by Tony Roberts
The men nodded in satisfaction. The prospect of war thrilled them.
Alboin pointed to the governor, one of the Goths who had remained in the town when the Slavs had arrived. “Karl here says the Goths will join us as they no longer wish to remain here. When we pass this town is likely to return to the empire and their taxes are so heavy it will impoverish many here. He has told me that the frontier forts are unmanned and the imperial forces are weak and scattered, and mostly garrison the major towns and cities. Our progress is unlikely to be contested outside of their walls. But,” he jabbed a stubby finger onto a rough map of the area, “we must capture the towns. Forum Iulii will be the beginning of a kingdom, our kingdom, and Gisulf here will become a Dux under my rule.”
Murmurs broke out amongst the nobility. This was a huge change. The Lombards had up to now had a loose federation of bands and war leaders paying fealty to the king, but it now looked like Alboin was going to set up a permanent political entity. A Dux – or Duke – who was allowed to rule over a region would amass considerable wealth and power, and would only be answerable to the king.
Casca raised an eyebrow. Usually any city was ruled by a Comes Civitatis, or at least it was under the imperial system, and the Goths hadn’t changed that. This Comes, or Count, ruled a county from an administrative center, usually a town. But now Alboin was doing away with that and appointing a mini-ruler of an entire region and dispensing with counties, replacing them with a duchy. Each Duke would rule from a power base in a walled city, if the eternal mercenary read it right.
After speaking to his various nobles, the king beckoned Casca forward. “This Narses says the imperial garrisons are likely to surrender given the right amount of pressure. To help us, he is prepared to send me advisors in both military and civic capacities when we cross the border at Emona. I would like you to go meet these representatives there and see if what is offered has any merit.”
“My liege, you know of the hostility between Narses and myself.”
“I do indeed, but I naturally distrust this man and would rather have someone like you who does the same to meet his minions. You know him, know of his treacherous ways, and you also speak their tongue.”
Casca clenched his fists. This could only mean one thing; Narses was trying to infiltrate the Lombard nation with the Brotherhood of the Lamb. He was glad Alboin was too canny to fall for this apparent sweet offering; it would end up being a poisoned chalice. He would be happy to take care of this ‘offer’. One thing… “Lord, have you sent word that it is I who is to meet them in Emona?”
“No. I will send a messenger today, but I believe it would be folly to tell them it is you who is to meet them. What do you suggest?”
“I think it would be interesting, lord, to say your representative is Gretasuntha, warrior woman of the Lombard nation.”
Alboin chuckled and rubbed his hands. “Excellent! I like it. And you, well you will be her humble bodyguard.”
“I’m always humble in her presence,” Casca quipped.
Albion burst into laughter. “Yes of course. I bet she could whip you into submission in no time! What a woman… very well, the two of you will set off ahead of the main column tomorrow, on horseback. You will get to Emona in two to three days and, ah, deal with the situation as best you see fit. You have my authority on that!”
The next day they picked up a couple of horses from the royal stable master, and they rode slowly westwards along the old road. Greta wasn’t used to being on horseback and she’d had to be helped up into the saddle. She didn’t look comfortable, and Casca took the lead, roping Greta’s horse to his.
The journey was along the river valley and they passed groups of Lombards camped along the banks, but these got fewer the further they went.
After two days they came out of the narrow valley and onto a wider flood plain, created by a wide loop of the river. The watercourse turned south at this point so the surrounding high ground was now to the west and east. On the western bank stood the walled city of Emona.
It was still in the classic rectangular shape of an old Roman civitas, with the four walls being made of brick, punctuated by towers at regular intervals, and there were four gates in each of the walls. It looked to Casca that once the river had been adapted to serve as a moat around the entire settlement but now the moat was dry and had even been covered over in places.
The road they were on followed the loop around and entered the city through the north gate. Here the old empire really began, and the road that left out through the western gate was a bigger and wider road, the via Gemina, which went to Aquileia. Here, at least, he began to feel a little more Roman.
They were stopped at the gate and dismounted with some relief. Greta, having been fully prepped on the journey, stood before the guard sergeant, a young man who had recently been recruited into a job he saw as being easy. Rather that than farming, taking up a cleric job with the church or being sent away to join the regular army and be sent to some God-forsaken place where you’d fight out-numbered against better-armed opponents.
She looked into his eyes confidently, aware that her man was right behind her, a comforting presence. “I am here as representative of my king, Alboin of the Lombard people, and am to meet representatives of Narses, patrician of the emperor of the Romans.” As Casca translated into Latin, she slapped a scroll that had been handed to her back in Celeia into the open-mouthed sergeant’s hand. She held his look, then slowly, arrogantly, unbuttoned her leather tunic down to the middle of her chest. She was getting too warm in the sun, and it didn’t hurt to distract the boy. “What’s the matter?” she asked, “haven’t you seen a woman before?”
Once again, Casca translated, this time with a smirk. The sergeant couldn’t take his eyes off a droplet of sweat that ran down Greta’s breastbone and vanished in between her glistening breasts. Sweet Mary, mother of God…. “P-please, c-come th-this way,” he gulped, waving at a dark open doorway on the other side of the gate.
They waited in the relative coolness and darkness of the guardroom, with two guards outside. They spoke softly in German. Greta leaned towards Casca. “what do you think they’ll do when they recognize you?”
“Oh, what they’ve tried to do up to now; kill you and capture me. If you take their attention, they might not take too much notice of me.” He paused for a moment. “Just make sure you’re prepared. These people are worse than the most poisonous vermin on earth. They have no pity, no remorse. Killing them would do the entire world a service.”
She looked at him sharply. “But I thought the king wanted you to at least listen to their offer.”
Casca shook his head emphatically. “The king doesn’t need to know the truth. For all he knows their offer was totally unacceptable. I’m going to kill them all. Every last one of the bastards.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Two Brotherhood members came for them a short time later. One was a grunt, a sword-wearing guard. Casca instantly identified him as one of the elite guard unit of the sect, the so-called Swords of God. The other was more of a courtier type, with that instant false smile and oily manner that these kind of people perfect in their advisory roles the world over. It was he who spoke. The light in the room was much darker than outside, so for the moment the two Brotherhood members couldn’t see that well.
“Welcome to Emona, honored emissaries of the Lombard nation.” He turned to the square, bulky form of Casca. “What words do you bring from your king?”
Greta stood up abruptly. “I am the representative of my king. You are addressing my bodyguard.” She spoke in the only language she knew, German, but it was a safe bet that the courtier would know the language, why else would Narses have sent him all this way from deepest Italy?
The man, a thin, shifty-eyed individual, looked surprised for a moment, then smothered it with an ingratiating smile. He replied in German. “My apologies, my lady. What words of wisdom do you bring to our humble lands?”
Greta had been told by
Casca so many times during their journey to take control of any conversation. “This is not the place for this talk. I am thirsty, hungry and tired. Is this how the empire treats their guests?”
“Oh, my deepest apologies. Please, come with me and we can continue in a much more civilized setting.” He led Greta out, while the Sword of God followed Casca, making sure the burly mercenary was in front of him and under a careful watch. They walked for a short distance, turned right and went down the side street to a house on the right, a large town house with doors that opened straight onto the street.
Inside the air was cool out of the sun, but to Casca it was as chilly as the grave. His arms had goosebumps all over and he knew he was in the lair of his sworn enemy. His senses were on full alert. Doors stood to the left and right, and they were shown into the last on the left. It was a waiting room with benches around the walls and a few shelves with urns upon them. Faded murals were on the wall and the floor was in a mosaic pattern of white and red, some representation of the seasons from what Casca could tell.
The walls were of plasterwork and stone, some of the plasterwork was crumbling and in places had even fallen off. Here and there were air bricks for the circulation of air, latticed stone high up. Casca leaned against the wall next to the door and folded his arms. His thick beard had helped conceal his scar up to now, for which he was grateful, and his Germanic attire clearly had made the Brotherhood members think he was a bona fide tribesman.
Greta turned about and opened her mouth to speak. Casca put a finger to his lips and pointed up to the air brick. Someone would be listening in to their conversation.
“Any instruction, my lady?” he said.
“No, for now just be on your guard,” Greta said, her eyes flicking up briefly. A shadow moved and her heart jumped. Casca was right. Those bastards were eavesdropping. “The king is keen to secure a treaty with the city. That is all you need to know.”
“Yes, my lady,” Casca replied and slowly winked at her. She wasn’t stupid.
Both remained stood, thinking in their own world, waiting. After perhaps ten minutes the door opened and the slimy Brotherhood man invited them to come with him. Across the corridor they went and out into a square garden with a covered walkway all around. They crossed at a diagonal and went into a spacious room with tables, benches and couches.
“A much more agreeable place, don’t you think?” he said, smiling in that oily way court toadies always perfected.
“It will suffice. We’re not here to feast,” Greta snapped. “We’re here to secure a passage for my people. Your leader Narses invited us into Italy, so arrange for a safe route to Forum Iulii.”
“Forum Iulii?” the man frowned. He was accompanied by three others, two of whom were clearly bodyguards, the third a priest of some kind. The crucifix dangled from a chain around his neck.
Where’s my spear when I need it? Casca thought sourly to himself. His fingers weren’t far from the hilt of his sword.
“Yes. That is our first target,” Greta said, throwing her gauntlets onto the nearest table, knocking over a wine cup. “This is an army of conquest,” she said, facing the man squarely, “not a rabble. If you refuse to help then we’ll add you to those who we shall destroy. This city will be razed to the ground.”
Casca wanted to hug her. She was simply magnificent.
The courtier paled for a moment, then breathed in and looked at her indignantly. “We have invited you, is this the way to treat your hosts?”
“Yes. We care little for you or your dying world. We are the future; you are the past.”
The priest cleared his throat. “God will judge that. We can all live together in peace.”
“Your God, perhaps. I understand you follow the teachings of Athanasius? We are followers of Arius. We have nothing in common.” She sneered and looked at the plates of food on the table.
“Heretics,” the priest growled. “God will bring the light of reason to you in time.”
Greta looked at him for a moment, then dismissed him with a contemptuous flick of her wrist. “What is this? Your Latin menus are not for the people of the Lombard nation. Take it away!”
Casca almost laughed out loud. This was better than any theatre.
The toady looked miserably at the priest. “Is this truly a representative of their people? I was led to believe King Alboin was an agreeable man. He’s sent some – ill-mannered harpy to insult us all!”
“Harpy?” Greta swung her head around. “I have no idea what that is but I expect its not pleasant. Will you open your gates to us or not? Or do you not speak for the city authorities?”
“They follow our commands.”
“Then tell them to stand their arms down. In three days we march through your gates or burn them down. There are a hundred thousand coming your way and they won’t like doors being shut to them.”
“This is ridiculous,” the priest said. “We must bring them to the light of the Blessed Lamb, then they will see reason.”
Casca touched the hilt of his sword. As expected, the Brotherhood were not prepared to do any deals. They said what went, and death to all those who resisted. Greta had played her part perfectly, riling them to the point of losing their temper. He glanced over behind him out of the corner of his eyes. One Sword of God was close by, the other by the door. He’d take these two and trust in Greta to deal with the others. The advisor was right before her; the priest just slightly off to her left.
The sect had been over-confident, allowing them to keep their weapons. No doubt they held the woman in contempt, and two trained warriors ought to deal with her bodyguard who was, after all, just a tribesman from the barbaric wastes of Germania. Arrogance. They would pay for their carelessness.
Greta now responded to the priest. “What do you mean?”
“You will come to acknowledge that the words of Arius are heretical and in time come to accept the words of Izram, blessed be his name.”
“Who is Izram?”
Casca decided that this was the point of no return. He didn’t want the Brotherhood to start spouting their poison, so he pulled out his sword and swung around in one fluid motion, his blade slicing through the shocked Sword of God warrior behind him, cutting his belly open and spraying blood in an arc as the man spun around to fall onto the floor, bringing down a side table and its contents with a crash.
In the shocked silence that followed, Casca stepped towards the remaining warrior who was pulling out his sword, cruel hatred etched across the man’s face. “Kill them both,” Casca snapped to Greta.
The advisor paled and stepped back from the woman who was pulling forth her axe from her belt. “Izram save me!”
The priest swore, a knife suddenly in his hand, and he lunged for Greta, stabbing down hard.
Casca, meanwhile, had closed on the remaining warrior and swung hard at him, his blow being blocked. The Brotherhood man stepped to one side, not wanting to be trapped against the wall, and traded blows with the big, burly mercenary.
Greta had twisted away from the stab from the priest. Off-balance, the Brotherhood preacher stumbled forward, his neck suddenly presenting her with a juicy target, which she didn’t neglect. Her axe cut deep into it, severing the spinal cord, and the priest crashed onto the table, lying over it, his neck almost severed.
Casca had by now battered his opponent across the room to the far wall and trapped him there. Swing, parry, thrust, block. His shield knocked the Sword of God’s slash aside and with his enemy’s body wide open, ran him through the throat and his sword exploded out of the man’s neck.
As the warrior fell to the blood-splattered floor, Casca turned to see how his woman was doing. She had cornered the advisor and he screeched in terror as her swinging axe came at him. It struck him across the arm, one he had flung up to protect himself. It was severed at the elbow and fell to the ground with a soggy thump. Blood sprayed out and he screeched in pain, sinking to his knees. She grabbed his collar, held him steady, and brought her ax
e down on the junction of his shoulder and neck.
She was once again covered in blood. She turned to Casca as he came up to her. “Nicely done, my beautiful warrior.” He grabbed her and kissed her deeply.
They held one another for a moment, then broke and looked around the room of death. “I need to clean up,” she said.
“You do tend to get covered in blood. There should be a bath here somewhere. See if you can go find it.”
“What about them?” she pointed to the four corpses.
“Leave them. I’ll shut the door. I’m willing to bet there’s a couple of servants or slaves working here. I’ll go hunt them out while you get a bath. I think it’ll be along the corridor.”
Casca hunted through the rest of the house. In the kitchen he found two frightened slaves, cowering in a corner. Under his questioning they revealed that the house belonged to the city elder who had rented it out to the four mysterious people who had come a week ago. Casca learned further that the elder was the de facto governor of the city, having taken over when the Gothic garrison had fled a few years ago.
Now they were awaiting word from the imperial exarch in Ravenna. All this was hearsay and gossip rather than hard fact, but Casca would learn the truth from this elder once he saw him. He got the address from the slaves, then told them to go sort out the mess in the dining room.