by Tony Roberts
Mattias scowled. “One little fight and he’s pissing himself? What’s the matter with him?”
“He’s a non-combatant; he’s probably never seen a fight before,” Casca shrugged. “I’ve put the fear of the gods into him but I still don’t entirely trust him to honor our agreement.”
“Gods?” Flavius queried. “You a pagan, sir?”
Casca held Flavius’ look. “Who gives a damn? I was locked up for being a pagan in Mediolanum a few years back, and I got my freedom the hard way. Part of it was to vow I was a damned Christian, but I never took it seriously. Anyone want to argue?”
Flavius shook his head, then looked at his fellow travelers. “I bet these Germans are Arians anyway.”
“What of it?” Gunthar said belligerently. “You Romans follow the wrong doctrine.”
Flavius stood up, his fists bunched. Casca had heard enough. “Alright, alright, enough already! I’m not going to stand here while you lot start some religious shit. We’re here to do a job. Once it’s done and dusted you can fight over whatever doctrinal argument you can think up. Until then knock it off, got it?”
“Aye, sir,” Flavius said heavily. Gunthar sat down on a box and shrugged. He was just pleased to have gotten a raise out of Flavius. Casca rolled his eyes and looked at Gerontius and Mattias. Both looked away and went back to their cleaning. Casca grunted and climbed out of the hold. Manneric and Wulfila were on deck watching the Burgundians in the distance shadowing them.
“What do you think they’ll do now?” Wulfila asked, pointing at the tribesmen.
“Stay with us until dark.”
“And then?”
“Either try something or go away.”
“You think they’ll go without getting Mattias?”
“I think,” Casca said heavily, “that they want all of us. They’re pissed at us for killing so many of them. Mattias is an excuse. Anyway, come the night I’ve got something in mind.”
Wulfila looked at him in interest. “Oh?”
“Yes but I want the two of you to stay here and watch the crew. I think the captain’s going to try to turn the boat round and run back to Massilia. I want your dagger at his throat until the rest of us get back.”
Wulfila grinned, his teeth showing gaps. “It’ll be a pleasure.”
Casca returned to the hold and outlined his plan to the others. They all nodded. It was a good one. They took to sharpening their weapons once more. That night they would need them.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Darkness had fallen and the lights had come on – torches at the bow and stern. A lookout stood at the prow next to the torch calling out the direction to steer. It was normal for boats to moor against the bank at night for fear of running aground or into the bank, but with the Burgundians a threat close by, this wasn’t an option.
The tribesmen had a couple of torches too, for their progress across the land wasn’t without hazards. More than once a horse had stumbled or a rider had collided with a low-lying branch. After three had received cuts and bruises, the new leader had accepted the inevitable and ordered the torches lit.
Now both sides knew where the other was. Casca now put his plan into motion. He ordered both torches extinguished and the captain to steer gently for the left bank. With the boat now shrouded in darkness the riders had no idea what the boat was doing. They stopped, wondering what was going on. Casca touched Gerontius and Flavius on the shoulders and both slid over the starboard side into the river and swam for the bank, unarmored and armed only with a sword and dagger.
As the boat drifted on, blind, the lookout, Manneric, kept on peering intently ahead. Any sign of an obstruction he was to pass the word back. Wulfila was stood by the captain, a dagger in his hand and little comfort in the way he was smiling. Casca, Mattias and Gunthar were crouched by the port rail, weapons in hand, waiting for the boat to nudge the bank. They had drifted on perhaps two hundred yards when Manneric softly alerted them, and then the reed beds appeared almost alongside and the boat scraped to a halt, heeling over slightly as it entangled itself in the vegetation.
As one, the three mercenaries slid over into the beds, their feet and ankles plunging into the muddy waters. They made their way quickly to the firmer dry land and crouched in the shadow of a couple of willows, waiting for the Burgundians to come closer.
Now the next stage of Casca’s plan was put into action. Under Wulfila’s prompting, the captain and crew pushed the boat back out and the wind caught the sail and the boat drifted towards the middle of the river. Once there the lights were relit and the Burgundians could once more see the boat. Relieved, they headed towards the river, the boat clearly in the center of the Rhodanus.
As they came close to the willows, a shout went up from the rear. Gerontius and Flavius rose up from their hiding place and dragged two Burgundians off their mounts and hacked the two unfortunates to death before they knew what had hit them.
As one the survivors turned, just as Casca had hoped. He rose up, followed by the two others, and all three charged the nearest enemy horsemen. Casca had borrowed an axe and wielded it, leaping up at the first man who was beginning to turn to see what the fresh threat was. The head of the axe buried itself in his chest and the Burgundian screamed, falling backwards off his horse.
Mattias slashed down at the next one, cutting through armor and furs, practically disemboweling the man. Gunthar wasn’t that sophisticated; he grabbed his target by the belt, flung him hard to the ground and as the Burgundian lay there, winded, stamped hard into his face twice. After a satisfying crunch he moved on.
The remaining Burgundians wheeled, confused. Torches had been dropped and were flickering on the ground, casting odd shadows on the swiftly moving men. Casca slid his sword free and went for the next man, grabbing the reins with his free hand and thrusting up hard. He felt flesh giving way and the shock of striking bone and organs traveled down his hand and arm. The Burgundian gasped and, helped by Casca’s free hand, crashed to the ground with a soggy thump.
Gunthar smashed his fist into the face of another horse and the beast reared up in fright and pain, throwing his rider off. The man yelled in surprise, dropping his sword and dislocating his shoulder on landing. He rolled around, screaming, adding to the confusion.
The Burgundians who remained now decided to break, but hands were reaching for them and pulling them off their saddles. Blades plunged and more were impaled. Only two managed to break free and ride off into the night, trusting in luck and hope that they didn’t strike anything hard, or fall down unexpected holes.
Casca turned a full circle. “All unhurt?” He asked in Latin, then German.
“I’m fine,” Flavius said from the dark.
“I’ll be once this dog shuts up,” Gunthar added, and there came a sickening blow and the screaming Burgundian went quiet.
“Two escaped,” Gerontius said with disappointment. “They’ll tell their comrades.”
“Let them,” Casca said. “How far is their camp, Mattias?”
“Who knows?” the mercenary said, checking on the first corpse. “Quite some distance. Probably the mountains.”
Casca nodded. “Get these bodies into the river, then let’s get back to the boat. We ought to make it to Lugdunum before their friends come calling.”
* * *
The rest of the voyage upriver went smoothly enough. After seven days they came into sight of the city, perched on a rise above the river. The river banks themselves were a mass of jetties and wharves, and they were watched carefully from the walls and turrets of the water gate as they sailed in.
The captain was relieved to see the back of the seven men and their equipment. It had been a harrowing journey and he was in two minds whether he ought to report them to the city authorities or not.
Casca stood on the stone paved road that ran alongside the jetty and looked out over Lugdunum. It was well served by the Rhodanus, and houses tumbled down from high bluffs to the river’s edge on both sides. To the right the la
nd rose in a series of wooded rolling hills beyond the walls, and the slopes of one of these hills formed the eastern portion of the settlement.
Casca wasn’t interested in that part of the city. His contact, Marcus Caprinius, was a legate or something similar, from what Scarnio had told him back in Massilia. Therefore he was likely to be found in the administrative quarter by the forum, which would be on flatter land. The others lounged about in the late September sun, catching rays, some stretched out on their kit, glad to be on firm land after a week or so aboard ship. Manneric had recovered enough to use his arm, but it was still pretty sore. He was still unofficial cook, something he was getting better at. Casca was sure a fair bit of the first couple of meals he cooked had been thrown overboard.
As Casca stood by the river bank, he spied a squad of soldiers tramping towards him. No doubt their presence had been reported and some curious soul in the city authorities had decided to have them checked over. They had, after all, been given some long intent stares from the men on duty at the gatehouse. Anyone entering Lugdunum would probably be viewed with suspicion, especially in these days of near anarchy and rival factions.
So it transpired. The centurion easily picked Casca out as the leader and marched up to him, a couple of slovenly looking guards with him. Casca gave them a cursory look and was disappointed. No wonder the empire had fractured if these were typical examples of the military. He’d seen similar in Italy recently, and only a few soldiers and many barbarians fitted his memories of how the legions had been long ago.
“Who are you and what is your business here?” the centurion demanded. He was swarthy, large-nosed and had dark eyes. As Roman in blood as any Casca had met. His Latin was correct and as it should be, clear of accent and sloppy ‘modern’ phrases.
Casca thumped his chest and replied in his best fluent Latin. “Sir, seven mercenaries from Massilia to see Legate Marcus Caprinius.”
“Caprinius?” the centurion asked, surprised. “What would you wish to see him about?”
“Sorry, centurion, that’s between him and us. My paymaster wouldn’t appreciate telling everyone of our business. I’m sure you understand.”
“Hmm,” the centurion scowled and looked over the six others. Two smart Roman types and four obviously inferior barbarian ones. A mixed bag indeed. “You will come with us. I shall certainly check whether Legate Caprinius knows of you and will see you. If not, I’ll have you thrown out of the city, minus your equipment and weapons.”
Casca grinned, his scar whitening. “Lead the way. We’ve been sent by Decus Scarnio of Massilia and we were told to report to Legate Caprinius on our arrival.”
The centurion grunted. He waved at his men to take up escort positions around the mercenaries. Casca smiled and waved his men up. He had no doubts that should any silly foolery start, his men would whip these poor quality militiamen, for that was what they were. Not regular troops; probably reservists or people with no other job willing to act as an emergency law enforcing body in the city.
The mercs groaned and got to their feet slowly and reluctantly. Gerontius was ready almost at once, predictably. The Germans less so, and Gunthar took so long the centurion almost lost patience. “When you’re all quite ready,” he said irritably.
Gunthar threw his kit pack over his shoulder and smiled toothily. He hadn’t understood the centurion but had discerned he’d gotten under his skin which had pleased him. They trooped off along the road, then turned right through the warehouses into a long street of paved stones, flanked by shops, and marched past a few curious citizens and other not so curious bystanders.
They turned left, then right and came into the administration district. There was a guardhouse at the entrance to a square and the group was shown in, having first to surrender their weapons. That caused a few exchanges of words but Casca brusquely told them to cut the nonsense and hand them over. Then they sat around the small chamber, arranged on three sides of the room.
“Friendly, aren’t they?” Mattias remarked.
“Just doing their job,” Casca said, resting his head against the cooler stone wall behind him. “In their place I’d be as careful. They’re out on a limb here; Constantine’s authority isn’t that strong this far north and I doubt he’s got the men anymore to properly patrol this far from Arelate. What do you think, Flavius?”
“No; after the army I was in got hammered in Italy, he lost half of his men.”
The others kept their own counsel. What their thoughts were Casca couldn’t guess, but they all felt claustrophobic in the small guardroom. After half an hour the centurion returned. “The legate will see you,” he pointed at Casca. “The rest of you are to stay here.”
There were mutterings but Casca glared at them. “I’ll be back,” he said. “Stay out of trouble or you’ll have me to answer to.”
He thought he saw Gunthar sneer but as he was half turned away and the German sat in the deepest shadows, he wasn’t sure. That idiot needed watching. He tapped the centurion on the shoulder. “I’d appreciate my men being fed and given drinking water.”
The centurion put his hands on his hips. “And would you like me to make their beds for them, too? They’re big tough men; a little hunger won’t kill them. Besides, from what the legate told me, he’s going to accommodate all of you so he can damned well feed you.”
“You and I are going to get on just fine,” Casca said dryly, and followed the centurion and two guards across the square, past the new church that looked like it had been built on an old temple, and turned right at the corner of the square where the market place began. People stepped aside as the small party strode through the street and came to another large stone building. This one was guarded, somewhat surprisingly to Casca, and he was led into the cool interior, past statues of former emperors peering down severely from their pedestals, drawing a scowl from the Eternal Mercenary as he passed Nero.
He was shown into one of the ground floor rooms and there, standing before a desk cluttered with parchments, scrolls and slates, was a slim, grey haired man with a worried expression on his face. He wore a tunic of white and was busy pushing some of the scrolls into a leather bag.
“The mercenary from Massilia, Legate,” the centurion said, stepping aside and allowing Casca to walk past him.
“Ah, yes,” Caprinius said with some relief. “Thank you, Centurion. You may wait outside.”
The soldiers left, shutting the door. Caprinius appraised Casca for a moment. “You’re from Scarnio, yes?”
“Yes, Legate. He told me you could provide my men and me with attire necessary to make our way onwards from here.”
“True, true. My old friend Scarnio sent them a few weeks ago and warned me to expect some people such as yourselves. He wasn’t able to tell me much more, but I know it’s an important task he’s given you.”
“Yes, Legate. No offense but its best I don’t tell you what it’s about.”
Caprinius nodded. “I agree. Things are bad enough here for me as it is. What you see is the end of an era here in Lugdunum. We’re preparing to leave.”
“Leave? You mean the Roman administration?” Casca was stunned.
“You have no idea what a mess things are in. I’m getting out of here before I’m murdered like a few of my colleagues. Lugdunum is just one example of what’s happened to the empire, and there are – factions, shall we say? – active within the city who want a different regime from the one currently ruling from Arelate. Some wish for the return of Honorius’ rule, others want to keep independent but also wish nothing more to do with Constantine who they see as a spent force. He may well be but I’m part of his administration and I feel it better I serve him in Arelate, rather than here, in a place he may well lose control over in the next few days.”
“So you mean Honorius has agents here, and they’re likely to take power?”
Caprinius shook his head. “No – I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“Rufio,” Casca decided to use his middle n
ame, just in case some of the maniacs from the Brotherhood were in earshot. One could never tell.
“Ah, well, Rufio, no, the faction likely to take over here is one prepared to do a deal with the Burgundians. They see these barbarians as the best hope for a strong and stable future. Negotiations have already begun to bring them here and their King Gundahar is considering the offer.”
“Damn it,” Casca said with feeling, looking round the small office. “We could have done without them coming here.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is. If you wish to avoid the Burgundians then my advice is to get what you want here and get out by tomorrow morning. I’m due out on the last boat from the docks this afternoon. I’ll leave you directions to my villa up on the hills overlooking the river, but once word gets out I’ve gone my property will be an easy target for looters.”
“Seems we got here just in time,” Casca commented.
“Oh, I was hanging on until you or someone like you got here, but I really couldn’t have stayed much longer; I’ve been ready to go for a few days now. Your coming is a godsend to me. I’ll go see Scarnio first and inform him you’ve got here. He’ll want to know.”
“Well, be prepared to battle past the Burgundians; we had trouble on the way up the Rhodanus.”
“Oh, that’s bad news. No wonder negotiations are advanced if they’re already riding to the south of here. They’re probably ready to march in tomorrow.”
Casca went to the shutters and opened them. The hill on the other side of the river was visible. “So where’s your villa? We’ll have to move fast if we’re to get out before the Burgundians arrive. We’re not the best of friends.”
Caprinius pointed the location out. “My advice is to leave by the north-western gate. It may be a hard task, though. My understanding is that most of the garrison has sided with the Burgundian faction and you may have to fight your way out. Good luck.”
“And to you, Legate,” Casca clasped the lawyer’s arm. He had no time to waste and hauled the door open. The centurion stood there, awaiting orders. Caprinius gave the centurion orders to let the mercenaries go and that everything was fine with them. Casca was marched back to the guardroom and the seven were reunited with their weapons in no time. The centurion and his men then marched off back towards the administration quarter, leaving the seven mercs alone.