by Tony Roberts
Casca grinned for a moment. “Stay with me, Mattias. I intend dishing out pain to those who deserve it. Now find these two German mercenaries this slug has hired and bring them to me.”
Flavius dragged the two incapacitated hirelings out of the room, while Casca tied the moneylender up. “If you’d not gotten greedy and been a reasonable man then this might not have happened. But you turned into a vulture and that gets my back up.”
“You going to rob me? Is that what you want? I’ll give you coins, plenty of them! Money, all the money you want? Take it, just leave me be and spare my business!”
“You can shove your coins up your ass,” Casca snarled. “I’m already hired on a job, and I want two of your men. Taking them from you will be the best thing I do for them.”
Mattias returned, herding a group of people ahead of him. A couple of stout looking sword-arms stopped at the entrance to the room and reached for their weapons, but Mattias tapped one on the head and Flavius pressed the tip of his sword against the throat of the other. Casca jerked his head in the direction of the entrance. “Either go now or stay here and burn. This place is finished.”
The man whacked by Mattias was dragged off, stunned, while the other muttered under his breath and followed. Two men remained in the doorway, armed with long swords and sported beards and thick, black hair. “You wanted to speak with us?” one said in German.
“Ja,” Casca nodded, pushing the trussed-up moneylender into his chair. “Your employment to this scum is ended; I wish to hire you for a job.”
“What is it?” the same man demanded.
Casca gave them the brief details, not wishing to say too much in front of an audience. He just told them it was to travel far on a rescue mission with a group of mercenaries, and the pay was good. Casca held out two small bags of coins that clinked. That did it. The two men grinned. “This swine has defaulted on paying us, and we were thinking of quitting anyway.”
“You Goths?” Casca queried, handing over the money.
“Greuthungi.”
Casca looked at them in surprise. These weren’t the Goths of Alaric. He’d heard that there were others but hadn’t encountered any before. “So what are you doing here?”
“Long story. We’ll tell you outside. Want help burning this shithole down? We’d be pleased to assist!”
The two Goths were reasonably similar in appearance although one was talkative and the other taciturn. They set to their task with relish and Casca dragged the moneylender out and dumped him in the street as the building began to smoke. Leaving the moneylender and his cronies outside to try to extinguish the spreading fire, the five men walked away, the talkative Goth explaining who they were.
“I am called Wulfila, and this is Manneric. We are cousins. When we were children our homes were burned by the Huns and we had to flee with our people away from those bastards. We grew up in the mountains to the west of our homeland, but a few years ago we had to move once more as the Huns were coming our way. Then there were battles, confusion and we were scattered to the winds. Manneric and I came west and crossed the great river into the lands of the Romans and found our way here. Things are just as confused here as beyond the river, believe me.”
“I can believe it,” Casca nodded, then introduced Mattias and Flavius. Now he had seven. It was enough to start the job.
CHAPTER FOUR
As promised the gates were opened at night to let the seven men out. Gerontius had kept his word and dealt with the individuals pursuing Gunthar. A squad of Roman soldiers had descended on a notorious den of thieves and vagrants the day before and had slain half a dozen miscreants before the terrified survivors had pointed out the four who were pursuing Gunthar.
Gerontius, who had taken the German with him, had allowed the Alemanni to kill them personally. That way, of course, nobody could accuse Gerontius or any other Roman of being responsible for their deaths should anything come of it. That was something Gunthar may have to deal with in the future should he ever return to Massilia – but the big German had already made it clear that was unlikely.
Casca had read the document given to him that evening telling him where to go in Argentoratum once they arrived. The parchment had been ripped up into pieces after Casca had memorized them and burned in the brazier of the night watchmen by the gate. After the seven had slipped out, all dressed in nondescript armor of varying styles and type, the gates had been shut behind them and they were on their own in the countryside. Just another seven armed men in a landscape scattered with such people.
The land rose up away from the city and the Roman road curved off to the left. Casca led the men along the road. It would take them to Lugdunum where they needed to go, and after that he would work out which was the best way to Argentoratum.
The night was clear and the sea breeze cool. Autumn was upon them and soon the weather would turn and the rains would come, but that was something they wouldn’t have to worry about until it happened. Casca glanced back a couple of times and checked the others, loping along in single file. Gerontius he put at the back. He had an idea the Roman was just as motivated in getting the job done and would kick the ass of anyone trying to sneak off as their enthusiasm for the task waned. Flavius he put in the center; as his second in command he didn’t want him too close.
Mattias was directly behind Casca, followed by Gunthar. Then after Flavius came the two Goths, Wulfila and Manneric, all dark shadows in the quarter moon. Each had their preferred weaponry and a pack that contained sleeping rugs, food, hunting tools, ropes and a number of other useful items. The coins Scarnio had supplied had come in useful and the city shops had provided much of what the Eternal Mercenary considered were essential to the job.
Casca had two main concerns foremost in his mind; one, what would they do if they stumbled across a sizeable band of marauding tribesmen? There weren’t supposed to be any this far south but central authority had collapsed to such a degree that bandits and brigands probably infested the main routes in between the cities, and Casca had decided they had no real choice but to take the road. Other than that they would have to hike over hills and rough terrain and that was too much to take on, particularly as Scarnio wanted the job done as fast as possible, given the volatile situation along the Rhine.
The second concern he had was the time it may take. It was fine now but he knew that in this part of the Empire the rains could come at any time, and they had to skirt some high ground. He knew he’d not been too worried about the weather before but now the more he thought on the matter the more he realized they would have to make as best time they could. To their right would be the Alps, and to their left, eventually, would be the central Gallic highlands, a rough, tough area full of broken, stony ground and ridges that nobody in their right mind would traverse in winter. They would certainly have to come back this way in winter, so their route would be restricted to the road they were on at that moment. If all went well, they would be bringing a sixteen year old girl with them and it was doubtful she was used to cross-country travel; she would slow them down. He doubted they would be able to get back until deepest winter. The thought didn’t comfort him.
There was another thing niggling his mind. That was the reliability of the six men behind him. They were all tough and used to fighting, true, but what of their loyalties? They would have to face the Alemanni, so what would that mean to Gunthar? Or, come to that, what about Mattias? If they encountered Burgundians, would he find his loyalties torn, despite the fact he maintained he opposed their current king?
And what of Wulfia and Manneric? Two Goths, homeless, unknown in their loyalties and ambitions. It was unlikely they would bump into the Greuthungi, as that tribe was still somewhere in what used to be known as Germania incognita. He’d heard Gerontius refer to them as the Ostrogoths or ‘Eastern Goths’, and maybe that was the new name for them, or what the Roman administration was calling them.
Come to that, what of Gerontius? Or Flavius? Were they working on the same team
, or were they enemies and waiting to strike out? Gerontius was Scarnio’s man for sure, but would he stay loyal if the Constantine regime fell? And Flavius – was once Constantine’s man but now soured and disillusioned and if push came to shove and Honorius came over the Alps into Gaul, would Flavius throw his lot in with the legal emperor?
Casca kept his thoughts to himself. Over the next few days he’d have to mold them into a unit and make it clear they relied on one another to get them through the job. Everyone else out here was to be viewed as an enemy until proven otherwise.
The journey through southern Gaul brought memories back to Casca. He’d tramped his way through here a long time ago, and although his recollections were a little hazy – he’d taken little interest in things outside the legion in those days – it seemed the countryside was a little less ordered and things had gone to seed in too many places. The fields were untended, farms were abandoned, and in many instances had been burned to the ground, and no workers or slaves were to be seen, where in the past they had toiled away under the Gallic sun.
They had food enough for a week, thereafter they would have to either buy or get some another way. They stopped for a meal late morning and Casca sat apart from them, ostensibly to stand guard, but mostly to check on how they grouped and how they behaved towards one another.
The two Goths sat together, unsurprisingly. Flavius was cordial towards Mattias and they spoke a few words, but Gerontius and Gunthar kept to themselves, preferring their own company. Gunthar was especially grouchy towards Gerontius. When he’d seen the scrawny bastards that had been pursuing him, he’d been a little embarrassed, which went some way towards explaining why he’d butchered the four so readily. Gerontius had loudly declared Gunthar owed him one and the Alemanni had shot him a look of pure dislike and sneered. Since then neither had spoken to the other.
Gerontius hadn’t looked like he cared too much about that. In fact he didn’t look like he gave a damn about much. He was a man who appeared to concentrate on the job in hand and everything else could go to hell. But he wasn’t a fake. Casca recognized the scars of battle and the calluses on his hands where he’d gripped the hilt of a sword. This was a man who knew war and warfare. In fact he was probably as career minded as anyone could be; Casca remembered when he had thought the legion as everything, his life, his existence. Gerontius was most likely one like that.
Flavius was different. A soldier, yes, but someone who saw it as a job and not a career. Casca guessed Flavius’ confidence had been knocked in the defeat in Italy and maybe saw a life as a mercenary as his future rather than the army. Flavius was less serious than Gerontius. He wondered how the two would measure up in a fight.
The two Goths he wasn’t sure about yet. Wulfila was approachable and talkative, but Manneric was still a closed door. He seemed to talk readily enough to his cousin, but to everyone else he practically ignored them. That would have to change if he was to be regarded as part of the team.
Mattias he felt was a reliable type; despite their bad start, Mattias had taken to Casca and acknowledged him as the leader. Casca had the feeling he could rely on Mattias. Another thing, the Burgundian had a wicked sense of humor, and already his laughter was a feature of the group.
Gunthar was by comparison a sour, scowling thundercloud. There was definitely some problem in his head, and no doubt they would learn more about it as they went on. Casca’s task was to find out how to use him effectively and not have him turn on them. But that was what he had and he doubted there weren’t other Germanic tribesmen in Massilia who knew the people they were going to encounter as well as Gunthar, nor were they as tough and big.
“Right, let’s go,” Casca stood up from the rock he had been sitting on, wiping his hands on his tunic. “We’ve got to make good time before dark. Anyone know the lie of the land around here?”
“Yeah,” Flavius nodded. “This road goes on for some distance, then passes a large farm and villa complex. We might be able to sleep the night there.”
“Sounds a good idea,” Casca nodded. “Everyone fine with that? Good. Let’s stay with the same walking order. If anyone gets lame, shout out. I don’t want anyone making any injury worse by carrying on when they should have stopped.”
He checked to see all had understood him. Seeing no puzzled look, he grunted and led them along the Roman road westwards.
Gerontius loped up from the back and asked Casca to wait for a moment; Casca waved Mattias to carry on, leading the others onwards. As Manneric passed, giving the two an incurious stare, Casca looked squarely at Gerontius. “So what is it you want to talk to me about?”
“I’d best call you sir, since Scarnio made you leader. Sir, are you intending to travel on foot to Lugdunum?”
“That’s how the legions used to do it,” Casca shrugged. “You have another way?”
“Yes, sir. The current emperor of Gaul, Constantine, is based in Arelate to the west. The great river Rhodanus goes up to Lugdunum from there, and I think there is still river traffic between the two. There was the last time I was there, anyway.”
Casca scratched his jaw, thinking. “You’re saying Arelate is the safest route because this usurper Constantine is there, and he’s kept the river traffic going?”
“Sir, best not use the word ‘usurper’. We’re not in territory controlled by Honorius here. But yes, you’re right. He’s desperate for trade and has kept the river open to Vienne and Lugdunum. Beyond that, I don’t think there’s any control.”
Casca nodded. “Very well; we could do with avoiding going cross country where there’s a chance of bandits attacking. We’ll try your suggestion.” Casca clapped the Roman on the shoulder and half trotted back to the group. A couple looked at him in interest but Casca ignored them. Gerontius’s suggestion was a sound one; by going to Constantine’s capital they kept in an area that was better controlled and at least for the moment patrolled, and the chance of resting their legs was too good to miss if the boats were still plying the river. He wondered why Scarnio hadn’t mentioned them.
They came upon the farm as dusk was falling but it was abandoned and had been looted, but not burned. The villa was an empty shell, the doors open and swinging in the wind. Casca felt further depressed. Here was further evidence of the ebbing away of the Roman world; all that they had built was fading before his eyes. Not only the military might that once ruled supreme but also the infrastructure. Once this was gone what would take its place?
Casca sat on an overturned empty box and called out the sentry duties. They would take it in pairs and there would be three watches during the night. Casca would miss out that night but would take part the next, and someone else would miss out. That was the way he’d do it, he told them.
He also deliberately split up the Gothic pair so that one took first watch with Gerontius while the other took second with Flavius. Since Mattias and Gunthar didn’t care for each other he paired them up for the last watch. Having done that and eaten his supper, he rolled over and wrapped his blanket around him. The nights were becoming cold and would be more so if the mistral came blowing in from the north west. These parts they had not only the mistral to worry about, but also the scirocco, blasting in from north Africa. That could dump a load of grit on you if you were unlucky.
The next morning they continued on their way. Nothing had happened of note during the night, and Casca had watched the men as they went about their tasks in the morning, putting their packs together and clearing up behind them. Gunthar and the Goths weren’t used to that and had to be ordered by Casca. Mattias seemed to know about it already and given that he knew Latin and had told them all he’d spent time in the court of Mediolanum, Casca guessed he could be counted on to look after himself.
Gunthar grumbled and was surly in picking up the pieces of food he’d left lying around. Casca crouched next to him. “We’re not going to attract attention to ourselves here, Gunthar,” he said quietly, “and if we leave stuff like that lying here to be found, people who c
ome across it might think we’ve got riches and equipment worth taking, and begin to trail us. Want the same to happen to you as before in Massilia?”
“Agh, they were fucking scrawny bastards,” Gunthar growled. “If I’d known what they’d looked like I’d’ve chopped them up into bits and thrown them into the sea.”
“The fact is you didn’t,” Casca pointed out, “and needed Gerontius to help you out. He did you a favor so don’t go pissing him off because you feel stupid after seeing who it was who had been following you.”
Gunthar was going to reply but Casca cut him off.
“You want to be paid for this job? Then stop being a pain in the ass. I’m in charge and if I say do it, you do it. You don’t want to be part of the group? Well then, piss off and don’t come back.”
Gunthar shot Casca a glare of pure hatred. “You know, you’ve got a big mouth, Roman. Someone ought to take you down a peg or two. I’m surprised someone hasn’t pounded you into a pulp before now.”
“Want to try? I’ve whipped bigger and better people than you in my time, Gunthar. And before you come back with some big-boy bullshit, most of them were Germans. I’ve killed more of the tribes than you can ever imagine. One more isn’t going to make any difference to my conscience. So put up and shut up, or go away and don’t ever bother coming back in my direction. What’s it to be, then?”
Gunthar sneered but picked up his detritus. “You’re the boss, but only because I want to be paid. The moment I get my hands on that gold I’m going to come after you and slice you up into little pieces.”
Casca smiled without humor. “I’ll look forward to you trying. In the meantime, get on better with your comrades. One of them may not like traveling with a sore-headed bear like you and might take the opportunity at night to slit your throat.”
Gunthar rumbled deep in his chest. “You’re a funny guy, you know? And your accent; it’s like a Goth. Tell me again: where did you learn to speak the language of the tribes?”