by Tony Roberts
“So what’s going on?” Gerontius demanded, sliding his sword into his scabbard.
Casca quickly brought them all up to date. “We’ve got to get our disguises fast and then probably overpower the guard by the north-west gate. Lugdunum has suddenly become a hostile place for us. If we get seen – or if Mattias is recognized – by any of the Burgundians we’re in the fertilizer well and good.”
They left at a rapid walk, coming to one of the bridges that crossed the river. Here, two groups of soldiers were arguing with one another, and Casca caught snatches as they passed. One group were trying to persuade the other to desert their allegiances and join them. Things sounded fairly heated and Casca waved his men on, not wanting to get mixed up in some inter-factional war. They had their own fights to fight.
The land sloped up sharply on the other side of the river. Here, the houses were much larger and had land around them, walled off from the roads. This was where the richer people lived, up above the level of the city and the smells that went with it. They also had a much better view and the higher Casca led his group, the more of the surrounding countryside they could see, looking out across Lugdunum. Ahead the land kept on climbing and the city walls cut off some of the view. Casca kept his eye on Caprinius’s villa and before long, after an exacting climb, they were standing before it.
A few passers-by looked at them briefly but fear showed in their faces and they hurried on, heads cast down. The four German tribesmen with Casca clearly marked them as belonging to the ‘Burgundian’ faction, at least in the minds of the citizens, and nobody wanted to argue with them.
The villa was of white stone, had two wings extending from the central block, and a once-trim garden that had gone to the dogs. It was overgrown and unkempt and clearly nobody had tended it for some time. The servants had gone along with their master.
The gate creaked as Casca pushed past it and he looked left and right as he made his way along the paved walkway to the front door. It was shut and by the looks of things locked too. The Eternal Mercenary tried the handle but it wouldn’t open the door. Caprinius was taking no chances.
“Gunthar,” Casca cocked his head towards the door.
The big Alemanni chuckled and strode past the others and pushed experimentally against it. The wood creaked and gave a bit but held. Gunthar flexed his arms, clasped them together, tensed, then shoved hard, his teeth fixed in a grimace. There came a crack and the door flew inwards, causing Gunthar to stagger a few steps before finding his balance.
There was a straight passage beyond, leading to an atrium, with doors left and right. Casca waved at the two Goths to check them and indicated for the rest to follow him deeper into the house. At the back a cross corridor ran left and right into the two wings, and more doors opened off these. On one side, the furthest from the road, there was a garden with a covered walkway, but the vine growing over the sides and top was beginning to intrude untidily. Grapes hung from the vines and Casca grabbed a handful of the purple fruit and bit into them. His mouth watered and he hungrily swallowed the sweet tasting grapes. “Ripe,” he commented, then went back into the passage and looked along the right hand passage. “Gunthar, Gerontius, you come with me. Flavius, Mattias, you check that way. We’re looking for a pile of clothing, either Alemanni or Burgundian style.”
The rooms were mostly empty. Anything of value had been taken some time ago, probably by Caprinius or his servants, since nothing had been disturbed or broken. The two Goths turned up, shaking their heads. Then Mattias shouted from the left and the rest made their way to him.
What had once been a bedroom was now forlorn and empty, save for a single crate at the back. In the crate were a pile of clothes and Mattias and Flavius were throwing them out onto the floor. Casca briefly noted the murals of spring around the walls before helping to check through the clothing.
“Right. Pick some items that fit you. Looks like Scarnio and Caprinius took no chances and stocked all sorts of sizes. Wonder where they got them from?”
“Easy,” Flavius said. “Constantine’s army had a load of Germanic mercenaries in their legions, and when they kitted them out in official uniforms they stocked what they had been wearing in the army stores.”
“Wouldn’t their owners want them back?” Mattias asked, outraged.
“Oh yes, but they were probably dead – killed in the wars we fought. When the army got back from Italy the clothing not claimed became surplus – and who would want smelly old tribal furs and clothes? No offense,” Flavius added hastily, seeing the scowls from the four Germans.
Gunthar growled but carried on scattering the clothing. Many there wouldn’t fit him but finally he selected a cloak, jerkin and hide trousers to his satisfaction. Mattias threw a pile at Flavius. “See if some of these smelly furs fit,” he quipped.
Casca grinned and picked out for himself a woolen pair of trousers of blue, a jacket with no fastenings that hung over his shoulders, down his back and remained open at the chest, and a shirt of linen colored a dull brown. There was a long cloak of wolf fur, shaded a nice dark grey, that he acquired, and finally a pair of fur boots, something he knew he’d need in the coming winter.
“What about our old clothing?” Wulfila asked, half undressed. “No damned army stores for us, I hope!” The others chuckled.
“No. Put them in your packs, unless you want to ditch them permanently.”
Gerontius watched as Mattias and the Goths threw their old clothing onto the floor, clearly not wanting them anymore. “Is that wise, leaving evidence of us being here?”
Casca shook his head. “Don’t worry, Gerontius, nobody’s going to know we were here.”
“Fire?” Mattias asked, pulling up his trousers.
“Yep,” Casca nodded. “Destroy the entire building. Caprinius has abandoned it, and nobody lives here. Plenty of wood to set alight.”
“Great,” Mattias grinned and carried on dressing.
Casca put his Roman cuirass into his pack and carefully stowed his Roman issue belts and boots there too. His old trousers he discarded. The ones he had were just as good, and in fact even warmer. Time he changed them anyway.
“Hope whoever wore these before didn’t have anything contagious,” Flavius said, wrinkling his nose.
“What’s the matter, afraid of getting some damned good Alemanni pox?” Gunthar said, scratching his crotch. “We Germans laugh at the pox.”
“Alright, enough already,” Casca said. “Let’s get this place alight then we’d better get out of here. I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to.”
Mattias grabbed a length of wood and snapped it in two. “Give me a few moments to get this set this alight,” he said. “Who’s got a flint?”
“I’ve got one,” Gerontius offered. “I’ll set a fire going.”
Casca nodded and waved the rest to follow him. We’ll wait inside the front door, then when you two get the fire going, come join us and we’ll all leave together.”
As they made their way to the front door, Flavius sniffed the odor coming from his clothing and grumbled. “I can’t see why we can’t carry on with our own clothing until we get closer to Argentoratum.”
“You think you’re too good for my people’s clothing?” Gunthar challenged him, turning round.
“Gunthar, knock it off,” Casca snapped, stepping swiftly in between the two. “As for your suggestion, Flavius, from now on we’re Germanic tribesmen. If the Burgundians take over this city, then its best the people here tell them they saw a bunch of German tribesmen here rather than Romans with German mercenaries. They’d be more interested in what happened to a Romano-German group than one entirely made up of tribesmen, don’t you agree?”
Flavius pulled a face. “I guess so; you’re the boss.”
“To right I am. Remember that; all of you.”
A few moments later Mattias and Gerontius came scuttling along the passageway. “Let’s go, it’ll be up in flames any moment!”
Casca led the me
n out into the street and they paused at the brow of the hill leading down into the city. Coming up the street were a number of soldiers, led by a Roman squad leader. Even as the two groups saw one another and sized the other up, flames began to rise up above the roof of the villa.
“Hey!” the squad leader said, surprised. “You lot, what the devil are you doing?”
“Damn,” Casca said. The looked up to his right. The road ran up to the walls and a mountain road could be seen running out through a nearby gate. “Let’s get out of here; make for that gate! Go!”
The seven men took off and the squad broke into pursuit. Casca pounded hard for the gate, with the fleeter footed Flavius and Wulfila and Manneric overtaking him. Gunthar was bringing up drag while Gerontius and Mattias were matching Casca. Ahead the gate loomed and three men on guard stepped across the road, curious as to what was happening.
It looked like they were trapped.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“What do we do?” Flavius asked, turning round as he neared the guards.
Casca knew they had little choice; if they were to get out of Lugdunum, and in the process maintain their cover as tribesmen, Roman blood would have to be spilled. “Kill them. Speak German, and if you can’t, then shut up.”
Flavius pulled a face but nodded. The two Goths alongside him had no qualms. Grinning, they went running towards the now alarmed guards with swords drawn. The guards had spears, oval shields and chainmail hauberks. Swords hung from waist belts. They weren’t regulars; they were what had become known as Limitanei, garrison troops, reservists. The name had come from the Roman word for frontier forts, Limes. The regular Roman army left the manning of towns, cities and forts to the reservists, and these days the army was held back away from the front, ready to march to wherever trouble flared, hoping the reservists could hold out long enough for the arrival of the regulars.
Wulfila screamed a war cry, unnerving the nearest guard who tried to run into the safety of the wall guardroom, but he was too slow. Wulfila’s down cut caught him across the neck and back and the man slumped in agony against the wall and slid to the ground, his blood splattering on the floor and wall. Manneric’s opponent jabbed at him, trying to block the way to the open gate but Manneric, now recovered enough to fight, ducked and swayed inside the blow and thrust up with his sword under the guard’s spear into his stomach, ripping open the chainmail and slicing deep into his torso.
The third man clattered up the steps that ran up to the battlements, yelling his head off. He made for the gatehouse and clearly was intending to cut the rope holding up the portcullis. Flavius pounded up after him, sword glinting in the late afternoon sunlight.
The garrison squad pursuing Casca and the others were closing on Gunthar, who was struggling to run, having too much bulk and muscle to maintain a long run. “Damn this for fun!” he bellowed, his face red, and as he realized he was about to be caught, swung suddenly, his four foot long sword in both hands, and swept his blade in a murderous arc from his right shoulder height down to stomach height, and then up to his left shoulder. It took out the nearest Roman soldier, ripping through his abdomen and tearing asunder his boiled leather armor.
Casca stopped and turned to face the closing garrison and Mattias and Gerontius did likewise. “Gunthar,” Casca breathed, fighting to keep his lungs under control, “to us.”
Gunthar backed off, murder in his eyes. The garrison squad, numbering ten, closed in, shields together, spears thrust forward, ready to impale the mercenaries. Wulfila and Manneric joined the four and now six faced ten. Casca waved his men to spread wider. “Don’t bunch; we need space to fight. They’re no good separated; their strength is in a tight group. Try to get them split up.”
If any of the garrison squad knew any German, they didn’t give any sign they had understood his words. They pressed forward, seeking to pin them against the wall, while Casca heard the ringing of steel above and behind as Flavius battled with the one remaining guard in the gatehouse. Should the gate come crashing down then they would all be trapped inside, and it was almost certain that the squad leader had sent one of his men for help.
Beyond, in the near distance, a pall of black smoke rose as the villa that had belonged to Caprinius began to burn fiercely. That in itself would bring more people running.
“Wulfila, Mattias,” he snapped to the men on the end, “have a go at their flanks – try to pick one off!”
As the two men stepped forward and across to outflank the advancing squad, now just a few yards distant, in the gatehouse Flavius was battling hard with the guard. The garrison sentry had tried to slash the rope holding up the gate with his sword but Flavius had managed to block it with a desperate lunge of his own blade, deflecting the blow away from the rope. He’d received a backhanded blow from the guard’s shield across the face for his pains, and now blood was trickling down his face from his nose and lips.
The Roman didn’t stop to check on his wounds but pressed forward again. The guard realized he had no time to go for the rope again for he would be run through by his assailant. He grimly attacked, the stone walled gate room echoing to the ring of steel on steel. With every breath, Flavius shot blood from his lips and nose, flecks spattering onto his adversary, but neither held back. It was kill or be killed.
Meanwhile Casca, Manneric, Gerontius and Gunthar had retreated as far as they could. Behind them rose the city wall and the gateway was off to their left. A row of spears closed in on them. Casca spat on the ground. “Enough of this! Let’s give them steel.”
Mattias and Wulfila had engaged the end men of the squad; Mattias found he was taking on the squad leader, the only man without a spear, plus one of the spear-toting soldiers. Wulfila came at his opponent on the shield side and was blocked, but the spearman couldn’t use his weapon as the Goth was inside the point. The garrison soldier threw his spear down and grabbed for his sword.
Casca roared and sprang at the men in front of him, his shield, an oval type with the Christian chi-ro symbol painted on in red, swung first, knocking the two spear points that were pointing at him up and aside, and he came in hard, his sword high and descending in a blow aimed at the man to the left. The blade slashed down onto his neck, sending a jet of bright red arterial blood spouting up. The man screamed and fell to his knees. The all-too familiar smell of blood filled Casca’s senses. The other tugged at his sword in desperation but Casca wasn’t going to be patient and wait for him. Planting his left foot forward he backhanded the sword up, cutting through the Roman’s throat. The soldier gurgled, clutched his ‘new’ mouth, and fell back onto the dusty ground.
Gunthar bludgeoned the two in front of him aside with one swipe of his huge sword, splintering one spear, and he grabbed the useless front end as it sagged away from the shaft, plunging it point first down into the neck of one of his opponents. As he cried out in pain and terror the Alemanni warrior punched the second Roman in the face and picked him up as the soldier staggered, stunned. As he hung there, feet dangling, Gunthar slid the sword blade up into him, skewering him like a fish prior to cooking it.
Manneric faced one, knocking the spear aside and chopping for his enemy’s face, but it was blocked by his shield. Both exchanged blows but neither could get through the other’s guard. On the other side of the fight, Mattias bared his teeth and roared in German that he was going to slaughter the squad leader. The Roman didn’t understand him, but had an idea it wasn’t pleasant. They aimed blows at each other but their attacks were parried. Mattias then had to jump back as the soldier supporting the squad leader thrust forward.
Gerontius had two to face as well. He cut down and across ruthlessly at the one to the right, then blocked the other’s attack with his shield.
Casca looked left and right. Both his comrades were fighting hard against two opponents. Manneric looked the most desperately in need of help, so Casca waded in, his blade dripping blood, roaring a challenge. One of the two taking on Manneric swung round and received a sharp cut across hi
s face. The Roman screamed and fell back, blood spurting through his fingers as he staggered away from the fight, all thoughts of combat gone from his mind. Leaving Manneric to cope with the other, Casca turned to help Gerontius.
The Roman was almost pressed up against the wall, blocking the two men’s attacks with a calmness that belied his situation. Casca stepped forward but one of the Romans turned and instinctively swung his spear at the scarred mercenary, almost catching him by surprise. Casca’s shield deflected it aside at the last moment, and then he was inside the Roman’s reach and his sword was rammed hard into the man’s guts, puncturing the armor and sinking in deep.
As he jerked the blade free, the Roman retched, sank to his knees, clutching his wound, then fell face forward into the dust. The sound of combat died away as most of the garrison were overcome, but Mattias still fought two, dancing backwards as the squad leader hacked at him and the spearman tried to skewer him.
“Hey, ugly!” Casca shouted in Latin.
The spearman swung round and Casca smashed his shield full into his face. The soldier stood still for a moment, then toppled to the ground in a heap, his weapons and helmet clattering loudly as they struck the hard earth. Leaving Mattias to deal with the leader, he turned his back on the pair and looked at Gerontius who was just withdrawing his sword from the corpse of the man he had been left to face. Both looked at each other and nodded slightly, warriors acknowledging the other’s ability.
Wulfila and Manneric were standing over their victims while Gunthar was looting the bodies. The last guard was kneeling a short distance away, clutching his bleeding face. Gunthar walked over to him, a knife suddenly in his hand, and swiftly slid it across the helpless man’s throat, releasing him to fall dead at his feet. Casca grimaced and looked up at the gatehouse. Flavius was leaning out of the open window regarding him, breathing hard. “Well?” Casca shouted up.