by Tony Roberts
His forces were laid out imaginatively with the solid phalanx in the center protected by two angled flanks of archers which in turn were in front of the majority of his cavalry. To the left stood a hill upon which he arranged more archers and a further thousand horse were hidden behind this out of sight of the Goths. Totila on his part arranged his forces in typical Gothic manner with the cavalry out in front and the infantry behind, planning to smash through the Byzantine infantry with his horse and leave the mopping up to the foot soldiers. Narses knew this would be their plan and had arranged the archers so they would pour a hail of arrows down onto the Goths as they advanced from both sides. The first three ranks of his infantry were equipped with pikes and spears to fend off the horsemen while the rest had swords, axes and a variety of other weaponry.
Casca heard the order from their commander Vitalius to stand fast and wait for the Goths to break against them like the tide on rocks. Casca grunted. All very well if the Gothic cavalry were kept from hitting them in one huge mass. The archers would have to do their job well. The Lombard mercenaries would fight well, but if left to fend against the entire enemy force it was doubtful they’d stand for long. Casca wondered if on the left flank John Phagas was exhorting his archers to make every shot count. He certainly hoped so.
Suddenly the men around him broke into curses and began pointing, and sensing a change Casca turned back and looked downhill, craning his neck. Totila’s delaying tactics had paid off, for another two thousand of his men were arriving led by his nephew Teias. The reinforcements were absorbed into the ranks of the infantry and their lines filled out slightly, but they were still outnumbered. Totila smiled in satisfaction; he felt at last ready to launch an attack. Throwing off his robes of royalty he donned a common soldier’s attire and rode out in front of his men, crying out that the hated Greeks were trembling behind their wall of stakes and pikes and once that wall was breached they would run like rabbits from the field. With one last war cry he spurred his horse into a gallop, followed by the rest of his cavalry.
The Lombard line tensed and Casca felt the rising tension amongst the men all round him. As the line of mounted Goths broke into a gallop, the Germanic tribesmen began clashing their swords against their iron-rimmed wooden circular shields, a challenge to their adversary. Casca felt the old familiar battle lust rising and, knowing it was useless to fight it, became absorbed by it, so he too was striking the shield with his sword, taunting the Goths to come to him and match their manliness against him.
Arrows poured out from the ranks of archers to left and right and descended like deadly rain onto the packed Gothic cavalry. Scores toppled off their mounts, hindering those behind, but the attack was pressed on regardless. Casca felt the ground vibrating with the drumming of hoofs and steadied himself for the impact. Totila screamed at his men to press the attack home, and the Byzantine archers switched their aim to the rearmost ranks, not wishing to strike their own people.
The survivors, about half of their original number, reached the infantry and they crashed into the packed lines. The first to do so were impaled on the pikes and spears of the infantry. Casca was pushed back as the men in front of him were sent backwards by the force of the attack, those in front being knocked clean off their feet in some cases. The line steadied and pushed back. The sound of men cursing, crying out in pain or anger, and of horses screaming in pain and fright filled the air, and the animal smell of the steeds mixed with sweat, urine and freshly disturbed earth as the battle developed on that grassy slope.
Casca stepped past a Lombard staggering towards the rear, clutching his face, rivulets of blood dribbling through his fingers, his helmet gone from his sweat-soaked hair. A second infantryman knelt in Casca’s path, crying out as his arterial blood fountained up from a cut deep in the junction of his neck and shoulder. Casca judged he had maybe ten minutes of his life left. Just ahead a Gothic cavalryman was smashing his blade down on the upturned shield of another Lombard, attempting to hack him to pieces, his horse rearing up and catching yet another man with its hoofs in the face, smashing teeth and the luckless man’s nose.
Casca pushed the dying Lombard out of his way and stepped forward, his sword gripped tightly in his fist. The infantryman grabbed hold of the reins but left himself open to another slash and the Goth caught him across the throat and upper chest and the Lombard spun round, clutching his wound and sank to his knees, eyes wide in agony. Casca wasted no time; he was now in the front. Two more Lombards lay across each other, their pikes thrust upwards, and a Gothic horse was thrashing its last with one of the points sunk into its chest. Nearby the Gothic rider lay on his back, one arm feebly waving, his neck at an unnatural angle.
Casca acted. His shield swung hard and fast, striking the horse in front of him across the head, stunning it. The rider fought to stay on horseback but the beast was staggering to one side, and Casca grabbed the man, hauling him off the beast, slamming him into the churned up soil. Yelling in battle rage, Casca thrust the point of his sword through the chain mail coif covering the Goth’s throat and sank it deep into his throat. The Goth thrashed in pain and blood gushed from the wound. Casca leaned further, the blade severing the neck. The Goth gave one last thrash and then lay still.
Yanking the blade free, Casca stepped over the corpse and looked about for another enemy. Horses were milling about at the edge of the ranks of Lombards, their riders hacking at the spear points. Another came past and Casca struck out but he missed, the edge of his blade narrowly missing the shoulder of the Goth by inches. Cursing, he swung around full circle. The Lombards were still standing in their phalanx, a few bodies lying in front of them. A number of horses and their riders lay amongst them, while the rest of the Gothic cavalry were milling about a few yards away, regrouping. Totila was exhorting them to gather and reform before striking at the hated enemy once more.
Narses, watching the whole scene, now turned to his trumpeter and nodded slowly. Now was the time! The notes of the trumpet echoed out and the Goths looked about. Something was about to happen and they knew whatever it was, it wouldn’t be anything good. Casca and his comrades paused and waited, wondering what was going to happen.
A mass of Byzantine cavalry burst out from behind the archers and arced round the flanks of the Gothic cavalry. Isolated and away from their own infantry, the Gothic cavalry were trapped. Totila screamed to retreat but their way was cut off. Leading the charge, the king hacked at the closing enemy cavalry, cutting the first two down as they reached him. Two more, led by a colorfully dressed officer, headed his way. The lesser Byzantine cavalryman attacked first but was impaled by Totila’s bodyguard. Even as the Goth bared his teeth in triumph, the officer cut across the bodyguard on the shield side and closed in on Totila, his sword flashing in the sun.
Totila was caught across the side and reared up in pain, lashing out in a reflex action with his own blade, catching the Byzantine officer across the face. Two of Totila’s bodyguard came to his aid, guiding the horse away from the melee and riding off down the hill to the valley bottom. The rest of the cavalry, seeing their king leaving the field, broke and fled, pursued by the cavalry of the imperial forces. It was then that Narses gave the order for the infantry to take up the chase, and with a wild roar eight thousand Lombards and Herulians went running down towards the Gothic foot soldiers.
Casca joined in the charge, yelling wildly, and his strength was such that he outpaced many of his compatriots and reached the horror stricken Gothic infantry with the first wave. Most of the Goths took one look at what was heading for them and broke. Casca caught up with a knot of the enemy and slashed at their backs, chests and throats, cutting down half a dozen in as many seconds while his comrades were engaged in similar butchery. Although he didn’t know it he was screaming madly the names of the old gods as he cut, thrust and slashed, terrifying the enemy as he came towards them. All ran as fast as they could from him although many were killed by his compatriots, and by sundown the field was clear of Goths save
the six thousand or so who had fallen.
* * *
Totila was taken to a nearby village and laid down in a straw bed, tended by his faithful men, but the wound was too severe and he knew he had little time left. Looking up at the strained faces around him he smiled and rested his right arm on the shoulder of Teias. “Brave and honorable Teias,” he breathed hoarsely, “you will have to carry on the fight without me as my time with you is now at an end. Be brave and steadfast in the fight and surely victory will come.” He smiled, coughed once, twice, then his arm fell to his side and the king was dead.
* * *
Casca trudged along with the rest of the Lombard contingent towards the foothills of the Alps, released by Narses after the battle as he had little use for barely controllable barbarians now the Goths had been crushed. Casca knew it was the end of the Ostrogoths and wondered how long the enlarged Eastern Roman Empire would hold. He stopped, looked back on the fertile plains now ravaged by two decades of war, and sadly shook his head. Italy was hardly a prize worth taking. He heaved his meager possessions higher onto his back, turned towards the mountains and followed the footsteps of the others, bound for the Lombard lands across the Danube. He was retracing his steps made a century ago, before Ireina had found him and taken him as her man, and he had lived amongst the civilized world which had taken her and his adopted son away from him. Well, the civilized world could do its own thing now, he was going to live, at least for a while, amongst the barbarians.
EPILOGUE
Julius Goldman shook his head, coming out of the trance. Casey had gone again, leaving him in that strange ethereal world he always took him until the spell broke of its own accord. He knew he wasn’t far but would be en route to God knows where, and he was welcome to it.
He saw a small object on the bed and picked it up, smiling as he recognized the symbol of a bronze arrow head on a neat white card. There was no name, no number, no address. Nicely anonymous, he thought. He pocketed the card and heaved himself up, making his way to the door, hoping he’d be able to find his Buick in the parking lot of the nondescript roadside motel before thieves could spot it. Who knows when he would next hear from the mercenary? In time, he thought, in time.
* * *
The blustery, cold rain fell from the New York sky, driving the people into JFK International Airport from the taxis doubly quick. At the departure lounge many of them tried to dry out, but one sat on his own oblivious of the dampness of his clothes. He made sure the air ticket in his hand was free from the ravages of the rain, however, making sure the destination was legible. Zagreb, Lufthansa flight 407 via Frankfurt. A one-way ticket. Casey grunted, opening a Croatian passport and sliding the ticket inside, eyed the name once more before snapping the document shut. Casimir Lonjic. Another name, another place. Funny, he mused, Croatia was approximately the same area he had gone to with the Lombards. Same place, different name.
Continuing Casca’s adventures, book 30 Napoleon’s Soldier
Napoleon prepares to invade Russia and so Casca answers the call to war and to fight for the eagles of Imperial France. But Casca knows that the Russian armies won’t be the only opponent to face on the long difficult march to Moscow.
The extreme cold of the winter will be a more deadly enemy than any soldier to the invaders. And
not only these two known enemies plague Casca’s mind; he had to deal with an unknown murderer lurking close by with a mission of his own, linked to the woman Casca has vowed to protect.
And then there’s the mystery of who raped, murdered and stole a valuable icon from a helpless Polish village, someone within the ranks close to Casca. The Eternal Mercenary must find the icon and the killer to fulfil a vow to a dying girl.
For more information on the entire Casca series see www.casca.net
The Barry Sadler website www.barrysadler.com
