Casca 3: The Warlord (2 page)

As they neared the raider, Casca thought one wild looking bastard looked vaguely familiar but underneath all that hair it was difficult to tell. As the Romans said, "All barbarians look alike." All thoughts of the past months fled. The basic soldier in Casca came to the fore. As his pulse rate increased, he took short sharp breaths, pumping oxygen into his system automatically. He began to call out orders, commanding the sailors nearest the side to get ready and duck on his order.

Ortius looked at him and, seeing a man who knew his business, said nothing, just nodding in agreement for the others to follow Casca's lead. The captain knew ships, but this was different. In Casca, he recognized a professional and in this instant he made the decision to turn the order of the battle over to this stranger from the sea.

"Do as the soldier orders,” he bellowed, loud enough for the Saxons less than a hundred yards away to hear.

The sailors huddled together instinctively, and Casca roared at them to separate to make smaller targets for the wave of axes that would come.

The Saxon ship began to close alongside the trader. Their leader stood in the bow, a massively built man with blond-grey flowing hair and mustache, axe held high. With his downward stroke, the Saxons rose to throw. Casca waiting for this moment, cried out to the sailors to fall flat on their faces; the sheer force of his order made most of them hit the deck like they had been pole-axed. Those too late to obey had their skulls and chests laid open by the wave of thrown axes that raced across the small distance separating the two ships. As the axes were thrown, so were the grappling hooks and before the death cry of the stricken sailors could really begin, the Saxons were hauling the two ships side by side, the wood giving a strange muffled shriek as they dragged together. The Saxons crowded at the side, standing on the railing, ready to leap aboard the trader.

In their eagerness, two fell into the water between the ships and were mashed into a mass of jelly when the waves brought them back together again, leaving only a red stain on each ship to show that here had been two men who were no more.

"Up and at them!" The command stirred the defenders and they rose in time to catch the Saxons at their most vulnerable point when they were attempting the crossing from their ship to the trader. Normally the barrage of thrown axes would have given them the necessary seconds to make an uncontested assault, but now they faced desperate men with pikes in their hands and murder in their hearts.

The Saxons were stopped.
But only for a moment. Then the leader of the enemy ship threw himself across the gap, landing on board. He began striking down sailors left and right, caving in skulls and chests, as he cleared an area through which the rest of his band eagerly followed.

The seamen were no match in close combat for the ferocity of the German pirates and were easily being forced back. More and more Saxons rushed into the bridgehead created by their leader, Skoldbjorn, who was slicing down all who opposed him, bellowing for Thor to give him strength to kill all who dared to stand in front of his axe, which was red and dripping with the lifeblood of the sailors. His whirling attack came to a sudden stop as his axe was knocked back with enough force that it left his arm and hand tingling.

Casca pushed him back using a combination of sword and dagger; thrust, jab, strike high, then low. Casca dodged a blow to the head that would have split him to the chest and whirled low to the deck pivoting in a tight circle, slicing the hamstring muscles of a Saxon who came close. Then, raising himself under the guard of the leader, they locked, the Saxon's axe barring Casca's Gladius Iberius, while his other hand held the dagger away from his stomach where it was only millimeters away from opening him up like a gutted fish.

They broke away and locked again, two strong men face to face; again they broke, then whirled around each other like madmen, striking, parrying, sparks leaping when their blades met. The force of their combat brought the rest of the fighting to a stand-still. The protagonists from the two ships separated, keeping a wary eye on each other while the two in the center of the deck met again and again like charging bulls. They grappled, faces touching.

The Saxon spoke between clenched teeth, "Who are you? I have seen you before."

They broke again and Casca made a deep lunging attack that changed in mid-stroke to a swipe to the gut, leaving a thin line of red across the Saxon's muscled belly.

"I am the man who is going to kill you, barbarian. I am Casca, the Roman."

The Saxon stumbled back, nearly falling over a pile of ropes.
"Casca from Helsfjord, the Walker?" Terror slipped into his voice and for the first time courage began to slip away from him. "You're dead. You sailed to the ends of the earth."

Casca struck a blow that numbed his own arm to the shoulder and knocked the horned helmet off the Saxon's head.

"I'm back."

The Saxon countered, forcing Casca back. They
separated, each gasping trying to catch his breath. “You must be over sixty. My father, Hegsten, fought you at the field of Runes over thirty years ago."

Remembrance flashed. "Yes, Saxon dog and whore, I only chopped the left arm off the
sire, I am going to kill the pup." Casca sliced down in a long stroke that forced the axe up high to counter; as the steel from the blade and the axe met, Casca gave a strange sliding movement obliquely that turned his opponent half around unable to use his free hand. Then Casca's dagger slid to the hilt between the striated muscles of the abdomen, sinking deep within, the point of the blade puncturing the great artery running along the spine, letting the Saxon's lifeblood flow into his abdominal cavity.

Pulling the Saxon to him and holding his opponent like a lover, Casca plunged the blade deeper into him, moving the hilt from side to side, severing organs. The death glaze was already creeping over the Saxon's eyes, fogging them.

Through blood-flecked lips he whispered, "You are he.
The Walker."

He died
shuddering, his last act to raise his head back, throat cords standing out from the strain, then drew his last breath. "Odin." The name of his god echoed across the water.

Casca raised his body, grunting with the strain and tossed the carcass over the side. The raiders were still, silent, shocked. Their leader had fallen.

Sensing this was the moment, Casca cried out to the crew, "Kill! Kill! "He rushed the stunned barbarians like a whirlwind, his blade and dagger doing bloody work. The crew hesitated but a moment and then followed cheering.

The Saxons broke. Their leader dead, their courage left them. They fled back to their ship across lines, leaping the span separating the two ships. Several fell into the waters, but none gave them aid.

The trader crew cut the lines of the grappling hooks mooring them together and the ships parted, Ortius' crew cheering.

The Saxons backed water to get away from what they had thought to be easy pickings, instead proving to be a shark; several of which were already tugging at the bodies in the water, taking the living along with the dead.

Ortius quickly resumed command. "Back to your post and oars, you miserable sea lice. Clear the Saxon scum from my decks and send them to their brothers to feed the hungry ones below."

The battle was over.

Casca, as usual, after a fight, felt drained, his limbs trembling, not only from physical exhaustion, but from the emotional release as well. Breathing deeply, he gulped down air. "It is over." Ortius slapped him on the back.
"By Poseidon's green sea beard! It was a lucky day when we found you bobbing like a cork. You have made a friend this day, Casca Longinus, and never let it be said that Ortius, the ship's master, forgets a debt. When we make port I am going to buy the ten best whores in town and see if they can kill you. By Jupiter's brass balls man, I never saw such fight in all my life!"

No further incidents interrupted the journey of the trader to the safe port of Dubrae from which on a clear day the coast of Gaul could almost be seen across the channel. The crew was in good spirits; their valor increased with each retelling of the battle and had multiplied several fold by the time the city came into view as a light colored speck on the hills behind.

There were enough souvenirs left behind by the Saxons so that everyone on board had a trophy to attest to his courage: helmets with horns, swords, and enough of those terrible throwing axes so that even each slave had at least one.

Ortius, pleased at the way the oar-slaves had fought alongside his freedmen, knocked a year off his deal with them and several were to be given their letters of manumission as soon as a magistrate could be found to witness and document the releases.

The trader slipped into port under a fair wind, passing several others on their way out, carrying cargos of tin and wool to the Empire and beyond. Like all ports, this one had its own particular blend of the odors of fish and garbage. The town itself was set upon a small group of hills that faced the channel. The immediate area around the port was lined with docks and piers along with a tannery and several warehouses, adding their scents to the already pungent atmosphere.

In this area also were the places for sailors and their like: wine ships and inns along with an undetermined number of whorehouses catering – for the right price – to all tastes. The homes and businesses near the hillsides were for the upper classes. Several villas had obviously been built in the Roman style; here the captains of the ships found amusement.

Ortius gave his men their unloading orders.
Then, accompanied by Casca, left to present his papers to the port authority. There he declared his cargo and paid his duty, accidentally dropping a purse of silver denarii as they left, to insure the amount and kind of cargo he declared were not too closely looked at by the customs officials.

Taking Casca by the arm, he guided him through the labyrinth of streets and alleys, past shops and vendors, eating stalls and racks of drying fish.

“Well, my over-muscled friend, before we do anything else, we have to get you into some decent clothes; these rags you are wearing would embarrass a Dacian goatherder, though you have the smell to go with the description."

Stopping at a shuttered door, he pounded upon it for admittance. "Open up, you hooked robber of decent seafaring men, let us in to see the rags you try to pass off as clothes!" Ortius kicked away a short-haired dog which sniffed tentatively and then raised its leg, over Ortius' shin. Yelping, it raced down the street before completing an act of defilement.

After hours of haggling, Ortius grumbling and clucking over prices, Casca's clothes finally met his friend's approval: a short tunic of plain blue wool spun locally and a cloak of burgundy from Gaul, along with a broad belt of Spanish leather, set with large brass studs. A new set of caligulae, Roman style military boots that laced up to the calves, finished his wardrobe.
Adjusting the strap of his scabbard, so that his sword hung properly. Casca looked at the effect in a polished bronze mirror and was not displeased by what he saw.

"By Mithra, I'm still a pretty good looking rascal." Three other tunics would be delivered later to the combination inn and whorehouse Ortius had selected as their domicile while in Dubrae.

Leading the Roman along through the streets like a ship hauling a dingy behind it, the bandy-legged Sicilian kept up a rambling discourse on the faults and merits of ladies of pleasure at the Inn of Paetius the Greek.

Laughing, they reached the entrance of the two-storied structure. Nudging Casca in the ribs, Ortius whispered, "Watch out for Paetius, he's the most notorious faggot in the country, but for all that is a good fellow who has clean rooms and doesn't water the wine to excess; he charges only slightly more than his wares are worth, but most important – he has the cleanest girls in town, so you won't have to worry about leaving here with a touch of the pox." Bursting into the smoky interior, the barrel chested sailor pushed his way through the crowd bellowing, "Wine for my man. We have been raping and ravaging since
dawn. . . wine do you hear . . . when we had some spare time we killed a hundred Saxons . . . wine! Ortius the great is here, accompanied by one almost as handsome and brave!"

The crowd roared with laughter. Obviously Ortius was well known and liked. A massive figure swept down upon them; Casca prepared himself for a fight. The huge man reached Ortius first, swept him up into his arms raising him a foot off the wooden floor, kissing the struggling Sicilian on both cheeks as fat tears ran down the cheeks of Paetius the Greek.

Paetius was six-foot-six and close to three hundred pounds, most of it muscle. His finely sculptured face had an aquiline nose which seemed too small sitting on top of the mass of meat. several knife scars were visible on his neck and arms, attesting to the fact that here was one hell of a pansy.

Squirming out of the giant's grasp, Ortius checked his rib cage and then introduced Casca to the Greek, who immediately performed an identical assault on Casca much to his chagrin, but as the man was obviously so good natured, it was hard to take offense, at least until Paetius pinched him on the ass. But the Greek set him free before Casca could respond.

Paetius lisped in a girlish voice, "Ortius, I have been so worried about you, those horrible barbarians have been attacking almost everything that floats; it's been terrible for business. But, enough of my troubles, "he said, wiping a tear of joy from his eye, "at least now I know another of my chicks has come home safely." Calling to his tavern wenches, he threw three sailors from their seats to make room for Ortius and Casca. Ignoring their complaints, he silenced them with a stern upheld forefinger and they meekly acquiesced.

"Wine, you sluts, and the good stuff, none of the local vinegar."
The three settled into benches by the fireplace over which a spit of lamb was roasting, the rich smell of cooking fat brought instant growlings to their stomachs. Wine was poured. The Greek was silent, giving them time to swallow half a cup and relax a bit.

"Now, my darlings, what's all this about fighting Saxons. I must hear everything you can tell about those beasts. They are terrible, though the blond hair most of them have is quite attractive. I've
thought about going blond myself," he touched his oiled and curled locks with a delicate pat. "Now Ortius dear, tell me everything, especially about this new friend of yours," he minced. "I can just tell he's a delicious brute." The Greek gave a long suggestive wink at Casca.

Casca blushed self-consciously and then laughed, choking on a gulp of wine that went down the wrong pipe, leaving him sputtering and gasping, trying to catch his breath through watering eyes.

Ortius gave him a slap on the back which didn't do Casca much good, but seemed to please the Sicilian who went on, oblivious to Casca's discomfort, and related the story of the Saxon attack to Paetius. The Greek oohed and aahed at the account of Casca's slaying of the raider chieftain, fairly squirming in delighted excitement. "I just knew you were a devil when I first saw you," he said and smiled, filling Casca's cup again.

Dismissing the tale of his prowess with a wave of his hand, Casca turned his attention to the firm and well-rounded mounds of female flesh that bumped his arm.
"Nice... very nice. I always did have a fanny fetish."

Paetius noticed his interest in the girl, sighed deeply as if wounded, then shrugged, as if to say, it's your loss if that's what you like.

Ortius also noticed Casca's wandering eye checking out the tavern wenches. Leaning close to Paetius he whispered in his ear. The Greek giggled delightedly, rose, and weaved his way with tiny steps through the benches and tables out of sight.

Casca watched his departure and the leer on the queer's face. "What the hades is he up to?"

Ortius smiled and replied, "I am just being a man of my word and living up to a promise I made some time back." Saying no more on the matter, they sat back to relax and find their land legs; it still seemed as if the table were swaying slightly. The wine flowed freely and for the first time in more years than he could remember, the Roman tasted again the sweet Falernian, whose grapes grew in the sunny hills of his first home. The wine fumes settled into his brain and the world took on a rosy glow.

Ortius seemed to have an unlimited capacity for the grape and, as the evening wore on, became merely more talkative and cheerful.

After dark settled and the lamps were lit, their oily tendrils mingling with wide columns of smoke from the fireplace, twice men came to try to talk business with Ortius, but were told that it would have to wait until the morrow... this night there were other matters that needed attending to.

The tavern was filled to overflowing with a mixture of humanity: everything from blue-eyed northern Gauls to a couple of Picts who sat in the corner drinking their sour beer, faces painted a fading blue; a dozen tongues spoken and understood, but all had one thing in common: the seas they sailed. To them anyone who lived by choice on land was less than a man.

After an endless number of wine bowls and cups had been emptied, jugs and pots filled and refilled, they had sampled everything even remotely resembling being intoxicating that the inn had to offer. The last bout of drinking the local, homemade beer left a green taste in his mouth and Casca finally pleaded for mercy.

Ortius, pleased at his victory, gave one magnificent fart that Casca swore had a green yeasty tinge to it and said through thick slurred words, "Good enough my friend, now that you have surrendered, your room is ready, though in this place I'm not sure just how much sleep you will get. But never
mind, just remember old Ortius is a man of his word, Roman." With this Ortius fell over into a pot of wine gurgling happily.

Casca followed the brown-haired little tavern wench who led him to the rickety stairs to his room. The stairs seemed to be weaving as if he were still on the deck of the ship. The girl giggled constantly. Leaving Casca at the doorway, she fled laughing back to the bottom of the stairs and stopped, waiting.

Casca looked down at her thinking, "What the crap is wrong with that dippy little slut?"

Suddenly he was tripped and thrown to the floor as the door slammed behind him. A feminine laugh, along with a tongue pushing its way into his mouth stopped his automatic counterattack, especially when a soft hand slid under his tunic. An oil lamp was lit in the corner.

Casca froze in shock. Ortius was indeed a man of his word. Ten women from ten countries lay in wait for him, all stark naked and smiling, blondes, redheads and hot-eyed dusky maids from Syria and Egypt.

A brunette with white even teeth and laughter in her eyes stuck a rosy nippled tit in his face and cried out merrily, "Roman, I am going to screw your brains out before you get out of here." Several of the other girls countered with, "Not if we get him first", and the melee
was on! Twenty hands grabbed him, throwing him onto the three beds which had been pushed together in anticipation of the event about to take place.

In less time than it takes to flip
a denarii, he was as naked as they. The girls yelped in joy. Here was a man.

Instantly he was covered in warm naked bodies, perfumed hair and thighs mingled with pressing breasts and mouths until he felt as if he were drowning in a sea of women. They piled on him, each anxious to get her fair share of the man beneath them. Lips and legs covered him from head to toe and one bitch, the Egyptian, had his big toe in her mouth sucking away. Casca squirmed in
pleasure, he had never felt anything like it. The Egyptian, obviously aware of the erotic effect she was having on the scarred Roman, was content to do her part in the night's orgy.

Paetius opened the door a crack and peeked in, just in time to see Casca surface like a porpoise, catching a breath of air and then joyfully plunging back into the quivering mass of women, sinking into the best of all possible oceans. Closing the door quietly, Paetius mumbled wonderingly, “I just don't see what they get out of it." Shaking his head in sad confusion, he went back to the main room in time to break the arm of a Nubian who pulled a knife on a fellow Greek from Thessaly.

"I don't allow that shit in my place," he bellowed and tossed the Nubian into the street, fractured forearm and all, leaving him unconscious for the vigiles to find.

Casca woke to the pounding on his door, thinking for a moment that it was coming from inside his own head. His whole body ached and he hadn't felt this bad when he had been a gladiator in the
arena at Rome. The pounding continued, "Just a moment," as he untangled himself from the mass of naked bodies that covered him, moving legs and arms out of the way. Slipping his tunic on he stumbled to the door and upon opening it, the portly form of Ortius stood leering from ear to ear, a pot of wine in his hand which he stuck under Casca's nose.

"My gods, no!
Get that shit away from me!" His stomach performed a minor upheaval which he squelched with some difficulty.

"No? Then, I'll drink it myself." Ortius swallowed the cupful in one gulp and tossed the empty vessel into the room where it joined the pile of exhausted whores, who had done such noble duty.

“Come my friend, a good breakfast of cold mutton is just what you need to fix you up."