by Tony Roberts
He didn’t speak and Casca guessed he was mute or maybe had had his tongue torn out some time past. The night was dark as he was let out of the palace and was allowed to pass through the gate outside the city. As it clanged shut behind him and was locked, Casca strode purposefully into the suburbs, his mind locked on one thing. That bitch had gotten him worked up and Carina was going to reap the rewards. No matter that she was sleeping or not, he was on a mission.
He got back thirty minutes or so later and threw his armor and clothing onto his empty bed, then padded along the corridor, butt naked, into Carina’s room. He heard her softly breathing and threw back her coverlet. Carina mumbled sleepily and turned over to lie on her back. “What is it?” she asked, still half asleep.
Casca didn’t wait but went at her like a rutting hog, spreading Carina’s legs wide. She gasped and lay there as Casca poured his lust into her. She still wasn’t too aware of what was going on, but it wasn’t unpleasant. After he had sated his desire, he lay next to her, fighting to get his heart beat and breathing under control. Carina looked at him in surprise. “You want to share my bed tonight?”
“Yes, woman. Every night.”
“Oh?” Carina smiled. She snuggled into his chest. “We’ll see.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The next few months went by quickly for the new imperial officer. Theodora summoned him frequently to her quarters; but on the few occasions they passed in public she merely slipped him a quick smile. Casca bought and settled down in a new house in a reasonably well to do area in the north of the city, near the Golden Horn. Carina, once she had made her mind up, moved in with him and was pleased with her new surroundings. Delia had new friends to play with and Casca was content, but bitter experience had taught him that these periods were soon followed by a whole shitload of trouble, so he kept an eye out for any warning signs.
He had continued hunting the Brotherhood cell of Thassus, killing another eight in that time but the other three had now vanished, probably having realized someone was after them and had put discretion before that of valor. Casca didn’t blame them.
Narses appeared to be keeping his side of the agreement too. He passed Casca an address a week or so after their meeting in the palace and Casca had staked it out after dusk and watched it until Manius had come out, accompanied by a wide-shouldered bodyguard, and the two had gone to another house close by. Casca had returned to Manius’ house and waited in the garden for about two hours. The two men had then returned, talking about a shipment of wine, and Casca had struck swiftly, bringing the pommel of his sword down on the bodyguard, knocking him clean out.
Manius had whirled in fright and his speech had left him as he saw Casca advancing on him. He tried to run but Casca had caught him within a few feet and thrown him to the ground, pinning him as he lay on top. His sword had been pressed against Manius’ throat. “Goodbye, you shit,” Casca had breathed, “compliments of me and Narses.”
“N-Narses?” Manius had gibbered. “Why him?”
“Why indeed?” Casca had answered. “He wants you out of the way. As do I.” He had then rammed the sword through the auditor’s throat and had left him draining in his own garden.
Manius had been found the next morning and mourned by half the city. Blame was laid on robbers, or disgruntled Blues. The Greens vowed revenge and for a few weeks revenge muggings went on but they died out in time as all such things do.
Casca continued with his racing career, prompted now by the Empress who kept on showering him with gifts as well as using him as a means to satisfy herself. He’d gained a position in the palace but now he wasn’t sure where he should go next. Narses was still a target but the eunuch had kept himself a step ahead and fed Casca with enough victims to keep the Eternal Mercenary happy – for the time being. How Casca was to break away from Narses’ influence and turn the tables on him he didn’t know, but time would give him the chance, he knew that.
The next race was soon upon him and he lined up alongside seven others; three Blues and four Greens. He was easily the favorite and Theodora took up her seat in the imperial box over the halfway mark alongside her husband. Her pulse raced as she spotted her current ride preparing himself and she imagined what she would do with him that evening. Her hand slipped under her robes and began to massage herself surreptitiously. Justinian was oblivious of her excitement, being more interested in how the crowd applauded and cheered him. He smiled and acknowledged them, waving languidly back at them.
Casca sucked in lungfuls of air, pumping oxygen round his system. He’d need his strength to get through the circuits. He wasn’t the best stylist but his brute strength was what got him through time after time. The others regarded him warily; his reputation went before him and they didn’t want to tangle with the thickset Blue. The other three Blues were under orders to allow ‘Rufius’ to gain every advantage, even to the point of driving into the Greens deliberately.
Casca sweated inside his helmet. It was part of his racing identity and better for him that he wasn’t recognized or it might cause a few problems. He gripped the leather reins and coaxed his team to remain still, although the horses were tossing their heads and wanted to be off and running. He glanced at the racing official who immediately gave the signal. It was common for the starter to wait until the favorite glanced his way to start the race.
The crowd roared as the chariots burst out of the starting arches and careered down the long straight, spraying dust and sand from the iron-edged wheels as they bit deep to maintain direction, and from the thundering hoofs of the magnificently groomed horses, all bred for strength and endurance.
Casca was second as they approached the first bend and he pulled hard on the left reins to drag his team round on the inside. Such was his brute strength that he was able to take tighter bends than most which was the real secret of his success. As far as racing technique was concerned, he had little and was terrible; he relied on his power to bludgeon his way to victory. The leading Green saw him cut inside and tried to take a tighter turn but his chariot clipped Casca’s and the impact flipped the chariot up. The gravity of the turn added to the lift and the chariot went cart wheeling off towards the outside of the track, the rider tumbling amidst the debris of the destroyed chariot. The crowd rose with excitement and watched to see if the rider would get up.
Casca cursed the man and righted himself, settling down for the long run back towards the starting end, passing the imperial box where Justinian was avidly leaning forward, pleased the Blues were ahead. Alongside, Theodora was sat back, eyes half glazed and breathing hard. Her imagination was running riot. Behind her two guards stood stolidly, protecting the imperial couple. One nudged the other and jerked his head towards the Empress who was close to a climax. The other one smirked and made an obscene gesture with his hand on his spear. The other nodded.
Casca had focused on pulling his team round the next bend, completing one lap. The chariot wasn’t running well and he wondered about the collision. Had it done some damage? He imagined he heard a creak from the right hand wheel, the one on the outside of the curve, and then was straightening up and tearing back down the first straight, a Blue close behind and a Green closing fast.
The next bend came quickly. Casca was very close to the Spina, blocking any chance of someone passing him on the inside, and began pulling his horses round to the left as they cleared the end columns. A Green was beginning to turn too, about a horse’s length behind, and Casca pulled harder, turning the chariot into a tighter turn.
The wheel broke with a sharp crack! and Casca was catapulted out as the chariot collapsed onto its side, the wheel spinning off and breaking into pieces, and was sent tumbling over on the gritty sand, scouring his shoulders, and numbing his arm with the impact. He rolled into a ball, hands over his head, and waited for the crash against the track edge.
It came with a sudden blow, knocking the wind out of him, and sending shooting pains up through his back and shoulders. He lay in a heap agains
t the side of the track, the race continuing and the race officials running to his side to see if he was still alive. The crowd pressed down towards his position, concerned as to his state of health. Theodora had stood up in shock, and leaned over to see if ‘Rufius’ was still alive.
Casca groaned. His body was throbbing in pain and blood was seeping onto the sand from a dozen places. His right arm was the worst, he was sure he’d wrenched something. “Rufius!” Hadramon’s voice came to him. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah sure,” Casca slurred, waving his left arm weakly. “I always like sunbathing here.”
“Get him up and off the track – quick!” Hadramon urged the others. They could hear the racers approaching again and they would be on them in moments. Hands grabbed him and pulled him in four directions. He groaned out in protest. He felt himself picked up and carried over the barrier into the safe area in between the crowd and the track, and was then deposited, not too gently, onto the ground. “Awwwch!”
“Stay still!” Hadramon barked and turned away. Casca peered through the helmet’s eye pieces and wondered how the thing had remained on his head. It was now pulled off and the air felt good on his face. He saw a sea of faces peering down on him and he shut his eyes. Too many. “Where are you hurting?” someone asked.
“Everywhere.” Casca didn’t want his wounds to be seen to be healing. He struggled to get to his feet but Hadramon pushed him back. “Stay there! Your right arm has been dislocated, we’re going to put it back. Hold him down!” Casca felt arms all over him and suddenly his right arm felt as though it was being pulled out of its socket. He screamed, then mercifully the pain subsided.
“What’s the fuss?” Hadramon demanded, examining his handiwork with satisfaction. “Now, you sure you can get up?”
“Let me try,” Casca hissed, clutching his arm which was still throbbing but not as bad as before. The hands withdrew and he got to his knees, Hadramon supporting him. With an effort he hauled himself up, fighting the nausea and dizziness, and ended up panting against the track barrier. He couldn’t keep it down and suddenly vomited over the ground, heaving. The others stepped back and waited. Someone brought a bucket of cool water and Casca gratefully scooped up some and rinsed his mouth out with it, before standing up straight.
His arm was covered in sand, hiding much of the damage, for which he was grateful. The sight of closing wounds would have been too much to explain away. He looked down and saw patches of grit and sand over his thighs and riding gear, obviously where he’d bled after the impact. “Shit,” he commented, “what a mess.”
“How do you feel?” Hadramon insisted, looking up at him in concern.
“Like shit. My arm’s terrible. Lead me to the changing room.” They walked away while the race went on, Casca deciding this was one race too many, and he’d have to end it before he really got hurt and was unable to hide his condition. How he was to explain it to the Empress was another thing, but he’d have to do it. As if on cue, an imperial messenger came up to them and asked if he was fit to attend the Empress later. Casca nodded and told him he was.
As he walked towards the changing rooms, he decided to end his racing career. He’d fulfilled his purpose, and the drive that had taken him to the top place had gone. He didn’t want to carry on racing forever, and his career would have to end sometime. Although he’d won many games, he’d done it without much skill and technical ability. He grinned. It was the end of a short but memorable career. Hadramon tried to persuade him to stay on but there was no shifting his mind. Now he could concentrate both on hunting the Brotherhood and the thing he knew best, combat.
He also had to command his section of the imperial guard. His duties were to be in charge of the section of the land walls that ran in between Military Gate Five and the Gate of Charisius, the section that was located in between the Lychus Valley and the road to Adrianople. Under him were two junior officers who each commanded a section of forty men so in theory he was equivalent to the old Roman Centurion. However, illness and other absences meant that at the moment he only had something like sixty men to call on, and he had approached his superior on more than one occasion to make the numbers up.
He was summoned that evening to the palace, and he knew what it was about. Although he dreaded facing the wrath of the diminutive Empress, he had no choice but to obey. Theodora scolded him for allowing his career to end, being disappointed that a promising career had come to an abrupt end. As patron of the Blues, she felt as though she owned them, and any changes she felt she needed to be included in. Casca showed her the marks on his shoulder, scars which had only just healed. It was still very sore. “My shoulder has been damaged and I can’t endure in a race as well as I could. I’m sorry, my Empress.”
Theodora sighed and compressed her lips. “Such a promising career. You realize this also prevents further promotions within the Imperial Guard? I will not sponsor you if you do not race for the Blues.”
“I realize this, majesty.” Casca bowed and kept his gaze down. It was not acceptable to meet the Imperial eyes. Such smacked of insolence and the sign of one rising above their proper station. Punishments were often severe.
“But your position as captain is secure. However, you may now be posted elsewhere. A pity, as I enjoy your healthy body.” She ran her hands over Casca’s bulging arm muscles and stroked them for a moment, a half smile on her lips. They spent a few more minutes of Casca’s interview with them locked in a passionate position. She was simply insatiable. Casca knew damned well she had a string of men all over the palace; he was just one of her rides. Then she just turned her back and waved him out of her presence. It was, Casca thought, just like discarding a robe she no longer wished to wear.
In the Byzantine Court Narses continued to complain about Belisarius, criticizing him at every opportunity. In the end Justinian got so fed up with it that he turned on the eunuch and snapped at him that if Belisarius was making such a mess of things why didn’t he go out there and win the war himself? Narses momentarily lost his voice but then agreed to go, not that he had much choice in the matter. Justinian himself was concerned that the imperial forces in Rome were still besieged with no outcome in sight: the walls of Rome easily kept out the pathetic attempts of the Goths to break in, yet the imperial forces couldn’t break out of the beleaguered city as they were so heavily outnumbered. In fact the Goths didn’t seem too worried about the rest of the peninsula as the other imperial forces carried on capturing towns here and there, all the time heading north towards the Gothic capital of Ravenna. Vitiges was obviously putting all his money on taking Rome and Belisarius, thinking that imperial resistance would be broken if the Roman general was captured. Theodora decided on suggesting another commander to accompany Narses, having decided to try out yet another Blue charioteer she had spotted, and having now determined Rufius was so last year.
Casca was surprised to get a summons to go to his commander, a bad tempered bastard called John who was the nephew of some big shot in the imperial circles. John always reminded those he met that he was in a powerful family and abused his privileges to the hilt which pissed everyone off no end, but they couldn’t do anything seeing that he was so favored. He basically thought he was the whores’ tits and strutted around wherever he went. Casca grumbled to himself that if he hadn’t been so lucky to be born into that family he’d be a peasant digging up soil somewhere or wading through hog shit. He grinned at that thought - John talked enough shit for anyone to wade through it.
John curtly waved his captain into his quarters. He didn’t like the man but he was one of the Empress’s screws which made him a dangerous man and one he would have to put up with for the time being. He had no idea why Theodora liked him but he kept his opinion to himself as it just didn’t do to criticize the Empress. “We have been called up by Emperor Justinian to sail to Italy to support Belisarius in his campaign there. We sail tomorrow for Naples. Get your men ready.”
Casca was dumbfounded by the sudden announcement
. There had been no warning of it apart from Narses’ last message that there was something coming soon to do with the war. Now it seemed Justinian was going for broke by sending another of his generals over. Perhaps Belisarius’s position was getting critical and the new force was being sent over to tip the balance in the Greeks’ favor. John dismissed Casca with the order to get his unit ready with full kit and uniforms and report at first light at the Harbor of Phospherion close to where the Golden Horn met the Bosphorus. His commander looked pensively at the back of the scarred officer and wondered why Narses had specifically asked him to come along on the campaign. Perhaps he was a favorite of the eunuch too. A man to be wary of, he decided.
Casca on his part realized as he left the room Theodora had been behind this move, as there would have been no way she would have allowed him to go if she still wanted to use him as one of her rides. He now knew just how far he was falling, and his tenure at the palace may well be coming to an end. Shit, he mused, I hope that bastard Narses comes too. Then he stopped with a sudden realization that he was being pushed out of Constantinople away from the Brotherhood. Was Narses also behind this? Were Narses and Theodora in league? He hoped to all the gods he’d known this wasn’t the case or he’d be in for some nasty shocks along the way. It might be best if he did, after all, quit the city for a while until the heat died down.
Casca’s thoughts turned to the logistical problems. He would have his hands full until evening getting his men into shape and ready to depart, by which time he’d be ready to hit the sack. He would have little time to tell Carina and Delia so he sent a messenger on to warn them before descending on his two subordinates like an avenging demon. They were garrison troops and not used to actual campaigning, so he’d better wake them up to the harsh realities of war before the Goths kicked their pretty butts all over Italia.