The Lombard

by Tony Roberts

  “Ouch, you bitch,” he growled. He sucked on his lip. “Don’t you ever draw blood from me; that’d be fatal for you!”

  “Oh yes, of course. Sorry, I forgot.” She looked contrite.

  “That’s alright, but I don’t want to lose you. At least, until its your time,” he said, a cloud crossing his mind for a moment. He knew he would miss this vibrant, tough, beautiful woman terribly when she went. “Go make the fire, and when I return we’ll eat, and then cuddle up. I want to hold you forever tonight.”

  “That sounds lovely. Don’t be long!”

  ___

  The next day they resumed their journey in a dull, overcast day with the hint of an icy wind that swept in from the north. The walls of a town appeared before them, grey stone walls with square towers at irregular intervals, sat astride the road.

  “Do you know this place?” Greta asked, staring at the gateway which was closed.

  “No – but I have been in this area before. It’s not one of the major towns or I’d remember it. Patavium is to the west somewhere, along the via Annia.” He rose in his saddle and looked off to the west, to the left of the settlement. “I think the road splits here. We could ride around if you like, but it’d mean leaving this place behind us. I think the king would prefer it if it surrendered and went over to the Lombards.”

  “Let’s go in then, if they let us.”

  They walked their mounts up to the gates. Spear-toting guards peered down fearfully at them; they looked like youths or old men. The men of fighting age had clearly been sent elsewhere. “I demand you open the gates in the name of Alboin, King of the Lombard nation,” Casca boomed out.

  “We look to the Count of Aquileia,” one guard replied.

  “He no longer lives,” Casca replied flatly. “Alboin is in Aquileia and is marching on your pitiful settlement with ten thousand warriors. Your tiny garrison won’t last five minutes against them; if you value your lives, your property and the lives of your loved ones, you’ll submit to him.”

  The guards conferred. Casca looked at Greta and shrugged. Then the guards did what guards the world over do when faced with a situation that can’t be solved by them, and that was to call for someone higher up. A delegation appeared at the gatehouse, led by a priest in white, carrying a crucifix on a long pole, and he was accompanied by two acolytes, one with an incense burner, the other with a picture of Jesus being crucified. Casca grumbled. “He never looked like that.” Along with the priests came two others, dressed in civilian clothing, who looked like councilors.

  Casca and Greta remained in the saddle. Casca muttered to her that it gave them an air of superiority. She nodded briefly, looking more fearsome these days. She had an air of competence about her now, of confidence. Her helmet and clothing were no longer looking pristine; they had that used look which made her look the part of a warrior rather than some raw recruit. As the delegation came to a halt before them, she took out her axe and began sharpening it. Casca smothered a smile; that was a nice touch.

  The priest made the sign of the cross in the air, which Casca sneered at, and then greeted them. “I bring you the blessing of God Almighty. Peace to you and your – ah – good woman.”

  “Are you he who speaks on behalf of who rules this town?” Casca answered in Latin, the language he’d been addressed in.

  The cleric paused in surprise, taken aback by the fluency of Latin spoken by this barbarian. That was something he’d not expected. Sure, he could speak German, having been raised in a Goth-ruled kingdom, but he preferred to speak the more civilized language of the Holy Church. “I represent Almighty God, King of Heaven…”

  “For Zeus’ sake, shut up!” Casca snapped. “I haven’t got all morning to listen to your prattle. Who rules this shit heap?”

  The priest was outraged, his nostrils flaring. At this point one of the councilors stepped forward, a conciliatory demeanor about him. “I speak for the ruling town council. We run Iulia Concordium on behalf of the emperor Justin of the Roman Empire.”

  “Not any more. Say goodbye to high taxation and corrupt rule from Constantinople,” Casca said with sarcasm. “Now you can look forward to being ruled by the Duke of Forum Iulii, Gisulf, who owes allegiance to King Alboin of the Lombard people. Open your gates to him and spare your miserable place a sacking from which it will never recover.”

  “But we are part of the Roman Empire!” the councilor objected.

  “So where’s the fucking legions then?” Casca pointed behind him. “In a day or two ten thousand Lombards are going to come up this road to this point. They will roll over your walls and stick your brave and fearless warriors up on spits and roast them for dinner while pleasuring your wives and daughters while they wait. Or you can submit and live. Your choice. Frankly I don’t give a shit.”

  The priest stamped his foot in rage. “Archbishop Paul would never permit this!”

  “Oh, he was the brave soul in Aquileia who ran like a whipped dog off to some fortress to the south,” Casca replied. “Aquileia is now King Alboin’s seat of power, but he’s on his way here. If I were you, I’d write him a groveling letter professing your love and admiration of the Lombard people and how much you rejoice in the fact he’s coming to free you of the burden of imperial taxation and the heretical teachings of the Latin Church.” He gave the priest a baleful glare. “He professes to worship the teachings of Arius, so none of this Arius-is-a-false-prophet shit, alright?”

  When the two councilors conferred in low, urgent voices, the priest raised up his crucifix and began calling out to the sky for God to send down punishment on this vile follower of Lucifer. His tirade was halted by Casca’s cold steel pressing against his throat. “Another word from you, bead-counter, and I’ll cut your irritating throat, got it?”

  Greta grinned and eyed the priest, running her tongue across the flat of the blade, then blowing a kiss at him. Casca almost fell of his horse trying to contain his mirth.

  The councilors separated and the first one shook his head. “There is no evidence that what you say is the truth.”

  Casca sighed and nodded to Greta. She dismounted, straightened her clothing, then stepped up to the man who tried to back away, fear on his face, but she grabbed hold of his collar and pulled him to her, then ran the flat of her blade down his face, staring hard into his eyes.

  “Now you’ve annoyed my woman,” Casca said. “That was a stupid thing to do. I think you’d be best sending a messenger down the road until he meets the Lombard army coming this way, and passes on your profession of support to him. Any problem with that?”

  The men all shook their heads, the priest getting a smile of encouragement from Casca at the end of his sword.

  Two guards came running forward, spears ready, disobeying explicit orders to remain where they had been. The threats against their councilor and priest was too much. Casca slapped the priest aside and jumped down onto the ground.

  Greta pushed the councilor aside and wielded her axe, slipping her shield off her shoulder and onto her left arm. Casca was torn between wanting to go help her, and standing back watching. He did need to watch her back, and so he pushed the priest aside and waved his sword at the delegation to make sure they understood that this fight was going to be between the two border guards and Greta.

  The first guard thrust his spear forward, confident that this woman would not be able to hold him off. What happened though was that she used her shield to knock the spear aside and up, and then stepped to her right, pivoted on one leg and sent her axe sideways, passing in between the top of the man’s shield and the bottom of his helmet. It sank into his throat, sending blood spraying out and he toppled over, hitting the ground hard and not moving any more.

  The second guard was now very wary. He pushed his shield forward, one with the usual Christian symbol of Chi-Ro on it, the XP on top of one another. It was a large oval-shaped shield, and Casca tutted softly. Not like the scutum of old where the legions used oblong shields, locking them together in o
ne mass and defeating enemies that way.

  Greta’s shield was much smaller and round. She moved, left, right and left again, feinting. The guard got nervous and stabbed forward. Greta’s axe removed the head in one downwards slash and the guard was left staring stupidly at his now useless stick. He had a short sword strapped to his hip but he got in a muddle, forgetting his rudimentary training. Greta slapped the stick aside with her shield and sent her axe down hard into his collar bone, sinking deep into his upper chest.

  He screamed and fell to the ground, writhing in agony. He choked once, twice, then fell still. Greta slowly turned around and walked towards the delegation, her axe dripping blood. The townsmen backed away, fear on their faces.

  Casca grinned. He spoke to the senior councilor. “Do you still think your pitiful untrained soft garrison will stand any chance against ten thousand more warriors just like her?”

  The man looked sick. He hadn’t before witnessed the raw violence of combat, and to see two of his guards brutally cut down right before his eyes, and by a woman, was too much. He leaned over and threw up.

  The two were allowed into the town, and the gates were left open. They were shown to the council chambers and given a lunch while the council hurriedly met and agreed to send a messenger along the via Postuma to meet the Lombards and declare the town open to them and their king, the noble Alboin.

  Casca locked the doors to the chamber and turned to Greta. Seeing her fight was like an aphrodisiac, and he took full advantage of it. She stood before him, smiling arrogantly, knowing the effect she had on him, and chuckled as he began to satisfy his passions on her. Fighting together definitely had lots of advantages.

  That afternoon they left the town and rode out of the western gate along the via Postuma, while a second road ran off to the left, closer to the coast. “Where does that go?” Greta asked.

  “Altinum initially, then Patavium. Big old city that. Was there a couple of times centuries back.” He grinned with a vague memory of some big-tittied whore, then composed himself and looked west. They still had a job to do.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The spread of the Lombards through northern Italy carried on over the next few years. Alboin tried hard to keep a tight rein over the warbands and chieftains who wanted plunder and pillage. The king argued repeatedly that these lands were now theirs and to burn and destroy the towns and villages and slaughter the people was stupid and pointless. Only where resistance was encountered should they use force, and then once the place was theirs to then treat it as their own property.

  It was difficult and loose bands roamed far and wide, antagonizing as many as they could. On occasion Alboin sent his own personal bands on missions to destroy the rebel groups, Casca and Greta partaking on a few instances. The main problem was a lack of a capital from which to administer the new growing territory. He had to set his court wherever he was and it moved around so making communications that much more awkward.

  The biggest pain in the ass was the city of Ticinium. Here the imperial garrison decided to hold out and refuse to surrender, even when the other cities around gave in with hardly a shout. Mediolanum gave in when Archbishop Honoratus fled to Genua. Without the extra spiritual help the church gave the defenders, it seemed they were all too ready to give in. But in Ticinium they held out for years.

  Finally, three years after the siege began, the desperate defenders finally gave in. Alboin led the triumphal entry into the starved city at the head of his closest advisors, entourage and personal retinue. Many of the warriors who had come into Italy had now settled down in places of their own, in towns, villages or farmsteads. The character of the north of Italy was changing, but the pace of conquest was slowing as less and less warriors were now looking for land to take for themselves.

  The empire still held Ravenna to the south and the surrounding area, as it was a tough nut to crack being surrounded by marshland and sited on the sea. Rome was still imperial, too, and much of the south remained too far from the Lombard seat of power to bother with.

  Alboin called a victory feast to honor the occasion and to toast his troops, and wine, mead and ale flowed. Casca and Greta sat close to the top table, as they were now looked on as two of the king’s most important warriors. Alboin sat next to his solemn-faced wife Rosamunde, and he toasted his valorous and brave soldiers. She didn’t move a muscle and remained seated with a displeased expression on her face.

  “I wonder how they get on in private,” Casca muttered to Greta.

  “Probably don’t talk; she looks really pissed off,” Greta replied, lifting her goblet to her lips.

  Alboin scowled at his wife’s public display of distaste, and shook his goblet, the one fashioned from the skull of Rosamunde’s father, Cunimund, at her. “Drink! Celebrate our victory, dear wife.”

  “I shall not drink with you!” she snapped.

  Alboin stood and breathed in deeply, his face red with anger and drink. “Would you not drink with your father, then?” and smacked her goblet off the table, filled his goblet with wine and thrust it under her nose. “Drink!”

  She looked horrified and repulsed but Alboin grabbed her and forced the goblet against her lips and made her drink. She hadn’t liked it the first time she’d been forced to do this, and it was no different this time around. She looked sick once the goblet was removed. The toast went on but the queen’s head was lowered and all that could be seen of her was her hair.

  “He shouldn’t have done that,” Greta said softly.

  “No – I can see trouble brewing there now.” Casca had seen the wrath of women plenty of times in the past and the look on Rosamunde’s face was enough to tell him that heavy-duty shit was going to come down sometime.

  A few nights later Casca and Greta lay together in bed, in their new quarters in the newly-acquired palace of Alboin the king had sequestered from the former governor. The two had been together for twenty years now, and she was showing signs of middle age. She found being in the saddle for days on end or outdoors for any length of time more tiring and painful than she had before, and her sparring and training sessions often had to be curtailed if her hands began to ache.

  She was still fit, healthy and energetic, though, but maybe her days as a warrior were numbered. “What to you think will happen now the city is ours?” she asked.

  Casca thought for a moment. “I can’t see Alboin conquering much more territory. He’s talking about settling down here in Ticinium and making it his capital. That’s a sensible move, but it means any further expansion is down to the dukes or warlords. It would require a lot of men to carry on, and we don’t have the manpower to go much further. The dukes are getting more power and it makes Alboin’s position weaker unless he can play one off against the other, and I don’t think he’s got the experience to do that.”

  He put an arm around her shoulders and held her close. Kissing her hair, he continued. “He’s got to switch from an offensive frame of mind to a defensive one; build up what he’s conquered and turn it into a strong kingdom. That’ll take time, and we’re surrounded by enemies or potential enemies. He’ll need to do some deals with his neighbors pretty damned quick. There’s the empire who we’re at war with, they’re on two sides, and the Avars to the north and the Franks to the west. We’ve got a deal with the Avars, but they’re unreliable. The Franks are pretty powerful and Alboin ought to do a deal with them.”

  “You sound as if you’ve done this sort of thing before,” she replied. “So you think this is as far as we can go?”

  Casca lay on his back and stared in to the darkness. He felt in his bones that something had changed with the capture of the city. The old enthusiasm for conquest and the need for newer, warmer and softer lands had been satisfied, and now it had been replaced by a need to settle down. “For the moment yes. We need to consolidate now. Unless we do, we’ll go the same way as the Goths here and the Vandals in Africa.”

  “I just want to make a home here, Casca,” she said, snuggling close
r to him, “with you, and spend the rest of my days being cared for and sharing my life with the man I love.”

  He smiled and stroked her hair. He did feel happy with her, and for the moment his need for war and moving on had been sated. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to spend some rest and relaxation time with this fabulous woman. “I don’t think that’s a bad idea. I believe the tribe is mostly happy now with what they have gained and want to do the same as you, to settle down. There are the odd one or two restless souls, as is always the case, but on the whole, I think the Lombard nation has got what they wanted – and needed.”

  “And you?”

  Casca smiled. “This is the land of my birth. I know it well and feel comfortable here. I do hate what’s happened to it since the days of the empire I grew up in fell, but I’ve come to learn that nothing lives or lasts forever, no matter how much anyone wishes it to.”

  “So true. So enjoy it while you have it,” she said, staring intently at him.

  He looked at her, grinned, then began kissing her. Lips, chin, throat, chest and then down towards her pleasure center. She groaned and shut her eyes. This was what she wanted.

  ___

  The shouts outside in the corridor woke them. “What in the name of Neptune’s gonads is going on?” Casca demanded, getting out of bed, throwing on his leggings, grabbing his sword, and making for the door.

  There was enough light not to fall over anything and when he threw open the door, he blinked in the harsh light that spilled into the chamber. He stepped out and grabbed the first man who came rushing past. “What the fuck is going on?”

  “The king!” the man exclaimed.

  “What about the king?”

  “Dead! Murdered!”

  “What!?!?!”

  Casca returned to his room, dressed hurriedly and told Greta to lock the door and not let anyone in no matter what. Fully armed, he marched down the passageways, full of men and confused shouting. Outside the king’s chambers a phalanx of men barred the way. “Let me through,” he snapped.