by Tony Roberts
After exhausting himself bellowing at his men, he returned home to find Carina and Delia waiting for him tensely. Carina sent Delia to her room once she had said goodbye to Casca tearfully, then stalked off to the back of the house. Casca followed her, already bad tempered. “What?” he demanded, seeing her expression.
“I don’t want you to go,” she said. “Stay here.”
“Oh yeah,” Casca laughed, “disobey a superior officer? That’s really going to be sensible.”
“Well quit the army then! I want you here! You’ll go and get killed just like...” she turned away and bit her lip. He knew what she meant. Her last man hadn’t returned from war, and now here he was going off.
“I’ll come back. Believe me, I won’t get killed.” He tried to take her shoulder but she shook him off angrily. “Well go then, and have your war! Go and get yourself killed and to be damned with you! I want a man to be here with me, not to go off all over the Empire!”
“Ah, to hell with you,” Casca said and picked up his helm. What with Theodora, Narses and now Carina mad at him, he felt like getting out of there yesterday. “I’m not someone you can twist to your will. I’m my own man and if you can’t handle that then that’s too bad. I am what I am and you liked that. Now don’t go trying to change me because I won’t. You happily accepted the rewards of my efforts but you’re not willing to see me carry on now you’ve got your house. You think I’m selfish? Well look at yourself, woman. I’ll get Torgeth to come watch over you while I’m away. He’s someone you know and I like him. He’ll look after you.” With that he left. He was loath to go but knew duty called and he had to go fight for the Empire. He had tried to reassure Carina that he would return, and he couldn’t do any more. He was sure Torgeth would look after them. Casca had brought his friend from the training site to his house as a guardian for the two whenever he was out, and the German took to his task with relish.
Casca himself had a feeling of foreboding but how much of that was down to the last time he was in this position and what happened after he had left he wasn’t sure, but the Brotherhood had been chased from one place of worship to another during the last few weeks and they might regroup while he was away and find out exactly who was giving them so much grief. Janus was a smart one and he would make efforts to stop these persecutions and may even try to work out why the attacks ceased. Thanks to Narses’ intelligence no Brotherhood haven was safe and Casca always made sure some of his soldiers were close by to disrupt matters whenever a meeting was called or to trash the place. So far, however, the Spear had not been found and Casca wanted more than anything to get his property back, both as a nostalgic matter and to piss off the Brotherhood.
Two of Janus’ close supporters had ended up floating in the Golden Horn, something Janus was worried about, and wondered how the Beast knew where to find them and disrupt the Brotherhood’s meetings. Perhaps it was time to find another location entirely, away from the city.
Narses himself hadn’t made any reference to Casca about his posting so he assumed the eunuch had things under control at his end for the time being. Casca’s only real concern other than being in Theodora’s bad books and trying to work out how to get at Narses was Carina, but he had asked Torgeth to be wary of anyone taking an unhealthy interest in the woman and her daughter.
They boarded a ship the next morning and prepared to sail out onto the Propontis, the inland sea that had at one end the Bosphorus and the other the Hellespont, the gateway to the Aegean Sea. It was a cold winter morning and the soldiers grumbled about being whisked away from their safe postings in the city to a hostile environment where death was never far away. Casca was fuming as he checked his men off as they boarded; his two lieutenants reported that fifty-four men were present but as to the others nobody knew where they were, although only one possible answer could be given. They had deserted rather than go to Italy. That added to his unsettled feelings at leaving Carina on an argument. He wasn’t in the best frame of mind as he watched the city slide away to starboard.
After departing in a fleet of four vessels they rounded the eastern edge of the city and sailed south into the Propontis, leaving Constantinople to sit under a gray sky, driven onwards by a cold northerly wind that sprang from the Steppes on the other side of the Black Sea. The trip was uncomfortable for many of the men but Casca was used to it and found the biting wind something of an exhilarating experience. The men however, being landlubbers, hated it and huddled miserably below decks. They would rather spend time there away from the wet slippery decks and the low rails in a stinking, vomit ridden environment. They sailed to Thessalonika where they gratefully disembarked and marched overland to Dyrrachium on the Adriatic coast where ships of the imperial fleet were waiting for them with a large number of horses. These would be for the two thousand cavalry that John was bringing with him to tip the war in their favor.
Bad weather delayed their departure for a day or so but it wasn’t long before they were under way south into the Ionian Sea, passing through the narrow strip of water in between Greece and the southern tip of Italy. Casca spent much of his time on deck, standing at the prow watching as the coast of Italy slid past, remembering the times past he had come this way. He sighed at the times gone, never to be seen again, and wondered how many more times he would come this way in the centuries to come. No matter how far he went he always seemed to come back here like a prodigal son. He smiled bitterly to himself at that expression: wasn’t that one of the stories those who followed the words of Jesus used? It seemed his spear thrust five hundred years ago gave the religion an added impetus that only faith in a martyr can. If only he hadn’t done it, then he would be long dead and sleeping the eternal sleep all those he had killed ever since were enjoying. He lifted his head and looked up at the slate gray clouds rushing past and asked the same question he had many, many times before. “When will I know death?”
Once again, whispered on the wind so that only he could hear, came the voice, tinged with sadness. “Until we meet again.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Rome was not too different from the last time Casca had seen it prior to the Gothic sack of it over a hundred and twenty years before. All around outside the city walls Gothic camp fires cast an eerie glow which allowed John and his men to enter without much trouble. The truth was that the nine months of besieging the city had taken their toll on the Goths and there were large gaps in their lines through which the imperial forces could pass with relative ease. They had marched or ridden up from Naples and found a devastated countryside, picked clean by one or the other of the combating sides. Rome was subject to famine even after Belisarius’s forward planning of stocking the city’s stores with grain before the siege had begun but the supplies the reinforcements brought helped to stave off the worst for a while.
Casca billeted his men down close to the Coliseum, that monument to Roman depravity, before making a tour of the immediate area. He was depressed by the changes that had taken place since he was last there to enjoy the fleshpots. Gone were the colorful shops, brothels and taverns, and in their place were drab buildings all of which were shut. He walked slowly into the Forum area and looked about at the silent and impassive buildings there. How long ago was it that the great Caesars ruled the western world from here, receiving the adulation from the crowd for a great victory here, a conquest there? He sat down on the cold marble steps leading up to the Temple of Saturn and gazed about. Gone, all gone were the Emperors; Augustus, the first emperor and the one who was in power when he had been born; Tiberius, the mad Caligula, Claudius, that fat fool Nero whom he had actually met; Trajan, Hadrian, the degenerate Commodus, Diocletian, Constantine. All gone. He sighed and looked to his left at the great Arch of Septimus Severus with a sardonic eye. “All your great victories mean nothing in time,” he said in Latin at the monolith, “they all turn to dust. Only I really know what it was all about, and I don’t care anymore.”
Few people wandered around, but the former Roman Legion
ary paid no notice of them and looked in sadness at the neglected arches and temples, some of which were beginning to look shabby through lack of upkeep. The churches were now priority and even some of the stones had been taken from the temples and used on the construction of these new religious edifices.
He got up and walked dejectedly back to where his men were sleeping or keeping guard. So the Empire had Rome once more, but what did it mean? Constantinople was the new center of the civilized world and Rome had even sunk beneath Ravenna and Milan in importance. The only people who looked to Rome now were the Christians, for their spiritual leader the Pope resided here, just across the Tiber in his walled-in compound. The popes had enjoyed something of a tolerated existence under the Arian Goths and were still appointed by decree from the Emperor, and one of the first things Belisarius had done when he had arrived had been to arrest the current pope on orders from Justinian and have him sent east to answer some charges on a religious matter, all of which Casca found rather trivial. If they all followed the same God why did they argue so much over it all? It was so much easier in the old days before he had killed the Jew with all the different gods to follow and sing the praises of, one didn’t expect to have one’s guts spilled over an argument whether your god had one or two bodies of existence or whether Jesus was as powerful as the God he was said to have come from. As far as he was concerned they were like children squabbling over a game, each wanting it played the way they liked and not accepting any other way.
There now was a new pope in the Vatican, one appointed by Justinian, and the new rulers of Rome were already making their presence felt to the upper echelons of the clergy. Follow Constantinople or else!
Casca turned his thoughts to more practical matters - his uniform, weapons and a bed for the night. His helm was still in the old Roman style, with the red crest on top, but his armor was different. It was now mainly chain mail and weighed a ton although to someone as strong as he it made little difference. His shield was round instead of the oblong the legions used and most of the weaponry was ‘borrowed’ from vanquished enemies. Much of this was due to a chronic shortage of iron in the Empire and this went to explain the great variety of swords his men used. This was the ‘campaign’ dress as opposed to the ceremonial palace dress he’d worn before in Constantinople.
After cleaning his weapons and uniform he went to his bed which was a straw mattress on the floor, and closed his eyes. Ten minutes later a messenger arrived to tell him to report to his general at once. “Oh in the name of the Sacred Tits of Venus!”
John was in a real ferment following his initial meeting with Belisarius. It seemed that the Goths were ready to sign a truce for three months following the arrival of the reinforcements and extra supplies but Belisarius, not wanting to pre-empt imperial policy, would only refer matters to Justinian. In the meantime he was happy to send John and his cavalry out on foraging missions and was ready to do so, but the three thousand infantry he had brought would stay in Rome, much to John's disgust. He vented his wrath on his infantry subordinates who reported to him. “You are under my command and not that of Belisarius. You will not venture from Rome under any condition unless I give my consent, and you will not follow the orders of this upstart general. I am your commander and you will follow my orders. You are to defend the walls of Rome and nothing else. If Belisarius wants to go out on raids then he takes his men, but you will not go. I hold each of you responsible until I return. Clear?”
The assembled officers echoed their understanding, many of them quite happy to remain in the safe environment of the city rather than face the wild Goths outside. Casca could see trouble looming between the two commanders and hoped it didn’t spread to the men which would undermine the imperial war effort. He had seen too many times a divided army come to grief and didn’t want to be part of it.
That morning John and his cavalry left along the Via Flaminia to the north, easily out-pacing the weary Gothic foot soldiers and vanished over the horizon towards the Milvian Bridge, a few Goths in vain pursuit. Casca gazed out over the walls and saw that the Goths were indeed in a sorry state, having suffered disease and pestilence over the past few months. Where there had been over a hundred and fifty thousand of them when the siege began, now there were only about a hundred and twenty thousand, and many of them were ill and suffering. He had seen this many times before as well, particularly amongst the Huns under Attila when they had swept through Italy eighty years ago, and unless they got a result soon more would join the warriors piled in the burial pits.
A sudden impulse seized him and he descended from the walls and sought out the mercenary units stationed close to the Forum. He found who he was looking for in one of the appropriated inns, poring over a balance sheet with a frown on his face. “Ho, Sicarus you thief,” Casca bellowed from the doorway, “fiddling your accounts again?”
His erstwhile friend looked up in surprise, and then beamed as he recognized the man striding towards him across the room. The two embraced and slapped one another on the back before Sicarus pushed him aside to look at his uniform. “A Captain?” he said with incredulity, “what fool made you that?”
“The Empress,” Casca replied, causing Sicarus to raise a surprised eyebrow. The two men ordered a drink and retreated into a corner to swap stories, Casca about his racing activities and Sicarus about his fighting in Italy.
“You’re Rufius?” Sicarus said with disbelief, “the Blue charioteer?” Casca admitted he was, explaining he had done it all to get even with Manius for being a member of the same group Narses and Miklos had been part of. “Why then give that up for all this?”
“I'm better at this than racing, and I lost interest once that shit Manius had been beaten.”
Sicarus eyed Casca shrewdly. “I hear Manius died violently a short while afterwards. You have anything to do with that?”
Casca grinned. Sicarus nodded and breathed heavily. “Okay, I get it; no comment.” Sicarus on his part informed Casca that Belisarius was planning to cut off the Gothic force by taking a number of towns at strategic points thus cutting off what supplies they needed, having stripped the immediate countryside of all available consumables. Once faced with starvation the Goths would have to either attack the towns to the north or give up the siege, each of which would allow more forces from Rome to slip the Gothic net. Casca nodded at the plan for it made sense. The numbers favored the Goths but the initiative went with the imperial forces which were blessed with better leaders and better soldiers. Besides, the Goths seemed unable to mount an effective defense. Casca wondered when Belisarius would make his move against the crumbling besiegers and came to the conclusion that John’s forays would be the means to make the Goths call off the siege, forcing them to retreat to a more defensible position. It would be then that they would come out from their shell, their testudo. Casca smiled as he borrowed an old Roman military tactic term. Belisarius’s planning was sound and he couldn’t fault him for not straying outside the safe confines of the walls of Rome.
* * *
Vitiges was close to despair with the way things were going. Not only had the Greek forces in Rome been reinforced, they had rejected his offer of a temporary truce and were now sending out rampaging cavalry units to the east of the Apennines, ravaging the countryside but always avoiding the fortified towns the Goths held. Now he had been informed that this cavalry unit had occupied Ariminum on the coast, just over thirty miles to the south of Ravenna. It was clear they could strike anywhere they liked and there were no spare warriors to stop them. He decided to bring matters to a close in Rome, calling off the siege and sending every spare man to surround Ariminum which did not have the defenses of Rome and should fall fairly soon.
The other worry was his new wife, the Queen Matasuntha. Vitiges had thought it prudent to marry into a royal line when he had been elected king of the Goths and had ditched his then current wife only to find that Matasuntha wanted nothing to do with him. Vitiges ran a hand through his thinning hair and ponder
ed on what next to do. He now fully understood the trouble Theodehad had in his brief reign and why he had been unable to stop the imperial forces. He sighed, turned away from his window and returned to his desk where a scribe sat, waiting for his command.
* * *
Casca was called to a general meeting of officers one evening three months after arriving in Rome. Things were getting tight again and the garrison was starting to bitch and moan about not doing anything. Casca, on his part, knew that trouble would not be far behind at any time and these bored soldiers would find action and death soon enough. Belisarius had taken overall control of all troops in Rome – even those of John’s detachment.
Sicarus waved him over before they went into the old Senate House where they had been summoned and informed him of what had been whispered. “It looks like we’re going to attack the Goths in the morning.”
Casca was astounded. “We’re outnumbered about ten to one. Surely Belisarius won’t launch a frontal assault?”
“We'll soon see, but from what I know of him, he's got something nasty ready for them, that’s for sure.”
Sicarus went one way while Casca rejoined his fellow imperial officers and filed into the large chamber where Belisarius stood waiting, a map on the table in front of him. By his side stood the senior officers of his force and to the right sat the aging figure of Procopius, Belisarius’s friend and a writer of some note who was compiling a history of the current campaign. Casca had heard that he was no friend of the imperial couple and had written some sharp things about Theodora. He wondered why he was still in possession of his head.