The Barbarian c-5

by Barry Sadler

  They were content to take what they wanted from the bodies and baggage of the Quadii and leave the rest for the villagers. What they took were the easy-to-carry items, and that wasn't much, plus a few pieces of well-worn small coins of gold and silver to help see them through the season.

  Both of them were glad to leave behind this last bit of gruesome business. They had no sympathy for the women's victims, but even so, it was still a little hard to warm up to a girl who had just cut off and shoved a man's family jewels down his throat.

  A quick farewell and they headed over the pass, taking the same route the raiders would have. Any direction was better than none.

  For the rest of the warm months they wandered from one tribal ground to the next, and Casca marveled at the vast expanses they'd covered where no man had ever seen a Roman. The tribes numbered men in masses too great to count. He believed the women of Germania didn't give birth to one child at a time; they had litters instead.

  From others, they heard of the migration of a tribe of fierce warriors from Scandia. For years now they had been moving to the warmer regions south of them-a trickle at first, then a flood that would soon reach the boundaries of Rome. Casca wondered what would be the result when Rome met the tribes of the Goths in their full strength and numbers.

  They went as far east as the northern border of Pannonia, crossed the river Danube, and spent a couple of pleasant weeks in the fleshpots of Vienne, enjoying the comforts of a city somewhat civilized by the Romans, who garrisoned the frontier along the Danube. From there, before the winter caught them, they moved back to the east along the banks of the river. For a time they detoured from the river to travel through the high mountains with their lofty summits of eternal snow, down through deep, green valleys where a man's whisper could be heard echoing a dozen times until it finally faded in the clear mountain air.

  But they didn't want to stay in these high, beautiful mountains for long. If winter found them there, they wouldn't be able to get out until the next year's thaw opened up the passes. They moved on. The journey from the place of the slaughter of the Quadii raiders was one huge horseshoe that brought them back near the Rhine and the edges of the Hyrcanian forests. They were near the city of Colonia Agrippina on the Rhine, across the river from the lands of Tencteri, when the first snows came. Large flat flakes fell gently from the sky-one, then another, gradually increasing until the men were blinded by the brilliance of a blanket of pure white snow.

  They kept to the German side of the Rhine until they reached the bank opposite Vetera, the last major Roman town before the Rhine emptied into the sea. Even now, large chunks of ice could be seen drifting with the current toward the greater waters separating Britannia from the continent.

  After a certain degree of haggling they found a fisherman that agreed to ferry them across the river. There was nothing on the German side to make them want to stay. There were a few homesteads and trading posts, but there were still too many members of hostile tribes around. Casca had decided that if they were going to get any rest or supplies they had better try to do it on the Roman side of the river.

  By the time they reached midstream, a full winter storm was on them. Raging, gusting winds tried to turn the shallow boat over and dump its passengers into the frozen flow. But the captain of the small boat knew his craft, and without much anxiety, though his passengers were definitely uneasy, he beached his craft on the Roman side, took his pay in the form of two small pieces of silver and one of copper, and hurriedly left, heading back for the German side of the Rhine.

  Casca and Glam hauled their belongings onto their shoulders and walked through deserted dirt streets, now frozen hard from winter. The blasting winter wind and whipping snow pushed them along. Anyone with any sense at all was inside out of the cold. But they had no choice. They wandered for a while through the streets, leaving their footprints behind them in the new ice crust until Glam raised his nose like a hunting hound and said in a reverent voice, as he sniffed the air, "Beer. I smell beer and roasting meat."

  Casca raised his nose to do as Glam had and all he got was a nose full of falling snow, which made him sneeze.

  Glam clucked at Casca's obvious disability and deficiency in the olfactory senses and led the way unerringly to a wooden door. "This is it," he informed his companion.

  Chapter Four

  Glam entered the smoky confines of the tavern first, and Casca followed. Once inside, they shut the wooden door behind them and, like dogs, shook their bodies to rid their shoulders and furs of the snow that had gathered on them. The smoke from the fireplace and oil lamps bit at their eyes and nostrils. It took them a moment to adjust to the new dimmer lighting after the stark brilliance of the whiteness outside.

  Since they'd entered, other eyes had been watching them. They were sizing up the new guests, while doing a mental tally of how much they would be worth and if the value would be worth the effort. And the watchers were deciding against any trouble with these two. The giant German's size alone was enough to discourage all but the most foolhardy, and his friend had a hard look in his eyes that said he was well-familiar with death and had drunk of the cup of pain more than once and survived.

  The two made their way through the mixed company of border thieves and outcasts. It was easy to read their faces, for they had one thing in common: the feral look of givers of pain for pain's sake.

  They found a spot near the fire and threw their robes off to lie steaming in front of the open hearth. Keeping their weapons close at hand, they moved a bench around and situated themselves with their backs to the wall so that they could keep a ready eye on the rest of the guests in this haven of murderers and thieves.

  The food was plain but filling. The wine was as sour as the beer, but they both agreed it beat the hell out of trudging back through the bitter wind and snow in search of food and drink.

  Talking quietly, they too sized up the opposition in the room, mentally cataloging those that would most likely give them trouble. A burst of frigid air from the sudden opening of the door attempted to blow out the fire in the hearth. A new figure stood in the darkened doorway, his body outlined from what little light there was outside, for the snow's brilliant reflections were fading as night began to fall.

  A low murmur ran through the crowd of other watchers. The newcomer was of different stock than the two warriors near the fire. He wore expensive robes of fine cloth and had jeweled rings on his fingers, both silver and gold.

  Then a smaller figure stepped out from behind the man-a boy of perhaps ten years, with fine features and curled hair cut short. He took the man's hand to lead him inside and looked over the crowd of hoodlums with wide, intelligent eyes that showed no trace of fear.

  The man was near sixty, with hair as white as the snow outside and a body, though now stooped with years, that had once been much larger and stronger. The broad remnants of massive shoulders, the long arms, and the knotted, scarred hands said that once this had been a man to be reckoned with. But now, to the scum that were watching, he was something to amuse themselves with for a while and then to divide among the strongest. In this place he could only be considered as dead meat.

  An impulse made Casca move from his seat. Hand on his sword, he quickly approached the newcomers in the doorway, jovially calling out with seeming familiarity, "Well, it's about time you showed up. We thought you and the boy had lost yourselves in the storm. Come on over… we have a table ready and we'll get some food into your cold bellies soon enough." He hustled the two in front of him, giving them no chance to speak or protest, and ushered them to the bench.

  Smiling, Glam rose to make room for them. He'd understood Casca's intentions from the first. The boy chose to sit beside Glam, his tiny body dwarfed by the giant's, making them each look more and less than they were.

  Keeping alert for any sign of action from the others in the tavern, Casca whispered to the man, "Just take it easy. My friend and I are not after your purse or your lives. But what in the name of Mith
ra has brought two such as yourselves to this place?" His mention of one of the favored gods of the legions brought a spark to the old man's eye.

  "You're a Roman?" he queried. His voice, full and strong, had the air of a man who was used to being obeyed.

  Casca poured his guest a portion of their beer from the clay pot container and replied, "Aye, I was born in Rome and served in her legions as a common soldier. My name is Casca Longinus, and my oversized friend here is Glam Tyrsbjorn." He looked over the old man's face, which was intelligent and strong, though time had taken its toll. There were scars on the face as well as the hands, and Casca was sure there were more under his robes. He'd been a warrior, and not a common one, either. Here was a man of noble blood and there was no way he could hide it, not even if he'd been weighted down and carrying gold. There was no way he could possibly have denied or hidden his heritage. Casca continued, "And who, if I may ask, are you, sir?"

  The old warrior drew himself erect in his seat, his body assuming the old habits of command and birth. "I am Qulianius Scaevola, and this young man," indicating the boy, who was beginning to nod his head, "is my ward." The warmth of the fire after the cold outside was acting as an opiate for his tired young body.

  The old man's eyes rested questioningly on Glam for a moment, but the barbarian's obvious good humor and the fact that he'd cleared off a bench so the boy could lie down and then had covered him with his own fur robe had eased the aged one's mind.

  Scaevola was no fool; he'd read the intent in the faces of the other guests of the inn and knew full well that the Roman and his friend had come to their aid and saved them from a possible confrontation. For this reason, and because it was good to speak Latin again, the old man felt inclined to relax a bit. After a few mugs of mulled wine he was speaking freely to Casca, something he would not have ordinarily done, due to the obvious low birth of the former legionary. But now he felt he owed the man a debt and these were unusual circumstances. Scaevola had never been one to stand on ceremony when it was uncalled for. They soon began to talk, as all soldiers will and do. They shared the common bindings of men who had lived with violence but had not yet lost their own humanity. This made them comrades of the spirit, if nothing else.

  Glam had already followed the boy's lead. Without any comment he had laid his own shaggy head on the wooden planks and had fallen into a noisy slumber, leaving the two Romans free to talk. Scaevola inquired of Casca as to the possibility of obtaining private quarters for the night and was told that it would probably be best for all of them to stay the night there in the common room where they could keep an eye on the other guests. From what Glam had told him of this place, it was not uncommon for a well-heeled guest to wake up in the morning and find he'd been robbed, if he were fortunate enough to make it to the morning alive.

  Scaevola had been around in his time and agreed with Casca's suggestion that they all stay where they were near the fire and thus be able to take turns watching while the others slept.

  The night wore on and Scaevola trusted his instincts. This place was on the Roman side of the Rhine, near the mouth of the river that fed into the sea, separating Gaul from Britannia, and the rule of Rome was held thinly here. But there was something about his newfound companion that gave him confidence in the man's integrity; and as the wine loosened his tongue, so his story came forth.

  Scaevola was a former praetor who'd made a mistake. That mistake had been in being loyal to the man to whom he'd sworn allegiance as a judicial magistrate.

  The last four years had been hard ones for the followers of Albinus. Lucius Septimus Severus, the African from Leptis Magna, was now master of the world. His legions had proclaimed him emperor after Lulianius had been murdered. But others too had put in their claim for the throne of Rome. Syria had proclaimed for Niger, and Britain had proclaimed for Albinus, but Severus had beaten them both to the Imperial City. After the death of Pertinax, Severus made a forced march to the gates of Rome. It had been said that not one soldier of his legion had removed even his breastplate between Carnuntum and Rome.

  The praetorian guard had proclaimed Lulianius as emperor, but the real power of Rome rested with the legions, and they were outside the walls. The praetorians deserted their choice, and when they'd gone over to Severus, so had the senate. The pen may be mightier than the sword, but not when the sword's at your throat.

  Lulianius had been murdered and later the praetorians were exiled to within a hundred miles of the city with the warning that if any should return they would be put to death. Severus had formed a new guard of his own men and the senate had confirmed his claim as emperor; but before July he'd had to leave for the east to deal with Niger. Three engagements had been fought, the last of which took place at Issus, where Niger had been killed. It had taken Severus another two years to pacify the regions of the east and in the process, and destroyed a good portion of Byzantium.

  After that, he'd turned his attentions to the west and Albinus, who'd made Britain his stronghold and had strong forces to the north of Gaul.

  Severus still needed the support of the senate, and had so far lived up to his bargain with them. None had been put to death and they blessed his achievements and gave him the laurels of conqueror and savior of the empire. With the support of the senate and fresh forces, he met Albinus on a plain to the north of Lyon between the Saone and the Rhone rivers.

  The old man wiped a tear from his eye at the remembrance. "That," he continued, "was the worst conflict between Roman armies since the battle of Philippi." He swallowed a drink and continued.

  "My Lord Albinus knew the battle was lost, and before the final blow was struck, he ordered me to leave the field and flee to Britain. I obeyed, and this," he indicated the sleeping boy, "is the reason. He is the natural son of Albinus and as such, is condemned to death. The mother, my own daughter, took her life at the news of Albinus death. That is why we are here-to avoid the proscription that has come forth. Now that Severus has eliminated all his opposition, he has taken his mask off. In order to legitimize his succession, he has proclaimed that he is the son of Marcus Aurelius and the brother of Commodus."

  He paused for a moment to catch his breath. The passion of his story was tiring him. "So far, Severus has put over sixty senators to death on charges of having sympathized with Albinus. I have come to this place with hopes for taking a ship to Spain. There I will find sanctuary for the son of Albinus, my grandson, among friends who will see that he is protected,"

  Weariness was overcoming the old man. Casca told him to rest and that he would watch over them this night. In the morning he would help them find a ship that would take them to Spain. He liked this aged gentleman and wished him well, but he feared that Rome was too powerful an enemy to leave alive anyone that might later have claim against the throne. The first law of power was to survive at any and all costs; and what was the value of one sleeping child against the glory of being known as the master of the world? Shaking his head sadly, he knew the answer: none! There was little chance that the boy would ever grow to manhood.

  That night while the three others slept, Casca sat in the red glow of the fireplace and kept watch over the sleepers. One hand to his bared sword, he waited for the dawn and the passing of the winter storm. The others in the room did not miss the implications of the bared sword, and decided to leave the matter alone for the night.

  One by one, all fell into their own state of sleep. The inn was silent, save for the crackling of the fire, which Casca replenished from time to time, and for the snoring of the men in their sleep. Several times Casca felt himself starting to doze off, but his head would jerk back up as if startled by something, and his eyes would come into instant focus.

  He used old soldier's tricks to keep himself awake-breathing deeply to pump air into his lungs, standing for a while and stamping his feet, stretching his body-anything to keep his mind alert. For he knew that if he slept, there would be death in this room tonight; and he didn't care to experience that crap merely be
cause he couldn't manage to stay awake for a few hours.

  The boy snored softly in a child's slumber, and Casca pitied him. Through no fault of his own the youngster's was bound up in the fate of the empire and subject to its harsh laws. Casca knew from experience that fate was often cruel. Intellectually, he understood the laws of power and its survival. He knew some people felt that it would be better for all concerned that this single child should die now, for in later years he might prove to be the rallying figure that would bring thousands to their death in war uprisings. One small death in exchange for many?

  The hours crept by until, instinctively, he knew the hour of daybreak was near.

  Going from one to the other he shook his companions gently into awareness. The silence outside told them that the storm had passed over.

  Waking the innkeeper, they settled their bill and bought a packet of food for each to take with him. Scaevola wrapped his grandson in the boy's cloak and took him by the hand as they left the smoky confines of the inn.

  They walked through the narrow, icy streets; those streets were clean now, but with the coming of spring, the filth that lay below the blanket of virgin snow would come again into its own. Before leaving, Casca had looked over the men in the tavern and had waited until Scaevola and the child were safely outside with Glam before speaking. Softly, almost gently, he warned those awake and watching.

  "If I see even one of you outside, you'll die. The old man and the boy are not for the likes of you. Leave them alone or sing your death songs before leaving." The soft, deadly intent of the manner in which he spoke did more to convince the thieves and murderers present to let these easy pickings go. After all, there would be others; there was no rush. Time was always on the side of the killer, and they knew it.