by Barry Sadler
The door closed behind him as he moved a little faster to catch up with Glam and the others, now heading for the river. There they contracted the services of a fisherman to take them downriver to the estuary where the old man and his ward could find a vessel to sail them to what was hoped would be the safety of far-off Spain.
As for Casca and Glam, the fisherman would set them on the other side of the river in Germania. He and Glam had had enough of civilization and now longed for the clean isolation of the primordial forests. At least there the dangers were clear, the men easy to understand, and the reasons for living and dying less complicated.
Scaevola held his grandson's left hand while the boy waved with his right a good-bye to the Roman and his hairy companion. Casca wished he could have done more for them. He liked the praetor, but he could detect the smell of a man already dead about him, and knew that there was nothing he could do about it. Each had to follow what Glam called his "weird," and reach his own destiny, wherever it might be. As for the boy, Casca merely sighed and his head felt a little heavier. The circle turns; it has happened before and it shall happen again: one small life for many.
Ambition is the greatest disease and killer of man that the world has ever known. More than any plague, man's desire to inflict his will on others has caused the senseless deaths of millions, and to what end? All kings must die. What then have they accomplished with their ambition and self-delusion of power? For their lives are nothing more than fleeting moments in the course of centuries, and don't really matter all that much.
Glam broke trail into a line of pines that marked the end of the world, at least as Rome knew it. They were back in his lands now and he was content. He breathed in deeply the crisp, clean air and kicked up a flurry of snow from a covered bush.
"Hey there, you Dago titmouse," Glam called out, "knock off the long face. Everything awaits us. Somewhere out there." He indicated the deep woods, pointing. "Yes, my friend, somewhere out there lies adventures for us and a good clean warrior's life. Don't worry about the old man; he'll do all right for himself and the boy. And if he doesn't, he's only living the life that the gods have ordained-so why fight it?" He urged Casca on, "Come on, you Latin castratto, or I'll beat you to the women."
Casca laughed, the tension of the previous night broken by the good-naturedness of Glam. "What women, you great hirsute mongrel?"
Glam shrugged. "How should I know? But somewhere there are always women; we just have to find them, that's all."
The trees closed around them, and once more the Rhine was left behind them.
Chapter Five
The two men stood, dark figures in stark contrast to the blinding white of the snow-covered fields and valleys below. From their aerie in the heights, overlooking the sheltered valley, they watched with wary eyes.
The ice wind from the sea, racing in from the frozen waters to the far north, whipped at their fur robes and leggings. Both men wore beards and mustaches. What skin was exposed was darkened from the months of exposure to the elements. Wisps of frozen breath rose from their mouths and nostrils, small steaming clouds of vapor that rapidly disappeared in the gusting winds of the Nordic winter. On the horizon, dark clouds were gathering to once again assault the rocky crags and valleys with new waves of snow and ice.
Casca pointed to the stone buildings below, his words punctuated by renewed bursts of frozen breath. "Do we go down?"
His companion grunted, as was his habit, in the affirmative. "Aye, we don't have much choice in the matter. There's nothing behind us but that which we have left-endless woods and starvation. And I'm hungry enough now to consider boiling down my own furs for supper."
The thought of Glam trying to digest his own louse and flea-infested robes brought the beginning of a smile to him, but it passed as rapidly as it had come. "I don't know. From what I've heard, the old bastard that rules here at Helsfjord is not the most gracious of hosts."
Glam nodded. "Aye, but still one thing he has to do is honor the laws of hospitality. Anyone from outside his lands who claims shelter before he can kill or declare them enemies must be given three days of shelter before he has to leave. In that time, the master of the hold may not give him injury without just cause."
Casca responded, "And just what might those below consider just cause?"
Glam reflected a moment. "Almost anything that would remotely resemble an affront to his honor. If we go down there, we'll have to walk slowly and speak carefully. These weapons of ours, made of good steel, are wealth enough for Ragnar to have us killed or fed to the crabs at the tide stakes."
Casca eyed the walls of the hold, built with native stones quarried from the sides of the surrounding fjord. Smoke rose from several fires and chimneys and in his mind, even from this distance, he thought he could smell the odors of roasting meat. They had had none in the last four days since they had killed and eaten their last horse, a bad-tempered semi swaybacked beast that tried more often than not to take a plug out of Casca when he came too close. Casca enjoyed the thought that he had at least had the last bite where the foul-minded beast was concerned. It had been tough and stringy, with too little fat on it to give a man strength. True, the soup they had made from the marrowbones had been satisfying, but with Glam at the table, there wouldn't have been much left after one or two feedings even if they had been eating an elephant.
Glam put his long, double-bladed, two-handed sword back into its sling on his back and hitched the battle-axe, hanging from a thong at his waist, a little higher.
"Well then, if it's settled, my little Dago titmouse, we might as well get our asses down there and see what kind of greeting we'll get at the gate."
Casca shifted his pack up on his shoulders a little higher, bitching at the weight, and Glam responded with a lack of understanding as to why Casca hadn't long since sold the contents. He could see no good reason for the Roman to hold onto the legionnaires breastplate of boiled leather with heavy iron rings sewn to it. True, it had come in handy a time or two when they had pawned it for enough copper or silver to see them through until they could get their hands on some money or find a job. But the Roman always went back for it. Why?
Casca said nothing about his reasons, though he sometimes questioned himself about his holding onto the armor. Perhaps it gave him a sense of identity that he needed from time to time. The legion, for all its faults, had been the only home he had ever known. It was where he had grown into manhood, those years when his personality had been formed. No matter how far away from the legion he might run or for how many years or even centuries, it was the same for him as for other men who were raised in a settled home with family. You could never completely lose them. In the remote recesses of the mind, home would always be with you, and the legion was his home.
Stumbling and sliding, they worked their way down through thigh-deep drifts of snow, tripping and falling over hidden roots and limbs, then rising only to slip and fall again. When they reached the last fifty feet, they just gave up, picked out a long, icy slide, and, like children, sped down the last of the climb to the bottom of the valley floor on their butts.
Working their way through the drifts, they finally reached the gray walls of Helsfjord. Their lungs were aching from the cold. Ice, frozen on their beards, gave them a look of frozen corpses lately risen from some frigid grave.
Their labored breathing from their exertions spoke of life, though, and the red blotchy patches on their cheeks showed that warm red blood still coursed through their veins. Even now, that slight sign of color was fading back into pale gray patches as they caught their breath and began to breathe more easily.
A head above them peered out over the rampart. The head was covered with the fur of a muskrat turned inside out to put the fur next to the skin. A dirty face with watery eyes and grimy skin spoke. "Who is it? What do you want at the gates of Ragnar of Helsfjord?"
Glam spoke first, quick to give the man on the rampart no chance to say anything else. "Two travelers who claim the
ancient right of hospitality."
The man on the wall groaned, knowing he had been outsmarted, which, to be honest about it, had never been particularly hard for anyone to accomplish. His ass would be in trouble now. Again he called down to the two men waiting for the doors of the hold to open and admit them. "Who are you that cry for the mercy of Ragnar? Are you beggars that you come pleading at his door?"
Casca started to respond angrily, but a touch from Glam's paw restrained him as he whispered in Casca's ear, "Don't screw things up now. We got him where we want him and he's just trying to get us pissed off enough to say or do something stupid so they can deny us shelter. Remember, just take it easy and we'll have at least three days in which to warm our bones before they can throw us out."
Glam repeated his request in gentle, well-mannered words. The face above, knowing he had been outwitted, did what all underlings do-he called for his superior. "You two wait there," he shouted, and disappeared from sight behind the gray stones of the wall.
A few minutes passed, which Glam and Casca spent stamping their feet and slapping their arms against each other to pound some warmth into their bodies. A few flakes of fresh, clean snow were beginning to fall.
A new voice spoke to them from the wall. The face that went with it was much neater than the other. He repeated the same questions and received the same answers. He scratched his chin and lowered his voice. "Would you fellows like a little advice?" Not waiting for a response, he continued. "It would perhaps be better if you didn't claim the rights of hospitality and went on about your business. You might find the weather outside not to be as cold as the reception you'd receive behind these walls. This is a stern household and doesn't make many welcome."
Casca had made note of the cleanliness of this man's appearance in contrast to the underling they had first spoken to. For, over the years he had come to realize that a man who took care of his appearance and body usually had more brains than those who didn't. Casca wanted to respond to this fellow. "We still claim the rights, warrior, though we give you thanks for your advice. But we would not willingly spend another night in the open, especially with a new storm brewing on the horizon."
The watcher on the ramparts glanced behind him at the gathering darkness of rushing clouds, which spoke of a major storm's approach. Looking back down, he said, "Well, I can't say I really blame you for that, and if you're determined to enter, then lay aside your weapons at the portal before entering and the gate will be opened. Remember, no weapons allowed inside, and that includes your eating knives. I'll meet you at the entrance."
Casca called before the man could leave. "And what is your name warrior? I would know so that one day perhaps I will be able to repay you for your courtesy."
The man looked back down, clear blue eyes set over a strong nose. "I am Sifrit, son of Olaf Scarbrow."
Glam and Casca moved to the door, where a small window in the gate opened for them to hand over their weapons. Casca was still reluctant, but Glam assured him that they would be returned when they left, providing they were still alive and able to leave.
Once the handing-over was accomplished, they were admitted entry through a creaking wooden door that showed a dire need of having its hinges, which were of hammered native bronze, oiled.
The man called Sifrit gave them a quick search for any hidden weapons and motioned for them to follow. Casca liked the looks of the man-medium-height with wide shoulders and narrow hips that rode on strong, muscled legs. A sword of fair steel rode in a homemade leather scabbard at his side.
The gate closed behind them.
Chapter Six
Sifrit escorted the weary travelers into the central structure of the hold down a narrow corridor with a strong door at each end and a walkway at the top from which attackers could be ambushed if they got this far into the fort. Casca wrinkled his nose. After weeks in the open air of the forests, the smell of the hall assaulted his nostrils. Ragnar evidently was not one much concerned with hygiene. The straw on the floor of the hallway was at least a year old and the spongy feel of it under his leather sandals said there were several more layers covered up under the latest batch of decaying straw. Sifrit hesitated a moment before showing them through the last door leading to the Great Room, which the feasting hall and common room were called.
Speaking softly Sifrit said, "Listen, you guys. I don't know anything about you, but I do know that if you give the master any excuse at all to claim you have broken faith so he can call off the laws of hospitality, he will. And neither one of you will see daylight again. I take that back. It's not often that he uses the dungeon below, as he's too cheap to waste even leftovers on someone who doesn't show him a profit. More than likely you'll end up on the crab stakes in the fjord."
Glam shuddered at the words "crab stakes." Casca, confused, asked what Sifrit meant by that, and Glam told him. It was common punishment for crimes ranging from short-changing the chief to treason. They would tie you to a wooden stake at low tide, and when the waters came back in, so did the crabs. They would eat the unfortunate person on the stakes inch by inch. Quite often, all that was left when the waters again receded would be the victim's head. They were always very careful to place the stakes far enough up on the beach so the victim would not be given the mercy of drowning if he lived long enough for the waters to reach that high.
Casca understood the shudder and gave one himself. "And they thought that being crucified was rough!"
Sifrit continued. "The only thing that might help you is to claim to be mercenaries and in exchange for hospitality, you'll give him the service of your blades. But watch him. He might put you to the test."
Casca and Glam both nodded their understanding and followed him into the Great Hall. It may have been great by the standards of the northlands, perhaps, but it was a poor place of ruling by any civilized standards. Ragnar had certainly never seen the Palace of Imperial Nero or even the Asian Despot, Herod.
The floors were even filthier than in the hallway and stank with the sour-sweet odor of decayed meat. The source of the odor was evident from the number of chewed bones on the floor. These locals had the habit of tossing anything they didn't consume onto the floor for the dogs to fight over. The walls were spotted here and there with some lonely trophies-a few spears and leather-covered shields and a couple of tapestries that had seen much better days. But still, they served to give a little color to the otherwise drab and gray surroundings. A roaring fire in a hearth, large enough to roast an entire ox in, gave out the only source of warmth. Narrow, open slits set high in the walls let in some air and also let out some of the smoke from the fire, half of which seemed to find its way into the room and not up the chimney.
The master of Helsfjord was easy enough to spot. He was the biggest and meanest bastard sitting at the oaken table, stuffing his face with roast pork still steaming from the fire. The juices from the half-cooked flesh were dripping down his mouth into his beard. On either side sat a half dozen of his senior warriors; they were all hard-looking men with the scars of battle on them and the look of killers in their eyes.
Ragnar farted and wiped his fingers on his beard and in his gray hair, making sure that he paid special attention to his bald spot, for he knew, as all did, that pig fat was good for growing new hair. The significance of fact that he had been smearing his balding patch with the stuff for fifteen years with no noticeable results never occurred to him.
Ragnar squinted at them, one eye screwed up as if trying to focus. "Well," he grunted, "what do you want here?"
Sifrit explained that they claimed hospitality. Ragnar stroked his white-streaked dirty beard with even dirtier fingers. Grudgingly he knew he had to give in. One day he might have to make such claim himself, and if he ever refused it to anyone, it would never be granted to him. The law was the law. "Well then, you have three days and then you get your asses out of my house. I'll feed no useless mouths here."
Casca sized the man up. Anyone that disagreeable was bound to have more t
han his fair share of enemies. "Lord Ragnar, if you would grant us permission to winter in your lands, we would pay you back with the aid of our arms, should anyone come to attack you."
Ragnar thought it over. He had always been a little short of manpower. As soon as his young men got their size on them, they headed for better paying hunting grounds. Ungrateful bastards! And these two did have the look of experienced fighters about them, though he didn't like the looks of the smaller man. He was far too clean in appearance-like that fop, Sifrit. But no matter. If he could get them cheap enough, he might make them a deal. And anyway, it was always possible for them to break some of the laws, and if they didn't break any, it could always be arranged so it looked that way.
Slyly, he forced a little good humor into his voice, though it fooled no one, not even himself. "Well then, that's a different matter. Anyone will tell you that old Ragnar is a fair man to anyone who wants honest work and is willing to give fair exchange. Tell you what I'll do. You can winter here and we'll see how it works out. I'll supply your food and drink and if you work out all right, there'll be something to put in your purses when the spring comes. Now, what could be fairer than that?"
Glam looked at Casca. They read each other the same and agreed to the old bandit's terms.
They were shown to the bachelor males' barracks. They were to share a straw, thatch-covered, stone shelter with another twenty or so regulars that rotated their duty time with the other young men of the region over whom Ragnar ruled. Each pulled a short-timer hitch of sixty, days and returned to his farm as another took his place. This was as according to custom, and they knew no other way. Like it or not, they owed Ragnar fealty and were made to swear a blood oath as soon as they were old enough to have pubic hair.
The next few days were spent as they always are when settling into new surroundings. There are always some young bucks who want to flex their muscles and make brave noises; and, as with children, this is usually all it comes to. The ones to watch were the older warriors with the look of bitterness in their eyes. After Glam and Casca had proved to everyone's satisfaction that they were not to be screwed around with, they were left pretty much to themselves.
