by Tony Roberts
“Excuse me sir,” the soldier said apologetically, “but your presence is required at the Harbor of Hormisdas where general Belisarius is waiting to cross to Chalcedon.”
Casca groaned again and waved the man in. The soldier, a fresh faced messenger, gaped at the sight of the naked breasts of the woman lying on the bed, still asleep. Casca noticed the look and grinned lopsidedly, pulling on his tunic. “Don’t ask, I can’t remember.”
The messenger colored a little and looked out of the window onto the Propontis. Lacing up his boots Casca frowned. “I’ll have to go home to get my uniform and equipment, I hope you can spare the time.”
“Already collected, sir,” the messenger turned around, caught sight of the woman’s buttocks as she shifted position, swallowed and looked out of the window again.
Not a bad filly, Casca thought to himself as he buttoned up his tunic, even though I can’t remember a damned thing about her. Throwing a coin onto the table by the bed Casca took his leave of the woman, following the messenger down the stairs into the street and down the hill to the harbor, through the great wall built by Constantine. Casca still felt like shit and the headache wouldn’t go away and he was convinced that the motion of water would set his stomach off even though he had sea legs. Belisarius stood on the deck of the ship awaiting him and shook his head when Casca reported to him. “It’s nice of you to make it, Vicarius Longinus,” he said evenly.
Was he being sarcastic or what? Casca grumbled under his breath, you could never be sure with him. Belisarius did look pissed this morning and he wondered why. “We had to search all the taverns along the waterfront to find you,” Belisarius continued, “and we would have left if you hadn’t been found in another half an hour. Get yourself cleaned up and report to me in my quarters once you're presentable.”
“Yes sir,” Casca said brightly and allowed the fresh faced messenger to lead him to his quarters just below the main deck. He turned to the young man. “So what’s up with him?”
“Don’t know, sir. He was like it first thing this morning.”
Casca grunted. Probably wife trouble, he mused. His wife Antonina was notoriously unfaithful and the soldiers called her The Chariot - because of the number of men that had ridden her - whenever the general wasn’t around. Antonina was pally with Theodora and the two of them often intrigued against members of Justinian’s court if they didn't like them. Belisarius brought her along on his campaigns to keep an eye on her but today she was conspicuous by her absence so perhaps she was not aboard.
By the time he was dressed, shaven and washed, they were at sea and crossing over to the Asian shore, a journey he had first made before meeting the boy Jugotai over two centuries ago. Belisarius greeted him cordially enough and bade him sit at the table, offering him a meal of raw fish which Casca declined with a shudder. The general shrugged and unrolled a map of Anatolia and the southern shore of the Black Sea, jabbing a finger along the south eastern corner of the latter. “Here is where we shall fight the Persians. Khusrau has made an error in his strategy by not conquering the lands he has plundered. If he had held onto Antioch and Edessa and all those towns and cities in between we would not have the manpower available to raise an army to fight back. However that is his mistake. He is now concentrating on the kingdom of Lazica here on the Black Sea coast. The Persians have already taken the capital Petra and are leaving garrisons behind where they go, thus it appears they are going to annex it. This has left their Mesopotamian defenses open for our advance which we will make with all speed. I have brought with me Gothic and other barbarian units which you will command. They are awaiting us on the far shore and we will march eastwards as soon as we land.”
Casca stared at the map. For Belisarius it wasn’t a particularly brilliant plan and he was disappointed to say the least, having found him to be a great strategist. This was merely an aimless thrust with no strategic aim, a retaliatory strike against an undefended frontier. By the One-eyed Loki, he thought to himself, we’d better get moving or we'll get caught in the Persian summer and that's no fun. Belisarius then seemed to go off the idea of talking about military matters and carried on with his meal which Casca found he couldn’t face, so he made his excuses and hurriedly left for the outside air, his stomach churning.
The Goths were formed from those barbarians captured at Ravenna and Casca took charge of them with a thoughtful rub of the back of his head, vowing never to turn his back on a Goth without making sure of his loyalty first. Pleased he had a horse to ride, provided by the Count of the Stables, the officer in charge of the horses, he inspected the sullen, hairy horde he was commanding. Taking off his imperial helm he sat straight in the saddle and filled his lungs with air. In German he addressed them: “Warriors of the Gothic nation, you have been selected to serve the Empire in its war with the hated Persians. Your loyalty is to the Emperor, your generals and me. Serve me well and you shall be rewarded with booty and such, but if you have any ideas of turning against me I’ll personally rip your arms off and stuff them somewhere very painful, believe me. We are going to march to the east during which time I shall select officers from amongst you and root out any trouble makers. If any of you have any problems then bring them to my attention and I shall try to sort them out justly and fairly. That is all.”
He turned back in his saddle to face the route they would have to take to Nicomedia, hoping that the Goths would see sense and accept him as their commander, otherwise he’d have all sorts of trouble to contend with before they got to the Persian border. With a sense of foreboding he made the signal for his troops to follow him out of Chalcedon and into Anatolia.
To his surprise the sullen assembly remained where they were, eyeing him with obvious dislike. Casca ran his eyes over the Goths, all standing in a ragged group, and got off his mount. He walked slowly up to the front rank and stood there, arms on hips, judging which particular filthy, hairy, ugly specimen was responsible for the apparent mutiny. “Frightened of the perfumed Persians?” he jeered. “Well no wonder we Greeks beat you so easily. You're nothing but a collection of little children too scared to go out in the dark.”
“You talk big,” one of the Goths, a huge blond haired man with a soiled chain mail hauberk and a dull red-brown leather jerkin, replied. Casca walked a few paces until he was stood facing the bearded man. He had a rough and craggy face; he hadn't shaved for weeks and his blue eyes glared at him from under a huge overhang.
“So?” Casca challenged him, a sneer on his face. “What are you going to do about it, you trembling coward?”
The Goth shook with rage. He held a stout spear and from his wide brown leather belt hung an immense sword with a blade of at least four feet in length. He towered over Casca by a good six inches and with the conical iron helmet to top his height, he seemed to fill the sky. Casca was reminded a little of Glam, but this man wasn't as wide or smooth skinned.
“If you're an example of the men I'm to lead you might as well cut your own throats here and now; you'll be useless in a battle.” He turned his back on the Goth and walked two paces, dismissing the warrior with an insult to end all insults. There came a roar of outrage from behind and the pounding of feet on the dry, dusty soil. Casca whirled, his hands outstretched. As the Goth reached him, hands clawed to close round his throat, Casca’s hands closed round the Goth’s forearms and, to the open-mouthed soldiers, seemed to exert very little effort in pulling the enraged man up and over his pivoting figure, adding his swing to the momentum of the attack.
The Goth yelled in shock as he went sailing through the air to land in an undignified heap ten feet from Casca, sending up a huge cloud of dust. He lay there for a moment, stunned, then got to his feet, his face red. Never before had he been shamed in front of his people! To be thrown so easily by this smaller man from the hated Imperial army!
Casca stood waiting, mocking him with his posture. “Come on, I’m getting thirsty waiting here for you to try again,” he said.
There were growls from th
e ranks of watching men. Some were urging the red-faced Goth to kill this impudent Greek. They began thumping the ground with the butts of their spears or striking their shields. The Goth lowered his head, like that of a bull before the charge, and came at Casca again, arms widespread. This time Casca half turned so his left side was presented to the attacking man and he grabbed the left arm. Casca turned again as the Goth crashed into him, bending almost double, pulling the Goth down across his back. He then straightened with a convulsive jerk and sent the Goth up and then down, still pulling on the left arm.
This time the crash of him hitting the ground sent his helmet spinning off, the sun flashing off the metal. Casca still had the left arm locked and pulled it across the Goth’s back, kneeling onto the hapless man. The victim wasn’t really aware of what was going on and Casca closed his knees onto the man’s ears, locking his head against the stony soil. “Now, you ugly lump of hogshit,” Casca said evenly, “I can break your arm, or your neck. Or even both. What do you want broken?”
“Please,” the Goth’s voice came from the ground, muffled, “I submit to a superior warrior. I shall be your faithful guard, I swear!”
Casca paused. His knowledge of the old ways of the tribes might be of some help here. He leaned forward. “Do you swear fealty to me? Acknowledge me as your lord and master?”
“I so swear,” the man replied, trembling in either rage or shame. Casca grunted and relaxed, standing up. The Goth got to his feet slowly, his face filthy, his facial hair matted with sweat and dirt. He knelt in front of Casca and pulled Casca’s right foot up onto his head. Casca nodded and allowed him to stand. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Gundoric, uh…”
“Just call me sir,” Casca replied. “Gundoric, eh? You look useful enough to handle most of what comes your way. Like to be my captain of the bodyguards?”
Gundoric bowed, then looked troubled. “But you defeated me easily, sir. A warrior so shamed could not be a bodyguard. How did you do that?”
Casca picked up Gundoric’s helm and passed it to him. “Stand next to me, Gundoric. It’s an old trick shown me by a little yellow man from far away. Not many know of these ways, do not fear.” He stood and faced the line of Goths who looked more impressed with their leader than before. “Anyone else wants to dispute my command? If I can do that to Gundoric, just what could I do to each of you? Well?”
There were mutters and shuffling of feet. Casca drew in a deep lungful of air. The dejected men wouldn’t be worth much in a fight as they were now. He badly needed to lick them into shape. Losing in Italy had knocked their confidence, and seeing one of the biggest of them floored so easily hadn’t done their morale any good either. “Okay, here’s how it’ll be. We’ve got a long way to go to the frontier. Along the way I’m going to choose squad leaders out of you. I’ll have Gundoric here to enforce discipline, and he’s got my authority to crack a few skulls if some of you don’t obey. Then we train in some basic tactics you’ll need to learn before you go into battle against the Persians. Any of you faced them before?”
There was silence. A few shook their heads. Casca sighed and looked along the line both ways. “The best of you I’ll put into the bodyguard. You’ll be under Gundoric here. Your job will be to protect me at all costs. If I fall its eternal shame to you. Right, let’s go before the rest of the army wonder if we’ve all run away.”
The line of Goths rattled into order and with mutters of gloom and disgruntlement began walking out of the small settlement in the wake of their commander who once more was on horseback, Gundoric walking alongside him.
* * * *
Ildebad the Goth relaxed in his headquarters as his guests settled down to dinner to celebrate his accession as their leader in place of the captured Vitiges. He had always been the most vociferous of the dissenting Gothic generals as the war had gone from bad to worse and his garrison in Verona had immediately called for him to take Vitiges’ place following Ravenna's fall. There weren’t any other self-proclaimed candidates and it was easy for the remaining Gothic leaders to elect him as their king. In recognition to his supporters he now held this banquet for them, the guests arriving from Pavia, Turin, Padua and the other unconquered cities. They all had reported no trouble in getting here and Ildebad wondered why. Since Belisarius had departed with some of his army the Byzantine forces had been shared between five generals who had begun squabbling and carving up the peninsula for themselves. If he could unite the various Gothic forces into one army he could pick off the five Greek armies one by one and recapture those lost territories. Perhaps the war wasn’t lost yet.
He would behead the collaborators to show the rest that Gothic strength had not diminished and could once again be feared throughout the West. It would show those upstart Franks not to consider crossing the Alps again or else. Ildebad smiled to himself. Yes, that would be the way forward. Then he would inspire his people to surge forward and capture more land, particularly Africa which would serve as their granary, and perhaps enter into an alliance with their brothers, the Visigoths who held all Spain, against the Franks. Then most of the Western Roman Empire’s former lands would become Gothic, forging a nation that would never be extinguished!
He looked down at his table and spied a particularly large and succulent looking apple, his mouth watering. He reached out and grasped it, then jerked in a reflex action as his head was sent tumbling from his shoulders to land a few feet away, staring at his executioner Velas, one of his bodyguards. Velas stood and smiled at his handiwork. That was the end of the ineffective Ildebad, and he thought happily of the rewards he would receive for faithfully serving the Brotherhood, blessed be the Lamb, Jesus! Now perhaps an effective leader would be elected to restore the Gothic nation.
Velas would not live long to see the consequence of his action, for once the aghast supporters of Ildebad had recovered from the shock of his death the bodyguard was set upon, disarmed and sentenced to death. Unfortunately for Velas, the Goths elected another nonentity, Eraric, who immediately entered into negotiations with Justinian as to the partition of the remaining territories in northern Italy.
* * *
The march through Anatolia in the sun was harsh and some of the soldiers suffered badly. Casca had to get Gundoric to kick a few of the more reluctant members of his happy band to keep up with the main body. Each time it seemed as though they couldn’t go another step, one of the supply points Belisarius had arranged hove into view, and the grateful soldiers fell out to drink and eat.
At each of these stops Casca took the opportunity to sort out the leaders from those who would be led. He liked the look of one tall and lithe man, Frindicar, who seemed more intelligent than most of the others and promoted him to second in command on the spot and assigned half of the men to him. Gundoric made a few suggestions of men to add to the bodyguard and Casca interviewed each himself. It generally went the same way, as it had on the first instance when they had stopped at a place called Nicomedia, a day’s march from Chalcedon.
Casca had been watching one of the new recruits rubbing his horse down when Gundoric had approached him with two burly, very tall men. Both seemed to have been carved from the same outcrop of rock. “General!” Gundoric cried, using a term the Goth had decided was suitable for his commander. Casca had tried to explain he was a Vicarius but it went right over Gundoric’s head, who thought it made Casca sound like a disease. “Here’s two I think are fit to be in your bodyguard!”
Casca regarded at the two and thought they looked the part, but could they fight? “Alright, Gundoric, tell them to take up a guard position.” He drew out his own sword and faced the first, one who had a drooping mustache and a weather-beaten face. “Now listen well,” Casca addressed him. “You will try to kill me. Understand? No playing silly games here. Do your damned best to kill me. Go on.”
The man looked in disbelief at Casca, then at Gundoric who shrugged. The soldier gritted his teeth, settled down into an aggressive stance and eyed Casca war
ily. The memory of defeating the bigger Gundoric was still fresh in his mind. Casca faced him, sword weaving slightly, his shield to one side. After a moment or two, when a few interested spectators approached, sensing something was up, the man yelled and ran forward, sword high in the air.
Casca blocked it with his sword and slammed his shield round to strike the Goth in the face, stunning him and knocking him to the floor. On his knees, the man fully expected his head to be sent rolling across the dust, but Casca stepped back, shaking his head sadly. “I can’t be protected by someone who’s defeated this easily, Gundoric. Is this the best you’ve got?”
“Well, bugger me,” Gundoric grunted in astonishment, “this is one of the bravest men in my former squad!” He helped the groggy man up and motioned to the second man to step forward. “You watch this bastard’s shield! If you don’t I’ll have you peeling vegetables with the old crones of the camp!”
The second man swallowed and nodded eagerly. He was a younger man, his eyes were brighter and a look of caution came to him. Casca took two deep breaths and charged, screaming madly. The Goth stepped back in fright and took a backswing, his shield covering his torso. Casca jammed his leading foot in the ground, stopped and stepped back quickly as the Goth’s blade blurred in front of him, and missed.
Casca closed swiftly, locking his blade on the Goth’s so he couldn’t bring it back and he headbutted the Goth, knocking his helm off into the dust. The Goth staggered back and sat down heavily, clutching his face. Blood seeped through them.
“By the sweet blood of Jesus!” Gundoric exclaimed, hands on hips, “leave me some fucking men to command, General!”
“Pick better men, Gundoric, and not your own personal favorites. Pick the ugliest, nastiest ones amongst them. I want men who’ll scare the crap out of anyone who’ll face them. That’s the kind I want to defend me.” He had turned his back on the scene and ordered the rubbing down his horse to resume. Gundoric had shaken his head and wandered off, muttering, while the two crestfallen and hurt men slowly returned to their lines, their pride and esteem shaken.
