Roman Mercenary

by Tony Roberts

  He led them on, and the snow began falling more heavily. They were tired, wet and miserable. But they had made it and would now get through. In a few days’ time the pass would be blocked. It had been close.

  At the far end the road swung right and plunged down the other side of the mountain. The sky was full of clouds and they couldn’t see very far. One moment visibility was fifty feet, the next ten. “Stay to the right,” Casca said, his voice flat and loud in the cloud. “We don’t want any accidents.”

  They went down for a while, then the light began fading. Night was coming and they needed to find shelter. The wind was picking up and ice was being whipped around, stinging their faces. A rock fall in the recent past provided them with that, resting against the mountain; it gave them three sides of a shelter. The only open side was facing the valley beyond and the wind wasn’t coming in that direction.

  At the rear there was even a slight roof formed by the fallen rocks and they made a sleeping chamber there. They had no firewood but huddling together they provided themselves with enough warmth to get by.

  There was no need to post guards; the ice and snow beyond fell faster and harder and soon a blizzard was blowing, depositing snow in huge drifts inside the shelter. Casca and Wulfila packed it into a small wall in front of them so that the drifting was stopped for a while.

  “Keep moving your feet and hands,” Casca advised them. “In this cold you might lose them if you’re not careful.”

  “How long is this going to last?” Flora asked, her teeth chattering. “I’ve never been so cold in my life!”

  “Not long, hopefully,” Casca said, eyeing the growing pile of snow building up just beyond their feet. One benefit it was providing was to cut down on the wind and eddies that swept over them from time to time. “Tomorrow we drop down a thousand feet or so onto the plateau below us. With any luck the Burgundians following us will get stuck up in the pass and find it blocked. They’ll have to retrace their steps.”

  “How long would that take?” Flavius asked.

  “They won’t be able to get to us, but a messenger could rush back to the river and pass on the news and another group would try to intercept us on the other side down below.”

  “You know where to go once we get down?” Gerontius asked, kneading his fingers, hissing at the pain.

  “Vaguely, yes. The main road through Helvetia isn’t far and it goes either north east towards Raetica or south west towards a place called Aventicum. It was the imperial capital of the region some time back, but I don’t know now what its state is. So much has changed recently,” he added darkly, frowning. “After that we can go one of two directions – south or south west. Either way we end up at a huge lake called Lemanus which we have to cross. On the other side we get to Gaul.”

  “When were you last here, then?” Mattias asked.

  “Oh, some years ago. Can’t recall when. In my younger days,” he grinned in the near darkness. He recalled perfectly when he was last in the region; a couple of hundred years back before he crossed the Rhine and met Glam. Happier times.

  The night went on, a seemingly never ending dark period of storms and howling wind, and each of them dropped off to sleep for short periods, but the restlessness of one or more of them woke their neighbors throughout the night, and fortunate it was too, for freezing cold limbs were massaged back into painful life. The pain kept them awake for longer periods after that.

  Casca kicked the drifting snow off his feet and spent most of the night brooding. He was puzzled as to why it was only the Burgundians chasing them and not the Alemanni. Something wasn’t right.

  When day finally came Casca hauled himself to his feet and kicked the others – at least the males – to full awareness. “Come on, up. We’ve got to get going.”

  The wall of snow was kicked aside, the chilling white powder flying in all directions, and Casca emerged into a freezing cold world of what his people at Helsfjord would have called Valhalla.

  The skies were free of snow and even some patches of blue could be seen. The land was coated in white, and only the black starkness of the sheer rock faces broke this up. Back up towards the pass the route was shrouded in cloud and he couldn’t see what was going on up there, so he turned the other way and gingerly stepped towards the edge of the rock fall and peered round the last boulder. He breathed in relief; the path was still there, albeit only half of its former width. In former times a repair gang would have fixed it, but not now. It would be allowed to fall into disrepair and maybe even destruction.

  He peered up at the mountainsides. Covered in snow. Not good. An avalanche was a possibility. If rocks could come down, then snow was just as likely. He waved them on down after him. “What about breakfast?” Wulfila complained.

  “We eat when we get to the bottom,” Casca said curtly. “Let’s get off this blasted mountain first.”

  The road wound round the shoulder of a large mountain and then turned back on itself and entered a valley. This was the entrance to the plateau that stretched out below. Once down there they could stop.

  Slipping a few times, the group plowed on through the fresh snowfalls, making sure they stayed away from the edge. One careless step could spell disaster. They breathed in relief when they got to the high valley and picked up speed as they grew in confidence. The road could be made out as they followed it through the valley, and then they were free of the mountain and making their way down a long wide slope towards a small lake ahead of them.

  “That isn’t the lake you were talking about, is it?” Mattias pointed.

  “No – this is just its small cousin! There’s plenty more lakes around.”

  The road flattened out and where it joined the main road running left and right a small village rested, covered in snow, some of the roofs open to the sky. A fence ran round the perimeter and there were three gatehouses, all open and unguarded. Casca’s mouth tightened. He led them into the village and they all looked round. Nothing stirred.

  “What was this place?” Wulfila wondered out loud.

  “Fortified village, no doubt,” Gerontius commented.

  Casca had his sword in his hand. “Manneric, go check the gateway to the far left, Wulfila, the other one. Flavius, you and Mattias go check the buildings – see if anyone or anything is around. Be watchful.”

  Casca waved Gerontius and Flora to follow him. He made for the biggest building there, a fortified hall of some description, but the door had been torn off its hinges sometime in the recent past and the overnight snow showed no tracks going in or coming out. The place was long deserted.

  Casca peered into the cavernous interior and the flapping of wings betrayed an avian occupant, somewhere up amongst the exposed roof beams where the roof had been allowed to rot. He sighed and turned round. “Gerontius, go look for firewood.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because you’re not doing much else,” Casca snapped. “Flora, you can help him, and point out what firewood looks like.”

  Gerontius tightened his jaw and stepped forward. At that moment Wulfila came back and Gerontius muttered under his breath before stamping off to the nearest house, which was nothing more than a shell.

  “Thought he was going to draw his sword on you for a moment,” Wulfila said.

  “If he had, it would have been the last thing he’d’ve done.”

  Wulfila grunted. “About time you took him down a step or two; he’s thinking he’s better than all of us.”

  “I’m thinking the same thing,” Casca said softly, staring in the direction the two had gone. “So,” he turned to Wulfila. “What did you find?”

  “Nothing. The gate is open and had been stuck open with a peg. Looks like they left that way.”

  “The south. Figures.” Casca waited until the others came back, all shaking their heads. Flavius did say that he had found some broken shovels and picks in one shed, and Mattias said that he’d found a number of leather aprons and a forge.

  “This was a maintenanc
e depot,” Casca said. “The road repairers were housed here with their families. They left for the south – Italy – when the emperor decided to abandon Helvetia to the barbarians.”

  “There’s some wood fit for burning,” Gerontius announced, bringing a handful.

  “Great,” Casca said. “Build a fire and let’s get some hot food and drink inside us.”

  “Won’t it be seen?” Flavius queried.

  “Who cares? If the Burgundians can see it then they’re too close for us to get away. I doubt they’re hereabouts anyway yet. We need warming up. Once we’ve fed, we’ll go.”

  They ate once the fire had been started, and they gratefully warmed up around the blazing pile of wood that had been thrown onto a cleared area of stone paving they had found after kicking the snow aside. Feeling warm for once, and with full bellies, they left the abandoned village by the south-western gate and made their way through the ankle-deep snow along the Roman road towards the town of Aventicum, which Casca thought was about a full day’s march ahead.

  The terrain here was reasonably flat, but mountains rose dizzyingly high to their right – the Jura range – and far off ahead and to their left other ranges could be seen. The land rose and fell in gradual waves but at least it wasn’t the sheer rock they had passed on their way up the Jura and down after going over the pass.

  The road ran on almost straight in true Roman style, and Casca even relaxed for a while, not having to concentrate on finding the best footing through a treacherous covering of snow. The road beneath was level, consistent and true.

  After a while Casca noticed hoof prints in the snow. He hadn’t noticed when they had started, he had been looking out left and right across the land, trying not to hurt his eyes in the white glare of the sun reflecting off the snow. He stopped and bent to examine them.

  The others crowded round. “Trouble?” Mattias queried, peering at the indentations.

  “Who’s good at tracking?” Casca asked, tracing the outline of the mark next to him.

  “I’m not bad,” Manneric unexpectedly said, stepping forward. He looked at the prints and then straightened, peering ahead. “One rider, this morning. Making good time.”

  The others looked at each other. “A rider, alone? Who would own a horse up here?” Flavius asked.

  “Nobody – except a messenger or cavalryman.” Casca puffed out his cheeks. It was decidedly cold, and getting colder. “Let’s carry on, but be ready for trouble.” They continued on through the day into the afternoon, finding more tracks the closer they got to Aventicum. The new ones were footprints of humans, and the occasional wolf or dog. None were going back the way they had come.

  Evening was drawing in when Aventicum came into sight, a large walled town with gates. Destruction was evident here too, but also smoke could be seen billowing up from houses. It was still inhabited. Casca led the group up to the east gate and hailed a spear carrying sentry patrolling unenthusiastically back and forth. He’d not even noticed their approach, so sunk he’d been in his personal cold misery. The Eternal Mercenary tutted under his breath. Carelessness to be sure, but then he probably wasn’t a regular soldier, more likely a militiaman pressed into service by whoever ran the town.

  The walls were square-topped and the gate a narrow portal set close to where the wall turned. It all looked reasonably modern rather than a few hundred years old. Aventicum had been a Roman town even in Casca’s childhood.

  The sentry started in surprise, then stared at the small group standing below him, their dark shapes standing out against the stark whiteness of the snow. “Who are you?”

  “Travelers,” Casca answered in Latin, “fleeing barbarian horsemen.”

  “What barbarians?” the man queried, staring anxiously out across the empty countryside.

  “Alemanni, Burgundians,” Casca shrugged. “They’re out there somewhere.”

  “Burgundians we have no quarrel with,” the sentry said sharply, “but the Alemanni are no friends of the Bishop or any of us.”

  “The Bishop?” Casca echoed, not liking it.

  “Yes; he runs the town now the military have fled. We trust in God to keep us safe.”

  “Better to trust in your own swords,” Casca muttered, glancing at Mattias. The Burgundian nodded briefly. He looked up at the sentry. “We are tired and in need of food and shelter. May we enter?”

  The sentry chewed on his lip. They didn’t look too dangerous, and he noticed a young woman amongst them. The Bishop liked young women. Maybe he would gain favor with Bishop Athenus if he presented him with her. “Very well, but wait just inside the gates while I check you all.”

  The sentry operated the gate from the wall and it swung inwards. Casca led the others through into a clear paved area that had been swept clear of snow. A small guardroom stood to the left and a couple of guards were in there, warming their hands against a brazier. One stood up and waved them to stand by the door, then he sauntered out, casually holding his low quality spear. He was dressed in a rudimentary leather tunic and hose, but it couldn’t really be described as being armor.

  The sentry came down the nearby stone steps and looked them over, noting the chain or banded armor and weaponry, far better than anything they had. He then examined the girl, and liked what he saw. Gerontius scowled and flexed his arm muscles and the sentry swallowed and stepped back. “Where are you bound?”

  “Italy,” Casca lied. “We’re trying to get back to imperial territory. What was that you said about the Alemanni?”

  “They sacked the town some years ago and it took a lot of effort to rebuild it. Ever since then we’ve held a hatred of them, and now they’ve crossed the Rhine we live in fear they’ll come this way again. Have you seen them?”

  “Yes. We’ve come from Argentoratum, and incurred their wrath. We’ve been chased since then and came over the Jura range yesterday.”

  “Really?” the sentry looked impressed, “in this weather? Isn’t it blocked?”

  “It is now,” Casca nodded. “It isn’t usually this cold, is it?”

  “Not at this time of year, no. It’s a particularly bad year. The rivers are freezing over already! I must take you to the Bishop; he demands all newcomers are brought to him, you understand?”

  They shrugged and followed the man through the streets. The houses were in varying states of disrepair, but some had been rebuilt and looked good while others were piles of rubble. They passed the amphitheatre which was now ruined, huge chunks of masonry missing, and the air of neglect depressed Casca even further.

  A little further on they came to what had been the theatre. To their surprise they saw there had been dug around it a moat, crossed by a wooden retractable bridge, and the open side had been reinforced by a roughly cut and built wall, and the existing walls strengthened. Here was a stronghold.

  More guards were in evidence here, and a few citizens hurried past, glancing fearfully in their direction. They were requested to surrender their weapons at the bridge, and they reluctantly did so, then were escorted in.

  Torches hung from wall brackets and the evening air was tainted with incense. The sign of religion was strong here, with crosses on the wall and tapestries depicting scenes of the saints here and there. Casca’s skin crawled. He always had an aversion to such overtly devout shows of religious following. Maybe it was because of what Jesus had done to him. He didn’t care. All he knew was that he disliked it.

  They climbed a series of stairs and were shown into a guest room, overlooking the rear of the theatre which looked out over the walls into the forests that lay beyond. There was a large lake in the near distance, and beyond it the wall of the Jura range. It was just visible in the last fading rays of the setting sun well beyond the peaks in the distance.

  “So what do we do if the Bishop doesn’t want us here?” Flavius asked, sitting on a table, swinging one leg.

  “We persuade him to let us stay, that’s what,” Gerontius growled. “Flora needs a decent bed.”

  The
y looked at the girl who was, to be honest, looking very tired and drawn. “How are you holding up?” Casca asked.

  “I’m alright – just tired, that’s all. And hungry!”

  “Like the rest of us. Trouble is we don’t have any money,” Wulfila grumbled. “At least Manneric and I don’t, and the townsfolk here look too damned poor to steal off.”

  Mattias chuckled and leaned further back in the chair he’d appropriated. “I could sleep in this!”

  Footsteps heralded the arrival of people and the door clattered open and two men stepped in, one holding a brass cross, and then a large man followed them, dressed in long robes and looking well fed. A crucifix hung from a chain round his neck and his clasped hands gripped a small book. He stood there, his florid face pudgy and dominated by a hooked nose.

  “So, you are the refugees from the Alemanni?” he asked in a Roman accent.

  “Yes, father,” Gerontius spoke up before Casca could respond. Casca held his tongue; perhaps Gerontius could handle this better than he. “We rescued this girl from their clutches and wish to return her to her doting father in Italy.”

  “Indeed?” Bishop Athenus stepped forward. “Come forward, my child,” he held out his hand to Flora. Hesitantly the girl stepped away from Gerontius who nodded to her when she looked at him for reassurance. She smiled nervously and stepped closer to the portly bishop. He took her hand and looked at her closely. “Ah, such a beautiful child,” he said. “God has blessed you, indeed, my child.” He looked at her closely. “Have you been baptized?”

  “Baptized?” Flora echoed, puzzled.

  Casca rubbed his chin. The girl seemed genuinely ignorant of the means by which a person was inducted into the Christian faith. He recalled with distaste when he had been baptized, a year or so back along with Vergix in Mediolanum.