Roman Mercenary

by Tony Roberts

  “All secure.” Flavius looked across over the mercenaries’ heads. “The villa is burning well. It’s bringing more people up from the city.”

  “Then get down from there and let’s get out of here.”

  The last fight was still going on. Mattias was slashing hard at the squad leader but getting nowhere. “Gerontius – help him.”

  Leaving Gerontius and Mattias to deal with the obstinate squad leader, Casca waved the three other Germans to follow him out of the gates. Flavius came running down the steps and followed them out into the countryside. The road led ahead, then snaked left around a rise and vanished out of sight around a bend. All around the hills rose in sheer and dizzying thrusts, the rock bare on many slopes. Stunted trees or shrubs clung to the sides where soil still remained.

  Casca saw Gerontius and Mattias come running, swords still in hands. “More soldiers coming!” Mattias shouted.

  Casca didn’t wait any longer. “Get going! Move!”

  The men broke into runs and pounded round the bend and were soon out of sight. No pursuit came their way, for the garrison feared to venture outside, especially on the heels of violent barbarians who had killed most of an entire squad. They went a few hundred yards, then stopped, waiting for all of them to catch up.

  Casca wiped his brow and sucked in a lungful of air. “Right. We’re out. Next we’ve got to get off this road.”

  “Why?” Gunthar queried. “It’s nice and flat and leads somewhere. We can’t get lost following this.”

  “It goes into the mountains. We don’t want to go that way,” Casca said, looking in the direction of the rising hills. In the distance the peaks were snow-capped. “Those are the Alps. No way we’re going up there. We want to go that way,” he nodded to the left. “We’ll have to walk over this hill, then find the road to Cabillonium. It runs along a river called the Arur. After that, the road splits. One way leads to the coast in the north, the other – the way we want to go – goes towards the old Germania border and the Rhine.”

  “And Argentoratum?” Flavius added.

  “And Argentoratum,” Casca agreed.

  “I know Cabillonium,” Gerontius said, wiping his sword. “It was lawless the last time I was there. They’ve thrown off official Roman rule.”

  Casca shrugged. “So? We’re not Romans. We’re lawless barbarians.”

  Geronius considered that for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. I forgot. Alright, sounds good. Gunthar and Mattias should feel at home there.”

  “And what do you mean by that, Roman?” Gunthar snarled, rounding on him.

  Gerontius said nothing, merely contenting himself to standing his ground and staring Gunthar in the face. The big German stepped forward, his jaw jutting out belligerently. “You think we’re lawless, do you? I’ll tell you, Roman, that our laws have been around for a long time and they’ll last longer than your ineffective ones.”

  Gerontius curled a contemptuous lip. Casca pushed between the two. “Right; enough of this shit. We’re here to work as a team, not to bait one another. Gerontius, knock off the superior attitude. Gunthar, work off some of your frustration. You’re like a damned volcano. I don’t want you erupting at the slightest comment. From now on you’re point. Get going.”

  “This job is shit,” Gunthar growled. “I bet there’ll be no reward for bringing that girl back.”

  “Scarnio has the money, Gunthar,” Casca said, holding his gaze. “I’ve seen it. So no more of this no reward rubbish. Get going over that hill. You should see a river running off northwards. Move.”

  “Gah! If this job gets any shittier I might piss off.” Still grumbling, he shouldered his pack higher and stamped off up the slope of the hill to the left.

  Gerontius snorted and finished cleaning his blade, then slid it into its scabbard and spat onto the dry earth. Casca waved the others up after Gunthar but put a hand on Gerontius’ arm. “I want a word a moment, Gerontius.”

  They waited until the others had passed over the brow of the hill. Casca pushed the Roman back with a sharp shove, just to show him how strong he was. “You are rearguard from now on. I want you as far away from Gunthar as possible. You might think with your knowledge of Argentoratum and Flora that you’re indispensable, but don’t count on it. I might just slaughter both of you if I think it makes my job that much easier.”

  “He’s a liability, Longinus. One of these days he’ll turn on us and that’ll be the end of this group. I won’t let that happen. I’ve promised Scarnio I’ll bring his daughter back and I intend keeping that promise. So if I think that great big idiot is going to jeopardize this mission, I’ll kill him.”

  “And I’ll kill you.” Casca turned away from Gerontius, then paused, looking back at the Roman. “Unless I order you to kill him, that is.” He then strode up after the others, his mind full of thoughts, not many of them good ones. Gunthar may be a wild beast, or as near to one as damn it, but he was right about one thing: the job was shit. Someone was lying to him. In fact, more than one was.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Cabillonium was a small town set in the Arur Valley, surrounded by fields that were running to seed, and high ground on either side of the river. The town itself was divided up into four quarters, separated by two main roads, one running north-south and the other east-west. They met in the center where the administrative buildings stood – the forum – and around it ran a wall that had in the recent past been breached by someone and left in half ruined disrepair.

  Casca was saddened by the poor state of the town, and by the road they had traveled along. Weeds were growing up through the stones, and more than one paving block was loose. The very fabric that had held the Empire together was crumbling before his eyes.

  The town had no defense force. What soldiers had been there before had gone, either to the legions of Constantine or to their graves. The townsfolk that remained had decided not to repair the walls. They had found out the hard way that anyone who came to take the town could, and unless the town opened their gates, it would end with plunder and destruction. Many of the buildings had been burned in the recent past, and only about half of them were habitable.

  Casca led his group through the open south gate and into Cabillonium. Some traders were still selling their goods along the sides of the street; wine, cheeses, bread, and the goods that this part of Gaul was famous for, ceramics and textiles. Cloths and jugs, shawls and beakers.

  The arrival of seven rough looking Germanic warriors caused nervous glances from the townsfolk. A few glares from Gunthar and the Goth cousins made the traders look away hastily. Nobody dared to run up to them and push their wares in their faces – the memory of a recent sacking from tribesmen had knocked any confidence out of them.

  Casca led the men through the town to the forum. Everywhere he saw neglect and decay. There was no money to keep up repairs, and this probably was down to the collapse of central rule. No taxes, no public funds. It was everyone for themselves. They probably only remained in town for better protection and a barter system that enabled people to trade their wares for food.

  Talking of food, Casca realized he was hungry. They had survived on meager rations from Lugdunum, and now were out of them. He stopped before one cheese seller. “How much for one of those?” he pointed at a slab of goat’s cheese.

  “What have you got?” the vendor asked nervously.

  Casca dug into his pouch and held up a couple of silver nomismae coins of Contantine. The vendor shook his head. “Ten.”

  “Ten?” Casca said, outraged. “Ten? I could buy a slave for that!”

  “There’s a shortage. You got something to barter with?”

  “Four coins, and that’s my final offer.”

  The vendor shook his head again. “Ten.”

  “I’ve increased my bid; you ought to try to meet me part way. You heard of haggling?”

  “Sorry; ten or nothing.”

  “Then it’s nothing. You’ve missed out.” Casca put his coins away and continued
on. The vendor shrugged and went back to sitting under his awning, waiting for the crowds that would probably never come.

  The forum was fairly empty. A few people went about their business, but it was a sad and forlorn looking place, compared to what it had probably been just a few years before. Casca bent down and picked up an object lying in his path. A shattered pantile. He looked up to this left and saw the gap on the roof of the building it had fallen from. Dropping the broken clay roof tile back onto the ground, he made his way to the administrative center, a stone building with five arches set in the front, and accessible by a series of stone steps leading up from the forum pavement.

  A couple of robed figures watched curiously as they climbed up to the entrance, then carried on their conversation as they vanished into the building. Casca stood in the hallway, his feet planted on a mosaic floor, the feeling comforting to him. The hall was long and high, a classic Roman construction, and voices from deep within the building echoed around the chamber in an ethereal manner.

  The four Germans shifted uncomfortably; they weren’t used to such places. Flavius was looking around impressed, and Gerontius glanced briefly at the banded colors that ran around the walls before dismissing them. He’d seen better.

  “Been here before, Gerontius?” Casca asked.

  “Not in here,” the Roman answered, his voice echoing high up in the vaulted ceiling. “We passed through this place but didn’t stop. It wasn’t this run-down, if my memory serves me well.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Oh, fifteen months, maybe a year and a half. We were on our way down from Britannia to Arelate, and passed through this region to collect legionaries for the campaign against Honorius. It was then that Flora was left in Argentoratum. It was felt safer, as we didn’t know the political situation further south.” Gerontius sniffed. “We didn’t realize the garrison at Argentoratum would surrender so easily. Cowards.”

  Casca grunted. “I want to talk with whoever thinks they run this place. Somebody must. Go find places for the boys to stay in, and go get food and drink. Then send someone back to tell me where you are. Shouldn’t be much to choose from, given the size of this piddling little place.”

  “Sir,” Gerontius thumped his chest and waved the others to follow him. Flavius looked wounded. It looked like his nominal place as second in command was being usurped, but Casca reckoned Flavius hadn’t really earned it so far, and Gerontius, whatever else he was, was damned good at command. And he knew the area.

  “Yes?” a testy voice broke through his thoughts.

  Casca turned to see a white-haired man wearing a one-piece outfit tied at the waist. The cloth looked expensive and was draped over his shoulder. Not exactly a toga, but clearly some new modern version of it. Casca bowed briefly. He switched to Latin, for that was the language the man had used. “Good day, sir. Are you the senior official here?”

  The man looked surprised at the fluent language coming from the scruffy disreputable looking stranger. He hesitated, then answered. “I am the senior administrator here, yes. We have no imperial structure here, and all posts were done away with after we were sacked last year. Who are you and what is it you want?”

  “News. I’m on my way to Argentoratum and need to know if it’s safe, and if not, why not? Who controls this region now?”

  The man scratched his clean shaven chin for a moment. “You’re no tribesman. Are you a deserter?”

  Casca shook his head. “No – I was a former legionary, but with Honorius. After being taken captive I escaped. Now I’m on my way to the Rhine.”

  “Ah. So you’re with the legal imperial group? You’re not amongst friends here. Constantine the Usurper is nominal emperor here.”

  “He’s a spent force, administrator, and you know it.” Casca walked a couple of steps. “He’ll fall, whether from Honorius or the barbarians, or maybe squashed in between the two. Either way, he’s got a year or so. So what will you do here when he does fall?”

  “Submit to whoever takes control. We’re on the frontier of Constantine’s realm. The Alemanni are not far. I expect them any time to take over here. If they do, then we’ll submit to them. We’re tired of fighting. All we want is peace.”

  “So I can expect to bump into the Alemanni on my way to Argentoratum?”

  The administrator nodded. “They’re in Argentoratum, don’t you know?”

  “I have been told that, yes. And the Burgundians?”

  “Further east and north in Mogontiacum.”

  “Well I have news for you,” Casca said. “They’re looking to move south of you to Lugdunum. Constantine’s supporters have fled and the city is now run by a faction ready to ally with the Burgundian king, Gundahar.”

  The administrator sighed. “I suppose it had to happen. It’s all over here, you know. The old world has gone, swept away. Who takes over now is anyone’s guess, but we’ll have to go with whoever wins. We need a strong ruler, not a series of weak men and selfish supporters who have torn the empire apart.”

  “Word is Honorius is getting an army together to cross back over the Alps. He may restore order in Gaul.”

  The administrator snorted. “I doubt that! Have you seen the tribes? Thousands of them, and more coming each week. They’re too numerous, and besides, after what happened the last time a Roman army was here, I don’t think the people would wish to return to imperial rule.”

  Casca cocked his head. “Oh? What happened?”

  The administrator looked grim. “Constantine sent a cohort to recruit men for their fight further south. When they came through here they stopped to take the young men away, by force. There were some – incidents. Then the massacre came.”

  “Massacre?”

  “Aye. A damned tribune leading the cohort ordered one in ten of the fathers slaughtered. That persuaded the townsfolk to submit, damn his black heart.”

  “What tribune?”

  “Oh, I don’t know who. I wasn’t present at the massacre. It was carried out in this very hall. All the town officials were put to death for defeatist attitude, so I heard. Only one man survived the slaughter, and only by the grace of God. He was badly cut but feigned death.”

  “Could you arrange for me to meet this man?” Casca queried.

  “I doubt it,” the administrator shrugged. “He’s in fear of his life. I’ll go to him and see if he’s agreeable to meet you. If he says yes I’ll arrange a meeting. Come back here tomorrow morning.”

  “Sure. The name’s Rufio, by the way.”

  “Very well, Rufio. Enjoy your stay in Cabillonium.”

  Casca nodded and headed back to the entrance. He stopped partway there, for a shadow passed briefly across his peripheral vision and he snapped his head to the right. He saw only the darkness of the depths of the hall, away from the windows and doors, but he knew someone had been listening to his conversation with the administrator. It troubled him.

  Outside, he sat on the wide stone steps and waited. The smell of the town wafted over him. Dung, rotting refuse, the odors of cooking meat. Garbage lay in the side streets and foul droppings from dogs could be seen here and there. Nobody was being paid to clean up the streets. Nothing looked newly painted, or repaired. The wind picked up leaves and threw them hither and thither, flotsam to its whim, and dust devils whirled this way and that before vanishing, only to reappear in another place.

  The scarred mercenary sighed deeply. He’d hoped never to see this, but for some time now had known it would come. Rome’s slow, agonizing death. His past, his identity. What would become of him when Rome finally died? He picked up an object lying on the step next to him. A broken buckle. He examined it in his fingers, twisting and turning it. It had been made somewhere in the empire, worn by someone of the empire, and now lay there, discarded and forgotten. Was that the fate of Rome?

  He looked up. Mattias was making his way across the forum, loping in the now familiar way Casca had become accustomed to. “Well?” he stood up, dropping the buckle. />
  “We’ve got a place. Bit of a dive, but everyone is happy enough with it.”

  “Everyone is there now?”

  Mattias shook his shaggy head. “Nope. They’ve all gone to find food. A couple might just be sightseeing.”

  Casca slapped the dust from him and waved Mattias to lead the way to the lodgings. “What’s your opinion of this place, Mattias?”

  The Burgundian grinned. “Shit hole. I’d prefer to live in a forest clearing in wooden huts. At least you can repair those with more wood and straw. These buildings need to be repaired with stuff nobody has anymore. What’s good about that? And all this smelly stuff around – living in a forest village is clean, fresh air can blow away the smells, and you feel free. This is rotten. Everything is rotten.”

  “You’re right there. Looks like you won’t be encountering your tribesmen by the way, I had it confirmed the Alemanni are in Argentoratum. Gundahar is in Mogontiacum.”

  “And may the place be cursed by the gods and all within die,” Mattias replied savagely.

  The two walked along one street, then turned right and traversed a second. Some of the buildings here were shells or blackened stumps. Whatever had happened here had long passed, for the smell of burnt material was not detectable. They crossed an intersection and there was the inn, a ramshackle affair, with a warped door and shutters half hanging off the walls, but habitable.

  The interior was gloomy and the low ceiling caused both to stoop slightly. A couple of old townsmen sat drinking quietly in a dark corner, and the innkeeper, a grey, elderly man, greeted them. There was no ledger, naturally. “We’ve told him you’ve got the money,” Mattias grinned.

  Casca cursed and grumbled under his breath. He leaned on the counter. “How many rooms?”

  “Four. That’s all there are,” the innkeeper said in a thin, reedy voice. “One night, four rooms. Ten silver coins per room.”