Roman Mercenary

by Tony Roberts

  “Forty?” Casca asked, aghast. He delved into his pouch and threw a handful onto the top, which was marked and cracked with age. The innkeeper greedily grabbed the coins, bending down to pick those that had spilled onto the floor. Casca waved Mattias ahead of him. “Show me the rooms.”

  They went through the rear to what had probably once been stables, but had been turned into rooms. Casca turned full circle and checked the environment. A low wooden gate stood to the right, clearly the old way into the stable area. The courtyard was of stone paving, some of the stones standing proud of the others, another testimony to no repair work having been carried out recently. Plants were growing out of the roofs and grass sprouted from gaps in the paving. A rotting water butt stood by the eaves of the main building and dark, unappealing looking water reflected Casca’s face as he peered into it.

  “One night. We’ll be on our way in the morning; we’ve got no time to waste,” Casca commented to Mattias.

  “Ja, It’s getting cold at nights,” the German replied.

  “We’ve also moved away from the Mediterranean climate,” Casca pointed out. “I’ve got a meeting in the morning with someone at the town hall, so you lot will have to get your equipment together and wait for me on the Argentoratum road.”

  “Anyone I should know about?”

  “No. Where are the others, then? I thought none of you had any money left?”

  The Burgundian shrugged, grinning. “They had enough for a few drinks or women. Gunthar is definitely looking for a prostitute; I heard him say. Flavius is probably drinking what he had left. I don’t know what the other three are doing.”

  “Let’s get Flavius,” Casca said with irritation. “I don’t want him drunk!”

  They dumped their packs in their rooms – Casca had grabbed the end one for himself and decided to pair the others up, Mattias with Flavius and Gerontius with Gunthar, with the Ostrogoth cousins in the other room – and went back out into the streets. Grabbing a passer-by, Casca learned there were two other taverns in town. One had burned down in the recent fire but the other was still doing a roaring trade, and Casca plowed through eastern Cabillonium like a trireme in a storm, towing an amused Mattias in his wake.

  The door to the tavern was nearly taken off its hinges as the Eternal Mercenary made a forceful entry, and he scanned the sea of faces that had turned in surprise at his arrival. He spotted Flavius in the corner, a large looking jug on his table, sharing it with two disreputable types.

  “Right, c’mon,” he snapped to Mattias, and led the tall German through the room to where their comrade was busy throwing a flask full of what looked like wine down his throat. His two new companions were drinking but not so greedily. They looked up in alarm as the two men stood over their table.

  “You, out,” Casca jerked his thumb at Flavius. “I told you about drinking.”

  “Hey, it’s just a small drink,” Flavius waved his empty mug in the air. “No harm done.”

  “And who are these two?”

  “Friends,” Flavius grinned, his face flushed.

  “Don’t tell me, they were thirsty and wanted your company.” Casca glared at the two townsmen. “I’m confiscating this jug,” he said.

  “It’s ours!” one of the townsmen objected, putting his hand towards the jug. He winced as Casca’s hand closed over his wrist and held it hard against the table top.

  “Never was, pal,” Casca growled. “Now get lost or my friend here might like to carry out some alterations to your faces.”

  “You can’t do this!” Flavius complained and grabbed the jug. Mattias held his arm and smiled down at him. “Let go, you bastard!” Flavius snarled.

  Mattias’ smile vanished. Casca had been in some brawls in his time, the most recent one with Mattias, of course, but he’d never seen a punch thrown as quickly as the one the Burgundian launched into the face of a totally unsuspecting Flavius. The Roman was sent catapulting out of his chair and crashed against the wall behind him and tumbled into a heap on the beer-stained floor. Mattias hefted the jug triumphantly. “Saved the jug!”

  “Good man,” Casca nodded, then looked at the shocked townsmen. “Well?”

  “It’s our drink,” one said and stood up, sliding out a sharp looking skinning knife from his belt.

  “It’s your loss,” Casca said, releasing the other’s wrist and stepping back. He was aware Mattias was putting the jug down and flexing his arms to one side.

  “I don’t like interfering busybodies,” the knife-man declared, lunging for Casca’s chest. The blade thrust forward wickedly. It passed close to the moving warrior, missing him narrowly. Casca’s right hand was already coming down hard. It struck the knifeman on the neck, stunning him. Not wasting another moment, Casca’s left fist rammed up into the man’s gut, knocking the wind out of him.

  The knifeman sank to the ground, retching noisily.

  Mattias grabbed the other man by the neck, picking him up off his feet. “Pick a window!” he shouted into his face from a distance of three inches.

  “Why?” the man asked, fearfully.

  “Because you’re leaving!” and the Burgundian swung the man round, still off the ground, and heaved hard, propelling the luckless man through the air and through the nearest window, breaking the shutters as the townsman crashed through.

  The ruined shutters showered both the road and the helpless man as he hit the ground, rolling a few feet before coming to halt, lying in an inert heap on the pavement. Mattias roared in mirth and turned to face the shocked clientele, staring with open mouths at the scene. “Anyone else wish to leave by the same route?” the Burgundian demanded, standing aggressively before them. He received a mass of shaking of heads by way of reply.

  Casca looked at the man he’d hit, lying on the floor clutching his guts. “Don’t get up or you’ll be sorry.” He located Flavius’ pack and heaved it onto his back, grunting with the effort. “Can you handle him?” he asked Mattias, nodding towards the bleeding Flavius.

  “With ease,” the German said and pulled the unconscious man up and over his shoulder, so that Flavius’ arms were dangling down Mattias’ back and his legs down his front. Mattias picked up the jug and grinned again. “Shame to leave it here, and anyway he won’t be needing it,” he indicated the groaning townsman.

  “True,” Casca agreed and led Mattias out of the tavern.

  He heard a dark muttering. Someone commented that it was lucky there were no town militia to see to troublemakers these days. Casca turned in the doorway. “Nobody follow us. If I catch anyone doing so I’ll rip their arms off and stuff them up their ass.” Then he was gone, Mattias following, chuckling to himself.

  They returned to the inn and Flavius was dumped unceremoniously onto the bed earmarked for him. Mattias put the jug down on the table in the room. Since he was sharing with Flavius it would be interesting what the Roman would do the minute he woke.

  Casca stood in the doorway to the former stables and waited for the rest to return, which they did slowly. Wulfila and Manneric came back first, eating bread, and were surprised at Casca’s bad temper. They were dressed down and after listening, shrugged and retired to their room, still eating.

  Gunthar was next, looking pleased with himself. “Where the heck have you been?” Casca snarled.

  “Fucking, why do you ask?”

  “You pay for your own room, not expect me to do so! Your money is supposed to cover that, rather than screwing some half-starved back street girl willing to spread her legs for half of what she’s worth!”

  Gunthar stood there, his mouth open. “How did you know what she was like? You’ve sampled her already?”

  “Yeah and he’s got the pox,” Mattias said mischievously from his doorway where he was sat upon a stool, sharpening his dagger. “And now your cock’s going to rot.”

  “Fuck you, you Burgundian catamite!” Gunthar roared, his fists balling.

  Mattias shot up onto his feet, his dagger poised, his face thunderous.

/>   “Shut it!” Casca yelled, fed up with the pair of them. “Stop baiting him, Mattias, and you, Gunthar, watch yourself or I’ll whip you good, got it?”

  Gunthar growled, staring the Roman. “You know, Casca, I might try you out one of these days, to see if you really are as tough as you make out.”

  “I’ll be ready,” Casca promised. “In the meantime I’ll have five silver coins from you.”

  “Got nothing left; that whore took the lot,” Gunthar said, his arms wide, his eyes shining with innocence.

  “Like hell,” Mattias said, twirling his dagger. “Bet he’s got enough in his pouch to pay for all of us.”

  “Typical Burgundian ass-crawler,” Gunthar snarled, “you his personal whipping boy?”

  “That’s it, you Alemanni shit-eater,” Mattias roared, throwing his dagger down onto the stool, point first, and came charging in, fists whirling. Casca stepped back, giving Mattias enough room to smash into Gunthar. The two men crashed to the ground and rolled out into the courtyard, laboring blows on each other. Wulfila and Manneric came out of their room wondering what the noise was, and Casca barred their route out. “Let them blow off their frustrations,” Casca said, “they’ve been itching to have a go at each other for some time.”

  Gunthar got to his feet, his hair wild, his eyes even wilder. Hollering like a wild animal he slammed a fist into Mattias who had just got up and took it full on the jaw. The Burgundian was pitched back against the wall which shook, then he bounced off and blocked Gunthar’s follow-up left hook, and countered with a left of his own which rattled Gunthar’s ribs.

  Mattias didn’t have long to enjoy that one for Gunthar’s head slammed into Mattias’ and the tall German yelled in pain and staggered away from the wall, momentarily stunned. He quickly recovered though, and Gunthar’s sweeping punch missed which allowed Mattias to grab his arm, swing round and use the momentum to pitch Gunthar to one side. The Alemanni went staggering across the courtyard, arms flailing in an effort to keep balance, and he crashed into the rotten water butt, sending wood and water up into the air, and he fell into what was left of the wrecked object.

  Bellowing like a bull on the rampage, Gunthar emerged from the wreckage of the butt, shedding wood and water, and his sword was in his fist with murder in his eyes. Mattias snarled and hauled out his own blade. Both men stood facing one another across the courtyard.

  It was time to stop the fight. Casca stepped in between them. “Enough. Any more of this and you’re both off the job. No pay.”

  “It might be worth it,” Gunthar said through clenched teeth.

  “Try it and you’ll have me to deal with,” Casca said, his eyes boring into the German’s.

  Swearing continuously, Gunthar slowly slid his sword back into its sheath. Mattias did likewise but continued glaring at the big warrior. Casca pushed Mattias back into the stables. “Go see if Flavius is awake yet.”

  Mattias grumbled but did so. Gunthar was busy wiping the worst of the water from his furs and gave Casca an unfriendly look. “You’d best get rid of him, Casca, or I’ll end up killing him.”

  “If anyone kills anybody here, it’ll be me doing it. Give me five silver from your pouch – now!”

  Sulking Gunthar dug the coins out and threw them at Casca. The scarred mercenary caught three but two clattered to the ground. Casca picked them up and by the time he’d done that Gunthar was gone from the courtyard but Gerontius was standing there instead.

  “And where have you been?” Casca demanded. “Don’t give me any shit about sightseeing, either.”

  “Very well, I won’t,” Gerontius said equably. “Had a little discipline trouble here?”

  “Shut it. So where have you been?”

  “About. Checking on things. You know the Alemanni control this region? The city pays them a share of the income here, a sort of tithe.”

  Casca frowned. “No I didn’t know that.” He hadn’t been told that in the city hall. “Since when?”

  “This summer, apparently. There’s some sort of argument going on between the authorities here – or what’s left of them – and the tribe that controls the countryside around here. Trouble is, sometimes it’s the Alemanni, at other times it’s the Burgundians. Sometimes it’s both, so they have to pay two lots of tithe. There’s a lot of unhappy people here.”

  “Who’ve you been talking to?”

  “Passers-by. You should try it, Longinus, incredible what you can learn just by talking to people. But you’re too busy laying down the law to us, aren’t you?”

  Casca stepped up to the Roman. “And what do you mean by that, Gerontius?”

  Gerontius held his look. “You’re too up tight to make the right decisions. I don’t know what’s in your head, but its stopping you doing a decent job. You ought to make way for someone better suited to lead.”

  “Such as yourself?” Casca said. “No Gerontius, there’s something about you I don’t trust. You may be used to command, but I wouldn’t give you any authority here; just do your job and I’ll do mine.”

  “Suit yourself; just don’t expect us to stick around if you muck things up.”

  Casca refused to step aside as Gerontius made to push past, and the two men stood there for a moment, chest to chest. Casca pushed and felt Gerontius resist briefly, then the Roman smiled and stepped aside. “There’s a young woman in Argentoratum depending on us getting her out of there,” Casca said to Gerontius’ back. “Or have you forgotten that?”

  “No,” Gerontius turned round, and Casca couldn’t read the expression on his face. It was a strange look. “That’s the only thing keeping me with your group.” Then he turned back and vanished into the stables, leaving Casca looking at the building thoughtfully.

  CHAPTER TEN

  They left the lodgings the next morning without any further incident, their packs and bottles full. Casca had insisted the group pay for their own food. As the six others tramped along the street towards the eastern gatehouse, Casca turned up alone at the city hall. There he saw the same white-haired administrator, busy scribing on a wax tablet, holding a conversation with a tall man.

  Casca waited for a few moments, then was seen by the administrator who said something to the man and came towards Casca. “I’m sorry but you won’t be able to meet the man you wished to see.”

  “Oh? He’s not keen on seeing me, then?”

  “Not quite,” the administrator said, his face sad. “Somebody slew him yesterday. Broke into his house and killed him and his family. Every last one of them.”

  Casca slowly made his way out of Cabillonium, his mind whirling. It wouldn’t have made much difference to his mission, but he really would have liked to see the massacre survivor. It seemed somebody didn’t wish for that to happen.

  The others were waiting outside. They asked if everything was fine and Casca nodded briefly. He gathered the others close to him. “Right. This is the situation. It seems that the Alemanni loosely control this region, but I suspect they only come occasionally to the population centers this far out, and it’s not likely we’ll bump into any large groups yet. As we get closer to Argentoratum I think we’ll see more. So from now on we act like tribesmen, a loose warband. If we meet Alemanni Gunthar here had best greet them. Flavius, you and Gerontius had best not say anything since your accents would give you away.”

  The two men grunted. Flavius was sporting a black eye and a sour attitude. His head still hurt and he was contemplating revenge. That, and his resentment against Casca for ‘demoting’ him from second in command of the group ate at him. He was wondering whether coming on the job was a good idea after all. But then, he reasoned, the pay would be good. Why else go on such an insane task?

  Gerontius merely shrugged and said nothing. His expertise lay elsewhere other than speaking fluent German, although he could understand enough to get by. In these days of the legions containing over half of their number of Germanic troops, speaking that language was essential. Screaming at them to charge was no good if
they had no idea what you were saying.

  Casca nodded along the road running into the distance. The horizon was a tumbling vista of hills and valleys. “We’d best not shave from now on – those of us who do, that is,” he added, looking at the grinning Germanic tribesmen who all had beards. “Our story is that we’ve become lost from a raiding party further west – we had no idea where we were going and got separated at night after a scouting raid went wrong. So we’re on our way back to the Rhine to join up with the Alemanni in Argentoratum. Got it?”

  The others nodded. A simple cover story but it would do. Not worth making up something too complicated.

  “We sleep rough; we try to avoid any place of settlement. We’re supposed to be destructive but I don’t want to have to destroy someone’s home if I can help it, so it’s best we avoid farmsteads and the like. That means we’re going to spend the nights out in the open air. It’s going to get cold from now on.”

  “Doesn’t worry me,” Mattias commented. “Live like real men once more.”

  Wulfila and Manneric nodded in agreement. Gunthar just spat on the ground.

  “We stay off the booze,” and Casca eyed Flavius, “and if any of you have any gripe against any of the others you come to me. I’ll deal with disputes, nobody else. That includes anyone who thinks they ought to be in charge,” and he looked squarely at Gerontius. “If anyone wishes to take over then you’re free to try right now.” He glared at the others. “Of course, that means you’d have to kill me, and I alone know who to see when we get to our objective.”

  The others looked at each other and said nothing.

  “Good,” Casca straightened and slung his spear over his fur-covered shoulder. “Then let’s get going and let’s not waste any more time.”

  They trooped off, one or two glancing at one another, and they spread out, one taking up point and another drag, those positions changing every time they stopped for a break. Casca got them marching hard, not wishing to be out in the open any longer than was necessary. He kept on looking at the state of the road and shook his head to himself. The stones were smooth – worn with the tramping of thousands of feet over the years, but some of the stones were loose and weeds were beginning to poke through the gaps here and there, and on the edges the undergrowth was intruding. Nothing was being tended or repaired any more.