by Tony Roberts
“My Emperor, I am sure it would be safer to entrust the campaign in Italy to someone other than Belisarius lest any success he gains adds to his growing popularity.”
Justinian smiled ironically at the eunuch. The Greens and Blues weren't the only factions that plied for dominance in the court of the Empire. “Narses, we are aware of the level of popularity that Belisarius enjoys with his troops, which is why we only permitted the small number of soldiers to accompany him to Sicily. We are pleased he has achieved so much with his army thus far, but are closely following his progress. Rest assured we will act if he appears to challenge our authority.” Silently Justinian wished the slimy castrato would commit an impossible physical act with himself. “If you are opposed to Belisarius leading the imperial forces in Italy, whom would you recommend in taking his place - yourself?”
Narses smiled. “My Emperor, I am but a humble servant and would go wherever you commanded. The Spathos-cublicar is always at your command.”
Justinian leaned forward intently, thinking to himself: until you order otherwise? He nodded and waved the eunuch away. “Thank you for your words, Narses, we will bear them in mind.”
Narses bowed low again and backed out of the imperial presence.
Justinian breathed out and glanced at his wife who smiled slightly. “We shall have to take care his power does not become too great,” Theodora said softly. “He is ambitious, that one.”
“Yes, my love,” Justinian agreed. His hands clenched on the armrests before he relaxed and looked at the nearest attendant. “Who is next for an audience?”
“The emissary from Belisarius, arrived today from Italy, majesty,” the attendant replied, reading from a gold-edged scroll. “He brings words from the general.”
Justinian looked at Theodora once more, looking for inspiration or even a clue as to her mood. He knew it was not a good idea to make a decision she disagreed with, so he made it his priority to test the water before making a decision. The decision would be hers, of course, but he was the official mouthpiece of the palace.
“Show him to our presence!” Justinian commanded, returning his attention to the throne room. A man was shown in at the far end, and marched smartly down the marbled chamber, passing in between two rows of armed guards before coming to a halt the required distance from the foot of the imperial dais. The Emperor gazed down on him sternly and noted the dust, sweat and unkempt attire with disapproval. He became aware of a movement behind him and smelt the perfume that Theodora wore. His heart beat faster and listened intently for her whispered word.
“Ask him how the war goes,” she said, so quietly that nobody else heard.
The messenger bowed low after Justinian had relayed his wife’s words and spoke from his kneeling position. “Majesty, all of Sicily is ours. The Goths surrendered the island without a fight. They have retreated to the mainland and are now fortifying the cities there. General Belisarius humbly asks for more men to enable the conquest of the mainland. Even now he marches north towards Naples.”
“Indeed?” Justinian remarked. “We are gratified that our faithful servant is carrying out his duties as we commanded.” The Emperor caught a few words from his wife. “But you tell the general that we cannot spare any more soldiers for him. The needs of our safety here is paramount lest another riot breaks out, and we must always watch our eastern borders. You may rest, feed and wash yourself before returning on the morrow. That is all!”
The messenger bowed, disappointed, and backed out of the Imperial Presence.
CHAPTER THREE
Casca returned to Sicarus that afternoon after settling into his quarters, pleased with the standard and price of the room. It wasn't too far from the western wall and was sited just off the main road that led out of the city towards Hadrianople. Sicarus waved him into his office and asked him to shut the door behind him. After sitting down Casca was offered a drink which he accepted.
“I have done some digging around while you were out,” Sicarus began, “and have found this Miklos. He is a captain in the eunuchs and mostly spends his time with the unit in the Valley of Olives outside the city, which is where our friend Narses also stays. Miklos, however, does have a property in the city, close to the Golden Gate to the south of us, and I have arranged for it to be watched for when he goes there. The moment I hear word of his arrival I want you to accompany me so I can take care of him. That will be my revenge. As for yours, Narses will be virtually impossible to get at, as he frequently travels from the camp to the palace next to the Hippodrome, escorted by at least ten of his Spathos-cublicars, and as you may have concluded he is surrounded by his guards in the camp.”
Casca nodded. The Golden Gate he knew well, as did nearly all Byzantines. It was the famous golden colored entrance into the city from the landward side that Emperors used when returning to the city in triumph. He shrugged. “I have time. An opportunity will present itself sooner or later. Leave him to me.”
Sicarus nodded his graying head. “Very well. Now, the war in Italy so far is going well and we haven't been asked to provide help, but that may change at any given time, so I may be called away at very short notice. Even though you’re not part of the company you may like to spar or practice out there in the compound with the others or bum around in your quarters, but I don't want to have to search the whole damn city looking for you when this Miklos turns up.”
Casca nodded. “I don't intend to go far, not with him within easy striking distance.”
“Good. I'll contact you then when you're needed.” Sicarus flicked a finger at Casca in dismissal. The Eternal Mercenary left, pondering on Sicarus’ abruptness. He guessed he was becoming tense with the opportunity of getting even with the murderer of his family. He supposed he would be the same.
Casca returned to his lodgings and lay down on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He turned his thoughts to the Brotherhood and realized he knew next to nothing about them except that every so often he had a bad experience with its members. He had first come across them in Sogdiana when Elder Dacort had chopped his hand off. He looked at his hand and the scar encircling his wrist where the boy Jugotai had sewn his appendage back on. For someone who hadn't done anything like that before it wasn't a bad job, and unless he thought about it, he would never have thought that it had ever been chopped off. It was at that time he learned that his Spear, the one he had killed Jesus with, had been purchased by the Order and kept as their Holy of Holies. He also had watched as the Brotherhood re-enacted the crucifixion scene with gory realism with the Elder playing the part of Casca, spearing a volunteer to death who had been nailed to a cross. He had learned the depths to which he was hated and had been shocked when Dacort informed him that they knew of his unique condition and would watch him through time until the Second Coming when they would take their place at God's side. What would happen to him afterwards Dacort had omitted to say.
The next time he encountered them was when that asshole Rasheed arranged for him to be burned alive for being an evil spirit. His proof was the remarkable healing powers of his body, carried out right there in front of that religious maniac King Shapur. Casca shivered in remembrance at the agony of the flames, and if it hadn't been for the Egyptian Imhept who had stopped his body being totally burned, who knows what would have happened to him? After that he had returned to the dying Roman Empire and had wandered until he had gone back to a now abandoned Helsfjord and for years remained there, purging his soul of all that had happened before returning to fight for Rome one last time against the Huns. Then he had wandered to the Alps and had hibernated for who knows how long, reawakening to rescue Ireina's people from bandits...... He felt the rage well up in him again as his mind pictured the woman and little Demos, both murdered by the Brotherhood. His fists clenched and unclenched, his jaw worked soundlessly until he was able to bring it under control. “Ahh, shit, this won't do,” he muttered. Sitting up, he suddenly remembered the yellow sage, Shiu Lao-Tze, and his words of wisdom. He once said somethin
g about channeling one's rage into constructive action and not letting it control the mind. He decided to work out some of it in a long session of exercises Shiu had taught him, the moves of the Open Hand.
As he went through the exercises, he began to think that it might be an advantage for him to learn more about the Brotherhood, how they were organized, where they met, how they recruited and so on. To defeat one’s enemy one must get to learn about him, so the saying went. By Mithras, that would be better than waiting for them to make all the moves. By the time he was through with them, Constantinople would not be the healthiest place for them to be!
CHAPTER FOUR
Sicarus sent a messenger as evening fell to meet him at the Golden Gate, and to bring his sword and a cloth to put over his face when needed. Obviously Miklos had returned to his house and Sicarus was itching to get at him. Casca concealed his weapon under his cloak and stepped out onto the streets of the capital.
From his earlier times here he knew his way around fairly well provided he stuck to the main routes. In this instance he couldn't really lose his way as he kept the great wall to his right, the triple line of defense that kept the city invulnerable to attack, built by the Emperor Theodosius II. It comprised of an outer ditch of immense size, punctuated by aqueducts and dams which brought freshwater to the city, followed by an outer wall buttressed by towers reaching thirty feet in height. After another ditch there was the immense inner wall, rising up forty feet in total, a barrier that no one could force. There were a number of gates but all were guarded and could be locked at night or whenever anyone threatened the city.
To the north of Constantinople was the Golden Horn, the natural harbor that protected the city from that direction, and to the east and south lay the Bosphorus, each of these directions protected in turn by another wall. All in all the Empire’s capital was a hard nut to crack for anyone who wanted to have a go at it, although Casca couldn't think of anyone who would - or could. The Persians were at an ‘eternal peace’ with the Empire at the moment thanks to Justinian’s and Shah Khusrau’s agreement a few years back. The Goths had neither the knowledge nor the military might to breach the walls; the only other power he knew of that might trouble the imperial forces, the Franks, were too distant. As for the barbarians that lurked beyond the Danube or the desert frontiers, he doubted they could force the mighty defenses even if they attacked at the same time.
He reached the Gate and saw the waiting figure of Sicarus close to a darkened alley. “Glad you’re here, my friend,” he greeted Casca and gestured for the Roman to follow him down a side street that led towards the Bosphorus. After a few minutes the mercenary slowed, then stopped, indicating a two storied house behind a walled garden. A double gate stood in the middle, barred and spiked on top. The two men withdrew into shadows and discussed how they should proceed. A third figure joined them, that of the slave assigned to watch the house. Sicarus paid him off and sent him on his way. After making sure there were no patrols in sight the two men slipped on their masks and ran across the street and scaled up the wall, Casca giving Sicarus a leg-up. Casca was then helped up and both men dropped soundlessly over into a garden that was beginning to go to seed. They carefully avoided falling over tangled roots, creepers and trailing vines while keeping under cover as they approached the house. There were a few lights visible behind the shutters and the two men slid up to the front wall on either side of one of these.
They were totally concealed from the road and the undergrowth silenced their movements. Sicarus peered through the narrow crack in between the shutters and examined the lit room beyond, withdrawing his face after a moment. “Nobody there, at least as far as I can see.”
Casca looked around. The front door was not an option for obvious reasons, but somewhere there would be a way in, perhaps the upper floor? He looked up, and sure enough to the right there was an open shutter. He nudged his companion and they moved to a point directly below the opening. A vine grew up the wall and it looked big enough to hold the weight of Sicarus. Casca wasn’t much up to climbing anyway. He’d prefer to wait outside with his feet on terra firma. He boosted Sicarus up and the mercenary scrambled up the creeper, shaking it and causing the leaves to rustle against the stonework of the house.
Sicarus held onto a purchase point underneath the shutter and dragged himself up into the room, legs flailing. A moment later his head appeared and Casca pointed to the front door. Sicarus nodded and vanished, leaving Casca to move over to the front door. Unfortunately at that moment two men appeared from round the corner, each carrying a sword, and they reacted very quickly, dragging out their weapons. One, the larger of the two, stepped forward a pace and sized up Casca, still half-hidden by the shadows of the broad-leafed bushes near the window. “So,” he said, his voice low and husky, “some fun tonight. A fool who thinks robbery is profitable here!” His accent betrayed an Illyrian origin.
His companion remained silent but a slight nod showed he’d agreed with the Illyrian. This one moved aside and angled to come at Casca from the left, his unarmed side. Both now advanced on the scarred warrior. Casca cursed under his breath and hoped Sicarus would hurry up. He moved forward, giving himself space to swing his sword and to allow for evasive action. The two confident guards were swinging their blades to loosen up their muscles, not having used them in a little while. Night duty was normally boring. Now they had some sport. Casca, praying under his breath for Sicarus to hurry the hell up, decided to take out the one on the left, the street side, first. Feinting to attack the man on his right he suddenly pivoted, swinging his blow low. The surprised man blocked the attack but had to jump back hastily and was off balance for a few seconds.
The other man raised his blade and sprang to the attack, teeth bared, eyes wide as his adrenaline pumped through his veins. The vicious chop would have cleaved Casca’s head wide open but the Eternal Mercenary stepped to the left and raised his sword to meet the down blow. A metallic clang rang out through the garden and Casca cursed. The noise would bring anyone in the house running unless they were asleep. He had to even the odds fast.
He countered the Illyrian’s attack, sweeping his sword in a wide arc that was designed merely to give him time and space while moving forward and to the left once more. The other man had got his balance back and now pressed in close, his sword reaching the limit of the backswing and intending to slash into Casca’s gut. Casca rolled under the blow and sprang up behind the man who was turning fast in alarm, but not fast enough. Casca’s jab reached the side of the guard and entered under the ribs as he came up from the roll, his weight behind the thrust.
As the guard groaned in pain and clutched at Casca in a reflex action, the Illyrian came in again, snarling in rage. The blow struck flesh and split it asunder, but Casca was unhurt, having thrust the dying guard into the path of the blow. He now released the unfortunate man and stepped aside, facing the enraged Illyrian.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” the Illyrian growled. “I’m going to have to cut you up into pieces!”
“Try it, you boy screwer” Casca retorted and stood waiting for the assault. It came soon enough, the force increased by fury, but it was mistimed and Casca deflected the blow easily and stepped up close to the man, dropping his sword, and grabbed hold of his opponent’s throat, squeezing hard. The Illyrian clamped his free hand against the thick wrist of Casca but could make no impression, so he slashed desperately at him but Casca moved fast and grabbed his wrist with his left hand and began to squeeze hard. The Illyrian struggled desperately but couldn't pull his arm free, so he tried to batter at him with his free hand. Casca ignored the blows and forced the man to his knees, his left hand digging its nails into the guard’s wrist, forcing the hand open and his sword fell to the ground. Casca now closed both hands round the throat of his victim and pressed hard. The Illyrian gargled and tried to break free but was pinned fast. He shook and tugged but nothing could shift the scarred man and the struggles grew less and less and he slumped as his shade
left him.
Casca dropped the corpse and picked up his sword. Leaving the two bodies on the grass he stepped up to the front door just as Sicarus opened it. “What kept you?” Casca breathed, the sweat drying on his body.
Sicarus stared at the two dead men for a moment, then at Casca who stepped into the house. “Had to take care of him,” he nodded at a dark huddled shape lying at the bottom of the stairs. Casca grunted. Sicarus continued. “Surprised Miklos or anyone else hasn’t come running.”
“Maybe asleep?” Casca suggested, hoping he hadn’t gone out by some unknown back way. “Help me get these two indoors, I don’t want someone blundering across them!” The two pulled the dead guards in from the garden and dumped them in an untidy pile on top of the one Sicarus had taken care of. Now that job had been done, Casca took a look round. Miklos was not a poor man but at the same time didn't flaunt what money he had. There were a few items hung from the walls but these were mainly military objects, and there were an absence of carpets or rugs. The two men padded softly along the passage to where light flickered from beyond a door and pressed their ears against it. On the other side they could hear sounds of movement so Sicarus looked once at Casca, nodded, then silently counted down from three. On one the two men drew in a deep breath and kicked the door in, bursting into a room that contained a table, a couple of chairs, an upholstered bench and a drunken man dressed in a white robe clutching a cup of wine. Casca grinned. No wonder Miklos hadn’t come to see what the noise was about.
Miklos made to grab a nearby sword but Casca kicked it aside, waving the point of his weapon at his head. “Uh-huh, no you don't, friend.” The cup fell to the ground and shattered. The man looked as though he was sobering up rapidly.
Sicarus jabbed his sword point into the man's throat. “You’re Miklos, Captain of the Spathos-cublicar.” At the same time Casca slowly pulled his mask down so that their prisoner would see just who exactly had him.