Casca 45: Emperor's Mercenary

  CASCA

  EMPERORs MERCENARY

  This is a book of fiction. All the names, characters and events portrayed in this book are

  Fictional and any resemblance to real people and incidents are purely coincidental.

  CASCA: EMPERORS MERCENARY

  Published by arrangement with Eastaboga Entertainment, Inc.

  Printing History

  2016

  Americana Books

  A Division of Lonewolf Group Inc.

  Copyright 2016 Eastaboga Entertainment, Inc.

  Cover Design by John Thompson

  All Rights Reserved

  Including the rights to reproduce this book or portions thereof

  In any form or format without permission.

  For information contact

  Americana Books

  P.O. Box 210314

  Nashville TN 37221

  ISBN 978-1513613871

  Printed in the United States of America

  Table of Contents

  TONY ROBERTS

  PROLOGUE

  Northern Italy, early spring, AD411

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  Casca series available in ebooks

  TONY ROBERTS

  My mother was my unlikely route into becoming a Casca fan. On one shopping trip she bought me a copy of Casca 3: The Warlord. 3 was not a great place to start but I devoured it anyway, loved the character and the sense of history made real. Then followed 13 years while I collected the original series; without the help of the internet. Then what to do, the series was over. I started to write my own Casca novels, and set up my website www.casca.net, building a worldwide base for Casca fans and contacts.

  My first Casca novel, Halls of Montezuma, was published in 2006. Emperor’s Mercenary is my nineteenth novel in the series.

  I live in Bristol, with my partner Jane and a fluffy cat called Cassia.

  PROLOGUE

  Northern Italy, early spring, AD411

  Two men trudged down the snow-covered mountain path. They were dressed in rough furs, iron helmets, chainmail armor and hard leather boots. One carried a spear, both wore swords. Each had a round shield. Other items were carried in their packs slung over their shoulders or in the pouches fixed to their wide leather belts.

  Both looked hard men capable of taking care of themselves. They looked in need of a shave and wash, and their eyes spoke of weeks of suffering and hardship. The leader sported a scar that ran down the right side of his face from the corner of his eye to level with his mouth. It had been given to him nearly four centuries ago, in the days he had been mortal.

  Casca Rufio Longinus. Former legionary in the Roman army, now a sword-for-hire. He was known in Christian circles as the man who had driven the spear into Jesus’ side as the prophet had hung from the cross, and for this action he had been cursed to immortality, to suffer the life of a soldier forever, until the Second Coming. He was, however, not recognized by the vast majority of Christians as he seemed to pass as just another common soldier and could therefore walk amongst society. There were a few though who did know him on sight, and were actively hunting him. But for now, he was away from their clutches.

  He longed for death but it was constantly denied him, and so he carried on with his life philosophically, enduring what life the fates threw in his direction. For the moment he was adventuring in the crumbling Roman Empire but the death throes of what he regarded as his world was a painful one, and he wondered how much longer he could remain there watching as the old ways fell and the new order took its place.

  The other was Flavius, a Roman soldier, a man who had been abandoned by or who had abandoned – it still wasn’t quite clear – the army after a disastrous campaign by the legal emperor’s forces in Gaul against the usurper Constantine. He had joined Casca’s group to rescue a young girl from Argentoratum that winter, and having done so, now both were looking for new work. The only place they could agree on to provide this were the troubled lands of the legal emperor, Honorius.

  They made their way down from the Alps into northern Italia, the once soft and fertile lands of the empire. Mediolanum was the big city in the area and Casca decided this was the place best to head for, but it was still a number of days’ walk away.

  Casca stopped and sniffed the air. “You smell it?” he asked Flavius.

  The dark-haired and muscular soldier inhaled and nodded. “Burning.”

  “Mmm. Something up ahead. Come on, let’s see what it is.”

  The two men eagerly resumed; the walk had been boring the past three days with nothing and nobody to see. After the excitement of the preceding months, they couldn’t quite switch off yet. The opportunity of something interesting got their blood coursing through their veins.

  The land here was transforming from towering rock faces and cliffs to smoother hills and grassy valleys. Watercourses trickled at the bottom of each vale, and soon enough they would be roaring with melt water as the ice and snow vanished from the winter slopes. Trees grew in abundance, pines mostly, but larch too. The way ahead was obscured from time to time but the plume of dark smoke rising above the treeline was clear enough to the two men.

  They emerged from a small fold in the land into a clearing, and here stood – or had stood – a farmhouse. Now it was a collection of charred and blackened beams. Close by stood a collection of rough animal skin tents and shelters – not much, but enough to cut out the wind. Men were scattered about these, long-haired people with beards and furs, round shields and conical helmets.

  “Goths,” Casca said, recognizing them. “Renegades, probably. Not Alaric’s men. Maybe Ostrogoths, or even Gepids. Who knows; so many are mixed up these days.”

  “Hostile, sir?” Flavius still deferred to Casca, treating him a senior officer.

  “Almost certainly. Looks like they have a woman captive,” he nodded to a kneeling and bound figure, head bowed, next to the biggest tent. “Let’s go pay them a visit. I could do with warming up.”

  The Goths spotted the two approaching men and picked up their weapons and slowly gathered, heads turning to see if anyone else was nearby. Ten against two. Good odds. The woman looked up, her face smudged and tear-stained. She had been repeatedly abused and used by the filthy tribesmen, and her man and son butchered. She was the only one who had been allowed to live, for obvious reasons.

  “Go away, you’re not welcome,” the Gothic leader roared at the two approaching him.

  Casca looked up. The man had spoken in German. Fluent in a huge number of languages, Casca responded in kind, not breaking step. “Neither are you, for this is my land. You come here and plunder and burn, and rape. Are you Alaric’s men?”

  “Huh, him? He’s dead. And what you say means nothing to me, you Roman scum. You speak like a Frankish whore.”

  “And you like a retarded goat.” Casca gripped his spear tightly. He eyed the woman who clearly had no idea of what was being said. She looked like a typical north Latin, rather like him. Before the Goth could respond, Casca had drawn the spear back and launched it straight at the man.

  The iron tip punched through the chainmail links of his armor and sank deep into his chest, smashing aside his ribs. The Goth was still gaping in surprise when he was hurled off his feet by the force of the impact and sent crashing onto his back.

&nb
sp; Even as Casca was reaching for his sword, Flavius had pulled out a souvenir from his recent activities north of the Alps, a throwing ax, very much in the style of the Frankish weapon known as the francisca. He hurled it with all his might at the man on the extreme end of the line advancing on him. The keen edge of the blade split the man’s skull in two and he sank to his knees, numbness spreading rapidly through his body.

  The surviving eight charged in one mass, enraged. Casca met the first with his shield, smashing it into his face, and was already bending down at the knees as he did so to duck under the wild side swipe by his comrade. Casca thrust upwards hard with his own blade deep into the guts of the second man. Rising now, he twisted the steel shaft free and turned full circle.

  The man he’d hit with the shield was still staggering, stunned. Two more were coming for him, axes raised. Casca blocked them with his shield and then released it, leaving the two men to prize their weapons from the wooden surface. As they struggled, Casca slashed twice, and both men fell, huge wounds marking their heads, throats and chests.

  The stunned man tried to block but his co-ordination was all awry and his clumsy swipe only passed through thin air. Casca cut him down without remorse, then advanced on the four pressing Flavius back. The first got Casca’s sword through his back. Casca didn’t give a shit about fair play; rules were for weaklings who couldn’t win a fight. Don’t give an enemy any chance in a fight, the words of Corvu the Lanista came to him. Corvu, of the gladiatorial school outside Rome. Oh, those were the days!

  Flavius battered away at two while the third turned to fight Casca. His sword flashed narrowly past Casca’s face, but the scarred eternal mercenary was in no mood to play around. His sword thrust hard up into the man’s throat and exited through the neck in a shower of blood. Casca held the man by his clothing, bunched up in his fist, and pulled his sword free. He let go, allowing the dying man to hit the ground hard.

  A grunt heralded Flavius cutting one down, and the last desperately tried to break away but Flavius was not going to be generous. Casca wiped his sword clean and slid it back into its sheath, looking round at the woman who was kneeling, looking at him wide-eyed. “Good morning, Domina,” he said courteously. “Nice morning for exercise, don’t you think?”

  The woman stared for a moment in disbelief, then began shaking. She broke out into hysterical laughter. Casca grimaced; she would be going into shock now she was rescued, he guessed. He pulled out a skinning knife and knelt behind her, slicing apart the bonds tying her wrists together. The woman put her reddened hands to her face, ignoring the pain and tingling of returning feeling, and wept into them.

  Casca let her be for the moment; the last thing she probably needed right then was a man to hold onto after being repeatedly raped by these animals. He stood up and eyed the corpses. Flavius was just lowering the last to the ground, his blade sunk into the Goth’s chest. Casca retrieved his spear from the leader’s chest and checked through his pouches, belts and pockets. He then did the same with the next corpse.

  By the time he and Flavius had gone through all ten, the woman had composed herself slightly. She had stood up and faced the two uncertainly. “Who-who are you?”

  “Former soldiers, Domina,” Casca said. “Heading for Mediolanum. Out of work at the moment but hopeful for employment somewhere.”

  “I-I have family there,” she said hesitantly. “Could – you please – accompany me there? I don’t think I could…” she tailed off looking at the ruins of her home.

  “These were alone, were they?” Casca said, gesturing to the dead.

  “Oh, no, there were more, but they moved on once they had – killed my husband and son,” she broke down again, and this time Casca went to her and held her. She struggled for a moment, then gave in and vented all her emotions in one burst, screaming out her loss.

  Casca looked over to Flavius and made a helpless gesture. Flavius nodded. Neither needed to make a comment. War was one thing, but to pick on defenseless civilians was another. It was hardly war. Casca had a thing about it; he hated this aspect of conflict. To him these kind of people were not soldiers or warriors; they were common criminals using war as a pretext to carry out their filthy acts. Extermination was the only way. That way they would not do the same again.

  “Domina, we will go with you to the city. My name is Casca, this is Flavius.”

  “Navina,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I’m sorry. We were going to make a life here, farming. We thought the emperor had enough soldiers to defend us this close to the city, but… clearly not.”

  “Things are bad at the moment,” Casca said. “Nobody really has control since Stilicho passed away.” Casca remembered Stilicho. The commander hadn’t been someone he’d actually met but the now dead warlord had at least helped keep the Gothic storm away. Once Stilicho had earned the jealous enmity of a court toady, however, his days were numbered. Intrigue had settled things, and Stilicho was arrested and executed by a weak vacillating emperor.

  They said a dying animal bit its own wounds.

  Casca quickly got them to depart the scene of slaughter. The woman’s husband and boy had been burned in the conflagration so their final place of rest was already sorted. The Goths they left where they had fallen. Wolves would take care of them in a few days.

  What he needed was to find out what had been happening in Italia and the empire since he had left the preceding year. Alaric had been the top man at that time, running Italia, defeating the remnants of the Roman armed forces, sacking Rome and all. Then he had headed south and there, near Sicily, he had apparently died. So now who led the Goths? What were their intentions? What of the other tribes? What of the usurper Constantine? All Casca had to find out in order to work out who he could approach for work.

  The land flattened out and they came upon a road, paved, but with grass growing up through some of its stones, and the ditches choked with undergrowth. Such things would not have been tolerated in the days of Rome’s greatness.

  Flavius came alongside. “What do we do once we get to the city?”

  Casca glanced at Navina, walking with her head down slightly behind. “We seek information, probably at a tavern. I want to know who runs things here. Then we go to them and get work. We’re in the business of fighting and there certainly seems a lot of that needed at the moment.”

  “What do we do with her?” Flavius jerked his head behind him.

  “Take her to her family, then find the nearest tavern for gossip. Best way of finding out what’s really going on. You’ll never get those in charge telling you the truth.”

  “That’s true enough,” Flavius agreed. “They’re the ones responsible for the mess but they won’t admit it.”

  “Aye. Instead they blame everyone else. Ah shit, let’s not get into too much philosophy; it depresses me. Come on, let’s get to the city before nightfall. I want a nice thick wall in between me and what’s out here after dark.”

  They plodded on, keeping down to the pace of the woman, and late in the day the walls of the city came into view. Mediolanum, the biggest city in the north of Italia. It had briefly been capital of the west after the emperors had abandoned Rome, but now Ravenna was the seat of Honorius. Casca’s body tingled. It was here that he had been taken as a captive when he had returned from the east, a prisoner of the Christian Romans. He’d been forced to take baptism in order to be free, and resented it. But as he had a supernatural existence, he didn’t feel forced to remain a Christian. Let those who feared eternal damnation be bullied into following that religion; he was already living that, so he felt the bishops and their followers could go fuck themselves.

  He was more interested in a drink, a warm fire, a comfortable bed and a warm, soft, willing wench. He wondered if he would get any of them. Or maybe all?

  CHAPTER ONE

  Spring in New England was getting later these days, or so it seemed to Danny Landries. The thirty-something year old American grunted as he slumped into his chair in his study. Tim
e to see what the world was doing. Going to hell in a handcart, no doubt. Twenty-fifteen just seemed another case of same ol’ same ol’. Aw hell, let’s see.

  He scanned the headlines as the screen came to life. Yup, same ol’ same ol’. Emails next. The usual shit. So-and-so celebrity has got a Rolex, get one now. Penis enlargements. Some poor guy in Burkina Faso needs ten thousand dollars to get home. Another long-lost relative of his had died in Mauretania and had left him a million dollars, and all Danny had to do was to click on the link.

  Delete. Delete. Delete. If only getting rid of the assholes who sent these emails was as easy. What the hell was his spam filter doing? He had programmed it to delete these things automatically. He cursed. He’d been to the cinema the other night with Hayley, his wife, and he’d been forced to leave his contact details with the young receptionist who could hardly speak a word of English. He’d left a false cellphone number but his email address he’d been confident of coping with the usual selling-on these places did, despite assurances to the contrary. Lying bastards.

  An email caught his attention. He opened it. Grinning he read the few lines of text, then selected reply and quickly typed a few words. He sat back and waited. It wasn’t long in coming. His skype account burst into life and a bubble announced who was attempting to contact him. Danny pressed on the video option and suddenly on the screen was Carlos Romano, scar and all, or as he had originally been called, Casca Rufio Longinus.

  “Hello old man,” Danny grinned. “How’s the desert?”

  “Hot,” Carlos grunted, his eyes briefly flicking to the right before returning to the screen. “How are you and Hayley?”

  “Great thanks; she’s on her way. I’ll update her if you like”

  “Nope, no need. We’ll stick to the original schedule. She should be with us in a couple of hours. Might need to be quick though, ISIS are getting close.”

  “Are you in a hazardous situation, Carlos?”

  Carlos shrugged. “Since when am I not? Don’t fuss. We got the goods, all we need is for Hayley to come in and pick us up and then get out of there like it was yesterday.”