by Tony Roberts
The other two now came at her and one battered her shield while the other traded blows of their weapons. Greta retreated, desperately trying to keep clear of trouble but she miscalculated the angle of attack and got a heavy blow across the head and she crashed over into the road.
“No!” Casca screamed, turning away from the last he’d downed. The first Lombard turned but was run through violently, and the second came at Casca hard, knowing he had one shot to put him down, otherwise he was done for. He struck Casca and felt satisfaction, then a burning pain enveloped him and he looked down.
Casca’s sword was through his guts. The eternal mercenary pushed the man off and moved painfully over to the last Lombard who was trying to do up his pants, having spilled his seed into the woman. He grabbed his sword but a boot crunched down on his hand, crushing the bones. He yelled in pain and looked up into the coldest blue eyes he’d ever seen.
Casca cut through his neck and left him, headless, on the road.
He left the farmers where they were and went over to Greta. His own wound was irrelevant. She lay, white-faced, across the road, spreadeagled. Blood coated her face and neck. “Please, please, be alive,” he whispered.
She groaned softly. The blow had cut her deeply but her helmet had saved her life. Cursing, Casca ripped lengths of cloth from the dead Lombards and pressed them against the wound. He held her close, talking to her, telling her he was there for her, whispering he loved her.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Naples. It hugged the bay, spreading out in an arc along the shore. It lived in the shadow of the great abode of Vulcan, Mount Vesuvius. Casca had witnessed its power long ago when it had buried some of the towns and cities along this shoreline; Herculaneum, Pompeii and others. He’d been below decks as a slave on the imperial galleys, but he’d smelt it and word had filtered down below decks from the passengers they’d picked up at that time.
Now, it was peaceful. Or as peaceful as it could be in these troubled times. His gaze took in the glittering sea, the white stone of the buildings with their terracotta pantiled roofs and the larger public buildings. He’d been there as part of Belisarius’ army in the Gothic War, so he didn’t expect it to be much different. Now it was a mere toehold of territory surrounded by Lombard land. The countryside was lawless with the imperial forces too thinly stretched to keep order, and the invading tribesmen roamed at will, plundering, raping, looting.
One day they’d organize themselves, and passing through Beneventum on his way to Naples, Casca had seen the beginnings of some attempt at establishing law and order. Good luck to them.
He was alone. Greta was with the farmer and his wife. It had been touch and go and she was far too weak to travel, having lost a great deal of blood, but the woman had to her credit put aside the pain and humiliation she’d suffered and tended Greta after Casca had carried the wounded woman to the farmhouse.
He’d been chased out of the darkened room and so he’d gone back to the road, cleared it of the dead. Two of the Lombards had still been alive so he’d finished them off cruelly, but he’d not been in a charitable mood, not with his woman lying in a room hovering between life and death.
The farmer and his wife were very grateful for the help Casca and Greta had given them and promised to care for Greta while Casca went to fulfil his task, one he said he had to do so on behalf of the exarch. He was a mere messenger, or so he maintained. It was less threatening and worrisome to the peasants. They could accept that.
So now here he was, looking along the road that led to Naples. Neapolis. Greek name. It was a Greek city and had maintained its Greek heritage even thought it had been part of the Roman Empire for centuries. He guessed this was why the Greek-based Byzantine empire had been readily accepted here.
The city was fortified and garrisoned, so the free-raiding Lombards couldn’t get into it, and the patrols sent out by the governor kept the immediate environs free. The Lombards soon worked out there were easier pickings, but it had cost them a fair few lives in the process.
At the gates he was viewed with suspicion, but the papers from the exarch reassured them. He was asked where the other one mentioned on the pass was, and he curtly responded that they hadn’t made it. He was commiserated with and allowed access. He was pointed in the direction of the governor’s residence, and he knew where it was, but his destination lay elsewhere.
He paid for a stables to look after his horse, and located Narses’ villa. It was set up on a hill overlooking the city. Typical. Out of the way of the smell and noise of the docks. He found a vantage point to sit in the sun and rest, eat, drink and relax. He couldn’t see all, but he could look down on the courtyard and see a few men walking about. Swords of God. He’d take them out with relish. Narses was an entirely different matter.
With him it was personal. No matter he was aged now. Ninety was very old, but how long would the old bastard go on for? Besides, he wanted to face his former palace adversary one last time.
Night came, and he got up from his place of concealment, close to two olive trees and a low wall that shielded him from casual view from the road. He was armed and that was about it. No extra encumbrance.
The villa was set back from the road and surrounded by a wall. Pretty hard to climb but there was a weak point, as there usually was. Since Narses hadn’t designed and built it, it wasn’t as foolproof as he wanted. At the side down a narrow passageway in between the villa wall and the next property, there was a stump of a now dead tree. It had been hacked at, half-heartedly, but was still there.
He used it as a leg-up to the top of the wall. It was night and in complete shadow. Getting to the top of the wall was easy, and he looked slowly over the environment. Below him was the garden, mostly in darkness. There would be guards. To the right was the bath house; the curved roof gave that one away. To the left was the residential section with a balcony. A guard walked along this, so Casca had to time it right.
The guard turned his back and Casca slipped over and dropped soundlessly to the dirt of the herb garden. The smell of thyme was strong. He must have crushed a plant. Too bad. He moved onto the path, sword in hand, crouched. He scuttled into the cover of the walkway beneath the balcony. Now the guard couldn’t see him.
Another guard could be half-seen making his rounds in the garden off to one side, so Casca pressed along the wall, seeking a door or some other method of ingress. There was a door but the damned thing was locked. Shit. Why couldn’t anything be easy? Getting a key from a guard might be.
He sneaked out under the overhanging vines that formed a tunnel across the center of the garden. It was arranged in a cross – oh how very Christian! – with a fountain in the middle. The sound of running water concealed his movements and the guard came walking along, familiar with the route and therefore not as alert he should have been. That was his fatal mistake. A sword through the ribs, a hand crushing his throat so no air could escape. Forget that shit about clamping the mouth; that wasn’t as effective as crushing the windpipe.
The man did have a key and Casca returned to the door and fitted it. Yep. It clicked open and now he was inside. The room was a rest room and he went across it to the central passageway running to the front. Off to either side were the dining room, kitchen and reception room. A staircase led up to the top floor. He wanted this.
Up the stairs to the top. It was semi-lit and the occasional candle allowed enough light to see by. Left and right. Right. Two guards on duty. Shit. There was no other way to get to Narses who must be in the room they were guarding. He leaned against the wall on the staircase and closed his eyes. A few deep breaths, uttering every vile swear word he knew in Latin, German, Greek, Persian and Chinese. Then gripped his sword tightly, opened his eyes, spun around the corner and came running hard at the two men.
“Yeeagghhh!” he screamed, sword raised.
The two guards snapped fast into action, one sidestepping to the other side of the passageway. Casca whirled, sword a blur, rising and falling. One guard
hit the door to the chamber, his throat cut, blood spraying everywhere. The other guard blocked and tried to riposte but was smashed back with the hardest punch to the guts ever. He was left dribbling blood onto the marble floor from a stab through the chest.
Casca spun. Now for that bastard Narses!
Not quite.
The door at the end of the corridor burst open and the guard on the balcony came in, face twisted into a mask of hatred. “Longinus!”
“Fuck you!” Casca roared and hammered at him. The guard blocked with his shield but it was smashed out of his hand, the leather strap ripped. The guard swung hard and caught the eternal mercenary across the shoulder, cutting in deep. A bad wound but it gave Casca the opening to swing up under the man’s guard and take his head. The headless torso toppled to the ground and the head bounced against the wall behind it and rolled to a halt on the hard floor.
Grimacing in pain, Casca turned and kicked the door to the bedroom in. One door was sent off its hinges and Casca advanced into the chamber, head turning to locate the bed. There. Narses, sat up in bed, reading a book by oil lamp, smiled at him. The bastard actually smiled!
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” he said.
“Shut up you Brotherhood filth. Tonight you die.”
“If I must,” Narses said indifferently. His voice was reedy and whistled, the way old men’s voices tended to do. “It makes little difference. The Brotherhood will continue, growing stronger. Your efforts have been in vain.”
“At least I’ll have the pleasure in ending your miserable existence.”
“Irrelevant. Both of us cannot die. You for obvious reasons, me, because I’ll live on in the history books as one of Justinian’s great generals.” He laughed. “Nobody will ever read that I’ve been in the Brotherhood. I’ll be remembered long after the empire has gone the way of the Pharaohs. So do what you think you need to do, Spawn of Satan. We’ll hunt you down one day and have you. You won’t ever escape us forever. You think you have time on your hands, but it is us who has that.”
“You’re still full of it, Narses. So why call in the Lombards?”
“Ha ha ha, do you want to know that?”
“Might as well, give me something useful to know before you die.”
Narses put the book down and thought for a moment. “Very well, I can’t see what difference it will make you knowing. The empire cannot become too powerful once more; it must be weakened in order for chaos to descend on the world. The knowledge the Romans had is being lost to the ignorant tribes who have taken over; the Franks, Goths, Burgundians, Sueves and now the Lombards. We do the same to the east and in its place we have a stupid, ignorant population much more easily controlled by those who run the world.”
“Kings and emperors?”
Narses choked on his laughter. “Oh how naïve you are still, Longinus. They don’t rule; those behind the scenes do. The likes of us. Controlling the minds of those who seemingly rule. Heh heh. See? That’s why we will always flourish. We make sure our interests are best served rather than those of the groveling rabble. Give them what they want, bread and circuses, and they’ll be happy. Fools, idiots. They deserve to be ruled.”
“And you deserve to die, all those like you.”
Narses sneered. “We are too numerous for the likes of you.”
“Well lets even the odds out a little, shall we?” Casca said, grabbing a pillow and thrusting it onto Narses’ face. He pinned the old man to his bed and held him there. To his disappointment, the venerable old man hardly put up a struggle; it was almost as if he’d accepted his end.
Casca threw the pillow aside. It would look like Narses died in his sleep, except for the carnage in the corridor. Ah well, let the historians sort that one out. He was done here, another closure in his life, not that there were many he managed to make. This felt like a hollow victory, though. A helpless old man unable to fight him was no honorable victory. But. But. But he was a snake, an evil twisted perverted piece of filth. Exterminating him was a pleasure, a service to mankind.
He left the building via the front door and walked back to the stables.
He had one thing on his mind now. To return to the farm and his Greta. He might find a place with her to settle down in. His time with the Lombards and the empire was done. He would leave this all behind and go somewhere else. Africa maybe.
Somewhere to spend some quality time with a woman whom he adored and who adored him. What more could two people ask for?
EPILOGUE
The voice ended and the machine fell silent. Danny sighed and leaned over, switching off the player with a click of the mouse. That poor bastard.
He leaned back and ran a hand through his hair. He’d burn it to a CD for Julius Goldman and send it in the post to him. Securely as usual. The USPS was hardly a trustworthy organization these days. What moron thought up the idea of using prisoners from penitentiaries to sort the post? Fucking idiot. No wonder so much went missing these days.
He was busy thinking of Casca in Afghanistan when he heard Hayley’s voice calling him. He put his Jack Daniels down and went through to the lounge. “Hi honey…”
“My waters have gone,” Hayley said standing in the center of the room. “Get the car. We’re off to hospital.”
Danny stared at her. “Sheeee-it.”
Casca series available new in paperback
CASCA: THE ETERNAL MERCENARY$12.95
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Other books by Tony Roberts
Available from the website www.tonyrobertsauthor.com in paperback form or from amazon in ebook form.
Empire of Avarice
Prince of Wrath
House of Lust
Path of Pride
Throne of Envy
Dark Blade
The Heir of Gorradan
Okra’s Tower
Faerowyn’s War
Siren
Sirensong
Katie