Roman Mercenary Page 6

  Casca paused in the act of standing up. He’d never before thought about his Germanic accent; he supposed it must sound regional. “I told you before, in the north; Scandia.”

  “Oh yes, Scandia.” Gunthar crouched and looked at Casca. “What in the name of the gods were you doing that far north?”

  “Killing assholes,” Casca said and walked off, leaving Gunthar very thoughtful indeed.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Arelate stood at the mouth of the Rhodanus, a large city of white stone buildings and a fair number of wooden poor quality constructions in the suburbs. A large wall ran round the city and they were checked carefully at the east gate before being allowed in. The group were given a long look by the guards but Gerontius showed them a letter from Scarnio – something Casca was irked at not knowing about – that authorized them entry without question.

  As they made their way past the great amphitheater, Casca nudged Gerontius. “You got anything else on you I ought to know about?”

  Gerontius shook his head. “Scarnio thought we might need his connections to get us through the territory of Constantine, and so he gave me this before we left. I’ve served here before, so I know the place fairly well. There’s a decent inn along the road across the bridge. You want to avoid the more run-down ones; you might find yourself robbed and murdered before you know it.”

  Casca waved Gerontius to lead on, passing townsfolk hurrying on their way, and ahead there was a squad of soldiers grouped around an officer. “Right you lot,” Casca said to the men with him, “keep your weapons out of sight and don’t go making any silly moves. We don’t want to start anything here.”

  The others threw their cloaks around themselves and tried to look innocent, but only succeeded in making themselves more obvious. Casca shook his head and walked alongside the confident Gerontius. Beyond the soldiers stood the river and crossing the water at that point was a bridge different to any other Casca had seen. It was basically a pontoon bridge, a wide walkway supported by a series of boats floating with the river, tethered at both ends to the banks. To get onto it at either end were moveable ramps so they could be raised at a moment’s notice.

  Casca asked Gerontius why this sort of bridge stood here and not one of a more permanent nature. Gerontius pointed at the river. “It floods most years and the amount of water rushing down towards the sea would carry off any bridge. So many years ago they worked out here it was best to have this type of bridge, one that could always float on top of the water no matter how high it was. They just unhitch it from this bank if it does flood and fix it to the wall there on that side.”

  Casca pursed his lips. It sounded a sensible answer. The soldiers were checking most people coming and going and the officer in charge of the squad noticed their approach. He held out a hand, palm forward. “That’s far enough,” he commanded and stared at the odd assorted people in front of him. Clearly all seven were soldiers by their build and demeanor, but they were dressed in rough non-regular outfits. A few looked Roman but others looked like barbarians. An odd assortment indeed. “Your purpose here in Arelate and your intentions?”

  “Sir,” Casca stepped forward. “We’re looking to hire boats to travel upriver to Lugdunum. We’re to collect property there on behalf of our paymaster back in Massilia.”

  The officer looked doubtfully at the men. All were in need of a shave and had that been-too-long-outdoors look. Gerontius produced the letter from Scarnio once more and presented it to the Roman officer. “Hmmm,” he said, “seems in order. Very well,” he passed it back to Gerontius, “where will you be staying in Arelate?”

  Casca cocked an eyebrow at his companion. Gerontius waved to the other side of the river. “The Black Wolf, unless it’s closed down.”

  “No, that establishment is still going. I’m surprised you’re staying there; they don’t normally take rough types. No offense of course,” he smirked, eyeing the German members of the group.

  “Of course,” Casca said. He waved the group onto the bridge and they walked across, looking upriver and downstream. The bridge swayed as they made their way over, and more than one of them were glad to make it safely to the far bank. The city here was markedly better off and bigger and more imposing buildings stood to left and right. The forum was along the street but Gerontius led them off to the right, up a slight rise, and they came to The Black Wolf.

  Gerontius spoke to the owner, a big man with grey hair, who looked as if he might refuse them entry, but Casca’s coins and a few words from Gerontius finally convinced him to allow them four rooms at the rear, away from the majority of the other rooms.

  They took advantage of the bar and sat around two tables, watching the clientele coming and going. Casca had given them strict instructions not to start any nonsense or they’d have him to answer to, and after a few drinks Gunthar muttered darkly and retired to his room, followed by Mattias who was sharing with him. The two Goths went next, leaving Flavius with Gerontius. Flavius went to order more alcohol but Casca put a hand on his arm. “Enough. We’re to start early tomorrow and I don’t want anyone with a hangover. I need you sober.”

  Flavius pulled a face, but straightened up and nodded. “Right you are, Sir. I’ll retire to bed in that case.” He looked at Gerontius who was sharing his room. “You going to be long? I don’t want to be woken up by you crashing around.”

  “I’ll be along shortly,” Gerontius held his gaze without expression. Flavius grunted and left.

  “Just who are you, Gerontius?” Casca asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re used to authority – giving it out. It’s written all over you. You’re no ordinary soldier.”

  Gerontius held Casca’s look for a moment, then grinned. “Perceptive of you, Longinus. I was primus pilum in one of Constantine’s legions when he was in Britannia and came over with him when he declared independence from the Empire. I kept my rank until the legion was incorporated into another and I lost my position as the other primus was senior to me. So I sort of left Arelate and came to Massilia and joined Scarnio’s household. I knew him from our old days in Britannia,” he explained.

  Casca nodded in understanding. Gerontius had been the senior centurion of a legion; that was high enough. “So how do you like being ordered around by a former legionary like me?”

  “’To lead one must first learn to take orders’,” Gerontius intoned, his eyes half closed. “I can’t recall who first said that but I learned that in the academy in Britannia.”

  Casca looked at his companion with interest. “You were born in Britannia?”

  “Yes but I’m from Roman stock; my father was army and came over when he was a young man. I was born a few years later.”

  Casca studied him for a moment. “You’re here to make sure we do our job right, isn’t that the case? Scarnio looking after his interests.”

  “That’s a little strong, Longinus. It’s his daughter, after all. She knows me by sight, so she’ll know you’re bona fides, and she’ll readily come with us if she sees me with you. Makes sense to bring me along. And I’ve been to Argentoratum before so I know the place reasonably well. You need each of us for different reasons, but I’m probably as important as any of the others.”

  “Just don’t go thinking that too much and become a liability, Gerontius,” Casca said.

  Gerontius paused in the act of standing up, looked down at Casca, his expression unreadable, then snorted in amusement and left. Casca looked at his retreating back for a moment, wondering why the man hadn’t given him a straight answer to his question.

  * * *

  The next morning they went down to the river upstream from the floating bridge and began to haggle with the ship owners. They needed a boat big enough to take all seven comfortably plus their equipment. There were only five boats there that looked big enough. Eventually they settled on one and began arguing over costs. The owner, a weather-beaten Gallo-Roman with a curved hook of a nose, stubbornly refused to go below his sec
ond revised price, and eventually Casca had to concede defeat and pay him in advance.

  The boat was a typical river transport, being used normally to transport grain and wine downstream from Lugdunum to Arelate, and had a crew of four. The large cargo spaces were empty and the boat would normally take goods up to Lugdunum such as olives, cheeses and fish from the sea, so the price the captain had asked for was to compensate him and his crew for the loss of their profit.

  Casca picked out a spot for himself in the cargo hold and the others did likewise, hoping that it wouldn’t rain during their journey upriver as the hold was open to the sky. A single mast rose from the well set in the hold high above the deck and two sails would propel them up the Rhodanus. If the normally reliable wind failed, then there were oars available, and Casca spotted them hanging from bindings against the deck sides. His back tingled from the memory of being a galley slave of Rome three hundred years previously, and he sincerely hoped he would never ever have to go through another stage of his life like that again.

  As they got ready to cast off, a large squad of soldiers came tramping along the street that ran alongside the jetties and heads turned to see what they wanted, as the military usually never bothered to visit what was, after all, a merchant’s quarter. The captain leaned against the aft rail and frowned. “Now what does the Vicarius want here?”

  Casca wondered, too. A Vicarius was a fairly senior officer in the new Roman army, standing above the rank of centurion and below that of tribune or dux, for example. He was normally in charge of a cohort.

  As they watched, the soldiers began barking orders to the crews to allow them on board. Gerontius tutted and went to vault back over the rail onto the jetty. “Where do you think you’re going?” Casca snapped, irritated at the delay.

  “I’m going to have a word with them to see what’s up,” Gerontius replied. “I might be able to talk our way out of whatever they’ve got planned for these boats.”

  Casca put his hands on his hips and watched as Gerontius spoke to the nearest soldier standing with his spear on the ground, and was waved in the direction of the vicarius. Gerontius made his way over to him and spoke for a few moments, and there seemed to be an argument brewing, but Casca couldn’t hear what was being said due to the noise of the soldiers and the crews moving about on the other boats.

  Then just as it seemed Gerontius was about to be arrested, the vicarius nodded, thumped his fist against his chest and let Gerontius go. Casca’s face took on a thoughtful look and waited until Gerontius jumped back aboard. “We can go. They’re not interested in us after all. They thought we were taking foodstuffs upriver like the others. Once he realized they were only taking us, they lost interest.”

  “Why are they interested in food stuffs?” Casca wondered.

  “No idea, Sir, but I’d advise against asking as he might change his mind. Best we get out of here before he does!”

  Casca agreed and nodded to the captain who growled at his crew to cast off and raised the sails. The Sirocco was blowing upriver, so the sails billowed out and the ship began pulling through the sluggish waters away from the jetties, and the captain himself manned the tiller oar, guiding the wide vessel out of Arelate and away from the arguing crews and the soldiers.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The landscape outside of Arelate fascinated the mercenary group. To one side, the right, the land was flat and marshy. Pools of water glittered in the sun and tall grasses grew in plentiful groups. But off to the left the land rose in dizzy, craggy white slabs of rock. The ground rose almost from the banks of the river, and along the left bank a series of ruined buildings came into view.

  “What are those?” Mattias asked, staring at the rows upon row of walls and gaping, open windows.

  Casca shook his head. “No idea. Gerontius?”

  The Roman waved at the buildings. “Once, maybe a hundred years back, I’m told these supplied the southern part of Gaul with grain. These were all water mills, the largest concentration of mills in the empire. Now, sadly, all abandoned.”

  They all stood silently, even Gunthar, looking at the crumbling, neglected edifaces, now slowly succumbing to the creeping weeds and undergrowth that were spreading over them. “How is it the Romans have allowed themselves to become so weak if they could do this?” Gunthar growled at last.

  “Who knows?” Casca said, not looking away from the testimony of past greatness. He felt sad. The greatness was gone, and only a slow, lingering death remained. It was coming, he could see it, but how long it would take was anyone’s guess. “Greed? Stupidity? Sloth? Maybe all three and more. I couldn’t tell you.”

  “The tribes will rebuild once this is all theirs,” Gunthar stated. “We are a vital people, not a soft and decadent one like the Romans.” Casca, Flavius and Gerontius turned to look at him with hostility. “Present company excepted,” Gunthar grinned toothily in haste.

  “Wisely said,” Gerontius said, an undertone of malice in his voice. Gunthar smiled widely, as if he were pleased at piquing the three men.

  “Knock it off, Gunthar,” Casca snapped.

  The German bowed and turned away, chuckling. The group broke up and lounged in sunny and comfortable places away from the activities of the crew. Casca found himself at the bows, looking upstream. Clouds cloaked the far distant horizon off to the right, and he knew that way were the mountains separating Gaul from Italy. Mattias wandered up to him, chewing on an apple. “It’s quiet,” he mumbled through half-chewed fruit.

  “Aye,” Casca said, taking the apple from the German, biting a chunk off it, before returning it to him. The fruit was juicy and sweet. “Make the most of it; I suspect before long we’ll be up to our necks in shit.”

  “Think we’ll get her out from under the Alemanni’s noses?”

  “I hope so; I don’t like the feeling of failure. Besides, the thought of a young girl all alone in a city occupied by barbarians gets me right here,” he thumped his chest. “We’ve got to give it our best shot. I’m confident we can melt into the city, seven more barbarians amongst seven thousand or however many they may be. And with Gerontius with us who knows the city, and even Gunthar, we should find our way round without much trouble.”

  “Do you trust him?” Mattias jerked a thumb back towards the center of the boat where Gerontius was practicing with his sword against a wooden post the ship’s captain had provided.

  “No more so than any of you others,” Casca grinned. “Nor, come to that, any of you trusting me.”

  Mattias chuckled. “Yeah; a Roman leading isn’t what I’d call safe.”

  “You’d prefer an Alemanni? Or, even worse, one of Gundahar’s Burgundians?”

  Mattias growled, hawked up some phlegm and spat it over the side into the dark waters of the river. “You’re much preferable. You seem to know combat techniques and tactics. Some of these fools couldn’t plan their way out of a cesspit.”

  “So how long were you a hostage, Mattias? You speak fairly good Latin, almost like a native.”

  “Oh,” Mattias waved a muscled arm carelessly in the air. “I was eight, I think. Hard to recall exactly. Learned Latin, how to write, you know, the usual shit. When I got to thirteen I began filling out,” he flexed his chest and bulged his pectorals, “and not only there.” He grabbed his groin and winked. “Found out the delights of using that, too, and screwed my way through my jailer’s household before he found out half of them were pregnant.” He grinned mischievously. “Got sent back to father pretty fast after that, since he was no longer as important as he was, thanks to Gundahar taking power.”

  A silence descended between them, and Mattias leaned over the rail, dropping the apple core into the waters and remained staring into the depths. “I returned, a fifteen year-old whelp, hardly able to speak the language of my tribe, cultured, learned. I also found my father had been abducted and I was head of his household. I took a wife and my father’s retainers and they took us away into the forests and safety. Gundahar had sent out orders to
kill me, so I later found. I re-learned Germanic and the customs of my people, but then the migration began and we were pushed along, too. It was chaotic, I can tell you! The tribes to the east came into our territory, fleeing something terrible further east, and we were driven west. The only place we could come to was into the empire.”

  “So how was it you came to be in Massilia?”

  “Gundahar found us and sent in his noble elite to kill us all. They got more than they bargained for, but even so my wife was killed and barely twenty of us escaped. We felt it safer to flee Burgundian held territory, but in the flight, we lost contact with each other and I ended up in Massilia alone. Lucky I speak Latin and I was soon in one of the local commander’s force and we were sent out to fight a group of renegade Germans raiding travelers on the Alpine road. I didn’t like killing my own people on behalf of Romans so I quit and ended up in that dump you found me in.”

  “I might ask you to kill Germans when we bump into some,” Casca said.

  “This is different. You’re not entirely Roman.”

  Casca stared at Mattias. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re part German; I can feel it. You’ve spent time in the forests. You know the customs, you speak like a tribesman. I would follow you without hesitation. Flavius, no. He’s on the way to being a drunk, if you hadn’t noticed. Gerontius, no. He’s up his own ass too much, and he sounds like a bastard anyway.”

  Casca clapped the tough young Burgundian on the shoulder and moved away. He hadn’t thought that his time in Helsfjord had left a permanent mark on him, yet Mattias had just said as much. Maybe Helsfjord was with him wherever he went, but he hadn’t been aware of it before. Helsfjord. His mind went back to the fortified settlement on the shore of the Scandian fjord. Maybe one day, soon, he would have to return there and see if the people remembered him – if indeed there were still people living in the hold. He also wondered whether Olaf Glamson and the other Vikings had managed to return home from the long journey from the lands of the Teotec; that he would have to find out.