by Tony Roberts
He proceeded to spank her and Zoe’s complaints rang out of the house so that before long a crowd had gathered, all peering in amazement through the open front door down the passage to where Zoe’s behind was visible, as Casca slapped it repeatedly. “A man is not your play-thing,” Casca snapped, glaring at the red-faced woman. “So stop treating them like one.”
He pulled her off his knee and tossed her into a corner and stood up. Zoe, enraged, grabbed a knife and came at him. Casca, momentarily having a vision of the whore who’d scarred his face, grasped her wrist and forced her to her knees. He took the knife and threw it into another corner. “Don’t try that,” he said forcefully, “or you’ll end up sorry.” Zoe gasped and fell to the floor, released from the brief agony of Casca’s grip. He took one last look at her and shook his head. “You’re probably too set in your ways to listen, but don’t dare try coming after me. I won’t like it. I’m leaving and won’t be back.” He stepped out of the room, grabbed his few belongings and his pack, and walked out into the sunshine, pushing past the silent and open-mouthed crowd.
He stood by the race track, wondering on his next move. Delia was sat on the fence and studied him, her head on one side. “Where are you going?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he said truthfully, “I have no home.”
“Mummy has a spare room,” Delia said. “I’d like you to stay with us!”
Casca grinned. “I’d like that too. It depends on your mummy; would she want me to stay there?”
Delia shrugged and jumped off the fence and took the scarred man by the hand, pulling him in the direction of her home. Casca, an amused look on his face, allowed himself to be led by the six year old up to the front door which was also open. Carina was brushing dust out of the corridor and paused as Delia appeared, pulling Casca after her. “What are you doing with him?” she demanded, brushing back a lock of stray hair.
“She wonders if I can stay here now I’m homeless,” Casca explained.
Carina put her brush down and folded her arms. “Now Delia, you mustn’t go bringing anyone here without my permission!” She looked at Casca. “I suppose Zoe threw you out?”
“I left,” Casca replied briefly, wondering why Carina was so sharp with him.
Carina snorted. “She got bored with you, I suppose? That woman goes through men like children through clothes.”
“You don’t do so bad yourself,” Casca said, then bit his tongue.
Carina went red. “If you wish to stay here you’d best not say such things. Well, do you have the money?”
The money Casca had won on himself in the races supplemented his basic wage from Hadramon. He told Carina he did indeed have sufficient, and he was confident he’d win more in the forthcoming meet in the Hippodrome. Carina shook her head. “Show me first, then I’ll consider it. I’ve been fooled before by men telling me one thing, then it turns out they lie.”
Casca grunted. “I don’t lie. Ask Hadramon; he’s got my winnings.” Carina looked at him, then walked past. “I will, in that case,” she said over her shoulder and moved off. Delia looked up at him. “Does that mean you can stay?”
“I think maybe yes, but we’ll see. Your mummy is very careful about making sure you have enough food and clothes.” They sat together against the wall, soaking up the sun, until Carina returned and came to a stop in front of Casca who got to his feet.
“You tell the truth,” she said. “Very well, but I want fifty nummi in advance. You pay me that and you’ve got yourself a room. Fifty a week. If you can afford it, that is.” She challenged him, standing there, her hand on Delia’s shoulder. Casca nodded. She was overpricing it a bit but he reckoned if he won at the races it wouldn’t make any difference; the winnings would make the rent seem insignificant. “I expect decent food,” Casca said and pushed past her into the house, Delia excitedly showing him the room he would now be sleeping in. He threw his pack onto the bed and looked round the room. Small, bare-walled and a thin mat on the stone floor. The bed and a rough wooden chest made up the furnishings. On the chest rested a stoneware basin and jug. Very basic but it was a place he could rest and sleep.
Over the next few days Delia got a few toys and clothes and she went round proudly showing them off to the other faction people at the race track and neighboring houses. Casca reasoned his rental money was going to a good cause. Carina still treated him rudely and Casca reckoned she had the hots for him. The male visitors ceased and only once did one try to force his way in.
This one was a frequent visitor, not employed at the racetrack, but was some pottery worker on a nearby street. The presence of a few women willing to sell their bodies at the faction training ground had attracted people like him, and he wasn’t going to take Carina’s no for an answer. Casca emerged from his room, wiping off the dust and blood from his naked upper torso following a fall, and glared at the middle-aged curly haired man. “Hey, get out of here, you heard the lady.”
“She’s no lady,” the man growled, annoyed his anticipated pleasure was not going to happen. “I’ve been a regular customer for months here! I’m not going to go until I get what I want.”
“What you want and what you’re going to get are two different things,” Casca said, throwing his towel onto his bed and advancing on the man. He slapped him across the face with his palm, a deliberate provocation. As Casca hoped, the man struck back in rage, but found his arm twisted round and forced against his back, and a sharp kick to the balls made the visitor forget about any further moves except to curl up into a ball.
Casca dragged the man outside and over to one of the horse troughs. Plunging the man’s head under the water, he held the man until he judged he was about to drown, then pulled the struggling figure up and shook him until their eyes met. “Now, you piece of shit,” Casca growled, “stay away from here or I’ll break you into little pieces. You got it?”
The man nodded, terrified, and scuttled off once Casca dropped him. Carina was waiting for him as he returned and smiled her thanks. “He won’t be back,” Casca grunted and stepped past her into the house. She turned and called his name. Casca stopped. “What?”
“I-I guess I’ve been badly behaved towards you,” Carina said softly.
“Yes you have,” Casca admitted, “and to be honest, only your daughter’s friendliness has kept me here. You ought to follow her example some time. Now let me go about my business, woman, I have a busy afternoon.” He left an open-mouthed Carina in the passageway and went out once more with his riding gear.
Later that day Casca was suggesting to Ankamas, one of the other riders, that perhaps one of the horses he usually had should be changed when there came a great commotion and excited cheering began breaking out. The two men looked up, curious, and saw people in the street celebrating wildly, embracing, jumping up and down and slapping each other on the back. “Now what in the name of Jupiter’s brass balls are they so excited about?” Casca muttered to himself and made his way over to the tumult.
He asked the first man he came across what he was so pleased about. He got a stunning reply. “Belisarius has taken Rome - the Goths surrendered it without a fight!” Casca just couldn’t believe it, here was one of the most important cities in all of Italy and the Goths had just given it up. Was Belisarius’s reputation such that an entire garrison fled at his approach? He had perhaps five thousand men with him and the Goths could call on ten times that - what was Vitiges playing at? Casca learned that Vitiges had voluntarily given up the city and marched his garrison out of the northern gates at the same time that Belisarius and his army marched into the south. After an interval of sixty years Rome once more belonged to the Empire. The only bad point was that Vitiges had promptly raised an army of over a hundred thousand and was now besieging Belisarius. Casca grunted in amusement. Vitiges had made a mess of things there. If he had that many to call on then he could have remained in Rome, refused to surrender the city and called on his other forces to surround Belisarius and crush him.
/> Apparently Justinian was taking the adulation of the crowd in the Hippodrome at that moment, milking the applause that rightfully belonged to his general whom he distrusted. In fact, at that moment Belisarius was pleading for reinforcements to help him as he was trapped and the Goths had blocked the grain route into the city from Ostia and demolished the aqueducts that carried water into Rome. What a way to run a war!
The weeks passed and as time neared for his first race in the Hippodrome, Casca went back to the cisterns and wasn’t surprised to see that the Brotherhood were not there. They obviously only met at certain times, so now he decided to put the frighteners on them, the first step in his plan to drive them out of Constantinople. Now he had decided to make that step, he would have to wait until the night before the race, which was approaching fast. He had carefully thought out a plan of action and as darkness fell once again took his trusty sword and knife, and made his way to the house of Thassus close to the Golden Horn. As before, getting into the grounds was easy as the wall was overgrown and he soon found an entry into the house proper, via an open doorway at the rear. The tough soldier tut-tutted to himself. Such carelessness.
There would be guards, he would just have to be quick and quiet. Someone of the status of the Elder lived in a place with plenty of protection. So Casca slowly scanned the interior of the house and listened carefully for any sounds. No noise came to his ears, but there were lights on and he made his way towards them, peering round a corner to see Thassus himself reading a scroll intently by candlelight. Thassus became aware he was being watched and looked up sharply, the chill of icy fear striking him like a slap across the face as he recognized the man looming over him. The scroll fell to the floor as Thassus sagged back deeper into his chair. “Wh-what do you want?”
Casca pointed his sword at the lawyer's throat. “You, you filth. I want your life.”
Thassus gibbered in terror. Here was the devil himself right in front of him and not a single Brotherhood disciple to protect him. He knew Longinus to be immortal and his strength was such that there was no way he could overcome him. He was doomed.
Casca pulled the terrified man up by the throat so he was dangling off the ground. “You were ready to imprison me for all eternity, you scum, so why shouldn’t I bear a grudge? Besides, your sect killed my wife and child so I have a debt to settle. Miklos and his three guards were just the start, and I intend to drive you all out of this city.”
Thassus knew him to be in deadly earnest and thought wildly how he could be saved. He wasn't made out of the same stuff as Dacort or Gregory; he was a man of the law, not of the sword. His clever way with words had taken him this far but he certainly wasn’t brave when away from his guards. “If you kill me then you won’t know where the rest of the Brotherhood are. We have moved from our previous meeting place.”
“I am aware that you use the cisterns, Elder Thassus.” He saw the expression on his victim’s face. “Yes, I know what you are and that you have thirteen to each part of your organization. I also know that by killing you another Elder will have to be elected and that is when I shall strike. Now before I kill you I want to know your new meeting place. You can either tell me now and I shall grant you a quick death, or I shall have to extract it from you bit by bit. The choice is yours.”
Thassus knew he had no way out, and fell to the floor blubbering in terror. Just at that moment the door pushed open and two men stood there, anxiety on their faces. Thassus pointed at Casca. “It's the Beast! Get him!”
Casca swore and swung round. The two men sprang into the room, alarmed but swords raised. They had heard the voices during their patrol of the house and thought it odd that their master hadn't announced he'd be having visitors, so had peered in and seen enough to intervene. Casca attacked, his first blow cutting through the air and striking the upraised blade of the first guard. The second guard pushed past the grunting first and stabbed forward, intending to disembowel the intruder, but Casca had seen the move and stepped back quickly, sweeping his blade across his front to keep the two men away from him.
Thassus tried to sneak out but Casca spotted him and sprang sideways, catching the screeching man and striking his neck with the pommel of his sword. Thassus sank to the floor, his vision swimming, his legs refusing to obey him. The two guards were now fully into the room so Casca stepped behind a low table and kicked it towards the guards. One stumbled as he tried to go round it while the other jumped over it and slashed at Casca. The Eternal Mercenary blocked it and kicked the man between the legs. The guard grimaced and clutched his balls, folding over and sinking to his knees.
The second guard attacked, his blade cutting through the air wildly and Casca ducked sharply, keeping his eyes on the man and lunging forward with his blade as he came back up from the crouch. The steel blade sank into the man's abdomen and it made a wet, sucking noise as it penetrated deep into his belly. The man stared in agony at the ground, his mouth open in a surprised manner, and Casca viciously yanked the blade out. As the guard fell to the floor, Casca kicked at the first guard, catching him on the side of the head, knocking him clean out. He’d take care of him later, best he left nobody alive to tell the tale and give away the fact he was here.
Thassus was trying to get up, terrified but still half stunned, as Casca caught hold of him by the neck. “Now, you turd,” he growled, “you're going to tell me everything!”
* * *
The day of the race was cloudy and a chill wind came from the north, but Casca felt none of it as he was too engrossed in the build up to his race. Hadramon had put him down as the ‘Unbeaten Rufius’ and scheduled him to race in the fourth event, one between four chariots, two from each faction. He was the one unknown racer of the four and consequently he was the rank outsider. He made sure he had a juicy bet down with Ibrahim and paced restlessly in the tunnel until he got the nod to trot his team out into the starting arches. He’d been drawn to start in the third arch so he’d be second best in getting a decent line along the first straight.
The noise was deafening and he stole a quick glance at the imperial box, noting Justinian’s presence there. The crowd seemed in an extra pitch of excitement, mainly due to the fact the Blues were doing much better after the first three races.
All round the arena the stands were awash with color, and the buzz of excitement that reached down to the riders was almost physical. The sweat of the horses and men filled Casca’s nostrils, together with smells of leather and dung. He was ready.
He looked to left and right at his rivals as they lined up. His team mate was Talokos, a dark haired man from Crete and by reputation a ruthless man on the circuit whom you got in his way at your peril. The two Greens were Ramos and Bendurin, the former an Isaurian from Anatolia who was basically an animal, the latter a Syrian with a reputation for skillful driving and as such was many people's favorite for the race.
Casca knew what tactics he would use, having discovered his strength would enable him to drag the team round the turns at a tighter angle than most others, and he had perfected an approach to the curves at a greater speed than his rivals who nearly always slowed down just as they came out of the straight. Looking at Bendurin he certainly would gain there, but the Cretan and Isaurian looked like mean bastards and it would be no easy ride out there. He flexed his fingers before tightening the gauntlets and wiped the sweat of tension from his forehead, difficult though it was under the helm. Even though this wasn’t one of the main races the interest was still high, although some of the crowd were busy getting refreshments or answering the call of nature. Casca knew this was a vital race for him. He had to win to build his reputation up and catch the eye of the Emperor.
With a roar from the crowd the race was begun and the four teams of horses leapt forward towards the first turn, each team vying to get there first. Casca, being the heaviest of the four racers, was somewhat put out to be the last into the turn but his brute strength enabled him to pass Bendurin and pull alongside Talokos who didn’t look too p
leased at this outsider matching him. Ramos had stolen a length’s lead but this was whittled down by the time they dragged themselves around the next turn, Talokos pushing Casca out wide so that he lost ground again and the gap created allowed Bendurin to squeeze in between the two Blues.
Casca cursed the Cretan and urged his team on, rumbling up in fourth place to the third turn in hot pursuit. He quickly sized up his route through the bend and saw where the other three were going. Ramos and Talokos were furiously contesting the same path while Bendurin took a wider route to avoid the clash, so Casca chose a route in between the inside of the curve and the two battling chariots. A weaker person would not have been able to guide the chariot around the course he chose at that speed, but the execution of the move was perfect and he passed the two astonished racers so that he was now in second place behind the Syrian who thought he had got clean away. The noise of the crowd told him he’d impressed or surprised them.
The two left the Cretan and Isaurian behind and pulled away, their superior technique leaving the less subtle duo far behind, and the aficionados of racing now sat down eager to see which of the two would triumph. Over the next four circuits Casca was content to remain in second place, assessing Bendurin’s style and his approach to each turn. Having noticed that he took a wide approach and turned late so that he took a course that cut across anyone on the inside, he decided that a straight charge on the inside on the last bend before the finish and a tight turn would give him the best chance of victory.
Bendurin’s supporters were encouraging him on and the Syrian still held the lead on the last circuit. Casca was one length behind which allowed the Green to take the wider approach to the bend. Immediately Casca seized his chance, put his whip across the rumps of the horses which gave them an extra yard of pace, and began dragging his team around the bend on the inside of the shocked Syrian. One wheel came off the ground so Casca leaned against it with all his might, but it was Bendurin himself who lent a hand, accidentally nudging his chariot back on an even keel. The Green was too stunned to react in time as Casca swept out of the turn and raced across the finishing line a good two lengths clear of his rival. The Blue supporters went wild and the Emperor stood and applauded which forced a smile from Casca as he brought the horses to a halt. His chest heaving with the effort he’d just put in.