by Tony Roberts
The officers all nodded in agreement. Belisarius had planned a massacre with chilling efficiency and there was no way the Goths would be able to make their superiority in numbers tell. It would be a butcher’s paradise.
The new morning broke and the imperial forces looked out over the walls of Rome to see that the Goths had indeed struck camp, burning all seven camps before moving off northwards along the Via Flaminia towards the Milvian Bridge. The defenders were ordered towards the gate to burst out onto the Gothic rearguard and stood there, trembling with anticipation, while Belisarius stood on the ramparts waiting for the right moment. Casca made sure his company was ready, keeping them in formation. He had been assigned to the right flank to make sure none of the Goths doubled back to escape the trap, so he wanted his men to be fit and able to run as they would have to get to their position before the battle got under way.
Belisarius watched as the files of the Germanic troops disappeared northwards, judging the numbers still on the south side of the Tiber. Now was the time! He turned and nodded towards the commander of the forces crowded by the gate, and the commander ordered the gates thrown open to allow the troops to run after the retreating Goths. The men burst out of the city with yells and screams, charging towards the rearguard which was just approaching the bridge. Casca led his men at an angle across the main line of the charge to the right, cutting off any possible retreat the Goths might try to make. The Goths turned in shock as the sound of thousands of their enemy approaching reached their ears. The sight of the mass of sword, ax and spear wielding men charging towards them was too much for many to bear and as one they turned to run for the bridge, already packed with retreating men, and soon it was jammed with desperate Goths trying to get over to the far side and safety. The commanders of the rearguard tried to restore some sort of cohesion but the hastily arranged defensive force was overwhelmed in the first charge, many trampled to death as the imperial force overran them. Casca’s unit cut through the line close to the river and made their way towards the stampeding Goths milling about on the bank, swords striking to left and right, laying open throats and chests as they went.
Casca slashed at one man’s back and the Goth tumbled down the steep bank and vanished into the muddy waters. The other Goths turned to face their opponents, knowing they had little choice, as their only route to safety was blocked. A wall of shields came up but the pressure on them forced many down the banks into the river where they quickly drowned, weighed down by their armor. The slaughter on the bridge was terrible; many of the trapped men throwing away their weapons and armor and jumping into the Tiber in a frantic effort to get away from the killing, but many more were too close to the fighting to disengage without having their backs run through. Casca led his men on a direct advance towards the bridge, his sword whirling death, crying out the old barbarian war cry: “Odin!” The Goths fell back in horror at this killing apparition that sliced its way remorselessly through their ranks, screaming out to the old gods to give him strength to kill them.
Panic hit the Gothic ranks and any resistance simply dissolved, each man running for the Tiber as fast as he could, trying to push his comrade in front of him aside in sheer terror. Two more Goths came across Casca’s path and with two massive swings both joined their fallen comrades in Valhalla. Casca felt the old battle lust come over him as it had on previous occasions, and as before he tried to stop it but the battle swept him up into a turmoil of blood and rage, and he cut down Goth after Goth, many offering no defense as they recognized death and calmly waited for it.
He raged as he advanced, seeing faces as mere blurs. A swing from his sword was blocked and he stopped momentarily, surprised that one at least was able to stand up to him. The Goth, a tall, broad shouldered man with long brown hair, looked desperately for a way to retreat as men to left and right fell to the bloodthirsty Byzantine troops. Casca stepped forward, his blade whirling again, spraying drops of blood from victims who had already fallen that day. His next blow was aimed at the man’s neck and the Goth blocked it with his round iron-edged shield. A counter-blow swung at Casca but the Eternal Mercenary knew what he was doing and pushed his own shield forward, the Goth’s sword striking it and sending a shuddering shock up Casca’s arm.
Casca’s next blow was low, a scything sweep at knee height, below the shield, and the Goth tried to jump back but was pressed against the wall of bodies behind him and he had nowhere to go. Casca’s cut bit deep into his left leg, severing it to the bone and the warrior cried out and fell sideways. He received Casca’s boot in his face and his teeth sheared off from their anchorage and blood filled the warrior’s mouth. Not wanting a live enemy underneath him Casca raised his sword high, point down, and rammed it hard into the brave man’s chest, driving past the protective iron rings of the Goth’s armor and into his flesh.
The Goth screamed, a long bubbling sound, and thrashed against Casca’s legs. “Shuttup and die!” Casca screamed and pulled his blade out of the dying man’s body. The wall of Goths beyond were still backing away, some had even gone down on their knees begging for mercy, having thrown away their weapons and shields in terror.
Casca kicked these out of his way in contempt. “Die like men!” he roared and passed them by. Another Goth faced him and shook in terror. Casca was covered in blood and his eyes stared in fury out of the red mask that his face resembled. “Mutti!” the Goth exclaimed.
“Mommy won’t help you, now, boy!” Casca shouted as he launched into an attack, blade whirling in the air before crashing down onto the terrified Goth’s helmet. It split asunder and the Goth collapsed forward, blood streaming down his face. Casca used him as a stepping stone, gaining some height to strike at the next man.
Screams and yells came from the jammed bridge as the two enclosing arms of the Byzantine force closed, then met right in front of the approach, trapping over three hundred Goths in a circle. Those who had managed to evade the trap jumped from the bridge and tried to make it to the far side but a pitiful few emerged on the far bank, soaking, weary, exhausted and defenseless. The imperial commander ordered his archers and spearmen to let loose a few volleys to chase off those still watching the battle and another twenty Goths toppled down the bank into the bloodied waters.
Casca kept on striking out at the bodies in front of him until a cold feeling spread up his legs, breaking through the red mist that covered his eyes. He looked down and saw he was standing up to his thighs in the river, corpses of those he had killed piled up all around. Drawing in deep lungfuls of air he staggered back to the bank and sat down on one of the few clear spaces not occupied by a dead man and leant on his sword hilt wearily. Now the berserker’s strength had left him he felt drained, both emotionally and physically, and bowed his head, the sweat dripping onto his feet.
His men stood a little way off, appalled at the way he had carved great gaps into the Gothic ranks. Never before had they seen such carnage created by one man, and it was fairly certain they would never see such again. Casca looked up, feeling slightly sick, and saw a mass of bodies littering the banks of the Tiber. Belisarius had been right; it had been a slaughter, not a battle. He closed his eyes, not wanting to gaze upon the scene any more, for he was a soldier, not a butcher or a murderer, and this wasn’t a soldier’s battle.
He had been in many battles before and some of them had made him sick to the stomach such as the one outside Ctesiphon four centuries back; then he had tried to kill himself but the curse had won again, bringing him back to continue his life of battles and blood. He could close his eyes to the sight but the smells still came to him, those of sweat and blood and urine, and voided, lacerated bowels. He looked at the carnage and grimaced as some of the Byzantine troops began cutting off the head and one hand of their victims and holding them aloft on poles. He made a mental note to never oppose the Byzantines at a future date, for although his curse meant he could never die he didn’t want to go round without his head. “I’d never find the damned thing,” he muttered to himsel
f.
With a long suffering sigh he hauled himself up and made his way to the Tiber and took a few steps in to wash the worst of the blood and gore from him, then he bent down and slaked his thirst as were many other of his comrades, all trying to end the thirst that battle always provided. After that he got back up and began the wearying task of collecting his unit together and detailing burial parties for the hundreds that had fallen.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Belisarius called Casca to his quarters the day after the battle and the eternal warrior wondered why in the name of the gods of Rome he was singled out by the general. He had first seen Belisarius in North Africa a couple of years ago when they had defeated the Vandals and he was still taken aback by the relative youthfulness of Byzantium’s top general. The imperial commander warmly greeted Casca and invited him to sit next to the grinning Sicarus.
“We last met in the African campaign, didn't we?” Belisarius began, passing a bottle of wine to Casca together with an empty glass. “You were one of Sicarus’s mercenaries then, if I recall, yet you are now a captain in the imperial army.”
Casca smiled as he poured himself a glass of Falernian and handed the bottle back to the general. “I was lucky I suppose,” he said thoughtfully, “I had a sponsor in the Empress.”
Belisarius snorted and turned to face the other person in the room, Procopius. The elderly historian pulled a face. “Are you a friend of hers?”
Casca looked at the three men in a confused manner. What was going on here? The three had some sort of conspiratorial air and something told him to tread very softly. “Not really, she just took a shine to me. I don’t think I’m favored anymore,” he added, sipping on the wine.
Procopius laughed nastily. “I bet she did, the harlot! You know she once complained she hadn’t enough orifices to satisfy her lust? She wouldn't stop at anything....”
“Oh shut up, you sanctimonious old hypocrite!” Sicarus interrupted, “you’d pay to watch her perform.”
Procopius lapsed into a hurt silence and glared at the mercenary leader while Belisarius waved for silence. Casca knew that the old man didn’t like Theodora but he seemed very bitter indeed towards the Empress and he wondered why.
Belisarius cleared his throat delicately. “Pay no attention to Procopius here. He’s just jealous of you.” The general ignored the indescribable noise from the corner and continued. “Usually I am wary of officers appointed by the Court but in this instance it seems that they have done me a service, even if you were appointed to John’s force. However as the commanding officer in the field I have the authority to promote anyone I see fit and to transfer them from one unit to another. From your actions yesterday I was very impressed at the way you led your men into the enemy line and I need officers like you to set the rest an example. Accordingly,” Belisarius picked up a pen and scribbled on a sheet of paper, “you are from this moment on promoted to Vicarius and will take charge of the scutati under the command of the Comes.” The Comes was a senior officer in charge of a large unit of men, under whom were any number of Vicarii.
Casca looked at Sicarus in surprise. It seemed as though his abilities in warfare often gave him the opportunity to progress through the ranks. By Jupiter’s brass balls, he thought to himself, at this rate I could become Emperor! He then thought better of that, not wanting the dubious pleasure of having to cope with intriguing factions in the Court and quelling insurrections every so often. Added to that the obvious fact of him not ageing which would cause a problem or two in time. No, he thought decisively, I am a common soldier and that will be what I’ll remain until the Second Coming, whenever that will be, no matter that I may briefly be a god or general. Soon enough I’d screw up and end up with my ass in a sling and be bounced back down to peasant, class two. Such is the way of things. For now being second-in-command to the commander of the main line infantry will do me just fine.
Belisarius pulled a dog-eared map out from under a pile of papers and smoothed it out on the table. “I have already given my orders to the commanders in the field, but since you are now a senior officer in my forces I will give you this information as well.” He pointed to Rome on the map of the Italian peninsula. “Now the Goths have been dispersed we are free to continue our progress north. John is holding Ariminum but that is too far north for us to hold securely for the moment, so we will advance to Ancona where I shall establish my forward base. You are to assist your Comes in getting the scutati – the infantry - ready for the march across the Apennines. You will find him close to the Flaminium Gate and goes by the name Vitalius. Any questions?”
Casca shook his head. Belisarius had no equal in strategy and he was quite prepared to go along with any plan he had. Besides, that impetuous idiot John had put himself out on a limb by taking Ariminum and once the Goths reorganized themselves he would be attacked, which was what Belisarius was trying to avoid by advancing on Ancona.
Belisarius grunted. “Good, you are dismissed.”
Casca gave the old Roman salute of thumping his right fist against his chest which surprised Belisarius, before leaving the general’s quarters, the order of promotion in his hand. He would present it to Vitalius then meet his new command and assess their discipline. If he thought it to be lax then he would put them all through a crash course of Roman drill. That would sort out the men from the boys, by Mithras!
Vitalius was unimpressed by Casca’s promotion and gruffly told him to get his new rank colors and report to the barracks down the Via Tita where his quarters were located. He would have a personal servant to see to his uniform and weapons, and to any other small comforts he might desire. Casca grumbled to himself under his breath: “I wonder if he could sort out a pain in the ass?” before doing as ordered.
His quarters were simple and functional and his servant a tired looking Roman of middle age who had served the great families of Rome before the Goths had taken them away to Ravenna at the start of the war. Rumors had recently been circulated that these families had been slaughtered in response to Rome’s support of the Byzantines, but so far that hadn’t been proven. Even so, the poor man was pessimistic about their survival chances and he carried with him an air of gloom wherever he went which thoroughly got on Casca’s nerves within an hour of him arriving.
The next morning he ordered the troops, all three thousand of them, to report to the Circus Maximus for a shake down to see just how good they were. The Circus was still in use, even after all this time. They raced here, just like in Constantinople, and it was strange standing in the same arena he’d killed Jubala all those years ago. He climbed the stone stairs to the imperial box slowly, his mind whirling with memories.
He stood, his back to the empty Imperial Palace of Septimus Severus that had been built long after he’d fought here, on the very spot where all those years ago Nero had sat watching him perform at the gladiatorial games, and a sense of irony washed over him. What was it he had said to Nero’s statue all those centuries ago? Yes, that’s it, I will outlive you, you who believe you are a god. Yes, I have outlived you and now I have returned to where you sat all that time ago fondling that prostitute’s tits while I stood there in that blood soaked sand waiting for you to give me permission to start killing my opponents. Casca snorted at the memory and focused his attention on the ranks of men assembled beneath him, sweating under their mail armor, their helms, and their tunics. They looked a sorry lot.
Casca noted the variety of weapons which ranged from the ax to the spear and the different types of sword each man carried. A lot could be learned from a man’s weapons, from how clean he kept them to how he carried them. A sloppy soldier could be spotted a mile off and by Jupiter’s gonads there were a fair number of those down there! He next focused his attention on the officers, standing in front of their regiments of three hundred men and picked out one or two who had sour expressions on their faces. He would kick those into line or they’d be busted in double time. There’d be no slackers in his unit!
He fil
led his lungs and began. “Good morning. I am the new Vicarius, Longinus. I can speak any language you care to try plus some that none of you will have ever heard, and that includes all the swear words! So by the time I’ve finished with you today you’ll be tempted to use all of them in your native languages aimed at me. If you do make sure I’m not in earshot or I’ll tear your tongues out. Now I’ve summoned you all here to see how fit you are after wasting your time here in Rome over the last year. We’re about to go on a cross country march and I don’t want any of you dropping out because you’re unfit, nor do I want you lot to fall to any Gothic attack because you don’t know how to react to one. I also want to know if you can set a camp properly so I will be watching the officers as well. If I’m not satisfied I’ll want it done again, and again and again until I am.” He saw the dismay cross many of their faces and knew he had a task on his hands. “So, to start with, I want you all to march at normal pace around this stadium until I say stop.”
