by Tony Roberts
“You have not been blessed into the one true Faith?” Athenus said, surprised. “Well we must correct that! This evening I shall baptize you into the Faith of the Lord.” He looked at the six men all standing in a group before him. “And you men? Are you Christians?”
“I’ve been baptized, father,” Casca said loudly. “Last year in Mediolanum by the emperor’s personal priest, no less.”
Athenus looked impressed. “Really? You must be an important person indeed.”
Casca ignored Gerontius staring at him. “I was in his Household Guard until falling foul of Alaric’s Gothic army. I was taken prisoner and only freed myself during their sack of Rome.” The last bit wasn’t exactly true but who was to correct him?
The bishop folded his hands across his stomach. “And your comrades?”
“Good Christians, all,” Casca looked at the others, trying to get them to remain silent. Gerontius and Flavius would be Christians but the three Germans weren’t.
“So. Then you shall all join the good people in prayer this evening when this child is baptized.” He waved to his two attendants to take Flora. Gerontius began to step forward but Casca held his arm tightly.
“She needs to be prepared ready for baptism,” Athenus explained, and stepped out of the room. “The church is along the corridor. The guard will show you. It shall be in one hour.” Then they were gone.
“I don’t like it,” Gerontius growled, staring at the door. He then turned to face Casca. “A damned Household Guard of Honorius? You never told us that!”
“Why should I?” Casca snapped. “What is it to you, anyway?”
“You’d never have been taken on if it had been known just how close to that fool you were.”
“Too bad, Gerontius. It’s too late to go back now. I’m just on the other side than you in the silly little civil war going on at present. Forget it; we’re here to do the same job.”
“How do I know you won’t take Flora to Italy after all?”
“Oh grow up, Gerontius! You’re just pissed off your girl’s been taken from you by that fat fart.”
“He’s a bishop!” Flavius said, shocked at Casca’s irreverence.
“So? When has being a bishop made any difference to what type of man someone is?” Casca grumbled and walked deeper into the room.
“He has been appointed by God,” Flavius pointed out.
“No, that’s what you’ve been told to believe,” Casca turned round. “It’s all crap. The church is full of people suddenly given power over the population and they’ve been corrupted by it. You notice how thin everyone here is except him? He’s living a life of luxury while the others go hungry. He’s got the pick of everything and why? Because the church says so, or else get – what’s the word for it?” he looked at Gerontius.
“Excommunicated.” Gerontius was still sore at Casca.
“Yeah, that’s it. They’ve got everyone shit-scared of being burned in hell or whatever they’re calling it, and so they control the people much better than any emperor has ever been able to. No wonder the empire’s gone to rat shit.” Casca morosely kicked a broken length of wood across the floor.
There was an uncomfortable silence in the room. It was broken by the guard coming in. “The church is at the end of the corridor and you’ll not wear anything on your heads when you go in. You’ll be expected to sit close to the back and remain there until Eucharist.”
“Eucharist?” Mattias asked, frowning.
Casca stepped forward. “Right, we’ll do that.” He had no idea what Eucharist was, either, but displaying ignorance of something he felt was important to the Christian ceremony would be certain to arouse suspicion.
The guard tutted at Mattias, then glowered at them. “You are then to leave as soon as mass finishes and return here. You will not be permitted to leave this room until morning.”
Casca didn’t like the sound of that. “Why not? Aren’t we free to come and go as we please like any other guest?”
“No,” the guard said abruptly. “The Bishop will be finished with the woman by morning and you’ll be allowed to leave at that time.”
“What do you mean – ‘finished with the woman by morning’?” Casca demanded, grabbing the guard by the throat. It didn’t sound right and Gerontius was alongside Casca in seconds, his eyes boring into the suddenly frightened man.
“Well, you rat?” Gerontius snarled. “Speak up or I’ll rip you into pieces!”
“The-the Bishop – has – uhhhh… uses… for young women!”
“Wha-at?” Gerontius shouted. “You mean…..”
“We can guess,” Casca said. He pulled the hapless man up off his feet with both hands around his neck. “Show us where the weapons are, little man, and I’ll allow you to live!”
The guard choked, but nodded as best he could. Throwing the man over to Mattias, Casca bunched his fists. “We’re going to have to arm ourselves; it’s us against the town.”
“You’re going to fight a bishop?” Flavius asked, aghast.
Casca whirled on him. “What of it? Stop thinking he’s immune to the evils that men do! He’s probably responsible for most of them that happen in this town anyway.”
“God will punish us! Our souls will rot in hell forever!”
Casca felt a twinge in his heart at Flavius’ words. “Flavius, shut up. Either start thinking with your head or stay in this forsaken hole. We’re going!”
The others looked at Flavius with expressions ranging from faint amusement to contempt. The prisoner was marched out firmly held by Mattias and the rest followed. Flavius groaned, then went after them, shaking his head. They didn’t go far, but then there wasn’t much space in the theatre building. Where they’d surrendered their weapons was a guardroom and two men were slouched on benches inside the room.
They got up in surprise when Mattias entered, holding their comrade by the throat and arm, and the first that reacted got slammed by Mattias pushing the hapless prisoner into him as he reached for his spear. Mattias grabbed the second man’s spear as he brought it up to the guard position and punched the man full in the face. The guard staggered back, clutching his face, and the Burgundian followed up by sinking his fist deep into the man’s guts. The guard sank to the floor, making retching sounds.
“Tie these idiots up,” Casca ordered, reaching for his sword which was hanging from a rack set against a wall.
Eager hands took the three men and rope was found and soon the three were sat together, bound and gagged thanks to a torn shirt found in the room. Fully armed, they retracted their steps down the passage and up the stairs towards what had been pointed out as the church. The smell of incense grew stronger. “Mass isn’t going to be for a while yet,” Gerontius commented. “The sooner we get Flora away from these people the better.”
“Agreed,” Casca said, reaching for the door. “I don’t want the townsfolk mixed up in our argument if it can be helped.”
They pushed the doors open and entered a semi-circular shaped chamber that had a wooden platform at the far end upon which stood an altar, also of wood, and draped over this were white cloths with the familiar Christian cross symbol crudely drawn upon it.
Candles flickered in the air and a brazier stood to one side, glowing red and from here the smell of incense emanated. A second door stood to the far side and muffled sounds were coming from it. Casca glanced at Gerontius who bared his teeth and strode over to it, and he almost tore the door off its hinges as he wrenched it open.
A small vestibule stood beyond, and being held down on a table, her legs apart, was Flora. The bishop was stood at one end, by her legs, his robes removed. He had an erection and clearly was going to use it on the girl. Two acolytes stood to either side, holding her fast, one with his hand over her mouth.
Gerontius roared and his blade cut a rapid arc through the air. The nearest acolyte folded in two, sinking to the floor, his head falling separately, landing under the table with a sickening wet sound. he second acolyte releas
ed Flora with a squeal of terror and backed away into the corner of the room. The bishop, his manhood shrinking rapidly, grabbed his robes and cowered against the wall behind him. Flora got up from the table, the flimsy white garment she had been forced to wear now splashed with red from the dead acolyte, and fell into Gerontius’ arms. “Oh, thank the gods you’re here!” she breathed. “That horrible man!”
“Wh-what is the meaning of this – outrage?” Athenus spluttered, throwing his vestments and robes on over his head.
Casca turned to Flavius. “God’s representative? Now you know what sort of man he is. I’ll leave his fate to you.”
“Let me take care of him,” Gerontius snarled, holding the trembling girl.
“Look after her. Flora, get changed back into your traveling gear; we’re leaving.”
“Trouble in the corridor,” Wulfila announced. “Someone’s found the guards and they’re arming themselves.”
“Shit, that’s all we need. Flavius, hurry up, we haven’t all evening.”
Flavius advanced on Athenus. “You shame the robes you wear! Call yourself a Man of God? God will punish you on the Day of Judgment.”
“I am bishop of this diocese, you cannot touch me!”
“You’re nobody,” Flavius replied and struck the bishop across the face with the back of his hand, then again as he brought his hand back across. Athenus cried out and clutched his face. “You don’t deserve death. That’d be too merciful to you. Once people know what sort of man you are you won’t last long.” He ran his sword tip down the screaming bishop’s face, then held his face as he drew it back in a horizontal direction. He stepped back and admired his handiwork. An inverted cross symbol now was etched over the sobbing man’s face.
“Come on – let’s get out of here,” Casca urged, seeing Flora dressed again. He’d been impressed at her brazenly throwing off her white garment, revealing her body in its glory before she’d redressed. She was one heck of a female. Whoever ended up with her would have a full-time job keeping other men off her.
They ran through the church to where Wulfila and Manneric were, standing by the exit to the corridor. By now the noise of the guards there was loud enough to be heard in the vestibule. Casca took one look and grimaced. A whole knot of angry people were standing halfway down the passageway, below the stairs, armed with a selection of spears, swords, axes, knives and any one of a dozen assorted other weapons.
“Stand aside and let us leave,” Casca shouted to them.
“Never! Defilers! You’ve harmed the bishop! For that you will die!” one of the group of men shouted back, brandishing an old single-edged sword that Casca recalled as being called a seax, which is what gave the Saxons their name.
“Then you have chosen your fate,” Casca responded. The corridor beyond the stairs was blocked and the town guards were coming at them, determined looks on their faces.
“Wulfila, Manneric,” Casca said stepping aside, “clear them out of the way.”
Wulfila smiled, his teeth showing beneath his bristly mustache. He grabbed two of his axes and, descending the stairs, threw them simultaneously, followed a couple of heartbeats later by Manneric’s two throws. Wulfila didn’t wait to admire his handiwork, but threw again, and again. Manneric followed suit.
Death span through the narrow confines of the passage, the axes burying themselves in soft flesh. Five went down in a heap, their screams filling the air. Blood splattered onto the walls and the floor, and the pile of bodies hindered those trying to get past. As the two Goths ran out of axes and grabbed their sword hilts, Casca waded in, roaring mightily, his sword swinging from high to his right down to a low on his left and back again.
Closely behind him followed Mattias and Flavius. “Time for some carnage!” Mattias yelled in delight.
The guards who had survived the axe deluge thrust their weapons forward, having been prevented from rushing forward by the bodies of their comrades lying in a heap across the corridor. Casca slashed hard as he got to the corpses, forcing the nervous guards to give ground. He battered away at the spear points and sword blades, and waded over the dead, making sure he didn’t slip on any blood or gore. Mattias pushed forward so he was alongside. There wasn’t space to wield their swords properly so Casca changed tactics.
His combat knowledge had first been taught him in the Seventh Legion as a raw young nineteen year-old after he’d enrolled following the death of his family to pestilence. In those days the legion was queen of the battlefield, and their rigid discipline had been the main difference between them and their enemies. Back then, they’d fought as a single organism, lined up shield to shield, using the famed short sword for stabbing, rather than the slashing tactics of the barbarians.
Now he thrust his circular shield forward, knocking the spears and blades back or aside, and thrusting forward with his three and a half foot sword. Although not a stabbing weapon, he was strong enough to use it as such, where others may not have been able to. And it was longer than the gladius iberius so he had a longer reach than he’d had in the legions.
Alongside Mattias had more difficulty in using his hunk of steel, and used it in a more orthodox slashing manner, having to use it in an up-and-down manner to avoid hitting Casca. Behind them Flavius came, patiently awaiting his chance, and the two cousins stopped to retrieve their axes, a messy, gory business. One or two of their victims were still breathing so they were finished off with a slice across the throat. Better that way than have the possibility of an enemy rising up behind you.
At the rear Gerontius guided Flora forward, the girl pulling a face at the butchery, but saying nothing.
Casca thrust forward. The man facing him, a gap-toothed scruffy leather armored man with a round tin helmet, was utterly outclassed and out-armed, and he couldn’t get out of the way fast enough because of his comrades pressing him from behind. Casca’s sword thrust sank into his heart and he fell backwards with a strangled cry. The Eternal Mercenary didn’t let up for a moment. Stepping onto the body, sword dripping with the man’s warm blood, he slammed his shield boss into the face of the next man. This one, armed with an axe, grunted in pain at the blow. He swung his axe in a reflex motion but missed Casca’s head. The scarred mercenary had seen it coming and had ducked. Now he stabbed up and felt the ribs grate along his blade as the length of steel slid in deep through the chest.
Mattias roared and battered his opponent aside with a wild blow that almost cut him in two from the junction of the neck to the waist, and blood flew out in all directions. Casca shook his head and wiped the sticky red mess from his face with the back of his hand. Then he got on with the slaughter. The next had a spear and jabbed it hard at Casca. His shield knocked it out of the way and he sank his sword into the spearman’s guts and twisted. The man screamed and folded over, clutching his wound. Jerking the blade free Casca yelled in fury. These stupid outclassed peasants were onto a hiding to nothing and were being butchered as they stood. Why didn’t they see sense and run?
Bodies were filling the corridor and they were advancing slowly towards the door. A spear was thrown in desperation and Casca flinched, knocking it aside hastily. He didn’t wait to see if it had hit anyone behind him. He stepped towards the next man. This one had a red cloak, Roman helmet and a mail hauberk. He looked better armed than most of the others. He also had a sword and shield. Snarling, Casca jabbed at him. The man blocked and countered. At last, someone worth fighting! Casca hammered at his sword arm with his shield but the man went with the blow and smashed back. Almost caught by surprise, Casca rode the blow, feeling pain briefly flare along his right forearm. He thrust hard at the man’s neck and saw him jerk back hastily, eyes widening in alarm.
They both struck simultaneously. Blades clashed. Casca’s superior strength told. The swordsman staggered back, then stopped as he bumped into a colleague behind him. He had nowhere to retreat to. Casca rammed into him, pinning him hard against his men. The man sucked in a deep breath, and spat a hunk of phlegm at Casca, str
iking him full across the right eye.
The Eternal Mercenary slammed his shield up against his sword arm, giving him no room to maneuver. One quick stab up through the throat into the brain ended his fight, and as he fell at Casca’s feet, the burly mercenary wiped the dripping mucus from his face. “Bastard,” he breathed.
Mattias barged another man over and stamped on his groin, then kicked his face hard. The man crashed back bonelessly to the ground, out cold. Suddenly the survivors broke. They fled out onto the open ground beyond the door, unsure of what to do now their captain had fallen.
Casca, Mattias and Flavius followed, spreading out, swords ready to drink more blood. “Stand aside, you idiots,” Casca said, breathing hard. “Or die like the rest of your comrades back there.”
The guards slowly backed away, crossing the drawbridge to the town beyond. Townsfolk had gathered there, some holding torches to be able to see by, now that night had fallen. Shouts came up, mostly of anger. Word had gone round that these barbarians were Alemanni and had killed the bishop, the peace-loving representative of God. There would be hell to pay.
“Burn them!” a shout came to Casca. He shivered. The memory of his burning in Persia was still too vivid to him to be able to feel the heat of a fire without his guts churning. There was no way anyone was going to burn him. Not again.
One of the townsfolk ran forward, torch fluttering, and he was clearly intent on placing it on the wooden bridge. Casca turned to Wulfila. “Stop him!”
Wulfila stepped forward, his axes loosely in their belt, still red with blood. One was in his hand and the Goth flung it hard. It took the man full in the chest, flinging him back. The torch fell harmlessly to the ground five feet from the bridge.
A growl of hatred rose from the people. “We’re going to have to fight our way out of here,” Casca said grimly. This was going to be hard. “Gerontius, leave that girl alone and start using your blade. We’re going to need you, too.”
“Don’t worry,” Gerontius said, “I know my duty.”
