by Tony Roberts
She smiled invitingly at him. “The water’s lovely and warm. Come join me.”
He divested himself in record time and jumped in. The water was, indeed, warm and he pushed up against her, enjoying the feel of her firm, athletic body. “That’s not the only thing that’s lovely and warm,” he growled, and began to kiss her throat and chest.
She groaned softly and arched her back, offering him her throat. Shivers of pleasure raced through her, tingling. Desire burst into her mind and she rubbed herself against his growing excitement, running her tongue over her lips.
He grabbed her hips and spun her around, forcing her to lean forward, her hands resting on the edge of the pool, and he kicked her legs apart. She tensed, eyes shut, pushing her hips back towards him, knowing what he was about to do. She cried out as he entered her and both began moving slowly, making the water splash up their thighs. Her cries grew louder the harder he thrust into her, and soon the chamber echoed to her voice pleading to him to be as rough as he liked.
As Casca gave into her demands, her screams reverberated around the room, and her head tossed to and fro, her hair flying in every direction.
___
The advance elements of the Lombard army came through the town two days later, with Gisulf meeting both Casca and Greta on the balcony of the governor’s residence. It overlooked the road the men who were tramping along, passing through the north gate and leaving by the western one, moving along the via Gemina. Some of the men were acting as a policing force, both to keep the two roads being used free of any townsfolk, and to make sure none of the tribesmen looted or plundered. Alboin didn’t want any hostile town in his rear as he pressed on towards Italy proper.
The army gradually peeled off the road off to the west and set up camp, the temporary resting place expanding as more and more men, women and children joined them.
“You did a good job,” Gisulf said. He looked at Greta. “Both of you.” He noted her smile, and his memory of her was so different to what she was like now. Clearly the life of a warrior had done her good. She was much more confident, assured and – he had to admit it – desirable.
“Thank you, sire,” Casca spoke for them both. “The way through to Italy is almost clear now.”
“Almost?”
The eternal mercenary nodded off to the right, where in the distance a jagged line of snow-capped mountains reared their fangs. “That’s the last barrier. Julius’ Alps. The road to follow goes to the pass that separates this valley from Italy. Secure that and you’ll be safe from any possible attack. But it must be crossed before October, or else the weather closes in and snow will block it until the spring.”
Gisulf grunted. “We’ll secure it no problem. My men are the best we’ve got. But it’ll take a year for everyone to pass through. We’re picking up more and more as we go as it seems nobody wants to live under the Avars. I don’t blame them either, and we’ve even got a few from imperial territory wanting to come with us as well.”
Casca nodded. “It’ll help in taking more land. I just hope we manage to secure the major cities quickly.”
Gisulf gave a toothy smile. “The king is due here tomorrow. You two will be asked to attend, of course. Tell me, what did you do to the governor?”
Casca chuckled. “He was not best pleased we killed his favored guests and tried to have us arrested. His soldiers weren’t up to troubling us much and we locked him in his own dungeon. It’s downstairs.”
Greta grinned. “After that the rest of them did as they were told.”
“You two are an army in itself,” the nobleman said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the king sent you on ahead to do more jobs in the future.”
Casca winked at Greta. If it meant fighting alongside her, he couldn’t give a damn where they went.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Lombards entered the north-eastern region of Italy in late summer and spread across the plains. Forum Iulii was the first town to fall. Gisulf removed the magister militum running the area and installed himself as Dux or Duke. He also removed the entire imperial administrative apparatus, determined to make a fresh start, and invited those removed to get the hell out of there before he lost his generosity. Most of the population remained, thinking things couldn’t be worse than they had been under the weight of the heavy taxation of the empire.
Gisulf selected those families he wished to be close to him to aid him running the region, and for a couple of weeks King Alboin and his court rested there. Alboin was making sure Gisulf understood that although he may be the de facto ruler of the duchy, he still owed his allegiance to Alboin.
Another reason for the wait was for more of the migrating people to enter the area. With more of his people around him, Alboin felt more confident in marching down the road to Aquileia. Casca and Greta went with him and the main column of the invaders, encountering almost no resistance, and any Byzantine soldiers they did see melted away before such a vast throng.
Aquileia itself fell without a fight; the patriarch fled along with most of his followers and the population, and the flood of refugees from the north of Italy began to swell as more and more Lombards, Saxons and other tribes began to take over land that had up to now been Roman, Goth or Greek. The countryside was abandoned by the locals and farms and villages began to be settled by the Lombards.
Alboin set up temporary Court in Aquileia, and summoned Casca to him one evening. By now it was late autumn and the coming winter would not hold off forever. The passes into Italy would soon be closed and those on the other side would have to wait till the spring.
Casca, stood by the side of the king, peered down at a map of northern Italy, held down on the table by weights. Besides Alboin, there were his inner retinue of advisors and bodyguards. His arms bearer, Helmichis, glowered at Casca from behind the king’s back. A big, burly bearded man, he clearly mistrusted the Latin mercenary. He was also Alboin’s foster brother, and so in tight with the king. Stood on the other side was the florid-faced Cleph, a warlike and aggressive individual who was always thirsting for battle.
“So, Casca, my trusted advisor,” Alboin said, sweeping his hand across the map. “Now we have Aquileia, the entire region is defenseless before our might. Do you expect the Byzantine forces to make a stand against us?”
“No, my lord,” Casca shook his head. “They’re too thinly stretched and can only hang onto the main fortresses, and probably the ports that they can supply and reinforce by sea. Inland, we won’t be opposed.” He traced the road from Aquileia along the via Postuma. “Here, your route of conquest is shown. Tarvisium would be the next place to take, then you can sweep across the plains here.”
“Not across the river to the south?”
Casca looked up at Cleph who had spoken. “No sire. If you did, then you’d threaten Ravenna, which is the seat of the exarchate, and then you’d have trouble. You’d have to besiege Ravenna which is almost impregnable, surrounded by marshland and supplied by sea, and we haven’t got the knowhow to take a fortress. Best to stick to this side of the Padus River and take all the imperial cities here. That way you can create a unified kingdom here which will be stronger. Eventually we will meet a strong enemy and it would be best we had a solid block of territory.”
“I don’t think we should trust the word of a traitor, my lord,” Helmichis growled, his arms folded. “One who would readily betray his own people could turn on us just as easily.”
Casca grabbed the hilt of his sword, but was stayed by a snapped bark from Alboin. The king put a hand on Casca’s arm, held the mercenary’s furious look, until Casca backed down. He knew better than to defy the will of a king. But he wanted to ram his sword up Helmichis’ ass.
Alboin faced his foster brother. “This man had proved to be a faithful Lombard in all the years I’ve known him. He is no Greek; he’s a Latin, the very people we are liberating from the yoke of imperial rule. Understand, Helmichis?”
Helmichis scowled but nodded. Clearly the arms bearer had no love
for Casca, for whatever reason.
Alboin grunted. He turned back to Casca. “I want you to go to the cities of this region and demand their surrender. Those who refuse I want you to assess whether they can withstand a siege or not. Meet us in Tarvisium; I’m going to take it next, whether they resist or not.”
“Where do you wish us to go first, sire?”
Alboin tapped a dot on the map. “There, Vicetia. I need a forward base for me to assess where I can go next. Go sound them out and report back to me at Tarvisium.”
Casca thumped his chest in the Roman manner. He left, returning to Greta and gave her the plan. She nodded. “When do we leave?”
“Tomorrow. We’re to get two horses from the stables and some equipment. We’ll need bedrolls and items to start fires. It’s going to get cold at night and I don’t want to freeze my balls off.”
“With me to keep you warm there’s little chance of that,” Greta smiled, poking her tongue through her teeth.
“Be off with you, you saucy wench,” Casca gave her a playful slap on the ass.
“Ooh, later, you wolf.”
They both laughed and set to gathering what they needed for their mission.
The next morning they rode out of the western gate, moving through the Lombard warriors getting ready to move out themselves. They would take longer to get organized, and many of them were camped outside the walls of the city. More were trickling in every day as they joined the king’s column. Some had gone to Gisulf in Forum Iulii but he had more than enough now to hold his dukedom and sent them all on westwards.
But inevitably, although many stuck to their chiefs and columns, some struck out on their own and caused havoc. They were as much trouble to their own people as the opposition. Alboin gave Casca and Greta freedom to deal with any trouble the way they saw fit, no matter if it was being caused by Latins, Greeks, Germans or whoever.
They rode along the via Postumia, a straight road in the classic Roman manner, stretching along the flat plains of Venetia. Casca sat easily in the saddle and surveyed the land to either side. This region had been devastated by Attila and his horde the previous century, then had seen invasions by Goths, Greeks and now Lombards. It saddened him to see the lands he once saw as inviolate brought to this state. To him, what he was doing was a vital job for his old land. If he could help unify it all under one banner, then maybe it could settle down.
It was ruled by one power, true, but the Byzantines were weak here, and weren’t looking to improve Italy. Their focus was further east, where they were battling Persians and Slavs. Someone would come here and take it from the empire, so if he could help the Lombards do it as quickly as possible, so much the better.
Way off to the left the Adriatic lay, a vague blur on the flat line where sea and sky met. Their road ran slightly inland, then turned to the south-west. The land never rose, and they crossed a few watercourses that came down from the distant Alps off to the right.
The bridges were in good condition and they rode on with one stop well into the afternoon. They stopped again before dark. The temperature was dropping and the leaves were falling from the trees. “This is a good place to rest,” Casca said, looking around. There was shelter from the wind in the shape of a stand of trees to the east, and there was plenty of wood to make a fire.
They hadn’t seen many people on their journey after leaving Aquileia, and those they had were small groups making their way southwards away from the Lombard invasion. But now, as they gathered wood for the fire, a group came their way from the north, a band of eight men, wearing the assortment of clothing of the tribes, carrying a variety of weapons.
They were led by a big man with a long blond beard and hair tied into plaits. He had a wolfskin shawl and a cloak, long leather boots and leggings. He had a big sword, probably passed down in his family. He strutted in front of his men and stood before Casca and Greta, his thumbs hooked into his wide, leather belt. “So who do we have here? Two of the tribes? A man and his woman. All on your own out here in the nasty wilderness where anything can come and take everything of yours and leave you dead.”
“Get ready for a fight,” Casca said in a soft voice to Greta. This wasn’t going to be pleasant. He stood away from her, so that he had room to move fast. “We’re on a mission from the king,” he answered. “To whom do you owe allegiance? Duke Gisulf?”
The man laughed unpleasantly. “Duke Gisulf? Has the fool king ennobled that idiot as Duke? I bend my knee to no-one. So, king’s man and woman, hand over your possessions to me, and I’ll let you live.”
“I see,” Casca grunted. “A common thief and his rabble. I bet you’ve never faced a real man in your life before, otherwise you’d be dead.”
The man’s mouth turned down. “Oh, its like that, is it? Well, big-mouth, I’ll have you put to death while your woman watches, and then she can be used by me before I turn her over to my men. She’s got nice legs and tits.”
“And she’s even better at cutting your fat head in two.”
There was a shocked silence, during which time Casca assessed the group. They were a bunch of no-lifes, not even lowlifes, led by one of those nobody-ain’t-telling-me-what-to-do types. He wouldn’t listen, or learn, and have things done his way or no way. He’d bully people into going along with what he wanted. Those who refused he’d kill. He now slowly drew out his two-handed sword and stepped forward. The rest didn’t even move like proper warriors. Their stances were all wrong and they certainly didn’t look to Casca as if they knew how to properly handle their weapons.
“I asked nicely,” the leader said, putting his sword onto one shoulder. “Now it’s gonna cost you your life.” He glanced over to the man next to him. “Go grab the woman and pin her down. I want to give her a good seeing to once I’ve chopped this hero into pieces.”
Casca had heard enough. He hauled out his sword and screamed the old Norse war-cry “Odin!” and sprang at the surprised leader. The two-hander needed space to wield and time to use, and Casca was too quick and inside the swinging circle before the Lombard had even taken the sword off his shoulder.
A shield smash into the right shoulder and face stunned the man and Casca’s sword sank into the man’s ribs, piercing the heart. The leader dropped his sword, his eyes rolled up into his head and he pitched forward as Casca pulled his sword free without emotion. That had been too easy. He stepped over the dead man as two more came at him, wielding their weapons wildly. They were as much a danger to one another as anyone they were fighting.
The one to his left swung wildly with an axe that was blocked with his shield. The one to Casca’s right had a sword. It was met above the head and Casca stepped to one side and slashed hard, ripping through muscle, bone and clothing. The swordsman fell backwards, his front a bloodied mess.
To the left Greta had grabbed her axe as two of the group came for her, smiles of anticipation on their faces. The nearest one looked surprised as her axe raised into the air, and was still looking so when her blade crunched into his cranium and split it in two, spurting blood and brains everywhere. He crashed to the ground like a felled tree.
The second one swore and raised his short sword, swinging wildly. Greta had been trained well by Casca, and met the blade with her shield, using it to deflect the blade up and away so that his body was opened up and exposed. She smashed her axe into his groin, mashing his genitalia into pulp. He screamed and rolled over, clutching his destroyed manhood.
Meanwhile Casca had battered the axeman to his knees, then delivered such a blow to his head with his shield that the man toppled over onto his back. Not giving him a second chance, Casca’s heel crushed down onto his face, breaking teeth, his nose and his lower jaw.
A spearman lunged hard, but Casca’s shield knocked the weapon aside and sent his sword into the man’s throat.
Greta was faced with one more opponent, a swordsman with an iron segmented helmet and a long grey cloak. Hissing in fury, he slashed at her twice, but each time she blocked with
her shield, always moving side to side in order to put him off. He overreached and she cut down, her axe blade biting deep into his upper arm. He wailed in pain and dropped his shield and sword and fell to his knees, waves of pain and nausea almost overwhelming him. Blood ran down his arm, dripping onto the soil.
She loomed above him, looking down at him for a moment, then blew him a kiss before sending her axe into his neck and removing his head.
The one surviving Lombard took to his heels and tried to flee. Casca dropped sword and shield, grabbed the spear lying at his feet and launched it at the running man. The spear impacted straight between his shoulder blades, pitching him forwards onto the ground where he twitched for a few moments before falling still.
“Nice throw,” Greta commented, cleaning her axe, looking up at him coyly.
By the gods, she’s so damned desirable! Casca thought. “You took care of yourself nicely,” he replied, picking up his sword and shield.
Greta slid her axe into her belt. “So what now? We can’t sleep with all these bodies here, smelling this bad.”
Casca grunted. “Get the fire going. I’ll drag the dead downwind out of the way. The wild beasts will have an easy meal tonight.”
She grinned. “Just see if they have anything useful on them before you drag them off.”
“And just who’s in charge here, woman?”
“Me.”
“Oh yeah?” he stepped up to her, eyeing her cheekily smiling face. He took hold of her shoulders. “It so happens the king put me in charge, got it, lady?” He kissed her and she hungrily responded, grabbing hold of his muscular frame, cramming her tongue into his mouth. Then she sucked on his tongue and nipped his lower lip as she pulled back from him, grinning impishly.
