by Tony Roberts
His knowledge of the region was hazy but he did know they would have to cross a couple of rivers and a steep range of hills before they got to Argentoratum. There was a river called the Dubis up ahead and if they kept to the near bank and did not cross it, they’d be going in the right direction. There were a couple of towns along their route but they could avoid them. It was when the river turned across their path they’d have to cross it. There was a town there they would have to enter to cross the Dubis but there was no other way past it, he knew.
Thereafter they were in the Rhineland region and they’d hit the Rhine sooner or later and then it was a case of walking north until they got to Argentoratum.
The first night after leaving Cabillionium they pitched camp in the lee of a long hill, using it to block the cold night wind. There was plenty of dead wood, either lying around the long, shallow wooded valley they were in, or easily torn from the occasional dead tree that stood amongst the living.
In no time a fairly big fire was going and they sat around it, roasting the chickens that Wulfila had produced from a sack he had. Casca thought about asking where they had come from but decided it wasn’t worth it. Mattias produced a sealed jar and the sloshing noise from the contents made everyone’s ears prick up. Flavius scowled but took his share of the contents when it was passed to him all the same. Casca watched him closely, making sure he didn’t take more than his share, and Flavius caught his eye before passing it on.
After the meal and drink, all felt a little more relaxed and one or two began sharpening their weapons. “Listen up, everyone,” Casca said. The others looked at him, stopping what they were doing. “So far we’ve not really got together as a group as well as I’d hoped, so what we’re going to do is to buddy up into twos. You share food, water, guard duties and so on. I’m going to make new pairings as you’ve gotten used to the pairs you normally form. So that means the cousins here will split and go with new partners, right?”
Wulfila shrugged. Manneric made little sign he cared either way, staring darkly into the night.
“Wulfila, you go with Flavius. Manneric, you get Gerontius.”
“So I get the Burgundian?” Gunthar said in disgust.
“Yes, and put up with it.”
“Shit,” Gunthar spat into the fire which sizzled for a moment. Mattias gave the Alemanni a filthy look.
“Speaking of the Alemanni,” Casca continued, “so far I haven’t really found out what you, Gunthar, are doing away from your people. And if we get into trouble in Argentoratum, would you betray us?”
“My people are looking to settle down, Roman-style, into a kingdom. That’s not for me; laws, councils. People telling me how many chickens I can keep, and how much tax I have to pay and all that load of crap. I’m too much of a wandering warrior to abide all that. So I look for jobs and make a living away from the centers of civilization.”
Casca nodded; it made sense. He was a little like that, having to continue to move on every so often. “But what if your people fought us? Would you fight your own blood for us?”
“I’ve taken money – I won’t betray that, no matter how much I may dislike one or two of you.”
“Fair enough,” Casca acknowledged. “Do you know Argentoratum?”
“No,” Gunthar shook his shaggy head. “I left them before they took the city. They’re welcome to it; it’s probably another Roman shit-hole.”
“I was stationed there,” Gerontius said, “and it’s not a shit-hole; or at least it wasn’t when I was there before your tribe took it.”
“You saying my people can’t look after themselves?” Gunthar challenged the Roman belligerently.
“Enough,” Casca snapped. “I’ve been there a couple of times too, but never for very long. My memory of it is hazy but once there I ought to be able to find my way round. Gerontius, tell us all of the important places there.”
The Roman gave them all a brief description of the city; how it stood on the west bank of the Rhine, with one bridge crossing the mighty river there from the main city. The city itself was unprotected with no wall, but the old legion camp was walled and protected and it was located on the north side of the settlement. The great theater or amphitheater was close to the western edge. The forum was close to the river, at the end of two particularly long straight roads. All the roads were, in typically Roman manner, straight.
The west bank of the Rhine was given over to jetties and moorings for river traffic, mostly commercial, but this was likely now to be abandoned. Casca wanted to know more about the current layout of the legion camp. When he’d last been through there just before crossing the Rhine and meeting Glam, it had been different. The fire following the great Alemanni invasion fifty years ago had resulted in the city being rebuilt. It seemed there were now only three entrances, and one of those was against the river. The other two, the south and west entrances, opened to the city but there was a cleared swathe of ground around the camp.
“I’m willing to bet the Alemanni hierarchy is in the camp.”
“What about the girl?” Wulfila asked.
“No idea yet. I’m to get directions from Scarnio’s contact. Gerontius, where would Scarnio’s family house be?”
The Roman pulled a face. “In the camp.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The band of mercenaries skirted two towns over the next five days but kept the river in sight, always climbing, always heading north-east. The weather got steadily worse and the temperature dropped, especially at night. The rains were chilling, a foretaste of winter, and the seven men kept to themselves, grumbling occasionally about the weather, the terrain, the job or any one of a number of complaints, both imagined and real.
One thing Casca did introduce was a sparring session in the evenings, just before they settled down for the night. He wanted to see for himself how good each of his men were, and also to impress on them just how good he was. It never did any harm to show them he could outfight anyone there just in case one or two got cute ideas about trying to take him on.
For that reason, he selected Gunthar as his first sparring partner and showed everyone how to use the shield and sword in tandem. Although he had the famous short sword on underneath his furs, hanging from a baldric, he used the Germanic long sword to spar with. Having a gladius iberius on show wouldn’t be a good idea, especially if they were to maintain their cover as a wandering tribal war band.
He soon saw that Gunthar was good as a bludgeon but lacked the finesse of a good swordsman; Flavius was similar, oddly enough, using his upper body strength to smash an opponent aside. Casca worked him hard, sweating the alcohol out of his system, and Flavius lost some of the fat around his gut and began to look trimmer and more fighting fit as a result.
Gerontius was a classy swordsman, no doubt about it. He was cold, dispassionate and thoroughly professional. He’d learned how to fight in the military academy of the empire and it showed.
Mattias was a surprise; he knew his skills and could use a shield better than many of his compatriots, but that was probably down to his sojourn in Mediolanum. He could also use the spear fairly skillfully too.
The Ostrogoth cousins liked the axe. They had a number of throwing axes under their furs and practiced using them against trees after the evening meal. But even then they could use their swords fairly competently. Casca was surprised; he thought the northern Germanic tribes only used the axe, such as the Saxons or Franks, but here Wulfila and Manneric were showing this was not solely the case. They didn’t have the two-handed axe though which the Saxons certainly did.
Another useful thing the practicing did was to meld the men into a closer knit team. Knowing how the others fought and what they were skilled at made them appreciate the others’ abilities, even Gunthar. Casca had sparred hard with him and made him aware just how damned good the scarred mercenary was. Gunthar knew now he was outclassed, and there had been a grudging respect in Gunthar’s eyes as the session had ended, both men gasping for air and sweating freely
.
They were climbing up a narrow gully which was dotted with hawthorns and sloe bushes, following a narrow animal track that ran alongside a shallow chuckling stream, choked here and there with stones, when a challenge rang out from ahead.
Manneric, the lead man at that instant, stepped back and raised his spear. Coming out of the trees to left and right were a number of armed and desperate looking men, wearing an assortment of outfits but generally consisting of leather armor, spears, swords and round iron helms. Casca came trotting up, followed by the rest, and they stopped, fifty yards from the nearest of the new group.
“Speak German only,” Casca muttered to the men. “These look like ex-soldiers.”
Gerontius snorted. “The one group of people we didn’t plan on meeting,” he said in disgust. “They think we’re barbarian tribesmen – their enemies. These must be refugees from the collapse of the frontier.”
“Aye,” Casca nodded. He switched to German. “On me, arrow formation. Mattias, you be spokesman.”
“Why me?” the Burgundian asked, surprised. “It should be you.”
“You speak Latin with a genuine German accent. If we’re to keep up our disguise, it’s best we do it this way.”
“Alright,” Mattias said and stepped out, his spear held casually but ready to throw.
“You men!” one of the approaching group called out, “what are you doing here?”
Casca looked left and right; there were thirty of them, all former frontier soldiers by the looks of things. “Limitanei,” he muttered to Gerontius and Flavius. The two Romans nodded.
“We’re on our way to the Rhine,” Mattias shouted back. “We’ve become lost from our party. Is the Rhine this way?”
“And what if it is? You dogs have ruined our country. This is my land and none of you swine will live to see the Rhine again.”
Mattias stepped back into his position, to Casca’s left. Gerontius was to the right and then came Gunthar and Flavius and on the left Manneric and Wulfila. “They’re not the friendly type,” Mattias complained.
“Can’t blame them,” Casca muttered. “They see us as invaders who’ve burned their cities, towns, crops and raped their women. Sadly, it’s either them or us. No quarter.”
“So what are they doing here?” Gunthar growled. “They should flee to the safety of a city further south.”
“Not these people,” Casca shook his head. “The Roman system of having frontiersmen meant that these people settled on the land in return for providing a border defense, and it also meant they’d be fighting for their own land and people. I guess nobody expected entire tribes to flood across the border when they set that system up.”
The dirty and disheveled soldiers were closing in, expecting to overwhelm the seven with sheer weight of numbers. “Spread out,” Casca said calmly in German. “Give yourselves space to fight.”
Flavius, not understanding the command, looked at his companions as they stepped sideways a couple of paces, and did likewise. Gunthar was smiling with anticipation while the Ostrogothic cousins were loosening their cloaks, ready to use their throwing axes. Mattias was muttering to himself, gripping his spear tightly, watching the approaching soldiers, armed with their round shields, cloaks and ash spears.
Gerontius was swinging his sword and turning himself side-on to the advancing enemy, shield forward, his feet planted wide. Flavius flexed his shoulders and readied himself for the fight.
“Give up now, you scum,” the leader growled as he got closer, standing taller than the rest, looking like a wild tribesman with his long hair and untrimmed beard. These people looked as if they had existed in the hills for months.
“And die like cattle?” Mattias snapped, working himself up into a battle lust. He growled and his voice rose into a howl of anger. Suddenly he sucked in a deep breath, drew the spear back and launched it hard at the closest man, now only twenty feet distant. The spear took him through the chest and pitched him back into his comrade behind. Casca shouted to Mattias and tossed him his own spear, then dragged his sword out of his sheath, shield across his chest.
Manneric roared in defiance and flung aside his cloak and picked the first of his axes out of the chest belt they were hanging from and flung it at the man facing him. The limatani was going to throw his spear in response to Mattias’ attack but the axe spun through the air and buried itself into his throat, spraying the air with blood, flinging the soldier back onto the damp grass.
“Kill them!” the leader screamed in rage.
“Attack!” Casca responded and charged, his sword whirling through the air. Two men were drawing their arms back to throw their spears but suddenly realized their target was coming at them and was too close. They hesitated, trying to decide whether to use their spears or grab their swords, and it cost them dear. Casca’s first blow was downwards across the right hand man’s neck and chest and he sank to the ground, crying out in pain and fear, and Casca half turned, standing over the dying man, and slashed at the second, catching him with a blow that angled up under his desperate guard and into his chest, shattering his ribs and puncturing the lungs.
Pulling his sword hard to get it out of the man’s body, Casca left him sinking to the ground and swung left and right to see where the next opponent was coming from. The leader. He was bearing down on Casca rapidly, his face a furious mask. The leader’s sword blurred through the air. Casca blocked, standing firm. The blow jarred his arm but knocked the leader back. He hadn’t been expecting Casca to stand and block like that. Countering hard, Casca slashed and then pushed his shield forward. The leader stepped back two paces, looking shocked.
Blade whirled and shield punched. Blow upon blow. The leader staggered up the hill in disbelief at being so easily pushed back.
Mattias, meanwhile, had used Casca’s spear to knock a second man down and now waded in with his sword. “Time for some carnage!” he screamed, smashing his blade down on the head of the luckless fellow, crumpling his helmet and stunning the man. Mattias kicked him aside and crossed blades with another adversary.
Gunthar was roaring like a bull and charging his way through a knot of men, knocking them down like sticks. Flavius, a pace behind and to the shield side of Gunthar, followed him, slicing through the thin protection of the enemy as they recoiled from Gunthar’s attacks. The two juggernauts sent man after man spinning to the ground, their lifeblood draining.
Axe after axe span through the air from Wulfila and Manneric, cutting down eight more, and then Wulfila drew his sword and jumped into the fray at the remaining men there.
Gerontius parried and stabbed, blocked and slashed. Three men were sent to meet their maker in no time as he carved a path through the outclassed limitanei, and kept anyone from sneaking up on Casca from his right hand side.
Casca was still plowing uphill, not giving the leader a moment’s chance to recover. Another blow knocked the leader’s blade aside. Casca now thrust his shield against the man’s right arm, trapping it, and leaving him wide open. Casca’s sword punched into his chest, slicing through the heart, killing him instantly.
As the corpse fell to the ground Casca turned. The field was littered with bodies. What limitanei that remained were fleeing, scattering in every direction. Casca lowered his blade. It had been short and sharp, and the outclassed enemy had been slaughtered. None of the mercenaries looked hurt, and Casca quickly checked with each of them. Clear. Wiping his blade, Casca examined the leader. No wonder the frontier had collapsed if this was the standard of soldier that had manned it. He shook his head slowly in disgust. How was it that the empire had come to this? What had happened to the legions?
The men were checking the bodies, retrieving the axes and spears and seeing if any of the dead men’s equipment was worth salvaging, and of course to see if there were any items of value on them. One or two were swapping helmets. Casca checked the leader’s blade. It was a longer bladed version of the gladius, more like the old cavalry spathos. The Roman army no longer fought li
ke the legions of old; they couldn’t, using weapons like this. Neither were their shields the traditional oblong shaped. Now they were oval. Tactics had to change because of the weaponry and equipment used.
“Should we chase them back to their camp, sir?” Flavius shouted across the slope. Casca looked round and saw the Roman pointing up the hill at the vanishing backs of those fleeing. Casca nodded. With a whoop of delight Flavius led the Ostrogothic cousins and Gunthar up the hill.
“Follow them,” Casca waved to Mattias and Gerontius. “Just in case.”
The two others trotted off, leaving Casca alone with the dead. He cleaned his blade and slid it home, wiping the worst of the gore from his arms and tunic. Selecting the best looking spear from the dead, he followed, climbing up the steeply sloped hillside, eventually topping the rise and saw the backs of Gerontius and Mattias below in the next valley, the one that led to the river. In the distance off to the right Casca could see the town that straddled the river, the one they would have to enter to cross the Dubis. Perhaps these men had come from there originally and now it was in barbarian hands. Probably was, judging by the fact these men were living an outlaw life so close to a center of population.
He half-ran, half-stumbled down the slope, nearly losing his balance, swearing under his breath as he almost lost his footing. Then he was into thick undergrowth, brambles, thorn and other thickly growing shrubs. The sound of fighting was coming from ahead and Casca switched his spear to his left and dragged his sword out again. He dodged branches and looping thorny tendrils, skipped over animal droppings – probably badger and fox – and came closer to the cursing and ringing of blade upon blade.