by Tony Roberts
If he was honest with himself, he’d thought about joining the army before that, as the prospect of a life in the hills either plowing up land, planting seeds, building walls or carving up dead trees didn’t appeal to him in the slightest. He’d rather have the discipline and excitement of the legion, and the blood-coursing moment of the kill.
And killing a-plenty there was on this day. He was now faced with two opponents, one in front and the other to his right. The latter had just downed a Lombard and saw Casca as the biggest danger to himself. Sword dripping blood, he came for Casca with murder in his clear blue eyes.
Thrusting his shield high to block the man ahead of him, the eternal mercenary met the downward attack of the one to his right above his head. Move. He had to. Standing still would end with him being cut to bits. Roaring in fury, his used his shield. Smash. It took the swordsman across the arm, shoulder and head. Off came his helmet. The Gepid staggered back, momentarily stunned.
Swing left. Use the sword. He brought it up from low, his turn adding to the momentum. His right foot was planted down firmly. The stunned swordsman took the blade under his ribs. He was sliced deep and spun around, blood flying in an arc from his ruined guts. He toppled over, entrails spilling out.
Now for the spearman. The Gepid stabbed forward, catching Casca on the shoulder. Yelling in pain, Casca’s sword smashed down and cut the spear head off. The Gepid was left holding a useless stick. Left foot stamped down hard. Casca’s backhanded swipe took the man across the throat. The Gepid choked and fell backwards, grinning out of his new mouth.
Gritting his teeth through the pain, Casca sank to his knees, two feet of spear sticking from his shoulder. Taking a hold on the broken wood, he pulled it out and tossed it aside, head bowed, his good arm propping him up.
Slowly he looked around. The battle had moved on, as it tended to do. The retinue’s attack had pushed the Gepid flank in and it was crumbling even as he watched. He stumbled to his feet, trying to ignore the waves of stabbing pain.
“Are you alright?” a voice asked, the owner gripping his shoulder. It was Liuprand, one of his comrades. “You able to carry on?”
“Yeah, just got a glancing blow. Scratched the skin. I’ll be fine.” He would be in a few minutes; his body would already be repairing itself, and by the evening it would merely be an angry-looking scar.
Liuprand nodded. “The enemy center is holding us up. I think the king is going to push in against it. We’ve done our bit. I’m fucked.”
Casca agreed and the two sat on a pile of corpses, too tired and aching to worry about their improvised seats. They shared a drink of water. Battle always brought out great thirsts. Gradually more men gathered around, exhausted, tired, or wounded. The fight had died away on their side of the field and now what was left was the struggle for the center. Both kings were involved and it was clear the Lombards were gaining the upper hand.
Theudoald came striding over, yelling at them to get off their lazy arsches and get into a line. They were going to be the reserve if needed and he was damned if his men were going to stand around looking like farmers!
The two heaved themselves up with curses and joined the shuffling line of bloodied and sweaty men. A few had wounds but they were damned if they were going to miss out on more battle and glory. They got their breathing under control and wiped the gore from their blades. Now they were ready, and Theudoald nodded in satisfaction. These men would do. He pointed his sword at the flank of the Gepid center which was now exposed following the rout of their left. “Hit those bastards hard! Go!”
With a roar, the line of Lombards charged, brandishing their weapons, jumping or hopping over corpses as they went. They passed some staggering away from the fight, and in some instances knocking them over if they didn’t get of the fucking way fast enough. Other Lombards moved out of the way, exhausted, and were relieved to see a body of fresher men pouring forward.
Casca was pleased to hear a few cries to Odin as the warriors closed in on their opponents. The old gods still lived on, even if Christianity was beginning to smother them. He was in the front line and picked out a tired-looking Gepid covered in dirt and sweat. The Gepid turned to meet the fresh attack with despair clearly over his features, and just about blocked the first blow. He was unable to stop the follow-up and Casca cut him down. Stepping over his fallen body, he made for a new adversary but the Gepids were falling back, unable to deal with attacks from their front and left.
Just then a shout went up. The Gepid prince, Turismond, had been slain by the Lombard prince Alboin. This was too much and the Gepids disintegrated.
“Come on!” Theudoald roared, “they’re running! After them, kill them all!”
A roar went up from the now victorious Lombards who sprang forward, hacking at the backs of the defeated enemy. Casca slashed at and dispatched two before he stopped. This wasn’t what he wanted to do. It wasn’t his style, what he thought a true warrior was. Kill an enemy, yes, but not when he was fleeing, defeated. There was no honor or achievement in slaying one like that. Leave that to the others to exhaust themselves.
He stood looking around, at the piles of corpses, the feebly moving wounded, the upright spears sticking out of the ground. The sky was growing dark and it looked as if it was about to rain. Funny how that happened so often after a battle. He wondered why. Was it the gods weeping over the fallen? Or maybe the folly and stupidity of man? He took a drink and cleaned his sword.
“You fought well,” Theudoald said from close by.
Casca turned and bowed. “Thank you, my Thegn. A good victory for the king. He should be able to dictate favorable terms.”
The Thegn chuckled, shaking his head. “Oh no, not so. The accursed Gepids have the protection of the Greek Emperor. This victory today was merely to ensure our survival. The word of the emperor carries more weight than the valorous arms of our warriors.”
Casca wiped his brow and nodded in understanding. That made sense. Wars could often be decided by more powerful leaders than those involved in the actual fighting. Whatever victory the Lombards had gained this day on the Asfeld, would be tempered by the will of the man in Constantinople.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Their return to Lombard territory was quick. The battle was won but the war was decided by other hands. The Byzantine emperor Justinian didn’t want to see his allies destroyed so he pressured Audoin to agree to a peace treaty that pleased neither the Lombards nor the Gepids. For the moment both sides stood back but they sharpened their swords, licked their wounds and promised to themselves that one day this matter would be settled.
For Casca and Greta the peace meant time to settle into a new home. It was back at the lake settlement, Valcum, for this is where Theudoald had his power base, and Casca needed to be close to the center of power if he was to be part of the household retinue. As Cupbearer, Theudoald was a trusted noble and therefore was given the region around Lake Pelso as it was close to the frontier. Casca was in good with the Thegn thanks to his battle prowess and his tactical knowledge. Theudoald thought he might need to call upon this Latin warrior’s expertise again. Who knew when it might be?
Their new house was close to the Thegn’s own residence, the former Roman governor’s. Casca was pleased with the higher quality insula he and his woman had received. Made of brick, wood and plaster, it was substantially stouter than what they had before. It could possibly have been a merchant’s house previously.
The interior décor was old, shabby and needed a fair bit of maintenance. Since there were no Roman workmen any more, or anyone left with the knowledge of how to build and maintain these buildings, he decided to ask around if there were any local workmen who had any idea as to how to repair the damp and crumbling plasterwork.
Greta was pleased with the house, too, but tutted at the state of it and set about cleaning it with gusto. After a few days of bitching to Casca, she got her man to buy a slave to assist her with the housework, while Casca used his strength to shift things abo
ut or pull off useless stonework and assist a local builder with some repair work. It wasn’t up to the old standards, and it was never going to be, but it made do.
He also saw Liuprand who lived along the same street. They became good friends and each household visited the other’s on a regular basis. Casca complained about a lack of furniture.
Liuprand shrugged. “Don’t go buying the expensive stuff from Italy, there’s plenty of stout stuff made here and it costs a fraction of the price.” He said the locals were desperate for coin. “They had damn-all when we got here, and having the Thegn based here means there’s more chance of jobs coming their way.”
“The place still looks run down,” Casca grumbled before he caught his tongue. He was still recalling how the old empire’s settlements were in the days when it could defend itself and everything worked. Now that was all gone.
“Oh you Latin types, so stuck up,” Liuprand teased, jabbing him. “You think we’re still all crawling in dirt and living in forests. Don’t see your own people ruling themselves any more. And don’t go saying things like that in front of some of the others. They may well take exception to it!”
Casca grunted. He still found it hard to come to terms with the collapse of his old world. Maybe it would be best if the old places were all torn down and then it wouldn’t distress him as much.
There was a mead hall in Valcum, which had been formerly the forum back in imperial times. It had been converted and all around the walls hung banners, swords, shields and animal hides. At least they hid the crumbling plasterwork and disintegrating murals. It would have depressed Casca even more if he’d had to look at those. The floor mosaics were in better condition but they, too, were largely hidden by the benches, tables and rugs. The Germanic tribesmen preferred walking on dead animal hides rather than the cold stone tesserae the Romans used to. The heating systems that had warmed the tesserae were now long gone, or just couldn’t work.
Theudoald was holding a victory feast, and all his retinue and families were present. They had been told to attend – it wasn’t a request. Here he handed out rewards to his faithful retainers, which was a way of securing their loyalty.
Casca and Greta had a place towards the end of the long table, signifying their lowly position amongst Lombard society. This was as much to do with the fact he was a relative newcomer still, than anything else. Platters of meat came down along with mugs and jugs of ale and mead. When they got to Casca, he speared a few juicy slices of pork, more than he was supposed to take, but he met the glares of those around him, daring they challenge him, and placed some on Greta’s wooden board. Some of those glaring relaxed, realizing he’d been taking both his and Greta’s.
Casca passed the platter on to one of the men who’d given him a very nasty look, and when the warrior took hold of it, Casca gripped hard and held the platter for a moment, demonstrating he had a superior grip, baring his teeth. It was a symbolic way of putting the other below him in the pecking order. Go on, motherfucker, try me he was subconsciously saying. The other warrior looked down, and Casca let go, feeling a glow of satisfaction.
Greta looked at the interplay, and couldn’t help but feel drawn even closer to her man. She stroked his inner thigh and ran her tongue over her lips. Later, big boy she was telling him.
Casca grinned. This was turning out to be an enjoyable feast.
The meal was little different to those he’d known in his time with the Northmen of Helsfjord, all those centuries ago. How many was it now? Three, he mused. The Germanic ways hadn’t changed that much. He’d not had much opportunity in his brief time with the Goths to see it then, but there again he’d been a captive which had been different.
Boasts grew as the night went on and became more outrageous with every jug consumed, and finally Widukind could take no more. The sight of the beautiful Greta draping herself over the hated Latin and clearly begging him to take her that night was too much. She should be slobbering over a Lombard, not this grotesque foreigner. He stood up, banging his empty mug on the tabletop. “I challenge the Latin to a show of strength! This titmouse hasn’t shown any display of valor or strength so far this night, and hasn’t told of his achievements, which I doubt he’s ever had! His presence here is an insult to the real men of the tribe. Challenge me, you coward, or does the shaking of your legs stop you from standing?”
Casca laughed aloud, throwing his head back. This idiot wasn’t going to let his resentment go. He stood up slowly. “You have clearly forgotten the whipping I gave you before we went to battle. I think the mead has fucked your tiny mind up. Go ahead, you girl’s wet nurse, I accept.”
The others laughed and cheered. It was always good to have some manly competition to get the blood flowing, and to excite the women. They always seemed to want more sex after some good old contest between two muscly men. They banged on the tabletop with their mugs, not caring that the contents splashed out everywhere.
Theudoald waved his hand in agreement, standing up as he did so. “A show of strength, one bout only. Widukind, what is your stake?”
Widukind pointed at Greta. “I will take her as my prize.”
The Thegn chuckled. A man would often risk so much for a beautiful woman. “And you, Casca, what is yours?”
Casca stared at the man who stood three places up from him. “I will take his place at the table.”
Laughs broke out around him. A direct challenge to Widukind’s status within the retinue. A win for Casca would push him up quite a few places, and gain him much prestige.
“Terms are agreed,” the Thegn beamed, “Now take your places. Give them room!”
People made way and stood in a circle around the two, who were sat opposite one another, their right elbows on the table. Slowly, hands came together and grasped, fingers mashing the other’s. Both gritted their teeth and stared hatefully into the other’s eyes. One of Theudoald’s advisors wrapped a thin strip of leather around their wrists, binding them to one another. He then stepped back to stand behind Casca. “No knives, spitting or head-butting. Just a show of strength. Go!”
Casca sent his considerable power into his shoulder and arm, holding Widukind’s initial assault. The Lombard’s face turned red and sweaty with the effort, his teeth fixed in a fierce grimace, staring hard at Casca, trying to intimidate him. The eternal mercenary was having none of it, and merely held the other man’s gaze with his light blue eyes. Fingers tried to grind the other man’s to a pulp, and veins stood out on arms, necks and foreheads.
Casca gauged Widukind’s strength; he was no weakling, for sure, but was using it in a mindless, brutish way. Casca held him, waiting, staring hard, daring Widukind to make any impression. Slowly, he began to push, forcing the Lombard’s arm back. With a grunt, Widukind pushed back, halting Casca’s progress, and even pushed him back slightly until Casca locked his arm and stopped the move.
As they remained held, as if frozen to their seats, the rest looked on, totally absorbed. The entire place fell silent, save for the grunting and hard breathing of the combatants. Widukind’s arm trembled slightly, causing Casca to smile for a moment. Although it was a huge effort to hold Widukind, he was maintaining his position, and the tremble told him that the Lombard’s reserves of strength were beginning to run dry.
Gradually Casca sent Widukind’s arm out, past the vertical, and towards the table top. With one last effort the Lombard stopped the movement, but only for a few heartbeats. His face was bright red and veins stood out starkly. Casca drew in a deep breath, gathered his strength, then sent Widukind’s arm down onto the table with a thump.
“Now, you leave my fucking woman alone, you bastard,” Casca hissed.
Widukind hung his head in shame and defeat. He had lost a lot of face, prestige, status and honor in front of all his comrades. The leather binding was cut and Casca stood up, flexing his aching arm. It would recover insanely fast, but that didn’t save it from hurting at that moment. The space where Widukind had sat was cleared and both Casca and G
reta sat down there instead, a little higher in status than they had been when they’d entered the hall earlier that evening.
Theudoald nodded his approval and waved vaguely to one side. A servant came over with a horn, the type normally used to drink out of in days gone by but had largely gone out of use. The servant stood by Casca and offered the horn to him. The Thegn stood and pointed at the scarred warrior. “In recognition of the entertainment this evening, and for your service on the battlefield at Asfeld.”
Casca upended the horn and out spilled coins, a couple of small gems, some amber and a necklace with an amber stone inset. Casca passed that to Greta whose eyes lit up with delight. The eternal mercenary stood and bowed to Theudoald. “Thank you, my lord.” He knew how the system worked. In return for this gift, he would have to serve the Thegn faithfully as a household retainer. He didn’t mind, it provided him with a home, a place and status. He also knew this would suit Greta, for she wanted some stability in her life.
Back home Greta excitedly talked about her new necklace and showed it off, turning this way and that. She loved it. So much so, in fact, that she threw herself at him and subjected him, or so he later stated, to the highlight of his evening.
If she thought he was satisfied with her after the one time, she was mistaken. He threw her onto her back and proceeded to treat her to five hundred years’ worth of lovemaking experience. She went out of her mind; this was more than she could have ever imagined. She dug her nails into his back and she realized in the dim corners of her mind that she was screaming “harder!”, but it was mostly a blur. After it was finally done, she fell asleep in his arms, neither of them waking till well after dawn.