Casca 28: The Avenger Page 4

  Miklos nodded in answer to Sicarus’ statement, backing away from the sharp point. He eyed the two men, his gaze coming to rest on Casca's face, in particular his scar. The look traveled down to the left wrist and caught sight of the scar encircling it. Miklos face visibly paled and Casca grinned at the prisoner's silent question. Sicarus was ignorant of all this, being more concerned in meting out his own retribution.

  “Why did you kill my wife, you dog?”

  Miklos swung his head back, a puzzled look on his face. “Your wife?”

  “The farm, a year ago,” Casca said mildly, “when you were with Aeolius.”

  Miklos swallowed. “We were instructed to make sure no-one witnessed the kidnapping of the woman and child. I didn't wish to do it, but we had been commanded us to do it so we obeyed.”

  “Don't give me that crap,” Casca snarled, “you were happy to do so because your superiors ordered it, and I know you’d cut your own throats quite merrily if they so ordained. Your protests means nothing, except that you’re crapping yourself.”

  Sicarus was breathing deeply, trying to keep himself under control. “Who else ordered my wife's death? Speak up, we haven't got all night!”

  “Do you know who he is?” Miklos said desperately, nodding at Casca, “he's the Beast, the spawn of Satan! He cannot die.”

  Sicarus slapped the man across the temple with the flat of his blade. “Answer my question you piece of garbage before I start cutting you up. I’m a captain in a mercenary company and I don’t take anyone messing me around, and you as sure as hell can die if I’m not mistaken. Who ordered it?”

  “The Elder Gregory, but he's vanished.” Miklos was trembling all over, leaning back over the chair he was now awkwardly sat in, wafting wine fumes over the sweating Sicarus.

  “He's dead, I killed him,” Casca said, “and I'll kill Narses when I get to him.”

  “Impossible, he's too heavily guarded by my men. He never goes anywhere without my men, even when he's guarding the Emperor's bedchambers.” Miklos suddenly registered what Casca had said. “You killed Elder Gregory?”

  Casca grabbed Miklos by the throat. “We know Narses is often in the palace. What about you?”

  Miklos shook his head. Casca released him and stood back. “Okay, Sicarus, he's all yours.”

  Miklos’s scream of terror was abruptly cut off by a single thrust from the mercenary’s sword through the heart. Sicarus gazed down at the bloodied corpse, his face expressionless. “He deserved a slower death,” he muttered. Casca gently took him by the arm. “Come on, my friend, let’s get out of here and drown ourselves in some piss-awful wine of that innkeeper’s.” They left the dead man and walked out of the house, making sure their swords were concealed again. They walked in silence until they crossed the Mese, the wide street that ran from the Golden Gate to the Hippodrome. Sicarus laid a hand on Casca's arm and stopped him. “What was Miklos talking about back there? About you being Satan?”

  Casca snorted. “They are a religious order, very strict, and won't tolerate any deviation from what they see as the correct path. My religious path differs from theirs, and I once made the mistake of telling them so, and they’ve persecuted me ever since. I'm afraid my scars give my identity away to them.”

  Sicarus grunted. Whether he was satisfied with Casca’s glib explanation he didn't comment, but he did thank Casca for helping him in getting even with the killer of his wife. “We must not make any mention of this to anyone or we'll bring down the wrath of Narses on us, and he’s a powerful man in the court of Justinian. You've got a hard task there getting to him.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. If something comes up needing my expertise, you can leave a message at the inn I'm staying at. I’ll make sure I'm there at least once a day.”

  Sicarus nodded. “Very well. I’ll plead ignorance of anything I hear you getting up to – just don’t implicate me or my men in any of your activities. I’ve got a nice arrangement with the Emperor and I don't want anything, especially your revenge, spoiling that. That’s all, except to wish you good luck.”

  “You’re not coming back for a drink?” Casca stood, puzzled.

  Sicarus shook his head. “Sorry, my friend, but all this has brought up memories of my family, and I don’t want company this night. No offense. Hard on you I know, seeing you helped me get even, but I want to be by myself.” The two men clasped hands and bade each other farewell before going their separate ways to a comfortable bed; Sicarus unsettled despite having out his revenge, Casca still plotting against the Brotherhood and Narses.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Casca chewed slowly on a hunk of bread he had purchased from one of the many shops that lined the Mese, watching as the people converged on the Hippodrome for the games. He easily identified the members of both factions, those who wore long hair in the style of the barbarians that had conquered Rome. They probably were wearing weapons underneath their long cloaks and robes, he mused. Even the building work on the Hagia Sofia, the immense church on the hill, had ceased as the workers joined in to watch the Blues fight it out with the Greens. Casca wondered if the games would spark off another riot as it had three years previously. He didn't understand how people could get so worked up about chariot races, but there again gladiatorial games and the killing of beasts had been banned so there was no other way for them to get their kicks. He noticed how much adoration the charioteers received when they arrived at the stadium and the germ of an idea began to form in his mind. He knew from conversations with Sicarus that the Emperor and Empress favored the Blues, and in order to get himself into the court he had to be noticed by the duo. Perhaps being a successful member of the Blues might get him this recognition.

  The problem was he couldn’t ride a chariot all that well, having only been in one a couple of times in his past, so he’d better learn somewhere, somehow. He pushed away from the pillar he had been leaning against and made his way across the plaza to the stadium’s entrance, loitering with the rest of those who wanted to mob their heroes. Every so often there would be a cry of “there's Manius!” or “look, it’s Pargimnon!” Casca located the actual entrance the competitors used and then withdrew a distance until the games had started, by which time the number of people outside the Hippodrome had dwindled dramatically.

  The plaza in front of the stadium ran off the southern edge of the Mese, and the extreme western edge of this plaza was where the way into the Hippodrome ran. Along the eastern side of this pathway there were the various entrances to the stables and changing rooms for the competitors, and this is where Casca now headed.

  Walking over to the competitors’ door again, he tried it and found it to be unlocked. He quickly slipped inside and closed the door behind him. He was in a long cool passageway open to the sky with the sound of thousands of excited voices faintly reaching him. There were doors off to both left and right while at the end was a pair of huge double doors. Standing by these were two armed men, arms folded, humorless looks on their faces. Casca waved casually and took the nearest door on his left, thanking the gods that it opened. The smell of leather, sweat and urine was very strong here.

  There was also the unmistakable smell of the animals and Casca guessed that this was where the horses and chariots were kept. He peered round the edge. There was a large chamber with three or four chariots in various states of repair and two men were busy hammering a wheel back onto the shaft. Casca went up to the two men and cleared his throat. They looked round, saw him standing there, then went back to hammering the wheel. Casca felt the stirrings of anger in him but kept silent. After three more lusty blows the two men stood up and backed off, studying their work. Apparently satisfied one of them turned to face the waiting man. “Who are you and what is it you want?”

  The manner in which the words were spoken were clearly designed to insult, so Casca obliged by grabbing him by the throat, picking him up off his feet. “A piece of advice, you ill-mannered scum, show some courtesy to your guests.”

  The man’
s face turned red, his eyes bulged, and he began making some curious noises so Casca released him, dropping him onto his feet. The man staggered to the side of the repaired chariot and clung to it, gasping for breath. The other man had wielded the hammer at Casca's actions, but a look from him was enough to stay the hammer wielder for there was something in his eyes that said this was death.

  “All I was going to ask is who the trainer for the Blues is? A simple question requiring a simple answer.”

  The hammer man grunted and lowered the tool. “That's Hadramon. Why do you want him? The Greens would be a better choice.”

  Casca shook his head. “Can’t stand them; besides, the Emperor favors the Blues and I don’t want to be out of favor with him. What does this Hadramon look like?”

  The two men scowled, obviously disliking this boorish stranger with terrible taste – who would in their right mind favor the Blues? The man Casca had throttled replied: “white haired, tall, thin, large nose. Sits with the drivers by the trackside.”

  Casca grunted and turned to go. “My thanks,” he said ironically, “but by your manners I assume you belong to the Greens. Watch out for me in the coming months, my name is Rufius.”

  Leaving the two fuming men in the workshop, Casca grinned to himself as he walked back down the passage towards the exit. If he was going to get a name for himself, it would be better not to use a name the Brotherhood was familiar with, so a variation of his middle name would have to do. Rufius was sufficiently anonymous for his purposes. Now to find this Hadramon and introduce himself. After paying his entrance fee he walked up the stairs into the stadium and his ears were assailed with a wash of noise. The Hippodrome could hold one hundred thousand people and looking at the sea of faces and colors all around he could well believe it. He stood for a moment at the top of the stairs and orientated himself. Down by the track would be where the competitors were most likely to be found, and sure enough he caught sight of a number of people milling around down there way off to the left. He looked up and opposite from where he was standing saw the imperial presence in their box, accessible directly from the palace which adjoined the Hippodrome.

  As he began walking down towards the front, he surveyed the stadium track itself, shaped not in a circle like Rome’s Coliseum, but in a huge elongated ‘U’ shape, being of two long straights connected at the far right or southern end by a sharp turn. The other end of the stadium was where the races began and also where the horses, chariots and riders entered the Hippodrome through a series of arched openings. The track turned short of this. Although the two long straight pieces would allow great bursts of speed, it would be at the turns that the races would be decided, the better strategists making sure they would be first out of the bends and therefore able to take the inside for the next bend. Memories came flooding back to Casca and he smiled fondly at the arena. He’d fought in the Circus Maximus in Rome in Nero’s day, a stadium very much like this one. He was familiar with the design and layout.

  There was a long dividing arrangement in the center – the spina - which divided the race track in two so that the chariots could race round. Each end of this had two huge circular turning columns called metas. Casca recognized the design as being copied almost faithfully from Rome's Circus Maximus, and a wry smile passed over his lips. The memory of his gladiatorial bouts in that arena flooded over him for a moment, but he forced them out of his mind. The spina was about fifteen feet high so no chariot could possibly cross it, and was adorned with statues of animals and two spectacular erections; a stone obelisk adorned with carvings and an iron column in the shape of a twisted snake. Casca thought the obelisk was Egyptian.

  He pushed his way past those already seated at the front, attracting annoyed looks or comments about his ancestry, but he cared not. Eventually he reached a point directly behind the Blues' enclosure and leaned over, spotting the figure of Hadramon at once, talking earnestly to one of his charioteers who was preparing to mount up and race. The crowd became more excited as the time for the race drew nearer and soon the chariots were lined up at the start for the race. This one was over ten circuits and the crowd were taking bets as to who would triumph. Apparently the Greens' elite driver, Manius, was racing and he was the hot favorite for this one. The Blues had been struggling this day and there was a pessimistic air from their supporters but at least they had won two of the races. Each faction had four chariots in this race so the eight chariots were placed in the eight westernmost arches out of the twelve, the horses snorting and pawing restlessly, impatient to be off. With a huge roar from the crowd the referee gave the signal and the race was on, Manius immediately surging forward to take a narrow lead from one of the Blue charioteers. At the first turn the inevitable crush caused an accident, one of the Blue chariots colliding with a Green, both vehicles cart-wheeling off to the outside of the curve to destruction, spilling their occupants out, one right in the path of the second Blue chariot which ran straight over him, horses and all. The crowd roared in excitement, reminding Casca of the gladiatorial games in Rome and Milan he had taken part in. Although those had been stopped, the people still got as high from seeing blood now as then.

  Race officials ran on after the last chariot had cleared the corner to bring under control the two teams of horses and to pick up the broken figure of the rider. The wreckage of the chariots was left on the outside of the curve as there wasn't time to clear it up before the leading chariots began to approach again for the second circuit. By this time Casca could see that, barring a catastrophe, Manius would easily win this race. The only other challenger was the Blue rider he had seen Hadramon talking to before the race, but he was trailing quite badly even this early in the race.

  As an exercise he studied Manius closely as he raced around the circuit. The Green rider would approach a bend by guiding the horses slightly away from the inside of the track, then suddenly pulling his four horses round in a skidding turn, accelerating through the last part of the curve. Although this gave him a greater burst of speed out of the bend, it made him slightly vulnerable to anyone hot on his heels who could nip in the inside. However, Manius had too great a lead to be caught like this, although the Blue rider was able to cut the lead slightly at times. As they approached the last bend before the finish, the Blue rider made a supreme effort to nip in but Manius, anticipating this, slid his chariot across thus blocking the Blue's route. This had the effect of crushing the luckless charioteer against the inside track wall, smashing the chariot and sending the man hurtling out across the dirt. As he lay stunned there the following chariots came into the turn, unable to avoid him. The crowd roared again, either from delight or outrage. Manius easily won much to the delight of the Green faction supporters and to the obvious displeasure of the Emperor and the Empress who promptly got up and vanished from view.

  Casca watched as the broken body of the Blue rider was brought to Hadramon who shook his head sadly and waved the bearers to take him away to be buried. Casca stood up and made his way to the exit, having seen enough, and made his way through the throng to the outside and waited for Hadramon to appear. In the event the Blue faction man took a long time to come out and when he did he was taken away by two members of the imperial household to the palace. This was through the Chalke – or the bronze – Gate right at the end of the Mese to the east of the plaza. Casca followed leisurely and waited to see if the elderly man would come out which he did after a long while. By this time it was getting dark so Casca quickly made his way over to him and stepped in his way. Hadramon drew in a quick breath and looked about for an escape route, but Casca raised a hand. “Wait, I am not about to rob you, neither am I of the Greens. You are Hadramon, trainer of charioteers to the Blues?”

  “I am,” the elder man replied, relaxing slightly although still slightly wary. “Who are you?”

  “Rufius, temporarily unemployed, formerly a bouncer, sword arm, you name it. I couldn’t help notice how badly your faction did today and I saw the death of your rider. You need me
to replace him.”

  Hadramon grunted and squinted at the large frame of Casca in the fading light. “Have you any experience of riding chariots?”

  “No, but I’m a quick learner and I'm strong enough,” he flexed his arms, revealing his muscles to an impressed man. Hadramon also studied the scars over his arms and face and thought to himself here was someone used to the rough life and strong enough to give some of it back with interest. Perhaps he could use this toughie, particularly now he had lost his rising star. Casca stood aside and allowed the Blue faction man to walk on, the warrior walking alongside. “You had an audience with Justinian?”

  “More like an admonishing. He told me either I improved my recent record or he’d find someone else to train the Blues. He didn’t like losing so heavily, particularly as the Greens’ best man used to be a Blue. You know the Emperor is a staunch supporter of the Blues?”

  Casca nodded. It was fairly common knowledge. He wanted to know more about the Green’s best man. “Manius used to be a Blue?”

  “Aye, he’s the best; I trained him until the Greens lured him away with their money and prestige, damn their eyes!”

  Casca was impressed. If Hadramon could mold a man into the best, then he would have a chance given his experiences in the five hundred and twenty-odd years he had been around, particularly in learning all the dirty tricks on the way. On a suggestion from Casca, they went into the nearest inn and sat around a table drinking, discussing the subject of chariots. They kept their voices quiet as there were a large number of Green faction supporters there celebrating their successes so their place in the darkest corner was probably the safest in the tavern.

  Hadramon lived for the Blues. He had been a supporter all his life and had learned to be a charioteer in his younger days, achieving some degree of success during the reign of the Emperor Anastasius, but after an accident which had broken his leg he had to retire and instead began to train others in the art. After twenty years of teaching he had risen to the principle position in the faction, but with that came the onus of accepting responsibility if the Blues failed. Now it seemed as though his future was in the balance. Casca learned that there was a training center and a track in the suburbs outside the walls which had been built after the damage done by the Bulgars over thirty years ago, and that was where Hadramon lived and worked, only coming into the city on games days. Casca agreed to go the next day to the training center to see what his aptitude in the chariot was and how much tuition he needed.