by Tony Roberts
“Sire.”
“And I believe you know this Narses who has invited us to Italy?”
“Yes, sire. We are no friends.”
Alboin chuckled. “Excellent. That can only be to our advantage. You must tell me all you know of this Narses, and of the Imperial military set-up across the Alps. It is no secret that we will be on the march in the Spring, and I intend taking my people south away from the accursed Avars. You will share time with me after dinner tonight, so dress in clothing much better suited to speaking to your king.”
Casca grinned. Alboin had a wicked twinkle in his eye which the eternal mercenary liked. Both were dismissed and returned to their room. However, they didn’t get much rest as they were summoned again, this time to one of Alboin’s senior men, a noble called Gisulf, who was also Alboin’s nephew.
He was a big-burly man and a barrel of a chest. He was flanked by serious looking men. “So you’re this renegade Imperial, are you? A traitor?”
Casca bristled. Screw the fact this was a noble and related to the king. “I’m no traitor, Lord. I fought under the Greeks but I’m no Greek; I’m a native of Italy and to see my lands destroyed by the Greeks and Goths was too much for me to bear, so I joined the Lombards and fought alongside these people against the Goths, even if it was in the service of the Greeks, but I had a difference of opinion with Narses, their general, and have no love for him.”
Gisulf grunted and leaned back. “I see. You’ve got balls too, answering me in that manner. That’s admirable, but don’t go making a habit of that or I might cleave your skull in two for showing disrespect.”
“Yes, lord. I’ve fought Goths, Gepids and eaten all kinds of animals, including some you’ll have never heard of. I’ll willingly kill anyone if the cause is just, or if anyone tries to harm my woman here,” he put a hand around Greta’s waist.
Gisulf grinned toothily. “From what I hear, she’s capable of defending herself.”
“She is, but it doesn’t hurt to let everyone around know I’ll finish off anyone she doesn’t.”
The men laughed. Greta smiled and leaned into Casca. Gisulf waved the two away. “Now I’ve met you two, I’m happier about you being here. You’ll be attached to my unit in times of battle, so I’ll want to see for myself your fighting ability.”
“And Greta?”
“Her too? A woman?” Gisulf leaned forward. “Alright, I’ll have her practice too and spar against one of my men. No favoritism though; she’ll have to fight as well as any man. No point in doing otherwise as I expect whoever we fight wouldn’t spare her.”
Greta stepped forward away from Casca. “I understand. You had best warn your choice that I’ll hurt him if he isn’t good enough.”
The men roared in merriment. Some stopped when they saw her look turn on them. Gisulf stood and waved for silence. “Shut up you lot; wait till you see how she fights. She may put some of you to shame.” He waved the two off to their quarters and glanced at his men. More than a few were admiring the swaying of her behind.
Back in their room they gave it a better looking over. Two rooms only, the first being a living room-cum-diner, and the other a bed chamber. The bed was of packed straw in a wooden boarded area off to one side of the room, and the floor was of packed earth. The other room had a central hearth of stones arranged in a rough circle, and the thatched roof had an openable skylight to allow the smoke to escape. There were hardly any items of furniture so they would have to beg, steal or borrow wherever possible.
Their packs were on the floor and she began to unload them. “I wonder how long we’ll be here?” she asked.
“Not long. The king says we’ll be under way in the spring, so I guess we’ll be here six to eight months. We’ve got to cross the Alps so they won’t be passable until April or May. Did you see all those people out in the fields trying to get a place near the walls? Looks like we’ll have an entire nation on the move when we get going.”
“I do hope when we cross over we find a place to stay. All this moving is so unsettling. I’m getting tired of it all. I want to have a place I can call home.”
Casca looked around. “I think we can make this a home for now. It won’t take much to make it so.”
“Oh, really?” Greta got to her feet, wiping her hands on her dress. “Have you looked at the state of this place? Spiders’ webs, creatures crawling everywhere, mold, rot, useless objects all over the floor and the gods know what else. I bet the bed has all kinds of things nesting in it, too. Your first task, Casca, as man of this household,” she said, fists on hips, “is to get rid of the old straw and get us some new so we can sleep comfortably.”
Casca grinned. “On one condition.”
“Which is?”
“Which is that we use the bed for something other than sleeping to test it out.”
She pursed her lips. “Oh, you have just one thing on your mind as usual, don’t you?”
He put his arms around her, pulling her against him. “When you’re in my company, then yes. Have I ever told you that you’re an irresistibly beautiful woman?”
“Not in the last two hours. I feel neglected,” she sulked hugely.
“In that case,” he said, pushing her against the nearest wall, “let me show you.”
She squirmed, gasped, giggled then finally moaned.
The house was blessed in the most enjoyable manner.
CHAPTER TEN
Winter passed and spring came gradually. Throughout this time Casca had been called on by the king on a number of occasions to give his advice and knowledge on Italy, the Byzantines and Narses.
From what he had heard and seen, Alboin was keen to secure his rear before making the move. He welcomed the emissary of the Avar khagan Bayon to his court to sign a perpetual treaty with the steppe nomads. This now made any migration of the Lombards safe with the Avars behind them as allies and friends. Preparations went on.
Casca sat one evening in March with Greta by their fire, warming themselves. “Alboin is gathering a massive horde. He’s not only got the Lombard nation, but also those belonging to the Gepids, Bulgars, Sarmatians, Suebi and other German tribes living here, along with their families. Now today I hear he’s got hold of twenty thousand Saxons to add to these numbers.”
Greta gasped. “How many will that make altogether?”
“Anything from a hundred thousand to three times that number. It’s enormous. The date for setting off as far as I know is Easter Monday.”
“When’s that? I don’t know the Christian calendar.”
“Yeah, me neither, but there’s Christians in Court and Alboin has done a diplomatic move by saying he’s one to gather support from the people in Italy when we conquer them. So I picked up the date, which is just into April. It’s really early to start a move, but according to Alboin, it’s to catch the Avars off-guard.”
“But aren’t they allied to us?”
Casca grunted. “Don’t mean nothing. Friends fall out. The Avars are as trustworthy as a bear with a sore head in the spring, but they normally begin their campaigns in the autumn after they gather their forage for their horses. So. We’d best pack since we’ll be in the vanguard, so we’ll be first on the road to Celeia. The main migration group will follow, and our job is to clear the way ahead.”
“What does that mean?”
He grinned mirthlessly. “They have a choice. Get out of the way, join us, or….”
“I see. Nobody will be allowed to get in our way.”
“You got it. Then we cross the Alps, go through a pass somewhere and end up in the Forum Iulii region. Nice and flat, plenty of water, and roads. That’s our first target.”
Greta sipped on an ale. “Target, I see. Alright, Casca, what is it that we are seeking to do?”
Casca sighed. “King Alboin has accepted Narses’ offer. It’s going to be an invasion. The empire hasn’t asked us to enter their lands as Foederati or anything like that. No, this is just Narses’ doing. It seems his service with the
empire has been ended by the new emperor, Justin, and so now he’s pissed off and has called us in as punishment. It’s all an act of spite if you ask me.”
“Do you think we can succeed?”
Casca shrugged. “Can’t see why not. There’s little defense for a start; there isn’t enough funds in the treasury to adequately hold Italy, the people are fed up with war, famine and taxation. They don’t give a damn about being ruled from Constantinople by a Greek-speaking administration. I’d say its ripe for the taking. The empire doesn’t have a Belisarius anymore to lead them so we ought to be able to walk in and take what we want.”
“And this Narses – this is the man who you’ve had dealing with in the past, yes?”
“Yep, that’s him. Don’t trust the slimy bastard one bit. If I find him I’ll kill him. I haven’t told you this before, but he was partly responsible for the death of a former lover of mine and her son, a boy whom I adopted as my own.” Casca sounded bitter.
Greta took his hand. “An evil man, and you have the right to take revenge. If you find him I’ll be by your side.”
“He’ll be well-guarded by trained killers, and I don’t want you becoming another victim of that heartless swine.”
Greta tutted. “Don’t forget I’m a warrior too, thanks to you.”
Casca had to concede she was right.
___
The migration began as the king had decreed, on Easter Monday, the second day of April in the Christian year of 568. From Poetovio a steady stream of warriors emerged, in one long column, tramping south towards Celeia. There was no uniform of dress, like the old Roman legions had once worn. This column had a variety of cloaks, leggings, tunics, armor, helmets, weapons, shield designs, spears and banners. They didn’t march either, rather they trudged, or walked. The wagons with the supplies and equipment would follow.
From the fields to either side and on the roadside, hordes of people watched and waited, their personal possessions in their arms, in bundles, on backs, or in packs. Some had small wagons or beasts of burden. Some children ran alongside cheering and playing, excited by the entire spectacle.
The town was seemingly emptying of people. Men, women, children, animals. Young and old, warrior or not, Lombard, Saxon, Suebi and so on. Nobody wanted to be left behind to be ruled by the Avars.
King Alboin rode on his horse in the middle of the best-armed contingent there, his own personal guard. He looked sternly down on all; he was king and he was leading his people on a huge risky venture. So much could go wrong, but he had to maintain an air of dignity, confidence and authority.
At the very front were Gisulf’s retainers. The shieldbearer was one of the king’s most trusted men, and he had the responsibility of leading the nation down the road to their next staging post. As for the eternal mercenary and his warrior woman, they walked behind this group and just in front of the king’s guard.
Greta had been trained well by Casca and was now a confident and adept user of the axe. A couple of times one of the warriors had tried their luck, thinking she shouldn’t be eating and dining at the same table. One such confrontation had occurred just a few days ago. The man, clearly having imbibed too much, had swaggered up to Greta, his beard halfway down his chest. He announced to all that she was not fit to sit there because she had no beard.
“I’ll cut yours off in that case,” she had responded, “then we’ll see if you’re fit to be here yourself.”
The men had burst into laughter, and this had goaded the man in challenging her. The others had cleared a space for the two to fight using shields and axes. Casca had sat back, confident of his woman winning; he knew the man, a youngster, and he wasn’t that good.
Predictably the fight had ended very quickly, the man had overreached, full of confidence, and he’d found Greta’s axe blade at his throat. “Your head would look good on my bedroom wall,” she’d said to him.
Casca had groaned loudly, “oh, please no, Greta! I have no wish to see his ugly face staring down at me while I’m screwing you well and good. It’d put me off my stroke.”
The hall had dissolved into raucous hilarity, while Greta had smiled into the warrior’s face. “Do you yield?”
The warrior had gulped and nodded.
The trek was not really that of an army marching. A migrating people went at their own pace, the families sticking together, children being amongst the slowest along with pregnant women, the elderly and of course the wagons. The warriors would not leave their loved ones or those they had sworn to protect, so their progress was slow.
The only exception was the vanguard. They went on ahead, making sure nothing blocked the route ahead, or hindered or threatened those coming behind. Casca saw a group of men lying in bloodied heaps just off the roadside in one spot, covered in flies. It had been the insects buzzing in clumps that had alerted him, otherwise he’d’ve passed by oblivious of their presence.
Greta saw them and her mouth turned down. “They fell foul of Gisulf?”
“Mm. They look like bandits. They stood little chance against trained warriors. Beating women and children is more their standard.”
“You really dislike bandits, don’t you?”
Casca nodded. “They prey on the helpless. If they were true men, they’d protect those people and only fight other warriors. But they don’t because they are weak and they deserve death.”
The weather varied; at times it was dry and bright, and the sunlight reflected off the distant snow-covered peaks of the mountains ahead of them, but on other days it rained. Sometimes it rained so hard the column had to stop.
Casca and Greta had a tent of their own, made of wooden poles and animal skins. Each night they went to the wagon that carried it, along with others’, and put it up. The poles went into the ground, Casca forcing them in deep, then he left Greta to fix the skins while he went off, along with other men, to find firewood and maybe catch something to eat.
Most of the time the group sat around a communal fire and shared food. Stories were told around the camp fire, along with legends and sagas, and on one memorable occasion someone spoke of The Walker, a legendary figure who was cursed to live forever, to walk the earth, not knowing any rest. Casca glanced at Greta who smiled knowingly and squeezed his hand.
The terrain was hilly, and thickly wooded slopes surrounded the route taken. They kept to the old roads that faithfully wound along valley bottoms, close to watercourses, and flatter terrain so the going was easier for the less able. In places the Roman road needed a little repair and Casca saw a few instances where the vanguard had filled in potholes and broken paving with packed earth. It wouldn’t last and would probably be washed away by the first good downpour, but if it allowed the migration to pass by without trouble, that was all they could ask for.
Greta kept on receiving martial training from Casca when they stopped or after a day’s walk, and sometimes some of the other men volunteered to spar with her. She was becoming quite a respected member of the group and Casca could see her becoming more confident within herself as a result. It kept her fit and toned up and she was very aggressive and energetic at night which he didn’t mind in the slightest. Many times both lay on their backs, totally spent, throbbing in post-coital pleasure.
They reached the next fortified town two weeks after setting out. Celeia was in an east-west running valley with a river flowing along it, and heavily forested hills hemmed it in to the north and south. It got plenty of sun however, because of its orientation. The local populace were no longer Roman or Latin. They had fled long ago, and now the town was being called Cylia by the new people who had moved in from the north-east. They weren’t a people Casca had encountered before, but they called themselves Slav.
Celeia – or Cylia – was a hold-up. Two bridges crossed the river here, one the old Roman bridge and the other a newer wooden affair that definitely couldn’t handle wagons. The warriors and the wagons went over the stone bridge and the majority of the civilians went over the wooden one.
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This caused a delay and it was no surprise that Alboin decided to halt the migration for three days while the people got over the river. He set up temporary court in the governor’s residence, and his advisors, Casca included, were given quarters in permanent structures. Anyone protesting that their homes were being sequestered were told to fuck off and if they wanted to take it further, then there was always three feet of cold steel to end the argument. The Lombards didn’t give a damn about this place; it was hardly going to be part of their domain once they entered Italy. The border was a little way along the valley, just before Emona.
Casca was happy to be away from the mass of people and their smell and noise, if only for three days. He lay spreadeagled on the bed, arms wide, beaming in pleasure. “Are you going to give me any room?” Greta asked, standing by the bed, arms crossed.
“Nope.”
She fumed, then walked back three steps, gathered herself and launched herself at him in a run, landing atop him with a scream.
“Fuck’s sake!” he yelled, then tried to wrestle the laughing, writhing woman off him, then tried to wrestle her back on top of him. He forgot everything else for the next hour or so.
He’s just about finished when a knock came on the door. “Casca, the King requests your attendance in the residence across the road.”
“I’ll be a couple of minutes.”
“Now.”
“Alright, alright!” Casca cursed. He finished his performance with her, groaned, rolled off and wiped himself quickly. “Shit, sorry Greta, but the king can’t be turned down. Not even for you, you wildcat.”
“Grrrr,” she growled in a feline manner. “Go on, go. You’ve satisfied me anyway, stud.”
Casca kissed her and then burst out of the room, still fastening his trousers. The messenger looked at him sharply. Casca cocked an eyebrow. “What? Can’t I fuck my woman in peace anymore?”
“Do you wish me to tell the king?” the messenger said stuffily.
“I’ll do it myself,” Casca snapped.
The meeting was heavily attended. All the nobles were there, as well as a company of advisors, and Casca stood towards the rear, still memorizing Greta’s lithe body. The king stood behind a table that had plenty of objects upon it, including a map. “We are to resume our journey in two days’ time,” he said, leaning on his fists that were planted on the table top, “taking the road to Emona to the west, crossing into Italy through the Vipava Valley. It’s the perfect time of year to do so now spring is upon us. Gisulf here,” he indicated his nephew, “will lead raiding parties into imperial lands, then move in on Forum Iulii, their walled city of the region, and capture it. Once this is done, the way will be clear for the rest of us to continue into Italy.”
