by Tony Roberts
The guard carefully scrutinized Casca again. Big, broad, scarred, hard-looking face. Definitely a man not to underestimate. “Tell you what. We have a fight here. You win, you join our unit. You lose, I take her off you and she becomes mine.”
Casca snorted and turned around to Greta. “Seems he’s taken by you, Greta. Thinks he can take me too. Would you prefer him as he is or with a smashed face?”
She pulled a face. Men! “I think I’m old enough to make the choice for myself.”
The guard puffed out his chest. “Why waste your loins on that Latin whelp? Wouldn’t you prefer some good old German love?”
Greta looked away and stared at Casca. She knew how good he was. “Fight him. Teach this pig a lesson.”
Casca kissed her long, hard and passionately, right in front of the three Germans. He took his time tasting her sweet lips and mouth, knowing it pissed them off real good. He winked at her and passed her his sword and spear. “So, do I have the pleasure of knowing the name of the man before I beat him?”
“Widukind,” the German scowled, passing his cloak and weaponry to his comrades, flexing his muscles and circling Casca, growling.
Casca followed him, clenching his fists. “So what’s the rules?”
Widukind grinned and suddenly threw a punch. “There ain’t any!”
Casca rode the punch, and blocked the follow-up. He sent a counter in at the Lombard’s face and heard him grunt in pain. Widukind came at him again, fist scything through the air but Casca grabbed the wrist and turned, pulling his opponent against his back. One sharp jab with the elbow into his guts later and Widukind was trying not to throw up. Casca then used his right foot and pulled Widukind’s legs off the ground and the German crashed to the grass heavily.
“Get up, shithead,” Casca said, working his jaw. He’d been hit hard but hadn’t wanted his adversary to know it.
Widukind’s face was dark from both rage and shame. He scrambled to his feet, and with a growl, charged at the man he wanted to rend limb from limb. Casca turned quickly, and with a strange movement of his hips and legs, kicked hard into the chest of the Lombard, sending him up off his feet to crash heavily onto the grass.
Casca walked up to the winded man and stood over him, wiping his hands together. “That settles that question,” he said softly. He held Widukind’s eye for a long moment, then extended a hand. “No shame in losing to a fellow warrior.”
Widukind grimaced; his chest hurt. Nobody had kicked like that before. He was like a horse. He took Casca’s hand and was pulled up. His grip was like iron. He wasn’t to know, of course that Casca had gotten his grip from years as a slave on the galleys of Rome. “Yeah, although I can’t agree you fought fairly!”
“Seemed fair to me,” another guard observed, a smile on his lips. “You got whipped fair and square. Name’s Gerhard,” he said, offering Casca his hand, which the eternal mercenary took. “Welcome to our tough little band. We serve Theudoald, a noble who is cup-bearer to the king. You’ll have to prove yourself to him, of course, but I can’t see any problem from what I’ve seen so far!”
Casca grinned, putting an arm around Greta’s shoulders. He felt satisfied with what had happened so far, and silently thanked the long-dead friend of his, the Chinese sage Shiu Lao Tze, who had taught him the moves of the Way of the Open Hand which he’d used to defeat Widukind.
They were shown through the gate into the old Roman Vicus. Like many former Roman settlements, the walls were showing signs of falling down, but where they had been maintained, were still looking in good condition. Some places the stonework had decayed so badly that the old insulae were being used as quarries for material to build new houses.
Off to the left Casca caught sight of a curved roof and smiled. A thermae. He wondered if the plumbing was still working for the baths. He doubted it. People were passing by in large numbers, but there were just as many armed soldiers as civilians. Having so many armed men in one place, especially in a town, was a recipe for trouble. The women folk would be at risk of being taken – or even being tempted by the big males. That would lead to even more trouble with the husbands.
The old forum lay ahead, and Widukind led them off to the right of this along a row of newly built houses with stone foundations and wooden walls and roofs. Most were occupied, but they were led to one of the unoccupied ones and shown in. “Get settled in, then an escort will be sent to take you to see Theudoald. Address him as Chieftain.” With that he was gone.
Casca was taken by two serious-looking men armed with swords and axes, and they went to one of the big houses still looking in a reasonable condition. Inside, a lot of the interior décor and walls had gone, and temporary wooden partitions and screens of cloth had been put up in their place.
Theudoald was seated on a stout wooden chair with a high back, made in the Germanic style, with a carving of some kind of bird high on the headboard. This was clearly a relic of the pagan past of the Lombards, and maybe they were still mostly that at heart. Christianity hadn’t taken such a serious grip here as it had in the Roman world.
Casca was made to kneel, and got up on command. The chieftain gave him a pretty good examination, one hand on his hairy chin. “So, a Latin wanting service with me.” He stroked his beard thoughtfully, looking at the bulging muscles, the scars, the relaxed yet alert stance. A very dangerous man indeed. “You like dressing and styling yourself as one of my people, but tell me, Latin, why forsake your own kind?”
Casca shrugged briefly. “My homeland is a mess; twenty years of war has left it devastated, and I blame the Goths for it. They were foreigners who aspired to something they were not and could not be, and in the end they were brought down by the Greeks. I sided with them against the Goths, but when the war looked as if it was won, I incurred the wrath of their general, Narses, and decided I would be safer with your people. In fact, I fought as one in the last great battle, and I killed many Goths.” He smiled. It never hurt to boast of your achievements in battle to one of a warrior race.
Theudoald chuckled. “I can believe that, and I also hear you’re just as adept with your fists. That warrior you beat, he’s well-known to me.”
“We had an argument that was settled in the honorable way, sire.”
“So I heard. And you have taken a Lombard woman as yours?”
Casca grinned. “A strong warrior such as I needs a strong woman. What better than the arms and thighs of a woman of the tribes?”
That got laughs from the Lombards to either side of the Thegn. Theudoald smiled slightly. “Of course. Strength is respected here, whether it be male or female. You pledge yourself to me? If you do, then I cannot see any problem in joining my household.”
Casca readily gave his pledge.
The Thegn smiled in a wolf-like manner. “Good. Now your fighting skills will soon be put to the test. We are to march east in two days’ time. We are going to fight the Gepids in battle!”
___
The army marched slowly across the Pannonian plain. They crossed the mighty Ister by a long wooden bridge, then a few days later another huge river was crossed, again by a long wooden bridge. He heard mention of it as being the Tisla. This was outside old Roman lands and was all new to him. It took the army two days to cross the river and a camp was set up on the far side. Word went round; here they were in Gepid lands, and riders were sent out far and wide to seek the enemy.
Casca and Greta got a tent to themselves, a small one, but big enough for them and their belongings, few as they were. The days were hot but they had rain on a few of them which helped cool them down. Autumn was not far off but Audoin was clearly intent on settling matters sooner rather than later.
When word came that the Gepids were closing from the south-east, the army marched off east and camped on a slope, hidden from any approach in the directions the Gepids would be coming from. King Audoin had selected the place of battle, a place the Lombards were calling Asfeld.
CHAPTER SIX
That evening
they gathered around the campfires and exchanged stories. Casca listened to the tales of the Lombards that night. He’d not made friends with any of them on the journey so far, and wanted to establish a camaraderie with them, for they would be very soon fighting alongside one another, and he couldn’t go onto the battlefield without knowing something about the men around him.
The unit’s way of fighting was something he needed to get to grips with, too. He had done his bit so far on guard duty and learning who was where in the chain of command. Naturally, he got the shitty jobs, which he expected. Because they were an elite unit and full-time warriors as opposed to the majority here who were only called up for the campaign from their farming or artisan lives, they got better armor and weaponry. Casca was yet to get his chainmail hauberk, but he was happy with his long-bladed sword. He had a circular wooden shield with a central boss of iron and a spear with a shaft of ash, just like the majority of the army, but it was his sword that he would put most of his faith in.
He had been told that he would get a proper set of armor once they got back to Theudoald’s fief. He was bigger than many men so it had been hard to get one to fit him. Greta was happy about the prospect of returning to a permanent place to live, as she was eager to begin setting up a proper home with her man.
Much of the discussion was about the coming battle. They were part of the reserve, an elite shock group with two purposes; first, to hurry to a threatened spot if it looked as if they were going to collapse, and secondly, to launch a decisive blow to tip the balance of the struggle.
He was asked if he’d faced the Gepids before. Casca leaned back and nodded. His eyes closed for a moment as he saw Lauderrieks, a Gepid chieftain, taking Casca’s spear through his chest. “Once. They hold no fears for me. They die just as easily as Goths.”
He glanced over to Widukind as Greta handed Casca a cup of mead before settling down by his side. The Lombard still had eyes for her, by the looks of things. Casca guessed he might have to keep a watch on the warrior.
The new morning brought a chilling, misty start, and dew was heavy on the ground. The Lombards ate a light breakfast, washed down with some of last night’s alcohol, before grabbing their armor and weaponry, and assembled at the far end of the camp, close to the top of the ridge. Greta got a farewell kiss and she smiled sickly. The worry of Casca falling was clear to anyone, and Casca took her head in his rough calloused hands and smiled into her blue eyes. “I’ll return to you, don’t you worry. I promise.” He kissed her tenderly on the lips, then turned and walked off with the rest of his unit.
She stood there, her eyes closed, still feeling his lips on hers, until she sighed deeply and returned to her tent.
As Casca topped the rise, the Asfeld unfolded before him. It was a long, wide sward of grass, a big plainland field, sloping gently from the ridge the Lombard army was gathering on, down to the arriving Gepids at the far end near a small brook. The grass had been trampled by thousands of feet, along with a myriad of wild flowers of all colors and types, but he didn’t know their names. The warriors were assembling in lines left and right, garbed in a variety of colors and styles, most with spears and shields, but some also with bows.
He followed his unit across the slope to the right hand side of the lines, normally a favored position. They stood behind the ranks of the Lombardic levy warriors. The front rank had spears and shields, the second were bowmen, the third had axes and swords. Classic tactics of wearing out the enemy strength against your lesser men and then let loose the better armed, equipped and trained warriors on tired opposition.
Most of the Lombards were on foot, with just a small number mounted. These horsemen were placed behind the lines on the flanks, both to cover any outflanking maneuver, and also to possibly be used to envelop the enemy flanks and then help roll them up.
The archers readied their bows. They were the least armored of the army, wearing light felt hats and woolen or felt clothing, linen leggings tied to their legs below the knee by leather strips.
The sun beat down, causing the dew to evaporate in misty clouds, drifting up from the grass like departing spirits from the living world into the air. Across the field, some distance away, the Gepids could be seen working themselves up into a ferment, shouting insults at the cowardly Lombards. The Gepids saw themselves in the right, for this was their territory that had been invaded by the perfidious Lombards. They were defending their land, their homes, their families.
The battle would probably be decided by who had the better strength or stamina at pushing. Casca knew the general tactic of these sort of armies; two lines battering themselves silly against one another until one side cracked. It would be then that the most casualties would be incurred, the victors butchering the fleeing defeated enemy as they went.
So it was vital not to break and run, but to keep formation. Easier said than done, of course, and it took great discipline to stand and take it in the heat of battle, either that or having a great leader with a famed reputation.
The two armies stood at either end of the wide field glaring at one another for some time. As they did so, the sun rose and heated up the air, making the men thirst. The Lombards had the higher ground but the Gepids had the fresh water supply, and they were getting plenty while the Lombards wiped their upper lips and brows and cursed.
“For the gods’ sake,” Casca grumbled, “do something,” as he looked over to the center at the king. “The longer we stand here the worse our position gets.”
“Why don’t you go tell him yourself then?” one of his comrades, Reccared, sniggered. “I’m sure the king will appreciate your advice.” Those in earshot chuckled, glad to hear some light relief.
“So what would you do, then, Casca?” Widukind asked, leaning on his shield.
“Advance, shower them with arrows, hold firm in the center and concentrate the main attack on the two flanks, crushing their left and right and then moving in on their center. They can’t maneuver that well, not with their backs to that watercourse.”
“You some kind of military scholar or what?” another asked.
“I’ve studied some,” Casca admitted. Yeah, he thought to himself, first-hand for five and a half centuries.
Theudoald had cocked an ear, listening to the conversation, then had sent a messenger to the king with his compliments. As Cupbearer, he had a lot of influence, and he considered the new Latin soldier’s words very interesting. He offered his king the suggestion as his own, of course, partly to make him look good at Court, but also because he knew Audoin would never consider the advice of a lowly foot soldier.
Audoin received the message and read it, lifting an eyebrow in surprise. His Cupbearer was full of surprises; he didn’t realize the old fool had it in him to be so innovative. He looked over at Theudoald who bowed in response. The king gestured with his hand, summoning his messengers to his side.
It wasn’t long before trumpets blared and flags were raised. A cheer went up from the Lombard lines. “Well,” one of the group commented, pulling his shield up and putting it on his left arm, “looks like the king has the same idea as you!”
They advanced on a long, loose mass down the slope, the front line with shields in a wall, and spears protruding through them. Behind them came the archers, their short bows at the ready.
Ahead, the Gepids readied themselves, and as the Lombards closed, began to hurl spears, javelins and arrows at them. The Lombard archers halted, drew on their bowstrings, and loosed over the heads of their comrades into the lines of the enemy.
For Casca, the next few moments were confusing, as they were halted, ordered to advance, then turn, then stop. Order followed by countermanding order made things difficult until Theudoald roared to his captains to stop fucking about and advance to the right to support the attack there. Casca felt the old familiar stirring of excitement as the adrenaline coursed through his veins and his heart began to pump harder and faster as battle neared.
The air was full of shouting, and the soun
ds of blade upon blade or on wood or flesh. Now the two sides locked horns and began pushing, stabbing, smashing in an attempt to force the other side back. While the front lines sought to expose any weaknesses, the archers stepped back, put their bows away and now readied their knives, axes and shortswords. They were now the emergency reserve and the line of swordsmen became the second row, ready to join in the melee.
The elite groups were now in position on the flanks and Casca stood alongside his comrades, sword at the ready, shield over his left arm. He was almost at the front of a wedge-shaped formation, which he was happy with. As he was a new recruit, he was unknown to his unit and untried, so they wanted to see if he could fight or not and be reliable under the stress of a combat situation. He himself couldn’t wait to get going. His body tingled and he worked his jaw, trying to get rid of some excess energy.
Theudoald waved his men forward and they piled into the fray, yelling and screaming. They struck the Gepid line right at the end, caving in the three lines. But the commander of the left had seen the threat and had now got his reserve there to block any further danger – for the time being, at least.
The eternal mercenary growled as the wedge pierced the newly arrived reserve force, and he threw up his shield as a Gepid on his left came at him with an axe. The shield shook with the blow, and Casca slid the blade of his sword into the man’s ribs.
Pull out, advance one step. Next opponent, a spearman, jabbing hard. Casca slashed the blow aside and planted his left foot forward. Shield to the man’s face. Slam. The Gepid cried out and staggered back. Casca brought his blade down from high and it bit deep into the man’s neck. Blood flew. As the Gepid sank to the ground, Casca stepped forward again, astride the downed spearman. Another Gepid blocked his path. Shield smash. Sword thrust. Shield smash.
The relentless rhythm sent the enemy warrior backwards. Casca plowed on into the Gepid ranks, slashing and blocking. Men were pushing from behind, eager to get involved in the battle. The press of men to his right made it hard to swing his sword properly, and as he pushed forward with his shield once more, forcing an opponent back who also had a round shield, and a single bladed axe, his thoughts suddenly brought to the surface the legion. It had been his first real taste of being a warrior. He’d joined the Seventh at Arretium, the main civitas in his home region of Etruria, after his family had all perished from the plague. He’d soon found the legion the perfect substitute to his dead parents.
