by Tony Roberts
“Sorry, orders. Nobody is permitted to pass.”
“I’m a senior advisor.”
“Orders.” The man folded his arms and glared at Casca. He didn’t give a rat’s ass who he was. He’d been given explicit orders and he would not disobey them.
“Whose orders?” Casca growled.
“Mine,” Cleph said from the doorway. He’d heard Casca’s voice and he was one whom he trusted. The scarred Latin mercenary was definitely a king’s man. “You’re permitted in, as I want to talk to you.” He nodded to the guards to let Casca through.
The bed chamber told its own story. Blood soaked the sheets, floor, drapes, and the body of the king lying by his bed. He’d died hard. A shattered footstool lay close by.
“What happened?” Casca demanded.
“That fucker Helmichis is what happened,” Cleph snarled, his fists clenching and unclenching. “He and that bitch wife of the king got together and hatched a plan to kill the king and take over.”
“How did they get in here?”
“Bribed the bed chamberlain Peredeo. Don’t know whether that little shit did the deed or Helmichis, or both. Whatever way, the king’s sword was stolen and he must have used this stool to defend himself, but you can’t do that forever.”
“How was it discovered?”
“The guards outside were dismissed by Helmichis before he went in, but they got suspicious and reported to me. By the time I got here it was too late. Shit!” he threw a piece of broken pottery across the room violently. Other men stood helplessly about, waiting for some order.
“So where are the conspirators?”
“Buggered off out of the palace. Helmichis is trying to gather support to be elected Alboin’s successor. The dukes will vote who will be king.”
“You’re his most likely successor, not Helmichis. I can’t see anyone supporting a regicide.”
“I should get the vote, yes, but I could really do with stringing up those bastards. I don’t want a civil war to start my reign.” He eyed Casca shrewdly. “So where do you stand with the election. Him or me?”
Casca looked down at the body of Alboin. “I was his man. I want the blood of those who did this.”
“Then you’re with me on that. Tell you what – I’ll give you a free hand to hunt them down as long as you support me.”
“Done,” Casca clasped forearms with Cleph.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The next few days were chaotic as both Cleph and Helmichis maneuvered to gain support. Helmichis tried to play the Rosamunde-is-going-to-marry-me ploy. The two had promised themselves to each other and since the queen was a widow, if she remarried then her new husband ought to be the new king. None of the dukes were convinced by this and Cleph clearly had their favor, being part of the dynasty. Cleph also publicly vowed to have those responsible for the death of the former king be hunted down and destroyed.
It was no surprise then that Cleph got the vote. His first decree was to send men out to arrest Helmichis, Rosamunde and Peredeo. But by then the trio had fled, along with a large portion of Albion’s personal treasury.
Casca and Greta were summoned to Cleph’s throne room. He sat on his throne, his bared sword across his knees, his scowl in full evidence. “Ah, my prime trouble-busters,” he said, straightening. “I have the perfect job for you. That bastard Helmichis has run to Ravenna with his whore and dog and the fucking treasury. We got hold of a couple of their supporters and got the truth out of them. It seems the empire has granted them sanctuary. This new exarch, Longinus, has given his word.”
“Who?” Casca could hardly believe his ears.
“Longinus. Not long appointed to the job, so I hear. One of those younger, ambitious types the new emperor wants to surround himself with as opposed to those who were with his predecessor. Seems you had to be old and senile to be granted an important post then. Ha! Anyway, this new slimy bastard agreed instantly to allow Helmichis and his fellow conspirators into Ravenna. It might have been the treasure they brought with them, but I’m not putting what’s left of the treasury on that. Whatever, I want you two to go to Ravenna, find these swine and deal with them, got it? Oh, and if possible, bring back as much of my treasury as you can.”
Casca’s mind was whirling. Longinus? Really? Could it be? “How do we get there?”
“Get a couple of steeds from the stables. You might want to disguise yourselves too, but I’ll leave that to you. Just ask and you’ll get it. If you survive and get back I’ll reward you with a title. Both of you. Land, property, whatever.”
Back in their quarters Casca puffed out his cheeks. “This is too much of a co-incidence.”
“What is?”
“The new exarch, Longinus. I think I know him. An adoptive son.”
Greta’s mouth dropped open. “Really? Are you being serious?”
“Of course. Years ago I brought up a girl – Delia – whose parents died of the plague. When she came of age she married this up-and-coming young officer called Licinus. On their wedding night Delia confessed to me she knew I didn’t age and that I was something extraordinary, so I had no choice but to tell her. The thing was, Licinus overheard, but instead of turning me in, he asked if he could take my family name in honor of protecting Delia all those years. Now it seems he and probably Delia have been posted to Ravenna. He’ll be late thirties, possibly forty or so. Delia is – ah – “ he scratched his head.
“Oh, you men!”
“Shut it. I’m thinking. Probably thirty-seven.”
“If it really is him, would he help us?”
Casca grinned. “Absolutely. No doubt about that at all.”
They got everything of use packed ready for the journey. To Casca Alboin’s passing marked the end of something, the end of the great migration. Cleph was not Alboin. Alboin at least had the personality and ability to hold all the disparate peoples together, but Cleph wasn’t that type. He was warlike, irascible and hot-tempered. Casca couldn’t see a future with the new king. He’d take advantage of the free hand given him against Helmichis and the others, but that was it. This was the first and last task he’d accept from the new king.
That morning he shaved his beard off.
Greta watched spellbound as he removed his tribal identity. “This means you’re not coming back, doesn’t it?”
Casca sharpened his knife. “No, I’m not. My time here with your people is over. Alboin’s death ended my association with the tribe. Now I’ve got to enter imperial lands and I’m not going to get far looking like one of their enemies.”
“What about me?”
“You’re coming with me, aren’t you, Greta? If we’re to enter Ravenna and be accepted, we can’t look like Lombards, can we?”
“So you’re asking me to cut my hair.”
“Not specifically, no, but I’m asking you to look more like an imperial than you do now.”
“So what style do they like?”
“Oh,” Casca shrugged, “tied back, away from the ears, not long and loose like the tribe. Lots of plaits.”
“Very well,” Greta huffed and left the room.
When he’d shaved his beard off and cut his hair short in the Byzantine fashion, at least in the fashion he’d recalled when he’d last been there over twenty years previously, he went to find Greta. She was sat on a stool in the bedroom in front of the polished bronze reflective plate they used, tying her hair in a plait. Most of her hair lay in a heap on the floor, and Casca guessed her hair length was now to her shoulders.
She turned around. “Satisfied?”
Casca cocked his head on one side. “It’ll take a little getting used to, but I think it suits you.”
“Hah!” she said, standing up. “you’re just saying that in case I cut your tongue off.”
“And you’d miss that, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, you…” she couldn’t say any more as he grabbed her, and subjected her to a deep, passionate kiss that made her forget about any kind of resistance and s
he put her arms around his neck and kissed him back. “You charmer, you,” she breathed once he let her lips go.
He chuckled. “Come on, my Byzantine beauty, let’s get you to the armory and kitted up like an imperial soldier. That’ll get them confused, seeing you in armor.”
They got fitted up easily, for the armory in Ticinium still had plenty of imperial outfits and uniforms in stock, and as soon as they were ready, they got a couple of horses and rode out of the city on the southern road, the via Claudia Augusta. They rode to Mutina and then turned left onto the via Aemilia towards Bononia.
It was here, that the border between the Lombard kingdom and the empire stood. Off to the south the Apennines rose out of the plains, jagged mountains, but the via Aemilia followed the line of the edge of the mountains south-east towards the sea.
The Lombards didn’t stop the two riding through their frontier posts. Casca had a seal from Cleph he handed them and this was enough to let them through. He left the seal there as he didn’t want the Byzantines finding anything on them that linked him to the Lombard royal dynasty.
Bononia was a frontier post; it had been sacked recently by the Goths in the war and so wasn’t as intact as it had formerly been. It was now a military base so the two avoided it, riding off the road onto the plains and across country. The imperial soldiers did little to stop them; after all, they were but two riders, seen in the distance, and they didn’t look like Lombard raiders.
They rode for three days until they approached Ravenna. It was much as he recalled the last time he had been there, during the imperial siege of the then Gothic capital, some thirty years ago.
They rode slowly across the causeway that lifted the road above that of the surrounding swamps and marshes, towards the mighty gatehouse that was set in the immensely thick stone walls. The defenders watched them approach, warily, for it was a time of war and any stranger approaching was to be viewed with suspicion.
A well-armed delegation of soldiers stepped forward and ordered the two to stop and dismount. Archers covered them from vantage points, and before the arriving duo the huge stone walls loomed over them. The two gates were shut firmly and only would be opened if Casca and Greta passed what looked like being a stringent check.
“State your names, and the purpose of you coming to Ravenna,” the sergeant of the guard snapped, stepping forward. He was wearing the ubiquitous fine-meshed chainmail hauberk the imperial armies were fitted with these days and brass-colored helmet.
“Casca Longinus, imperial agent, and my associate, Greta Julia.” He’d decided to give her a much more Roman sounding name.
“Agent, eh? You have important news for the exarch? And you have the same name. Taking a name from the exarch isn’t clever, friend.”
“He took it from me.”
The silence could be cut with a sword. The soldiers looked to the sergeant who jutted out his chest and stepped up to the dismounted scar-faced warrior. “You take liberties, Casca Longinus. This could end up being very painful for you.”
“Go ask the exarch. I’m sure he’ll confirm it. Describe me to him. Oh, and I trust his good lady Delia is here, too?”
“Lady Delia is none of your concern!”
Casca grinned. “Her eyes still the same lovely deep brown color? Tell her that her favorite charioteer has returned.”
He got some wary looks for that. Charioteers were feted to a point almost approaching that of royalty, but it was a short and often fatal livelihood. The sergeant suddenly didn’t feel as confident around this man as before. He didn’t seem intimidated at all, and spoke excellent Latin, if a little old-fashioned, rather like the highly-educated elite did. He swallowed. Maybe this agent-cum-charioteer was extremely rich? And he had the same family name as the exarch…
He decided to play it safe. Very well. I’ll advise my superior of your arrival. Please wait in the guardroom. You’ll be attended to shortly.”
Casca nodded and followed two guards, Greta alongside him, to a waiting room of sorts. They sat for a short time before an officer and two humorless guards turned up. That was fast. They had to surrender their weapons before being escorted through the streets. Nothing more was said as they went, but Casca began to recognize the route they were taking. They were headed straight for the palace.
He’d been there thirty years previously, but the décor was much more sober and functional now. Gone were the Gothic kingdom trappings; Ravenna was no longer the capital of a kingdom. Now it was no more than the seat of the exarchate of Ravenna, the western edge of an empire whose focus was to the east.
Through endless corridors they went, feet echoing on the stone and marble flooring. Busts of past greats and not-so-greats were passed, and guards stood smartly to attention as they walked past them towards the seat of power.
A pair of huge brass doors loomed ahead and they were granted entry upon request. The throne room lay beyond. Again, the sumptuousness of yesteryear was gone. Two plain but large and padded chairs sat on the dais, and seated in these were a man and a woman. Both were dark haired and dressed in elegant high-quality clothing. Casca and Greta were told to advance to a certain spot and then had to kneel and bow.
They were permitted to stand back up. Casca looked at the dark-complexioned man sat before him. A little broader and thickset than before, and of course older, but recognizable all the same. The man smiled. “So, we meet again, Casca.”
“Indeed we do, Exarch Longinus,” Casca decided to play it by the book. “It has been a long time.”
“Too long. You know, of course, my good lady wife, Delia.”
Casca’s attention switched to the smaller figure. Deep brown eyes, brown hair, she also was heavier, which was to be expected given their rich life style, but to him she was still the girl he had fostered and brought up all those years ago. “My lady.”
“The charioteer indeed,” her eyes sparkled. “I remember it well.”
Casca grinned self-consciously. He had been the butt of a practical joke, being stripped naked and bound to a chariot that had been released to race around the practice track, right in front of everyone. Delia, then only six years of age, had asked her mother Carina in a high-pitched voice, “mummy, what is that on that man?”
Casca indicated Greta next to him. “May I introduce my fellow warrior and lady, Greta?”
Exarch Longinus inclined his head. “You still have the eye for beautiful women, I see.”
Greta smiled and lowered her eyes.
The exarch waved to his courtiers. “This conversation will be continued in my quarters in private. We are not to be disturbed.”
Their quarters were big, and again Casca recognized it from his last visit. Then it had been the quarters of Matasuntha, the Gothic queen who had tried to seduce Casca. He had turned her down. What was it he had called her? Oh yes, a harlot and a bitch.
Everyone else was dismissed, and when the doors finally shut, the exarch laughed and embraced Casca who slapped him on the back. Delia then hugged him and kissed his cheek. “Oh, it’s so good to see you again!” she said, then gave Greta a sideways glance.
He interpreted her look correctly. “It’s alright, she knows.”
Delia smiled in relief. “So tell me, Casca, what have you been doing? Oh, please, sit down, both of you.”
Casca went over what he had done since leaving Constantinople and how he came to meet Greta. Greta herself told of her part in her life with Casca.
The exarch stood up. “I think its time you met some special people,” he said and went to the door, opened it and spoke to someone outside, before returning to his chair. “You remember I was a young and upcoming officer in the imperial army. Well after Delia and I married we were posted to the Sirmium district but it proved impossible to regain the city, and the Gepids were too strong and numerous. Justinian was by now too old and thinking too much of spiritual matters rather than the army, and put money and effort into building churches.”
Casca shrugged. “Same old probl
em with emperors; they don’t want too strong an army in case its used to usurp them.”
Exarch Longinus agreed. “So I was then posted to the east and have been there the ten years preceding my posting to Ravenna. It was when the Lombards invaded and sent panic through the imperial hierarchy that Justin turned to someone not connected with the old regime. Most of the people in the capital were former officers in Justinian’s days, or too old. The governor of Cappadocia recommended me and so here I am, trying to keep things from falling apart, with few men and even fewer coins.”
The door opened and three young people entered. Two were males of around twenty and eighteen, and a younger girl of about fourteen.
Casca stood up and gave all three a careful scrutiny. They had the same dark coloration and complexion as their parents. The eldest was brown-eyed and his brown hair was cut short in the military fashion. The younger male had darker olive skin and almost black eyes and a ready smile. The girl had long styled curled brown hair, soft brown eyes, long dark lashes and full lips. “Your offspring,” he stated.
Delia nodded. “This is Verinus,” she indicated the oldest, “Petronus and Atalantia.”
Casca bowed to the two males, then looked the young girl in the eyes. She flushed and lowered hers. “Atalantia. Lovely name. Greek, of course,” he said to her.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “My parents believe in spreading the names of the empire around.”
Her father went up to all three and turned, dramatically gesturing to Casca with a sweep of one arm. “Sons, daughter, this is Casca, the one whom your mother and I have told you about ever since you were old enough to understand.”
All three looked at him in disbelief. Verinus, the eldest, stepped forward. “I have no doubt that father speaks the truth, as he always does, yet I still find it hard to believe that you are he, or that you possess the gift of immortality.” He bowed to Casca, and then his father. “Forgive me, yet this is a situation I’m finding difficult to come to terms with.”
Casca smiled wryly. “First of all, immortality is not a gift, Verinus. It’s a curse. I won’t go into the deep philosophical truths of it, but believe me, if I could become mortal right now I’d accept it without hesitation. As to proof, well.” He pointed at the small dagger in Verinus’ belt. “Use that on my arm and believe.”