by Tony Roberts
“First we find if Flora is here,” Casca said softly. “The job first.”
The streets were still in the classic Roman grid pattern, and they came to a major junction and peered left and right. Off to the right they could see, close to the river, the only walled part of the city, the garrison. The administration and defense would be there. Casca recalled the address he’d been given by Scarnio. “Find the Water Gate street.”
“Ah, that’s off towards the river, if my memory serves me well,” Gerontius replied, looking to the right.
“Fair answer. Let’s go.”
They walked down the street, passing a large number of people, many of whom were warriors like themselves, and they drew some attention. Casca felt very exposed. His light blue eyes were fine amongst these people, but his complexion and build was unmistakably Latin. Gerontius and Flavius were even more Latin looking than he.
“The Water Gate,” Flavius pointed. “This must be the street.”
They looked around. Casca saw the junction that led to the garrison, then counted five doors towards the gate. This was the one! He nudged Mattias and the two stepped up to the door. It was dull red and weather worn. Casca rapped on it.
After a moment they heard a bolt being drawn back. “Who is it?”
“Friends of a man who used to live here.”
The door opened a crack and an elderly man peered out suspiciously. “You have a name?”
“Longinus. I come from Scarnio. His daughter is on his mind.”
The man looked at him in surprise, then opened the door wider. “In – quick.”
The seven men filed in and the door was closed behind them, the bolt being drawn again. The room was crowded with exits left and right, but the ceiling was low and some of them had to hunch their necks to avoid bumping their heads.
“I’m Hulinus,” the elderly man explained, dressed in a simple one-piece green outfit tied at the waist by a string belt. He had a name that had been Germanic but Latinized. “Scarnio left me here to give whoever he sent directions. It’s been very hard these past few months to keep hidden away and not be suspected of being a Roman citizen. Do you know they’ve ejected everyone who used to live here? Thankfully I’m of the tribes originally so I can pass amongst these people without suspicion – but some of you won’t be able to stay here for long.”
“I’m aware of that, Hulinus. Just tell me where Flora is?”
“In the garrison quarter, in the so-called ‘palace’. You must have seen it – it’s the only walled part of the city. She’s with her guardian, a German retainer – he’s a Frank but they trust him, so he’s allowed to remain. He’s joined the garrison so that’s why they moved in there, and she’s much safer with him than here with me. The chieftain running things here, a man called Reikhars, he’s beginning to throw his weight around and I think he’s trying for a kingship.”
Gunthar snorted. “He’ll have a hard time convincing the tribes here.”
“Tribes?” Flavius asked. “I thought there was only the one?”
“The word Alemanni means ‘all the people’. There is no real tribe called the Alemanni; it’s a confederation. The main tribe here are the Suebes.” Casca looked at Gunthar. “Are you a Suebe?”
“Naw,” Gunthar shook his shaggy head. “Heruscian. The Suebes are dog humpers. Reikhars is a Suebe.”
“He’s a powerful man,” Hulinus said sternly. “You can’t stay here, in case anyone sees us. I can’t help you any further, I’m afraid. I will make plans now to leave. Good luck. I’ll try to get back to Scarnio and inform him you made it here. I don’t think getting Flora out will be that easy, especially as Reikhars has his eye on her. That’s why she’s in his inner sanctum.”
Casca groaned. “Since when?”
“Recently. He visited some of the dwellings his men were in to see if some of his commanders could move in there instead – something to do with better quality accommodation – and took one look at her and thought she was fit to be his wife. The Frankish guardian told the chief she was betrothed already but I don’t think that’ll put the old buzzard off for long.”
“Then we must move quickly. Gunthar, you and Mattias here find us a place to stay close to the garrison. The rest of us will remain here until one of you returns.”
There was an uncomfortable period in the house while they waited. Hulinus clearly wanted them out, and his nerves weren’t good. It made him jumpy and the mercenaries were irritated by it. Casca sat by the door, his hand on his hilt, waiting. Gerontius was staring at him, as if trying to convey some secret message, but Casca wasn’t in the mood to play the Roman’s mind games. He probably was trying to tell Casca that Gunthar had betrayed them and at this very moment a squad of very heavily armored Alemanni were stamping their way to the house to arrest them all.
Flavius nervously drummed his fingers on a nearby table, standing close to the back of the room, while Manneric stood as if carved from stone, his face still. His eyes roved from man to man however, and Casca wondered what was going through the phlegmatic man’s mind. Wulfila had found a pile of cushions and was thrown himself onto them and had his eyes closed.
Casca heard footsteps outside and tensed. The door shook to a knocking and Casca jerked his head at Hulinus to answer it. “Yes?”
“Mattias,” came the Burgundian’s voice. “We’ve got a place.”
The door was unlocked and Mattias stood there, looking nervously about. “The whole place is full of damned warriors. None of them have asked who we are but it’s nerve-wracking all the same.”
Casca waved the rest out. He paused and glanced back at Hulinus. “I presume you’ll be going now?”
“Yes. Don’t come back here. I won’t be here to open the door to you.”
“Fine. Good luck,” Casca said and followed the others. Mattias led them left and along a road that petered out before the ditch and walls of the garrison quarter. Soldiers patrolled the ramparts and more were lounging about outside, warming themselves on the braziers by their guard posts. Nobody bothered to check them as they walked past through the open gate. The thought that six or seven men could take the city was clearly ludicrous.
The garrison quarter was tightly packed with buildings and the streets were narrow. A tavern stood almost next to the gateway and Mattias led them into the building. It looked like a former armory, and a fair few racks still stood around the walls. Pillars supported the roof and no sign of water ingress was evident, so the structure was still sound.
Casca stamped on the floorboards but no dust flew up, which would betray woodworm. Men sat around barrels that served as tables and drank mead, laughing loudly or telling tales to their comrades. Mattias flicked a finger at the innkeeper. “We paid him for seven rooms. Plenty of space here, it seems. He was glad of the custom!”
The innkeeper glowered at Casca. “You the chieftain of this group? No messing about here or you’re out. No weapons to be drawn, d’you hear?”
“Got it.” Casca was led up a flight of wooden stairs to the first floor where the rooms were. One was clearly a former guardroom that had been roughly divided into four rooms, the use of thin wooden panels evident. The other three rooms had probably been officer’s quarters and Casca requisitioned one. He peered out of the sole window which looked out onto the street below and grunted in satisfaction. He threw his pack onto the bed. The bunk was a rough affair and the straw mattress sagged. The corridor led to a rear exit that went down to the side alley, just in case of fire – or maybe a raid from the authorities.
Apart from a wash basin and a chest, there were no other items of furniture there. He went downstairs and waved the innkeeper over. “Got any girls?”
“Of course,” the man nodded. “Cost you, though.”
“Let’s settle on a price then; six girls.”
“Six?”
“I’m not partaking.”
The innkeeper wondered if Casca’s tastes verged on the unorthodox, but wisely said nothing. Casca was mo
re concerned to let the men let loose some of their pent-up frustrations, and to have had their carnal desires sated before they saw Flora. According to what he’d heard so far, and from looking at her statue back in Massilia, she was a beauty. He didn’t trust his men with her if they hadn’t satisfied their desires immediately beforehand.
A price having been agreed, Casca waited for the girls who came filing out from the back of the building. A mixture to be sure, and three were certainly Latins, probably girls captured when Argentoratum had fallen and who’d been coerced into working as whores or else. Two were Germanic, while the sixth was Celtic. Typically short, dark and possessing huge tits. She wiggled her chest at him provocatively and he grinned weakly. “Right girls. Upstairs are a bunch of horny, frustrated warriors. Go calm them down. I want a bunch of pleased, happy guys by morning.”
The girls giggled and made their way upstairs, Casca watching them as they went up. “Lovely afternoon,” he said under his breath, then went out into the chilly air.
Gunthar was probably out looking for his cousin, so one of the men would have two women to deal with, but was that such a hardship? He scratched his hairy chin. Having allowed a beard to grow was a good thing; it gave him more of an appearance of a tribesman.
How to get to Flora, and her Frankish guard? There were probably upwards of a thousand warriors crammed into the quarter, and finding the girl in the right room of the palace, was almost impossible. What was this palace? Perhaps he could ask in the tavern itself. A mug or three of ale always helped lubricate the tonsils so that speech came more readily.
He bought a drink back inside and looked round the room. Who was the most likely to give him the information he needed? There! In the corner, a solitary man brooding into the bottom of his drinking vessel. He looked sour enough.
Casca ambled over to him and planted his mug on the barrel top. “Mind if I share this barrel with you?”
The warrior looked up, blond beard and mustache stained with ale. His eyes were bloodshot and dull. “Go ahead,” he said listlessly.
Casca hooked a foot round a nearby stool and dragged it towards him and sat down. “Looks like the worries of the world are on your shoulders, friend.”
The warrior looked up and gave Casca a level stare. “Who in the name of the gods are you? I’ve not seen you around here before – and you look like a damned Latin.”
Casca had his cover story ready. “Mother was a Roman slave. I’ve just returned from a long reconnaissance of southern Gaul. Damned Burgundians were all over the place, too. It was one heck of a hard trip. Lost half of my men.”
“What were the Burgundians doing there?”
“Burning, looting. The usual.” Casca took a draught of his mug and wiped his lips appreciatively. “Been looking forward to this for a long time! Man, the whole of Gaul is ripe for the plucking. The Romans can hardly put up any resistance. Too busy arguing over the scraps we of the tribes have left them!”
The warrior snorted and stared into the depths of his mug. Something was bugging him. Casca leaned forward conspiratorially. “I’ve even heard that our chieftain here is looking to have himself declared King! What do you think of that?”
The warrior sneered. “To Valhalla with him! If he wishes to lead the tribes then he’ll need all of our approval.”
“Rome won’t trade with a committee,” Casca commented. “They’ll insist on a leader.”
“You a Suebe, by any chance?”
“No – Heruscian. He’s not stupid though, is he? I mean, surrounding himself with fellow Suebes and Franks.”
“Franks?” the warrior eyed Casca. “I’ve only seen one with his stupid hair knot since we got here.”
“I know the one you mean,” Casca nodded. “In the place Reikhars calls a palace!” Casca laughed.
The warrior grimaced. “Palace my arsch! It’s an old governor’s residence. I helped clean the place out of damned Romans when we took the place, and now he’s kicked all non-Suebes out of there.”
“Yeah and you’d need permission to go in there, I bet.”
“You’re right there, friend,” the warrior agreed and took a pull from his mug. He drained it and looked at it forlornly. Casca took his chance. He turned and called out for the serving wench. She came over and Casca ordered two more drinks. The warrior looked at Casca in surprise. “I’ve nothing to pay you, friend.”
“Call it a gift,” Casca shrugged. “I sense you are in need of a drink and a friendly ear. It’s been a long time since I could sit and enjoy a drink, and speak to someone other than shout orders to kill or burn.”
“You wouldn’t want to hear my story,” the warrior said gloomily.
“Try me,” Casca replied, “but first a drink. A toast! To anyone but Reikhars leading the tribes!”
The warrior smiled. “I’ll drink to that!”
So they toasted, and drank. And Casca listened to the man’s story and nodded in sympathy. It seemed Reikhars was a womanizer and had stolen this warrior’s betrothed and seduced her. He now kept her in his inner chambers along with all the others who serviced him, like a collection of concubines. The warrior knew of ways around the palace, and of the guard rosters. He also knew the guard captain, a disreputable man by the name of Hrodbehrt, who was totally corrupt. He would sell his mother for the right price, so the warrior averred.
Mattias came down in the middle of the discussion, his arms round two of the whores. “Hey, you missing out like Gerontius?”
“Gerontius? Where is he?”
“In his room, brooding. Rejected these pretty little things, so I took his. Good move, Casca, much appreciated. By the gods, I need a drink. Who’s this?”
“A friend in need of company. Here,” he grabbed one of the girls and thrust her onto the lap of the warrior. “Another gift. She’s yours until the morning. I’ve paid for her until then.” He ignored Mattias’ protest.
The warrior looked at Casca in incredulity, then gratitude. “How can I thank you enough?”
Casca leaned forward. “We’ll talk about that later. Now go take this strumpet upstairs and forget about the woman that swine Reikhars has taken from you.”
Mattias sat with the remaining whore on his lap looking thoughtfully at Casca. “Does he know something important?”
“Probably; seems he’s had a falling out with the chieftain of this place. With a little luck he’ll help us get in. The problem remains in getting out fast with her before the whole place erupts. We need to secure one of the gates.”
“How you going to do that?”
Casca wagged his finger. “After you’ve sated yourself on this little sweetheart. How are the others coping?”
Mattias grinned. “Plenty of moaning but no complaining.”
“Gunthar’s missing out big time here. I hope he’s found out something useful. Get back upstairs. I’ll go see if I can find our friend.”
Mattias vanished with the whore and Casca drained his drink, belched, then made his way to the door, a sorry looking piece of wood. It had been badly treated in the recent past, probably when Argentoratum – or as he’d heard the new masters here call it, Strassenburg – fell. Strassenberg. The city of streets. Aptly named. He sucked in his breath as he stepped outside into the chill. Flakes of snow were falling lightly. He wondered just how many places would retain their Roman names once they changed to new masters.
Even though it was very cold, there were plenty of people moving about, mostly fur-clad warriors. He saw a variety of helmet styles including some old imperial armory issue helms, but most were of a simple conical type. Not many were wearing armor. After all, the enemy was gone, vanquished. Except he was here, deep in their midst.
He wandered aimlessly along the straight streets, peering into the occasional doorway. Laughter came to him from time to time, or the guttural conversations of the tribes. The smells of cooking wafted over him, then suddenly the acrid stench of urine. Everything was here. Pigs squealed, people laughed, chickens squabbled.
The ‘palace’ was indeed a former governor’s residence. A group of armed men stood by the entrance, chatting, but it was clear they were there to stop anyone unauthorized from passing. The building was of two stories, and lights came from most of the windows on both floors. He wondered which one Flora was behind.
He retraced his steps and got almost to the tavern when he noticed a set of footprints in the lightly fallen snow leading off to the side alley. He glanced along the narrow alleyway and saw a pair of boots protruding from underneath the staircase that led up to the rear. Somebody was lying there.
Casca took a closer look and his heart dropped. He knelt by the corpse’s side. A huge wound could be seen across the back and the tunic was stained red. The entire area was a mass of confused prints and scuffed up snow. The stairs were marked with a set of footprints coming down and going up.
Casca straightened and looked down at Gunthar. If he had found out something, he could never tell anyone now.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Where was everyone this evening?” Casca demanded of the men. The whores had been dismissed. The five mercenaries stood or sat in front of Casca, all showing shock at the news of Gunthar’s death.
“Screwing, chief,” Mattias said, looking round. “Well, most of us.”
Gerontius scowled at Mattias’ look. “I was in my room.”
“Did any of you go out in the past hour?”
“Well, I went down for a piss,” Wulfila shrugged. “But was back quick to carry on with that girl I had.”
“Flavius?” Casca asked.
The Roman shook his head. “I came down to see if you were around but since I couldn’t find you, I went back upstairs.”
“Manneric? Did you leave this place?”
“Why are you asking us all?” Gerontius demanded. “You accusing one of us for killing Gunthar?”
“I’m trying to find out if any of you saw anything,” Casca said with great patience. “Gunthar was on his way here and was struck down from behind for some reason. Why him? Why here? He was killed as he got to the foot of the stairs leading up to the rooms here at the back. Whatever he had found out may have been damned important.”