by Tony Roberts
Casca still hadn’t been able to talk to him but he did find a message lying in his tent one evening shortly before the eunuch had left. It was a chilling message. Longinus, it had begun, I am returning to the capital. I shall contact you further when I require you to resume our agreement. Do not disappoint me. Typically it wasn’t signed, but it was clear enough. Casca had no idea when he was going to return to the capital or when he would see Carina and Delia again.
Torgeth had sent a letter a short time ago saying that everything was fine and that Delia was growing up fast. Casca yearned to see them again, particularly as it was now over two years since he had left to join the war, and to be honest he felt less antagonistic to the Brotherhood at any time since the deaths of Ireina and Demos. He supposed that time healed great sorrows which he certainly had found during his time. Shit, he thought to himself, here I am in front of this city thinking of a woman and child I have not seen for ages. I don't have to stay here for ever, and if this damned siege doesn’t end soon I'll look to get back. Besides, pay is crap and we’re behind with it as well, so what is there to keep me here? Italy is a wasteland and I don’t want to see my homeland reduced this way.
Throwing the bare bone onto a nearby fire he stood up, scratched his leg, belched, then moved off amongst his sleeping troops. They were well cared for and had taken to their commander over the past months, particularly as he seemed concerned after their well being which was more than could be said for the grasping Vitalius who was sucking up to Belisarius quite openly in contrast to the hostility that John and Justin showed. The two other Comes, Constantin and John Phagas, went about their job quietly and efficiently and kept out of the arguments that often raged over a tactical or strategic discussion.
It was lucky for everyone that the Franks who had occupied the area north of the Po had suddenly fallen foul of disease and had dragged themselves back over the Alps, never to return. He stopped his musings and approached the camp of Sicarus who was as usual scribbling on some paper by the light of an oil lamp. Acknowledging the salute of the guards outside his friend’s tent he passed inside and greeted him. “Still worrying over your accounts? You never stop, do you?”
Sicarus threw down the paper in disgust. “Gah! The amounts that have mounted up in the past few weeks are appalling! And we’re doing nothing sitting here on our backsides. It’s costing me a fortune!”
“Well let’s make some of them earn their money,” Casca grinned, catching the mercenary’s attention at once. “We pick the best five men from each of our commands and go down there and capture a Goth or two for interrogating. What do you think?”
“It’s a bit risky,” Sicarus looked dubious, “but it'll ease the boredom. Hmm, very well, but we must be back by morning or else we’ll be caught and God knows what the Goths will do to us then!”
Casca slapped Sicarus on the shoulder and hurried back to his camp, already having chosen the five from his unit who would come with him; big, strong men with a wild streak in them. Two were Goths who had been recruited into the imperial forces after capture, two were Slavs from beyond the Danube and the fifth a Moor from North Africa, dark, swarthy and a born killer. He alerted each man to follow him, bringing only their weapons, for it would be a short mission to capture one or two of the enemy and to kill anyone else who got in their way. They returned to the mercenary camp and met up with Sicarus and his five, each a dark shadow full of menace. They had chosen well for this would not be a job for those with a pleasant disposition.
They took up a single file and passed through the camp, walking around the camp fires and knots of men sat talking or eating or even sleeping, until they came to the pickets, standing guard by the perimeter. Casca whispered to the sentry before they reached him, and the guard pulled his spear aside to allow them passage, Casca informing the guard that they would be returning before light.
The ground dropped after the perimeter and they soon passed into an area below that which the light from the besiegers and defenders could reach. The Moor, who went by the name of Solemein, took the lead and carefully picked his way along the safest route through the long grass, probing with his spear for the pools of water that lay ahead in huge quantities or the marshes that waited for the unwary. They reached an obstacle shortly afterwards, a straight high barrier which marked the first of the dikes that surrounded Ravenna. It wasn’t too difficult a climb, being covered in grass and sloped so that although it was hard on the calf muscles, they were soon at the summit, the fires from the walls of the city lighting up their faces and weapons and more importantly their route ahead.
They could see a series of ditches in front all filled with water, separated by narrow dikes or causeways, and the contrasts of shadow and light told them where they could go without detection. Hurriedly Solemein led them down the other side onto a narrow causeway and slid silently down the shadowed side, his feet touching the surface of the water. Bent double, with only the sounds of marsh crickets and the soft wind blowing through the reeds to accompany them, the twelve scuttled ever nearer the city walls until Solemein stopped suddenly and motioned the others to remain still. Close by, a section of the wall jutted out and on the top could clearly be seen a Gothic patrol, gazing out over the darkness towards the Greek camp. Any movement from the group would surely be seen, never mind that they were in shadow at that moment. Casca knew from his experiences at night that peripheral vision saw movements better than direct vision.
He urged the men to wait until the Goths moved off which seemed like an eternity and all the while the water seeped into their footwear. Eventually all was clear and they crossed the dike, skirting a clump of bushes that stood like petrified sentinels before the city, and reached the walls, shrouded in darkness. Ordering two men to stand by with drawn bows, Casca pointed at the wall rising up above them, indicating the projections, plant roots and other items sticking out from the brickwork.
Sicarus nodded and waved to two of his men to uncoil ropes they had brought, affixing them to the waist of the most athletic of them, an Isaurian from the Anatolian mountains. He studied the route he was to take carefully before being boosted up the first part of the climb, and thereafter climbed slowly but steadily up the thirty foot high wall. Just beneath the parapet he untied the ropes and secured them to projecting pieces of brickwork and waved to the others to join him.
One by one they ascended the ropes, each making as little noise as possible, climbing slowly over the edge of the wall and down the other side to a niche deep in shadow. The two bowmen remained at the bottom, squatting at the foot of the wall so as to make themselves as small as possible. Casca and Sicarus made sure the others had joined them before looking to left and right to see where their most likely route to finding a prisoner would be. Sentries came into view, bored expressions on their faces and passed by unmolested. They were unimportant and would probably know little of value. Casca wanted an officer, preferably a Captain of the Guard or something similar, and they would most likely be found in a guardhouse. He craned his neck along the walls and spotted what may be one some way off to the right. To make haste along an illuminated parapet in full view of the garrison would be stupid so Casca pondered on an alternative. Two passing sentries provided this, Casca suddenly springing out from his hiding place and smacking their heads together sharply. There came a sickening thud and both collapsed to the ground without knowing who had killed them. Helped by Sicarus the two bodies were dragged into concealment and their helmets, tunics and weapons picked by four of them, and together the ten made their way boldly along the walls towards the hut that stood by the catwalk.
Casca’s hands grew moist the further they went, thinking to himself that any one of a thousand things could go wrong. They could be recognized as the enemy, the two dead Goths could be discovered any moment, they might come face to face with an officer who didn’t know who they were, the two at the bottom of the wall could be spotted. The list went on. Casca took it fatalistically and decided that if things wen
t wrong he’d have to try to get his comrades out at all costs as it was his idea to come here in the first place.
They reached the hut and saw light on the inside. Casca opened the door and stepped in boldly, coming face to face with four curious Gothic faces, one of whom he recognized as being an officer. He was the one! Shouting to his men to leave the officer to him he led them in, swords whirling, cutting down two Goths before they could defend themselves while the third plunged out of a window, leaving his sword behind. Casca held up the officer at sword-point while Sicarus peered out of the window, shaking his head. “Gone. It’s a steep drop but he could well have survived.”
“Let’s go, we’ll take him with us.” Casca waved to two of his men to tie the prisoner’s hands with something before waving to Sicarus and his mercenaries to make for the ropes. Unfortunately things never go right and a shout went up almost at once. Cursing to the various gods of antiquity Casca pushed the prisoner out and began running after the mercenaries, shouts being taken up all round. Solemein pointed behind them and he twisted his head round to see a squad of the enemy pounding their way along the catwalk towards them.
“Oh, shit,” Casca groaned and waved his men on, forcing an unwilling captive with them. By the time they reached the ropes Sicarus and his men were already down, having left parts of their hands on the ropes in their descent, so Casca untied the hands of the captive and forced him over first, getting him to climb down with Solemein and another of his men. He stood waiting for the enemy with two men, both of whom were Goths, and the next thing he knew was a sharp blow to the head and blackness descending over his consciousness.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Groaning, Casca slowly surfaced from a deep swim in blackness to a pounding headache. By the Hound of Hades, why couldn’t the curse protect him from things like this? He tried to sit up but a hand pushed him back down again and a voice in German ordered him to lie still. Opening his eyes he saw he was in a darkened room with a single door and two unfriendly looking Goths standing guard.
“Oh, by Venus’s Tits, I’m in deep shit again,” he muttered, remembering he had been struck from behind, probably by his Gothic recruits. He made a mental note to recommend to Belisarius not to allow Gothic prisoners to join the ranks again, at least not in Italia. He groaned again, holding his head in an attempt to ease the pounding in his skull, but as normal it achieved nothing. He wondered if Sicarus and the others had got back, but since they were not here he theorized that they probably had. He wondered what Belisarius would say, trading one of his Vicarii for a Gothic guard’s captain, and decided that his ass would be in a sling if the Magister Militum ever got hold of him again.
The door opened and another appeared, beckoning for him to get up and follow him. Flanked by the two unfriendly Goths, he was led along a passage and out into sunlight which made him blink furiously. All around there was activity, men running here and there, stones being taken to the walls, hunting parties looking for rats and so on. They walked along a street to an imposing looking building and Casca suddenly had a flash of memory from the last time he had been here, when Honorius had ruled the Western Roman Empire, cowering in the city while Alaric and his Goths had been ravaging the countryside all around. His former commander Stilicho had been executed here, too, thanks to the young Emperor’s paranoia and a court official’s jealousy. Casca thought to himself that his former commanders didn't have much luck. Aetius, his leader in the successful campaign against Attila, had been murdered by Emperor Valentinian III shortly after Attila’s death but Aetius’s supporters had got their own back shortly afterwards by killing the Emperor during a trip outside the city of Rome.
Casca was marched through a succession of guardrooms and doors until he was pushed into a large chamber where a profusion of men stood waiting, the centre of attention being an ornate throne surrounded by golden and gilt carvings, upon which sat the elderly Gothic King Vitiges, alongside of whom sat the bored but beautiful Matasuntha, daughter of Amalasuntha.
Casca was thrown to the floor and sprawled at the king’s feet, thinking all sorts of dreadful endings for his guards. After a moment's silence he was ordered to stand and was hauled up unceremoniously by his collar. Vitiges sat there, draped in fur lined silken robes, studying his captive. “So, Greek,” he said in broken Greek, “what made you come to Ravenna?”
“To capture your guards,” Casca replied in fluent German, surprising the Court and Vitiges.
“You speak our language?” the king said, sitting back.
“I have lived for many years in the forests north of the Danube where I learned to speak your language.”
Vitiges looked to his advisers who gave no help before facing the scarred Roman again. “An unusual officer in the Greek army, then. You are not German yet you speak it as a native, but you are not Greek yet you fight for their Emperor. You are an unusual man.”
Casca thought to himself that Vitiges would be stunned if he knew the truth. Instead he thought about a safe enough answer. “Unusual situations call for unusual men. I am a Latin but I have chosen to fight for the Emperor rather than a dying dynasty.” He stole a look at the queen and saw she was regarding him with interest.
Vitiges frowned, then looked at the Goths flanking him. “You say he led a small group that captured the Captain of the Guard? What of the two men that turned against him?”
“They were our men captured at Ancona, your majesty,” one of the guards replied. “They waited until the others had gone before capturing this Greek officer for you.”
Vitiges rubbed a hairy chin. Like most of his kin he possessed a full beard as opposed to the former clean shaven style of the Romans. The ease in which the group had penetrated his defenses had shaken him and it brought home to him the fact that his city was alone, surrounded by the enemy. His emissaries to the Persians had not returned and he didn’t know whether a reply would be forthcoming. On top of that, the blockade was starving Ravenna slowly but surely with no relief force in sight. Perhaps it was time to send a diplomatic representation to Belisarius to try to negotiate a settlement. “Will your commander consider a truce until your Emperor replies to a letter I have sent to him offering peace terms?”
Casca thought deeply for a moment. “He'll follow Justinian’s orders to the letter but I doubt if he’ll let you have any breathing space unless ordered differently. He would only listen to you if you offered a surrender.”
Vitiges looked at his advisors in disappointment. There seemed little hope for him other than to succumb to the invaders which would leave only one or two isolated pockets of resistance and they wouldn’t last long. It seemed that the Gothic rule of Italy was coming to an end.
Casca looked again at Vitiges’ wife and saw she was smiling, pleased at her hated husband’s dilemma. Casca risked a quick smile at her and she looked quickly at Vitiges, then back at Casca once more and smiled back. Vitiges set his mouth in a firm line and regarded his prisoner. “It seems I have little choice but to send your commander an offer of peace. I do not want to surrender but it is true we cannot last this blockade for long, therefore I will send a messenger to Belisarius. As for you, your impudence at entering my city will be rewarded by imprisonment. For your sake you had better hope your leader listens to my offer or you’ll be spending a long time in a dark place. Take him away!”
Casca cursed his luck. Yet again he had fallen foul of a trapped leader’s anger. “What in the name of all the gods have I done to deserve this?” he grumbled as he was dragged down a steep series of steps under the palace to the dungeons. His guards kicked, punched and spat on him before throwing him into a dark and very smelly cell.
The door crashed shut behind him and yet again he was locked away from light and sound, reminding him of the two previous occasions this had happened to him. He knew that it would be only a matter of time before he was freed but just how much time would it take? He sat against the wall opposite the door and waited. To pass the time he went over what he’d achieved
since returning to Constantinople from Asia. Not much, he admitted. He’d killed a number of Brotherhood members, including the top man, but apart from causing a split in the upper echelons which now looked like it was being healed, it hadn’t done a great deal in stopping them. There were too many and nobody in high authority would help him because it would either seem too fantastic a tale to tell, or more likely, he admitted to himself, the Brotherhood would have infiltrated that high authority already.
They were like rats, breeding and spreading everywhere underneath society, infesting the dark places and unseen places so most never even realized just how widespread they were, or that they even existed! Narses, his main target, was still alive and had outwitted him so far. Casca had to get him alone somehow and take care of him. Their so-called ‘truce’ had been necessary at the time, but it was now time to put an end to all that and deal with the dangerous man. How, Casca didn’t know but time might give him the opportunity.
Other than Narses, Casca wasn’t sure what he could do. He couldn’t keep on killing one or two here and there, and eventually Narses would tire of him and turn. That wouldn’t be too far ahead, Casca guessed. Best to get the strike in first. He who hesitates is the first struck, he recalled an old saying.