Casca 49: The Lombard Page 4

  Greta murmured and settled in deeply to his chest. “I’m happy to be with you, Casca.”

  As she began to drift off to sleep, he kissed her head. “And I’m happy with you, my sweet.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  They got up before the village had got going the next morning and had a last meal in the feasting hall, eating the leftovers from the evening’s meal, washing it down with mead.

  Greta’s mother turned up with a bag of food and drink and Greta put it in her shoulder bag. Casca had a backpack, generously donated by Gundomar, and he stuffed a lot of useful items into that; clothes, a few pots and so on. He had his sword and dagger, and a spear to hold which could double as a staff.

  Her mother passed her an amulet on a chain. “This was my mother’s; she brought this here from the homeland to the north. You have it. It may bring you luck.” They shared a last embrace before Greta pulled away, her face red and tears slipping down her cheeks.

  Casca was speaking to Gundomar. The elder-elect grinned. “In one way I’ll be sad to see you go, you ugly swine, but on the other I think it’s a good thing you’re off. Karlobad won’t forget what you’ve done to him, and taking his woman is an insult that he’ll never let go. One day, sooner or later, one of you would kill the other.”

  “You’re going to be elected as head now?”

  “Oh yes. All his support has melted away like the spring snow. Nobody respects him now. Thanks for making my election a formality; I owe you big-time.” They grasped forearms, then the two walked out into the sun and made for the open gate. They passed by the forge and Karlobad glanced up at them, before ignoring them. Then they were out in the open and making for the watercourse that chuckled through the valley.

  It was high summer, and the sun was warm. Bees and butterflies flew from one flower to the next in the meadows. Casca had received vague directions from Gundomar. The king, Audoin, was close to the great river to the north, the one the Romans called the Ister, which had for centuries formed the barrier between the civilized lands of the Empire, and the barbarian tribes.

  Casca knew that there were many old frontier forts and settlements along that strip, and a few old Roman towns had existed further south. This was the old province of Noricum, and Casca wondered how much of the old Roman system and structure remained. There would be some roads still there, he knew. One was the old military road that had run from Aquileia to Vindobonum, and Casca was willing to bet Audoin was somewhere there.

  Noricum had been incorporated into the Empire during the time Casca had been down the copper mines in Greece, so he’d never campaigned there. It had been a part of the empire for centuries until the collapse. Then it had been part of the Ostrogothic Kingdom before that had fallen to the Byzantines in the long war Casca had fought in, but the war had never come to Noricum. Now the Lombards were there, and living the typical life of a Germanic tribe.

  He kept an eye on Greta but she was a young, strong German woman and would probably out-walk many men. She was tough, their activity last night proved that. He looked at her hips as she walked and smiled slightly. They all seemed to be born with an instinct to excite men. He walked alongside her and talked to her of her likes and dislikes, and she spoke of her life growing up in the tribe. They had been on the move when she had been born, and her father had been killed in one of the many wars that had spring up between them and the Gepids.

  She had a brother but he went missing one day; whether it was through wolves, Gepids, bandits or he simply ran off nobody knew. When they got to the place they built the village, her mother and extended family brought her up. When she reached fourteen and puberty kicked in, she was suddenly interesting to the young men. She had been courted for a while until Karlobad decided she was to be his and scared everyone else off.

  Now she was eighteen and in the prime of her life. Casca reckoned they could have a decent life for a while until his curse became an issue yet again with him not ageing. By then Greta might be too old to bear children. He mused to himself. Maybe it wasn’t fair denying her the right to have kids, but his Curse denied him that. He’d see how things developed between the two of them. For the moment he was happy to remain with her, and she seemed the same with him.

  She asked about his life, and he kept it believable, using as much truth as he could. He said he’d been born in Etruria and joined the armies of Belisarius to fight the war against the Goths, and had fought for eighteen years which, although not strictly true, made it believable due to him looking around thirty years or so. Then he’d joined the Lombard contingent to avoid Narses, the new general, as the two had fallen out and Casca didn’t want to be hunted all over the empire.

  She accepted this and they switched to the future, and what they would do once they got to the court of King Audoin. Casca wanted to keep his options open but he was confident that as a warrior and mercenary of so many years’ experience, he would be employed in some way by the king.

  They came to a wide river, lined with thick undergrowth, and Casca stood by the bank on a fallen tree, peering across to the other side. He dug deep into his memories but could find little recollection about this region. To be sure, he’d never really been here before, but he did know that somewhere not far away was the road to the old frontier. Dravus, the name suddenly came to him. This was an important river through the southern part of Noricum. There would be a bridge somewhere over this, and that meant a road.

  “Which way to you think?” Greta asked, holding out a hand to be pulled up onto the trunk. Casca obliged and held her in front of him, inhaling the scent of her hair. Beyond the river, in the distance, rose a high range of peaks.

  “East. The mountains are not as high in that direction and we’re more likely to cross a road in that direction. It’ll lead to Vindobona.”

  “You think the king will be there?”

  Casca shrugged. “As good a place as any. It was a frontier town in times gone by so it’ll be a big place, and the king will want to be in a big important trading town like that. Trouble is, I know nothing about where the kingdom of the Gepids lies, so until I do, I won’t know how far to the east the king is likely to be. He won’t want to be far from trouble, I know.”

  He held her for a few moments more, then led her down and along the bank. They walked the rest of the day and then as night approached stopped and made camp. They got a fire going between them and made a double bed out of their bedrolls and blankets and snuggled up, gazing at the stars, talking, making love and finally falling asleep in one another’s arms.

  The new day was cloudy. Rain could come at any time so Casca was keen to get a move on. After a light meal, they set off, and mid-morning saw a stone bridge with many arches crossing the river as they rounded a bend. Casca was relieved; now he knew where they were going. They made a camp for lunch and he even caught a fish. Then they walked to the bridge and began crossing it, Casca noting with disappointment the missing stones and weeds and grasses growing all over it. Neglect was a crime in his eyes. Here were things that with a little maintenance could stand for centuries, yet the short-sighted people running the province were letting it go to rack and ruin.

  He recalled another fact here, that this route was the so-called amber route, and had been a vital trade route bringing that strange golden yellow material from the far north to the Empire. There would be towns all along the route.

  Two days later they crested a rise and in the long, wide valley before them they saw a settlement. It was in a state of disrepair, the older stone walls crumbling and weed-infested, and the stone buildings within in a varying state of repair. Some were mere empty shells, their roofs missing, others seemed almost intact. Where the roofs had gone, and the internal walls of the building fallen down, new wooden structures had been erected, Germanic tribal huts and shacks.

  Other huts and pens for animals stood in the open spaces in between the buildings. It looked pretty well occupied and smoke was drifting up lazily from a number of fires.

&
nbsp; “I remember we passed such places on our way to where we settled,” Greta said, her face smiling in remembrance. “I don’t recall too many details but I do know we passed through one or two towns like this.”

  “Wonder what town this was before the Empire abandoned it?” Casca mused. A few memories tugged at his mind. He’d been this way once before, on horseback, when Attila’s horde had retreated to the plains of Pannonia and the old warlord had died. Casca cocked a head to the north-east. The road passed out of the town on the far side and headed in that direction. Side roads led out left and right, so this place was an important trade crossroads. He concentrated his attention to the bigger buildings in the center. “More importantly at the moment, are there any administrative buildings still working?”

  “Let’s go see,” she said, grasping his hand tightly. “We need more food anyway.”

  They walked down the slope to the town, approaching the south-western gate, a classic Roman-type of entryway, being a stout, square building with a pair of huge doors that opened to allow wagons and soldiers on the road, and a side door, a much smaller one, for those civilians on foot. One or two people walked past them, carrying empty baskets, probably sellers from the countryside who had come into town to sell their wares.

  Standing by the gates and double doors were a couple of Lombard tribesmen, much to Casca’s surprise. That indicated someone with authority was in the town, and his hopes in getting much better information rose. Now he was somewhat closer, he saw that the walls were in need of a lot of repair, for the bricks were loose and the mortar crumbling away.

  The two were given a good looking over by the guards. The woman was young, pretty, and worth looking at. The man, well he was interesting in a different way. Clearly not a Lombard, but he dressed as one and was armed like one. He looked like a Latin. “State your business,” one guard said, wishing to sound important, authoritative and intimidating.

  Casca wasn’t going to fall for that shit. “We’re on our way to see the king. I need directions as to where his court is. I want to know which road to take.”

  “Huh, and why would he agree to having you, a Latin, a member of a conquered people?”

  “Look, shithead, I’m in no mood to go explaining why to you or anyone else. That is for the king to decide, got it?”

  “You got bad manners for a Latin,” the guard snapped.

  “Well excuse me,” Casca didn’t sound sorry. “I must have left them on the battlefield in Italy after slaughtering dozens of Goths.” He flexed his muscles, easily bigger than the two Germanic tribesmen.

  “Go to the weregild office,” the other guard jerked a thumb into the town. “They run things around here. Big building, lots of traders’ stalls outside.”

  Casca thanked him and led Greta into the town, under the ivy-smothered gateway. The town was relatively tidy, the piles of stones common outside being absent from the roads in the town. Many buildings were shabby and missing some stones, but plenty were still being used, judging by the décor and possessions visible inside.

  What appeared to be the norm here were the huts and wooden shacks that lay everywhere. Tribesmen, women, and children all appeared to be here in great numbers. The bigger stone constructions were probably being used by the elite.

  As it happened, the weregild office was open. Casca thought on the name and decided it must be something to do with a loose form of taxation. Any city or town needed taxes to pay for the running and upkeep of the place. He presented himself to an elderly looking Latin man sat in a small office behind a worn and splintered table. The man asked their business in accented German, so Casca responded in fluent Latin.

  “Ave, citizen, I’m looking to take up a military position with the king’s army in the war against the Gepids.”

  The man’s tired face broke into a smile at hearing the old language. “You know, my friend, it’s a long time since I’ve heard the tongue of my youth. Please, sit down, your woman too.”

  It turned out they were in a town called Celeia, a former important trading post on the amber route, now trying to find a role for itself following the collapse of the Gothic kingdom. The man, Scribonus Lato, sighed and nodded to the open window to one side. “Things were alright under the Goths; they didn’t change a great deal while they ran things here, but when the Empire invaded Italy, it all went to hell. The soldiers and warriors all left for the south, and then the Lombards and Saxons moved in.”

  He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “I don’t want to speak ill of my new overlords, but they aren’t a touch on the Goths. I mean, look at this place. Its really falling down all around our ears, and the king spends what money he has on his army in this damned war. If he signed a peace with the Gepids, he may have fund to repair the roads and towns.”

  “So why doesn’t he sign a peace?” Casca asked.

  Lato spread his hands wide. “Pride. Saving face. But he won’t be allowed to conquer them anyway as the empire wishes for weak squabbling neighbors on its borders rather than a united large powerful one. But if you really wish to go see him, then I suggest try his camp at Lake Pelso in Pannonia. I hear he’s building an army there ready for some campaign against the Gepids.”

  Casca felt a surge of excitement. “That’s where I will go, in that case. Thanks for letting me know.”

  “If you wait two days, a wagon train carrying supplies will depart here for Lake Pelso, taking him supplies and equipment; its arriving tomorrow and it’ll take a day to stock up here. I have my orders,” he shrugged. “But you can hitch a ride which’ll save your legs.”

  Casca translated for Greta who looked happy with that. He turned back to Lato. “Where do you recommend us staying?”

  Lato waved a hand. “You can stay at my place. Hearing my old tongue, I’d love to hear more of it. Please, be my guests. You and I can talk about the Goths, the Lombards, the Empire, anything, while your beautiful woman here can talk to the house servants who are Lombards. I was granted them for my service to the kingdom over the years,” he smiled apologetically.

  The two remained for two days at Lato’s enjoying the rest, the meals and a comfortable bed. They were given food, drink and new clothes and ornaments. Lato explained the generosity. “I’m and old man and not far off ending my days here; I’ll be gone, the last of my class and people here, and when I’m gone there’ll be nobody here to carry on the traditions and administration of the old ways. It’ll all go to shit. It saddens me. And I’ve no family, so you two can have what I have here, as I’m damned if these people are going to have them!”

  Casca thanked him, and they were put onto a wagon on the third morning and sent on their way, Lato waving as they rumbled down the street on their way north-east along the amber route, bound for Pannonia.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The wagons arrived at the camp on the eleventh day of their journey. It had been a long, jarring, boneshaking trip that had taken them first to Poetovio, a town which was a mere shadow of its former self, having been plundered by the Huns a century before. They then passed beyond it and left the amber route, turning north-east instead of north, emerging out of rolling countryside onto flatter terrain, dotted with vineyards. Some were still being tended but Casca’s eye took in the number that were overgrown and neglected. It made him feel sad, seeing the old world crumbling to nothing.

  Now they had stopped and were told to get off. Before them an immense camp sprawled, running to the left and right, a mass of huts, tents and fences. People and beasts milled about and the smell of so many in close proximity washed over them.

  Beyond the camp’s wooden fence stood a settlement, right on the lakeside, an old Roman vicus, if Casca’s eyes didn’t deceive him. He took Greta by the waist, protectively. There were a large number of men here, young men in the prime of their life and the sight of an attractive young woman like her might encourage one or two to be a little brave. He didn’t want to take any chances.

  He got directions from one of the wagon drivers an
d he led Greta through a well-trodden muddy path past a row of huts to a wooden fence that separated the camp from the town. There was a large gate set well away from any hut and this was guarded by a group of well-armed and armored men who looked a cut above the usual standard of warrior here. Clearly these were members of some elite unit, and entrusted to keep the rest of the army out of the town.

  “Who are you?” one challenged him as the two approached the gate. There was a stretch of green grass kept clear from the last of the huts to the fence, clearly some kind of ground nobody was allowed to cross without permission. The guards all took hold of their swords or spears and warily checked the heavily muscled man who looked as if he could take care of himself without much trouble. He had a beard, yes, but he was clearly a Latin.

  Casca told them who he was and why he was here.

  “You’re not of the tribes,” the second guard grunted dismissively. “You won’t be permitted to serve in any of our units. Take your place with the rest of these people.”

  “I’ve fought in Italy with the tribes against the Goths,” Casca said wearily as if he were tired of churning out the same old tale. “I’ve spilled more blood fighting for the tribes in my time than any of you. If anyone deserves to join the guard then its me.”

  The third put his fists on his hips and looked down at him. “You certainly won’t be allowed to joint he king’s retinue, that’s for sure, but you might get into one of the other nobles’ unit, I suppose, but you’d have to prove yourself.”

  “How?”

  “Ah, well that depends,” the first one said, switching his attention to Greta for a moment before returning to Casca. “You’ve been cut up some in your time, haven’t you? I mean, all those scars… you can’t be that good.”

  “I’m still here,” Casca grinned. “Proves that I’m a tough bastard and can take care of myself thank you.”

  The first looked at Greta again. “Picked up a pretty companion, I see. She yours?”