by Tony Roberts
The light was much poorer here but still light enough to see his way. Tables were arranged along the way, and once they probably had been in neat rows, but now one or two had collapsed, spilling what contents they had over the ground. Casca stepped over all obstacles and got to the back. There were shelves, many of which had fallen, and one or two cupboards. He opened them all, and in the middle was one that went in deep to another door at the rear. This would be the one.
He pushed a few light objects aside as he went through the store room and came to the door. He listened, heard nothing, so put his hand on the round-knobbed handle and twisted. It gave way and he pushed. Nothing. He pulled instead and the door gave inwards. Shaking his head in exasperation, he stepped through.
The smell of rotting vegetables assailed his senses. Piles of them lay everywhere. This was some kind of dumping room. He stepped through it, trying not to breathe in too deeply. The stuff squelched, sucked and gave off even worse smells. He put a hand to his nose and mouth and pushed on even faster, getting to flat concrete flooring with relief.
There were two ways he could go. Ahead, there was a wooden door in a bricked archway, and to the left a rectangular narrow gap. He decided to use the gap, mainly because he could make out faint light that way. He’d rather use existing light than making noise in lighting one up.
There was a small passageway to a kitchen. Pots, pans and serving platters lay all round, and a fire in the center of the far wall crackled away. He heard movement and pressed himself against the wall to his right. A servant came into his view, concentrating on carrying more plates to the wash basins. She began washing so Casca crept behind her and went out of the doorway she’d appeared from. A cross-passageway met him so he went right, and came to a series of rooms. In between two fireplaces was another opening and a stairway in between them. This was Geto’s back way up to the palace proper.
Casca went up, only just able to fit across, and followed it as it curved round to the right. Up he went, eyes straining in the near darkness. He kept his right shoulder rubbing the wall for comfort and purchase, and in a couple of minutes his feet found a level platform. Now what?
He could hardly see a thing, but there was a faint crack of light coming from under what must be a door to his left. He felt the face of the door and found the handle, a thick iron type by the feel of it, and slowly began to depress it. The latch clicked and the door began to give way before him, light spilling onto his face, causing him to squint for a moment. Voices came to him faintly, but not from close by, so he pushed some more and put his head round the edge.
It was a bathroom of some sort, tiled, a bath standing in his way, and a wash basin to the right. He moved in and closed the door which was disguised as a panel, one of many along the wall. The handle was disguised as part of the frieze depicting fishes and maidens of the sea, a fish being held in the hand of one of the maidens. Very clever.
The light was being provided by an oil lantern hanging from the ceiling. One door stood to the left, ajar, and it from there that voices were coming, so he sidled up to it and listened intently.
“Tell the garrison not to resist,” the speaker was saying. “The last thing needed now is the provoke the soldiers into battle. The city would be destroyed.”
“But what of us, sire?” a second man asked.
“You will have to make whatever accommodation you can with Constantius or Honorius. I myself have asked for and received an assurance I will not be harmed and brought to Ravenna. What happens to me thereafter I do not know. I’m sorry but we couldn’t hold out much longer, and I’d rather us surrender than be stormed and sacked.”
The second man expressed dismay. Casca guessed the first speaker was Constantine, usurper emperor. He remained still for a few more moments, then heard Constantine tell the other that he would go address the Court and notify them of his abdication. They left, and Casca checked first before entering the room.
It was a luxurious bedroom. A huge bed draped in silk stood to the right, and intricately carved wooden furniture stood all around. Marble busts sat atop plinths and a picture of Christ stood on one wall. He never looked like that, Casca mused. He moved to the furniture and began opening drawers.
Time was of the essence so he tugged at the clothes in them and threw them onto the bed. Nothing out of the ordinary. He turned to the chests on the floor, flipped open the lid and delved into it. The contents were hurled onto the floor. Again, nothing.
Cursing he looked round the rest of the room. A dresser with candles of gold, a crucifix, brushes and other vanity items. A writing table and chair with implements upon it for writing. Drawers. He went over and opened them. Wax, tablets, styluses, seals and so on. One drawer was locked. So, this was interesting.
He used his sword, not gently either. The wood splintered and finally the front of the drawer tore away in a shredded mess to reveal the insides. A polished wooden box with a monogram of Rome inset on the top. Yes, that was what he’d been asked to find. Or, rather, what was inside. He ripped the lid off roughly, for this was not what he was after. Rather, it was the contents, and now he saw what it was. A cloth bundle, neatly rolled and tied with red ribbon. He pulled it out. It was a foot or so in length and as thick as his hand. Intrigued, he untied the ribbon and unrolled the cloth.
The cloth was a map. Casca looked at it, holding it this way and that, using the lamplight to make out what it was. The place names were in Latin, and it looked like a map of Britannia. Of course, Constantine was from Britannia. Last year Honorius pulled the legions out of the island and told the natives they had to fend for themselves. What would happen there now was anyone’s guess.
From the look of it the map was of treasures left by the departing legions. They had been deposited in certain places, and if the amounts indicated were anything to go by, there was a fortune in gold, coins and other valuables waiting to be dug up. Clearly someone had been busy and had organized a mass burying of imperial funds. Constantine must have been involved in some way, and maybe he’d either stolen the map or been in charge of this project before turning renegade and wanting to keep it all for himself.
Casca puffed out his cheeks. No wonder Honorius wanted it. This could keep the imperial finances afloat for a couple of years. Trouble was, now the legions had been pulled out of the island, who could go and dig them up, and then transport them without being noticed? There would be an enormous amount to carry and that would mean wagons and wagons, and then a port to load them onto ships. No small-time operation, this.
Casca slipped the cloth into his pouch and stood up.
“What in the name of Jesus...?”
A couple of soldiers stood in the doorway, staring at the devastation, then at Casca who had whirled at the exclamation. Casca grabbed his sword and went at them. Nobody could live to tell what he had just done.
The first raised his spear to block but the eternal mercenary’s blow came up from low, not what he was expecting, nor what had been taught as orthodox. Casca, though, was anything but. His blade sank into the soldier’s gut and exploded out of his back in a shower of blood. Jerking it free with a savage tug, he whirled on the second. This man had time to pull his sword free and was drawing back for his first downward blow.
Casca grabbed his sword arm, locking it in a vise-like grip, and ran him through. He let the man fall back to the ground and turned for the bathroom. There was no knowing when more would chance upon him. He knew now the army would be under orders to find him at all costs. But he had to know everything.
As he slid down the dark stairs, he knew he would have to make his way to St. Pauls church and wait for the inevitable reception committee. The thing he had in his favour was that he knew they would be under orders to take what he got and then dispose of him, and he also now knew what he had.
The servants’ quarters were silent now. It was night and everyone had gone to bed. Casca sneaked into the foul-smelling chamber, once again waded over the rotting food, and into the shed.<
br />
As he neared the front, he saw through the broken glass a group of men stood around the fallen guard. He swore; his escape route was blocked. As he got to the very front, still in relative darkness, he listened to the squad leader sending out orders to seal off every way out, and for one of his men to raise the alarm.
Time to be out of there. Casca gripped the door handle, took a couple of deep breaths, then hauled it open with a shriek and charged out, blade high. The squad leader turned just in time to get the first strike down across his neck, cutting into him deeply. He fell like a stone, and the two men near him sprang forward to attack.
Casca slapped the first one’s clumsy swing aside and with his return slash, cut into the soldier’s side, felling him in one go. The second grunted with effort in trying to decapitate Casca, but the scarred man dropped low, then angled his blow up through the man’s abdomen and into his heart. He knew where to hit for the maximum effect.
Leaving the three men dead or dying, he ran through the garden, skipping over the darker objects. One man challenged him, trying to block his route, and he got three feet of steel through his ribs. Casca used a rotting water butt as a means to climb up onto the wall, swung over the top, and dropped to the street.
He ran hard, wanting to make as much distance from the palace as possible. He had to find the church as quickly as he could, and also make sure he didn’t go near Geto’s place. He hoped Flavius and the others did manage to get away. There was no reason why not; Flavius was just one man in thousands in the city, and the occupying army, once they did get in, would not know who they were looking for.
Casca guessed once the hoped-for rendezvous went wrong and the palace break-inn was known to Constantius and his men, then Casca would become the number one hunted man. So he had to first take care of the men sent to kill him in the church, and then get out of Arelate and find his way to Corsica.
The map he had was too valuable to lose.
CHAPTER NINE
The city surrendered the next morning. Casca overheard the conversation between two priests below him in the aisle. St. Pauls was a reasonably big church, with stone columns supporting the roof in two rows. The apse formed a cross-shape, which all good Christian churches should have, of course, and there was a balcony for the choir, which was where he was hiding out.
He’d grabbed some cheese and wine from a table as he’d passed by after breaking into the church at the rear, and had made his way into the church proper. Now he could do nothing but wait. At least he was off the streets, and the danger that held.
Evening was approaching and he stretched, yawned, and exercised. He had to be supple and ready for action. He suspected a body of men would turn up, but how many he didn’t know. They would assume both he and Flavius would be there. He arranged his javelins in a tidy row. He’d stolen them from a barracks on his way to the church, his mind working hard. He would need to even things up before taking on the survivors hand to hand.
He was supposed to be there at midnight but he guessed his supposed greeters would be there long before that, so he listened hard and waited. Outside there had been a few sounds of tramping feet and shouts, and a few screams. Looting and plunder would still go on no matter that the city had surrendered.
By now Constantine would be in the hands of Constantius. He expected the false emperor would be asked about the map, and the fact he didn’t have it was to be expected. Constantine was clearly made to think the robbery had been by a random thief and the treasure lost. Constantius though knew better and would send one of his officers to take it and hand it to him the following morning.
Once the map was in the hands of his men, Casca’s life and that of Flavius would be forfeit; best to silence them than to risk them talking about the treasure in Britannia waiting to be dug up. Casca guessed the Magister Militum, under orders from Honorius, was going to take no chances anyway, just in case the map had been read, which is of course what Casca had done.
Casca unrolled the map and wrapped it around his body, underneath his clothes. That way it was as safe as it could be and out of sight. Now he waited. It was all he could do. It wasn’t long before the doors creaked open down below and he peered over the edge of the balcony rail, down onto the stone floor of the church. The low light levels helped him be concealed up above, and only a few candles and lamps illuminated the chamber.
A group of armed men slowly came into view, taking their time. There was a centurion who was in charge, and Casca’s heart leaped when he recognized who it was. So orders had gone out to Lacano to retrieve it. Sensible move, really. Lacano would have been sent because he knew the men on sight, so there couldn’t be any mistake. Casca felt sorry for the centurion; he probably was only following orders, but that was the way the world worked. One of them would not leave the church alive, and Casca was determined that he was going to leave under his own volition. Lacano was just another pawn in the power politics of the Roman Empire.
He overheard Lacano assigning his men to the corners of the church, keeping two with him. “These two are traitors, who have thrown their lot in with the false emperor, and orders are they both must die. If I see anyone hesitating, then you’ll follow the traitors into death, got it?”
“Sir,” the men rumbled. They knew better than to argue.
“You two with javelins, go up there,” Lacano waved in the direction of the balcony. “I want a nice surprise in store for them.”
Two men picked up their javelins and made for the stairwell that led up to the place Casca was concealed. He picked up his sword and pressed against the wall alongside the doorway. He was out of sight of the aisle down below so there was no problem with sight. It was sound. He would have to be quick – damned quick.
Footsteps. He tensed. One man passed and Casca lunged, swinging in behind him and angling his sword up. The point slid into the throat of the shocked legionary and Casca pulled him down, pulling his sword free. Swinging round, he came face to face with the other man who had turned in shock. He was carrying two javelins and they were in his way, and Casca was right up against him.
The legionary fumbled for his sword, and then felt a blinding shaft of agony as the scarred mercenary’s sword entered his body and sliced in deep. Casca lowered the man to the floor and picked up the javelins that had clattered to the wooden floor.
“Everything alright up there?” Lacano called up.
“Sir,” Casca said in a soft voice. “Dropped my javelins.”
“Well keep quiet and out of sight! I don’t want to alert the traitors when they turn up.”
Casca grinned, and then dragged the two bodies to the rear of the balcony, checking them for any valuables. A few coins that went into his pouch, but nothing else. He went back to the front of the balcony and waited.
The men down below would be alert at first, then tension would begin to eat at them, and patience. Time was his ally. Casca went over his possible escape routes when daylight came, and the only thing he could think of was to ditch his soldier’s appearance and disguise himself as a sailor. There was no way anyone dressed as a heavy infantryman would be allowed near the docks.
He heard the shuffling of feet and the clearing of throats, coughs, sneezes and other sounds of men bored out of their heads. Lacano came into view, hands on hips. “They should be here. Midnight. Damn them, they must have changed their minds. Go outside and check in the streets,” he waved to a couple of men.
Time for action, Casca decided. He picked up the first javelin and took aim at Lacano. He would have to be the first to go. The second javelin was in his other hand and he was checking on the positions of the three men he could see. There were four others below him but he couldn’t do much about them at the moment.
His aim was steady and deliberate. A deep breath, held. Then he drew his arm back, paused, then hurled it with all his might and exhaled mightily. Even as he released it he was bringing the second one up from his left hand to his right. The javelin smashed into Lacano’s back, in
between the shoulder blades, pitching him forward onto the stone floor with a crash. The javelin bent but remained stuck in his body, a grotesque extra limb.
The men stared in disbelief at the death of their centurion. The man next to him looked up at the balcony, just as the second javelin plunged into his ribs. He tried to scream a warning but he was flying backwards into a stone column and his breath exploded out in one go. He slumped onto his ass and his head lolled to one side, darkness claiming him.
A third javelin was in Casca’s hand but the other men were reacting now, rushing for the balcony. His third throw narrowly missed the back man and he cursed. Picking up the next two he turned to face the doorway. As the first man came into view Casca flung the missile into his guts. The man went down screaming, rolling onto his side, hindering the men behind. Another javelin was thrown, taking the next man through the chest and he flung his arms up, knocking the two behind him off balance.
Casca hauled out his sword and attacked, screaming “Odin!” His first blow severed the man on the right’s head off, and Casca whirled, sword blade dripping blood. The next man came at him, teeth gritted, but he was outclassed. One parry, an oblique slide to one side and Casca’s blade opened to the man’s guts.
The two remaining men came in, hacking at him. Casca stepped back, over the bodies lying on the wooden floor. The first man was swinging mightily, a German by the looks of him, and he had no subtlety. He was so intent on getting at Casca that he didn’t take enough care in treading over the fallen and slipped. He lost balance slightly, and that was all Casca needed to open his throat.
As the German legionary sank to his knees, clutching his spurting throat, the last man lunged. Casca jumped to one side, then swung hard and smashed his blade into the man’s side, caving in the chain links and a couple of ribs. The soldier cried out in pain and twisted round as he fell, face etched in agony.
Casca looked round at the scene of devastation, breathing hard. His sword was dripping, so he wiped it on one of the dead, and then made his way down to the ground level. The bodies of the fallen weren’t so thick here so he had plenty of space to avoid them. He went over to the corpse of Lacano and searched him. No message as he expected, but he had to make sure. No incriminating evidence. All verbal. Fair enough, that was the way it was.
