in which he threatened to send back anyone who didn't instantly obey, Casca silenced their protests - especially when Glam took one out and at Casca's directions began to dig. The others quickly followed suit.