The Lombard

by Tony Roberts

  Greta fidgeted nervously. Casca leaned over to her and spoke into her ear. She had tied her hair so that it wasn’t hanging loose, and what strands there were had been mostly tucked into her iron helm. “There’ll be a lot of posturing, shouting, goading, insulting. Maybe the leaders might challenge one another. Ignore it all; it’s all bullshit.”

  “I’ll stay by your side,” she said smiling up at him.

  He almost grabbed her and hugged her close, but resisted the urge. “Just stick to my left and one pace behind. Aim to cripple; don’t try to kill straight away. Don’t try anything smart. Stick to hitting them as hard as you can to give them something to think about. Cripple them, then finish them off. Don’t let them get back up. A wounded man can always fight back; a dead one can’t.”

  She nodded, looking a little pale.

  As Casca had predicted, there was a fair amount of posturing. A few well-armed soldiers stepped forward from the mass of men and gesticulated at the enemy, questioning their manhood and bravery. Shields were thumped, war cries echoed out across the dry, sunny field, and Greta found herself joining in with the chanting. It was very heady and exhilarating. Casca grinned at the coarse language she hurled at one particular Gepid who was bellowing insults at them. She said something about chopping his little bits off so his voice might be heard better. The men around her creased with mirth.

  Eventually everyone was tired of standing in the sun and the Gepids came forward, spears and swords striking their shields with every other step. The Lombards cried out to them to come closer so they could be killed.

  Casca sucked in a deep breath. “Stand easy,” he called out loudly. All those around him looked to him for advice and inspiration. “Wait. Wait.”

  The Gepids halted, just out of missile range and chanted loudly, working themselves up into a frenzy. Then they broke into a run, yelling shrilly, swords, spears and axes raised.

  “Spears,” Rikhard said clearly. There came a rattling of wood and metal and those with spears raised them. “Ready.”

  The line in front of Casca and Greta drew their missiles back and held their breath. On the Thegn’s shout they launched their weapons in a dark arc that rained down on the charging enemy line, sending men tumbling and screaming, the thirsty ground eagerly drinking their blood.

  The Gepid spearmen threw their missiles, too, and Casca saw the danger. “Shields!” he roared. Greta got hers up instantly, having been drilled mercilessly by her lover. Her shield shook to a couple of blows, shaking her. Casca held firm, wincing at one particular hefty strike, and then it was over.

  He checked to see she was unhurt, then stood upright, his shield lowered. “Hold firm!” Before them lay a number of Lombards, some motionless, others crawling away with wounds. These were the spearmen who hadn’t had time to put their shields up before the Gepid missiles had struck. Now there were just two lines in many places, and the elite warriors, the reserve, were now going to have to mix it with the rabble. Only the king’s retinue remained back to act as a tactical reserve.

  The air was filled with roars, shouts, screams and curses. The two front lines clashed, shields, spears and swords smashing into one another. The force of the attack shoved the Lombard front line back, but the Gepids, too, had suffered losses and so the Lombard line held. Now it was a case of who managed to stand the firmest.

  Greta watched horrified as the men before her hacked, slashed and stabbed one another in a frenzy of fury and butchery. This was savage, something far more brutal than even she had imagined. Blood flew, men fell to be stamped on and stabbed to death. The front line finally broke and the Gepids came through, wild-eyed and consumed with battle lust. “Stay behind me!” Casca snapped one last time before stepping forward to meet two Gepids who had broken through and now were coming for this chainmail-clad man with a scarred face.

  His sword came down in a blur. The first Gepid, an ugly brute with matted hair and an iron helmet, took the blade at the junction of neck and shoulder. Blood splashed from the cut. The wounded man clutched his injury and sank to the ground.

  The other one cursed Casca and sliced his sword through the air. The eternal mercenary knocked the blow aside with his shield. He bent his knees and thrust up under the Gepid’s guard, through his ribs and into his heart. The warrior fell backwards, his features twisted in pain.

  The sight of these big men battering away at one another almost overwhelmed Greta. By now, the front line had mostly dissolved and only Rikhard’s retinue stood between the Lombard line holding on the right or disintegrating. But the Gepids had suffered too and their losses were mounting, and now they were facing better-armed and fresher soldiers.

  Casca smashed his shield into the face of another enemy, stunning him. Meeting another warrior’s attack with his own blade, he snapped to Greta to start using her axe. She took a deep breath and swung at the stunned Gepid with all her might. She almost missed, being too far back, but the axe clipped him on the head, knocking his helmet off.

  The eternal mercenary saw this out of the corner of his eye but was too preoccupied with the second warrior, who was fairly skilled, and had to concentrate. Block, parry, stab, thrust, deflect. He had to make sure his footing was secure and not fall over any bodies or slip on the blood-soaked grass.

  Greta gripped her shield and axe tightly. The man facing her had a cut brow, with blood dripping down over his eye. He wiped the worst of it aside, gritting his teeth. “Bitch!” he snarled, “I’m going to take that little toy off you, and then I’m going to rape you all afternoon over the body of your man.”

  “Try it,” Greta answered, swinging again clumsily. The Gepid leaned back out of the way, before slamming his shield into her, half-catching her, sending her stumbling back a couple of paces. She cried out with the pain, and he laughed nastily. He came for her, smashing his sword down on her shield, knocking it out of her grip. She staggered sideways, and his shield crashed into her, knocking her to the ground.

  “Open your legs you Lombard whore,” he growled, gripping her by the throat, throwing aside his shield. “You’re going to feel a real man inside you for the first time!”

  As his hand squeezed her throat, she realized she still held her axe, so in fury and fear she brought it down hard, the blade biting into his back. He yelled in pain and staggered off her, holding his wound.

  Greta got to her feet, massaging her neck, then came at him. “And this is what it’s like being fucked by a woman!” she screamed, then sent her axe into his skull, splitting it from crown to his eye ridge. Blood and brains splattered her.

  While this was going on, Casca had forced his opponent back against another Gepid who was fighting another of Rikhard’s retinue. The two Gepids became entangled and each was struck down within a heartbeat of the other. Casca spun around and saw a blood-soaked Greta standing over a dead Gepid whose head was a mess. He picked up her shield and passed it to her. “Here, put this back on. There’s more coming our way. Move!”

  Shouting at her snapped her out of her trance. She dumbly followed him, her eyes wide and staring. A group of the enemy were coming forward, cloaks flying, spears raised. Casca stepped over two corpses and met the first warrior’s attack by raising his shield and sending the spear up out of harm’s way. Casca’s stab for the guts was blocked by the Gepid’s shield but the eternal mercenary had anticipated this. His shield was used like a club, hammering into the man’s face, and Casca’s second thrust went through the throat. The Gepid collapsed.

  Greta was close behind, and as he moved forward, she stepped over the fallen, intent on staying by his side. A wounded Gepid looked up at her, clutching the stump of his severed hand, eyes pleading. He got her axe across the head and he hit the ground like a tree had fallen on him. Then she continued, faithfully keeping by the side of the man she loved.

  Casca used sheer brute strength against the next man, knocking a sword blow aside, and the opponent fell backwards over one of the dead, lying helplessly at Casca’s feet. He got a le
ngth of steel through his ribs.

  One more Gepid came at them, armed with a long sword. He saw Greta and homed in on her. She saw him, turned and raised her shield just as he struck. The blow shook her to the core but she managed to stay on her feet, and she lashed out with her axe. The blade deflected up off the rim of his shield and went into his forehead.

  He screamed in pain and clutched his face, dropping his sword. She followed up, hitting him hard in the collar bone and he fell onto his back, staring up at the sky sightlessly. She bent and tried to tug the axe free but it was held fast.

  Casca turned full circle. Dead and dying lay everywhere. Those that were left on their feet had exhausted themselves and were standing around, checking on fallen comrades. The Gepid survivors were running from the field, defeated. He saw Greta pulling on her axe, sobbing, and he went over to her, jabbing his sword point-first into the ground and dropping his shield. He touched her shoulder. She gasped and swung around, expecting death, but it was only him. He put his arms around her and she clutched his chest armor, sobbing in relief. “Casca…” she whispered.

  He knew what had to be done. She was traumatized, in shock. He walked her past the dead and wounded, and back to the trees that stood to the rear. He pushed her to the ground and began kissing her all over her face and bloodied neck. She responded, hissing and snarling like a woman possessed, ripping at his armor, and he helped her. Naked, they grappled on the earth, and he took her hard. She raked his back and bit him, crying out, begging him to be brutal with her.

  It was as Casca had found so many times in the past; where death had been present, the survivors now only wanted to celebrate life and instinctively turned to sex. She needed it. He needed it.

  Together they purged their tortured souls.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Victory had been total. King Alboin himself had slain the Gepid king Cunimund, and in the wake of the battle had taken the king’s daughter Rosamunde as his own, wedding her as his new wife. He made Cunimund’s skull into a drinking cup, and at the victory feast in his own lands, forced Rosamunde to drink from it.

  Casca and Greta returned home, she somewhat changed from her experiences. She was a little quieter, but much more attached to Casca than ever before. Casca felt so much more for her; fighting together on the battlefield couldn’t help but do that. He saw her in a new light. He had seen women fight before, and knew that they could be just as formidable as men, but this time it was particularly special to him. His love and devotion to her knew no bounds, and the two together found a greater love.

  If the Lombards thought the destruction of the Gepid kingdom had been a victory, then it was at a huge cost. The Avars now demanded the terms of their alliance, which was the handing over of the Gepid lands to them. Alboin knew these wild, mounted warriors were more than a match for his tired, outnumbered army, so he had little option but to agree. And this time there were no allies for the Lombards to help them.

  A month after the battle, Casca was summoned to Rikhard’s hall. There were men coming and going, some carrying belongings and furnishings, and Casca guessed something was up. He stood before the Thegn who was snapping out orders right and left to people; the place was in a ferment.

  “Ah, my Latin warrior,” he said. “I recall tales you’ve told around the fires at night, and distinctly remember you speaking of a certain Greek general by the name of Narses. Am I right?”

  Narses! Casca’s fists clenched. A former imperial courtier, a eunuch, who was also one of the hated Brotherhood of the Lamb. The old bastard had clashed with Casca on many occasions, and Casca held him partly responsible for the deaths of his former love Ireina, and her son Demos, a child he had adopted as one of his own. If only he had been able to rip that man’s black heart out. “Yes, my lord, it is. What of him? Surely he’d be dead by now?”

  “It seems not,” Rikhard responded, clasping the arms of his chair and lifting himself up, allowing two men to pick it up and take it away. “Our king has apparently received a letter from this Narses who still lives in the lands of Italy, and he has invited us to come south to claim that land as ours.”

  Casca stood open-mouthed. This was a bolt from the heavens. He thought quickly. “He’s not to be trusted one bit. I know him all too well, and if he pats you on the back, its merely to find where to put the knife.”

  “This is precisely why I’m sending you to King Alboin’s court,” Rikhard clapped Casca on the shoulder. “I’m loath to lose your services but I feel you will be more useful to the king, and have already sent a messenger on ahead informing him of your knowledge, both of Narses and of Italy. You also speak their tongues, yes?”

  “Both Greek and Latin? Yes, lord.”

  Rikhard clapped his hands together in delight. “Excellent! Well, as you can see, we’re packing up. The Avars will be here in a week or so, having claimed this as part of their payment for being our allies in the war they never took part in. I want to be gone before those horse fuckers turn up. You, my faithful retainer, will go with that long-legged beauty of a warrior woman to the king, who is at Poetovio, as far as I know. A wagon’s being prepared outside, so you’ve got until noon today to pack and get your asses on board.”

  “So soon?”

  “Yes, we’re all off west out of here. It would seem to me that our king is listening to Narses’ offer seriously. Staying here this side of the Alps with the Avars as a threatening neighbor, or going over to Italy where the Greek empire is holding on by the skin of their teeth? Its warmer there, too. I’m tired of having my ass frozen off every winter. So, he wants advice, and I suggested you as the perfect man for the job. You won’t let me down, will you?”

  Casca knew what Rikhard meant. It was all down to court standing and prestige. The Thegn wanted to gain favor with Alboin, and sending a useful retainer like Casca would enhance that. It all hinged on the eternal mercenary providing a useful service as was expected of him.

  Greta was dismayed at having to leave their home, but even as she protested, they both smelt the unmistakable tinge of burning. She looked out of the open window. Smoke was billowing up from some of the main buildings. “They’re putting the town to the torch!”

  “Leaving nothing for the Avars,” Casca grunted, standing alongside her. “They’ll leave the homes of the citizens here, but all the administrative and public buildings they’ll destroy.”

  “And those who are left behind?”

  “They’ll have the choice of coming with us or staying. I doubt the Avars will make any effort to help them, since they’re steppe nomads. Come on, let’s go pack our stuff. It’ll be a long journey down to Poetovio.”

  They got on the wagon with their belongings and trundled out of the smoking settlement, heading south-west. A long line of men, women and children tramped dejectedly along the road, too. To either side the fields were burning too. The Lombards were creating a barren zone between the Avars and themselves, leaving nothing of use to the people who they now saw as an enemy.

  The wagon got priority and those on foot had to step aside as it passed them, and soon they left the people behind. Warriors went with them, too, on either side of the road, protecting the women and children. There were some on horseback riding wide, scouting, just in case.

  The land became hillier the further they went, and more forested. They passed more groups of people on the move; Pannonia was being abandoned to the Avars, and the Lombards were concentrating in Noricum. Casca wondered how everyone would cope in the coming winter, but there were a few wagons with hay and foodstuffs, so he guessed the harvest had been hastily done and everything edible pulled out or cut out of the land and taken with the nation on the move.

  It took twelve days to get to Poetovio. The town was clearly not big enough to have the king’s court plus all the refugees flooding in from Pannonia. The fields outside were packed with temporary residences, and the mass of humanity had somehow to be fed and catered for. Animals roamed at will; dogs, chickens, cats and a few were on
long tethers like horses. Pigs were in pens but the temporary nature of these meant the pigs often broke out and ran wild through the packed mass of sheds, huts, tents and shelters, usually pursued by a host of people trying to catch the squealing creature.

  The wagon dropped them off outside the building Alboin had sequestered for his own use, and a light rain splattered Casca’s and Greta’s faces. They were checked by two guards before being let in and escorted to a small room at the rear which was the best that could be provided at short notice, given the lack of accommodation.

  They were permitted to drop their personal effects off before being summoned to the king. They were not in clean or dry clothes and felt uncomfortable being walked through the old Roman public building with its mosaicked floor and faded mural-adorned walls. The walls were mostly decorated now by trophies, shields, spears, flags and other Germanic objects, and furs lay on the floors.

  A large fire was roaring away to the left, and soldiers stood in a row as the two walked along to a spot where an official ordered them to kneel, bow and wait for King Alboin to give them permission to stand.

  It was given, and Casca looked for the first time at the man who was revered by the Lombards as a semi-mythical being. He was seated on a high-backed chair and aged around thirty to thirty-five, long-bearded as was expected, pale-skinned and had a face dominated by a long, thick nose. Next to him sat his wife, Rosamunde, who was very much younger, maybe twenty. She had dark hair, hazel eyes and a tight-lipped expression on her face as if she disapproved of the entire world.

  “So,” Alboin mused, one hand playing with his beard, “you are my new translator and advisor.”

  “Sire.”