The Avenger

by Tony Roberts

  Footsteps in the corridor alerted him and the door was unlocked and swung open. A pair of tall guards stood behind the gaoler. “Up!” one barked, “steh auf!” Casca grumbled and scrambled to his feet and went out of the cell, brushing the straw off his clothing. “Folg!” the guard snarled Casca to follow and maneuvered the prisoner in between the two. He wondered if the guard could speak more than one word at a time. “Marsch!”

  Jawohl, jawohl, Casca thought wearily and marched with the two resplendent guards. They must be palace men judging by their attire. They tramped up the stairs, Casca trying to imitate the leg motions of the two guards to pass the time. They went along a couple of corridors before halting by a pair of double doors. “Halt!”

  This guy’s a real talker, Casca mused as he waited. The front guard knocked and the doors were opened inwards to reveal an antechamber. More guards stood in here at the other end by another pair of doors. A courtier beckoned Casca in. He left the two guards and went to the other doors. “What now?” Casca demanded, fed up with the lack of information.

  “In there. You go in alone,” the courtier said and the guards pulled the doors open. Casca wandered forward and the doors shut behind him. The chamber he found himself in was a large well decorated one with rich red curtains and drapes hanging from the ceiling, and thick furs on the stone floor. The best of old Roman furnishings were scattered about, testimony that this had been a palace of the Caesars less than a hundred years previously. The new owners hadn’t seen it necessary to replace the quality pieces of the previous, careless, owners.

  “So,” a feminine voice broke through Casca’s musings, “a mysterious Greek who speaks our old language and says he is a Latin.” Matasuntha unwound herself seductively from a marble column she’d been pressed against and glided towards Casca, her hips swaying slowly. Casca felt his blood race. Oh ho, this she-devil is after something. “You are an interesting man,” she continued, circling him. Casca caught sight of a couple of chamber guards standing by the door on the other side of the room. They looked north African, definitely not Gothic.

  Matasuntha was fair, had eyes of deep blue and a smooth skinned face with a turned-up button nose. She looked in her late teens, Casca thought. Her hair was arranged in curls and bound high with a red ribbon. “Highness - Hoheit?” Casca ventured in both Latin and German. He really didn’t know what she wanted. There again, with royalty you really didn’t know at any time.

  “I want to know how high you stand within the Greek Court,” she said in German, coming round to face Casca again. “Drink?” She clapped her hands and a servant appeared from behind some drapes with a tray with clear wine glasses on, full of a red wine. She smiled and took a glass and sat in one of the comfortable upholstered chairs close by. Casca shrugged, took the other and sank into another chair a few feet from Matasuntha.

  “I know the Empress Theodora,” Casca replied. “I owe my place in the army to her.”

  “Really?” Matasuntha’s eyes lit up and she pushed her breasts forward. “You are that well connected? Better than John, it would seem.”

  “John?” Casca paused in taking a sip. “He’s my former commander. What about him?”

  “Oh” she waved enigmatically, “that fool tried to offer me his hand in return for surrendering Ravenna to him.”

  Casca puffed out his cheeks. Well, that was a bolt out of the blue! No wonder John hadn’t wished to retreat from Ariminum! He’d been after the Gothic throne! “And what about your husband, the king? I think he might have had something to say about that, highness.”

  Matasuntha smiled, allowing her split dress to slide off her long, shapely legs as she crossed them, giving Casca a wonderful view of her flawless skin. Casca swallowed. “My husband is an old man,” she said wearily, and he doesn’t satisfy me – in any manner,” she added, looking at Casca coyly. “So, I think we could make wonderful – allies.” Her smile was wide and beaming and Casca wasn’t fooled by it for one moment.

  “Highness?”

  “Oh, come!” she said sharply, “you’re not stupid. I’m asking if you can use your influence at the Greek court to secure my release from this prison of a marriage. All I need is for Vitiges to be – disposed of. I would be very grateful,” she wiggled her breasts again. “I would arrange for Ravenna to be surrendered in exchange for a marriage into the Greek hierarchy. What do you say? If you can use your influence you can, ah, remain here in my court until the embassy arrives from Constantinople. It may take a few weeks,” she ran her tongue over her teeth.

  Casca swallowed the acid wine and placed the glass down on the rug. “You’re asking me to arrange for the murder of an old man so you can screw some younger guy? Just because you’re bored?” He stood up and shook his head. “Besides, my influence at the Greek Court isn’t what it was. Theodora and I have had a falling out. I’m sorry but the answer is no.”

  Matasuntha remained still for a moment, her smile frozen, then she stood up abruptly. “You mean that harlot tired of your body.”

  “Harlot?” Casca grinned. “You’re obviously catching her up in that respect.”

  The queen stood there stunned for a moment; then slapped him across the face. “You will pay for that insult,” she hissed. She clicked her fingers and the guards advanced, swords drawn. “You will rot in that cell of yours without food or water. I trust your demise is long and full of suffering!”

  Casca was pushed in front of the two guards. The door was hastily opened by one of the servants. As he reached the corridor Casca turned and looked back at the furious queen. “What a pity,” he said loudly, “that you’re such a bitch.”

  As Casca was led along the passage he heard a long scream of rage pour out of the doorway. He laughed, then received a sharp blow on the head from one of the guards. They ushered him back to the cell where he was thrown in roughly, and the door was slammed shut, leaving him alone to contemplate his future. From the sounds of movement along the floor he knew he would have food to sustain him although the thought of it didn’t appeal to him much. He would probably wait until hunger dug deep into him before catching the rats, mice and insects that inhabited the cell. The more important and pressing matter would be water. He had to find some source of liquid or he’d dehydrate. He moved to the walls and slid his hands over them and found what he wanted on the far wall. It was damp and this would provide him with the sustenance he needed. Perhaps it was rainwater seeping in or there was condensation here. Who cared as long as he got water? He settled down and waited for his release, contenting himself with sleeping for long periods and exercising strenuously when he woke. It wasn’t long before he felt hungry enough to catch his first rat.

  * * *

  He lost all track of time in between eating, sleeping and hunting, and despite his efforts to keep fit he slipped deeper into a state approaching hibernation as his metabolic rate slowed to keep pace with his vastly reduced intake. Any stored fat was used to keep his body nourished, and to compensate for a reduced reserve of energy his body switched itself off for longer and longer periods.

  * * *

  The door opened noisily and light spilled in, waking the filthy bearded wretch from another long sleep. “Well, would you look at him?” came a familiar voice, “leave him for any time and he lets himself go!”

  Casca tried to smile but his face really wasn't up to it, so he slowly climbed to his feet and shambled out of his cell to greet Sicarus. “How long has it been?” he asked in a croaky, dry voice.

  “Four months since you were captured,” his friend said. “Ravenna is ours, it surrendered yesterday. Phaw! You need a bath, my friend.”

  Casca agreed and readily allowed himself to be led to one of the former Roman public baths where he ripped off his moldy and rotting clothes and sank gratefully into the warm waters with a sigh. “Bring me food and wine!” Sicarus commanded to a captive Gothic woman who ran off at once. As Casca enjoyed the soothing waters Sicarus brought him up to date with events. Belisarius had rejected
any truce offers from Vitiges but then had been advised by his Emperor to accept a peace offer allowing the Goths to keep half of their treasure plus all territory north of the River Po. The general had been stunned by the news but had sat on it for a few days by which time the Goths had got wind of it and had suspected a trick, stating they would not accept this offer unless Belisarius signed the document as well. Belisarius threw out the proposal and informed the Goths that they were close to surrender anyway so it didn’t matter waiting a little longer.

  Vitiges was desperate by now and offered giving up the throne if Belisarius took over as Emperor of the West, thereby offering to revive the Caesarship Odovacar had ended over sixty years before. Although Belisarius had no intention of setting himself up as a rival to Justinian, he saw here a chance to finish off the siege in one fell swoop without bloodshed and had given an ambiguous reply which could have been taken either way. Two days later the gates were opened and the Byzantine forces marched in and arrested Vitiges, Matasuntha and the Gothic nobility who were amazed when Belisarius informed them he had no intention of becoming Emperor. Casca’s whereabouts were revealed when one of the two Gothic turncoats were spotted and interrogated rather efficiently by Sicarus’s men.

  After a bath, a shave and a set of new clothes Casca sat down to eat his first proper food since being thrown into prison, a small bowl of olives and cheese washed down with a watery wine and by the end of it he was feeling much more like himself. It was after that that he heard Vitalius wanted his head for his harebrained patrol which had resulted in one prisoner of dubious value for the loss of himself and two Gothic soldiers. Vitalius hadn’t approved or even heard of the plan and had been embarrassed when Belisarius inquired as to the purpose of the patrol. Sicarus, Solemein and the others had been put through the third degree by Belisarius and Vitalius and were satisfied as to whose idea it was. The Gothic prisoner had given them some information as to the disposition of the defenses and the numbers of warriors manning the walls but these had proved valueless in the light of subsequent events.

  “I don’t think you’ve done your promotion changes any favors,” Sicarus laughed as he sat opposite his friend. “But at least you’re still with us. But once you’ve eaten they want to see you, probably to tear you up at little.”

  Casca nodded and threw the last of the cheese down his throat and got up. “Might as well get it over with,” he said. Sicarus led him through the corridors to the throne room where he’d seen the king after his capture. Belisarius welcomed Casca back warmly and inquired as to his health, remarking on the fact he had lost weight while in prison. Casca assured his general he was fine. Vitalius, standing close behind, then reprimanded him on the folly of such an action that had led to his capture, but Casca only half listened. As far as he was concerned the war was over and he would be returning soon to Constantinople and Carina and Delia. However, Belisarius dashed any hopes to that effect with his next words. “We have been recalled to Constantinople to prepare to move to the east. Persia has invaded Mesopotamia and is heading for Syria. We have finished one war only to find another has sprung up in its place.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  If Belisarius had expected a triumphal welcome in the capital, then he was sorely disappointed. Justinian only gave him a lukewarm greeting before ordering him to prepare an army for the Persians. Khusrau had personally led his army to Antioch and had destroyed it, dragging off its population back to Persia before returning to his own territory, laying waste to everything in his path. It appeared he wasn’t interested in conquest this time, merely contenting himself with plunder.

  Casca had said his goodbyes to Sicarus and the mercenaries. They were remaining in Italy to mop up the remaining Gothic enclaves with half of the army. They’d spent their last night in Ravenna together by getting roaring drunk.

  Belisarius returned to his home with his wife Antonina who had been with him while in Italy to ready himself while Casca entered his own home, greeting Torgeth, Carina and Delia. Delia was a little unsure of him at first, having not seen him for three years but she soon got over her initial caution. The girl had certainly grown and was now nearly ten while another shock awaited him. Carina was pregnant.

  It wasn’t hard to guess who the father was and Torgeth soon admitted it when pressed by the Roman, whereupon Carina intervened and told Casca she had fallen for the German and they had been lovers for over a year now. Casca felt cheated having been at war all this time while a trusted friend had cuckolded him. He felt rage building up inside him at this injustice and the look on his face compelled Torgeth to back away. Never had he seen such fury before and he felt as though his life was in real danger. Barely controlling himself Casca hissed at the man to get out.

  “If he goes then so do Delia and I,” Carina said. “I am carrying his child, and if it means sacrificing our standard of living then so be it. For I love him and I will not live apart from him. I cannot live with a man who leaves me to go to war. If you had stayed then we would have been together still. I need a man here, not one who deserts me. I’m sorry that this has happened but what I felt for you wasn’t the same as I feel for Torgeth. I was grateful to you for what you did but now I realize that it wasn’t love in my heart. If you want to blame anyone then blame me, but don’t punish him for my feelings.”

  Casca faced the woman for a long moment, then stamped out of the house, ready to kick over the statue of Constantine. He wanted to destroy something, to smash, break, pulverize. In a state of rage he stormed through the streets of the city until he came to a paved square running off the main street. He looked at it for a moment before sinking down onto a handy bench.

  When he had returned to Constantinople the last time he had been bent on destroying the Brotherhood but most of that anger had gone and he realized anyway they were far too numerous to wipe out. Nothing could bring back Ireina and Demos and although he thought he had found another woman she had now turned her back on him for another man. He contemplated his future. It was unreasonable to think he would provide a better future for Carina than Torgeth could, for one day he would have to leave the woman as she got older and he remained the same. Torgeth could give her a normal life and a child, while he could give her neither.

  A great feeling of sadness and loneliness overtook him and he put his hands to his face and wept, all the bitterness he had felt towards Torgeth and Carina came flooding out together with a great deal of self-pity. He didn’t know how long he sat there but when he raised a tear stained face he saw it was late afternoon. Better to return to the house and let the others know they could stay there, for he wouldn’t be staying in the city for long and besides he would be on his way to another place shortly afterwards. He had never felt at home in one place for long - perhaps with the sole exception of the now abandoned Helsfjord - and he knew he would be off to another land in a few years hence.

  What he really needed now was to get absolutely roaring drunk, and a roll with some comely wench, something he also hadn’t done in a while.

  In a better state of mind than he had been that morning, he set out to return to his house which he would leave to Carina as a wedding present. Then at least young Delia would have a secure home to grow up in. Torgeth was waiting for his return with all his possessions packed as was Carina and both were surprised at Casca’s insistence that they remained, Carina even more stunned at Casca’s gift to her which moved her to tears, literally. She sobbed out her thanks in an embrace that embarrassed him and Torgeth cleared his throat a couple of times before he managed to speak his thanks.

  Casca sat down for an afternoon meal with the others and it was there he told them he was shortly off to the war in Mesopotamia. “Belisarius is the new Magister Militum per Orientis, and that means he’s the commander of the Eastern army which is under someone called Buzes at the moment. He’s busy preparing reinforcements to carry the war into Persian territory - if he can get any - and planning where he can attack. I understand the Emperor’s pissed off w
ith what happened at Antioch and wants to teach this Khusrau a lesson.”

  Torgeth frowned deeply. “But isn’t there a lack of soldiers?”

  “Yeah, that’s the problem. Justinian needs mercenaries by the shipload and he hasn’t got the money for them. Even the army is in arrears.”

  “He’s spent it all on churches,” Torgeth said, “or in bribing the Bulgars to stay on the other side of the Danube.”

  Casca snorted. Bribes never sorted out the problem and only encouraged those who received them to demand more and more, and then that never guaranteed immunity from attack. But the Empire was fighting on two fronts and couldn’t spare any more men to defend a third, so it was hard to see what else the Emperor could do.

  After the meal Casca made his excuses and said he’d be back the following day to collect his stuff. He was going to go down to the harbor front and find a tavern to spend the evening and get stoned out of his skull!

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The pounding in his head was the first thing he was aware of the next morning, thumping away like Thor’s hammer, Mjolnir. The second thing he discovered was he was paralyzed, he couldn’t move! Then he discovered why he couldn't move - there was a naked woman lying on top of him asleep. He closed his eyes and tried to remember what had gone on the previous evening but everything that happened after the raucous rendition of a particularly filthy seaman’s song, sung while dancing on the table tops arms linked with a collection of sailors, whores and drunken soldiers, eluded him.

  The pounding became more insistent and it was then that he realized that it was someone at the door of the room who was banging away. Cursing and groaning, he pushed the soft, yielding flesh off him and staggered towards the door, grabbing his breeches and managing to slip them on without falling over. He yanked open the door and glared at the man standing there attired in full imperial dress from head to toe. “What d’you want?” he growled.