The Damned Read online

As Casca spoke, Aetius gave careful attention to the message but still kept an eye on his guest. He was a tough looking brute who appeared to be a barbarian but spoke the tongue of Italia as only one born to it can.

  Casca finished his report still at attention.

  Aetius cocked an eyebrow. "Your name, man?"

  Casca gave the Roman salute, striking his chest with his right first and replied in military fashion: "Sir, I am Casca Rufio Longinus."

  Aetius looked at him carefully. "You're a Roman?"

  "Aye, Domini."

  Aetius leaned back in his chair, pleased that he had been right in his suspicions about the man in front of him. The brute was not only a Roman but had also served in the legion; it was written all over him.

  The fact he was dressed as a barbarian didn't surprise him; there had been many in the last few years that had gone over for one reason or another to live with the tribesmen.

  He thought about the message from Torgau. It confirmed much of what he suspected. That was the reason he was here at this place at this time. He was waiting for Attila to come to him.

  "Sit down." He indicated the other chair. "Casca Longinus, wasn't it?"

  Casca did as he was asked, pulling the chair up closer to the desk, glad to be off his feet.

  Aetius watched his face. "Have you fought the Hun before?"

  Casca thought about how best to answer him and decided to speak in generalities. "Yes, many times in one place or another."

  Food and drink were brought in. Aetius poured wine for Casca and spring water for himself. He was not one to drink when talking business. As Casca had no business of any kind at the moment to bother him, he drained his cup.

  Aetius gave him another once over. "Do you know," he continued, "what the message you have just given me means?"

  Casca looked him straight in the eye. "Yes, and if I were you, I think I would believe it. The Huns are coming. Even now they should be close to crossing the Danube. There won't be much time before they're sitting on your doorstep."

  Aetius called for his orderly to bring more wine. They spent several hours together that night talking by the light of the oil lamps, each feeling out the other. They found they had much in common in their knowledge of the Huns and of warfare.

  When pressed by Aetius as to more information about his past, Casca gave him no dates, saying only that he first encountered the Huns while in the service of the Emperor of China some years before.

  Aetius was fascinated. He had never met one of his own race that had been that far before. He had talked once with a merchant from Kushan that had been all the way on the Silk Road. But the man knew only the prices of goods and slaves, nothing of the manner of warfare waged by the different lands he passed through.

  Aetius found his scar faced guest a wealth of data; the man had amazing recall. Soon they were involved with arguments over the way one situation or the other should have been handled.

  Casca told of the manner in which the Huns of the Far East had been beaten by the armies of Emperor Tzin and before that by other generals of China. That gave Aetius some encouragement.

  By the time Casca had left to sleep in a tent provided by his host, he knew that Aetius was the hope of Rome, the only one who could beat Attila if he were given the means to fight properly.

  Aetius watched the broad back of Casca disappear from sight as the flap of his tent was closed behind him. He knew he wanted him, no matter where he had come from or how much he tried to keep his past a secret. He knew how to judge character and this one would be very valuable to him.

  This man, Casca Longinus, had a strange quality to him. Even when he spoke of battles long past, such as those that took place at Ctesiphon over a hundred years ago, he gave one the impression that he had been there, that he had seen the things he spoke of as history with his own eyes.

  Aetius pushed his cup of water away, replacing it with one of wine now that he was alone. The man was an extraordinary storyteller. Aetius almost wished the Romans still used chariots. He could see a use for the tactic Casca had told him of, where chains were stretched between the chariots and used to knock the legs out from under the horses of the attacking Hsuing-nu. That showed some original thinking. He liked a man who used his mind as well as the sword. Swords could always be bought with gold but a man who thought was too valuable a commodity to be let go easily.

  Aetius thought long that night. He didn't have much time. He hadn't told Casca that he had already had several reports in, sent to him by fast riders. The Hun was closer than he knew and the tribe of Rugisch and Torgau was no more.

  Calling for his secretary, he wrote letters which were sent out at first light, letters to the Visigoths and the Burgundians, to the Salian Franks and others of the Germanic tribes. He had fought against all of them at one time or another, but now they had a greater enemy coming to them. He had to convince them that for now they would have to put their differences aside and fight together or they would all be destroyed separately.

  He needed their cavalry and slingers, their archers and spearmen. Most of all, he needed their courage in battle. He knew that there was no way for him to muster enough forces to face Attila alone. If he stripped Italy of men and brought them to Gaul leaving Rome defenseless, then Attila would simply turn and head straight for Rome.

  The Hun had the ability to take advantage of any situation and react to it faster than their opponents. By the time Aetius could turn his men around and take them back to the defense of Italy, the damage done might be too great for him to have any hope of driving the Huns out.

  At their rate of march, they could be across the Rhine in two weeks. It would take him at least two months before he would be ready to counterattack. He knew that someone was going to have to pay the price for that time.

  Aetius was anxious, troubled. He had far too few men to have any real chance of victory in the morning, but there was no other choice. They had to fight and fight now. He gave thanks that Theodoric, King of the Visigoths, had decided to come to his side.

  Theodoric's messengers had finally come to him with the ward that, in this case, their interests were the same as the Romans', for if Orleans fell, there would be nothing to stop Attila from reaching the coast or even Spain.

  The Visigoths would fight now rather than when they would have to stand alone, their backs to the sea. If they were to survive, they had to help and do it now.

  Theodoric himself had appeared two days earlier in the vanguard of his army. Among them were many tough old warriors and veterans, many of whom had been at the sack of Rome under Alaric. Theodoric had sent out the call to arms and none that could ride or hold a spear would be permitted to remain behind. This was the final stroke; they would either win this time or Europe would fall to the Huns.

  Aetius sent for his new centurion. Casca showed up in a few minutes wearing his new armor, a gift from Aetius and with the insignia of his rank. He, like Aetius, had been poring over the plans for the morrow. He sat across from his commander on a wooden stool.

  "Casca, can you think of anything else we might do this night, or anything we have overlooked?"

  Casca removed his plumed helmet with the red horsetail brush, setting it beside his stool. "No, I can think of nothing else now. If we wait for the right moment, we will have a chance. Attila has been in the field too long and his army has stripped the land for leagues around. There is nothing left for them to feed either themselves or their horses on. They are tired and that is what we must use against them. This is the first time they have made the mistake of keeping the same force in constant engagements for two continuous seasons. Attila has broken the rules and if fortune smiles on us, he will pay for it."

  Aetius wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. It was hot even for July. "I hope so. If your plan works, I'll raise you to the rank of praetor myself, with or without the approval of the Senate or Valentinian. Now go and get some rest. We both will have to be moving out in a few hours."

  Casca sal
uted, striking his right hand across his chest, and picked up his helmet, leaving Aetius to his plans. He knew the Roman general would rest this night and there was still a distance to go before they reached the fields of Mauriacus.

  Casca was restless, too; the heat of the evening was oppressive, making the air thick and hard to breathe. Instead of going to his cot, he walked through the encampment, passing between the different units which were grouped according to their race and tribes. He acknowledged the hailings from the sentries and kept on going, passing the odd mixtures that the future of western civilization depended on.

  Burgundians, Salian Franks and the Visigoths made up the largest number of barbarians who would fight under the eagles of Rome the next day. There were several units from half a dozen other tribes who were put into one single regiment under the leadership of a Briton war chief, who had the marks of the Pict on his face, blue whorls tattooed on his cheeks and patterns of mystic design on his chest and arms. A strange force.

  The Romans supplied most of the infantry. It was they who would be the anvil against which the Hun must strike. If they held, then the cavalry of their Germanic federati would do the rest.

  He returned to his own tent to sit before the campfire watching the coals glow and hiss. Even in the warmth of summer, there was something about a fire at night that made things seem better; it gave one a feeling of security.

  The scar running from his eye to his cheek tingled, prickly from the heat of the campfire. Once more I fight for Rome.

  Grunting, he rose to enter his tent, closing the flap behind him. He had things yet to do this night. When he came out of his tent, it was as a barbarian. His Roman armor was in a sack in his hand. Under a thin tunic of well-worn cloth, he wore a jacket of chain mail. He looked the part of barbarian right down to the thongs of his leggings. He tied his bundle to the back of his saddle and mounted the horse he had selected.

  The horse was one of the tough, ugly, foul tempered Hun war ponies, a hooked nose beast that could live on gravel for a week. Casca still had a bruise the size of a dinner plate on his right thigh where the bastard had tried to make a eunuch of him.

  If things went right, he would be on the walls of Orleans in the morning. It was his job to give the defenders their orders. Those in the city were waiting for him. Three days earlier, Visigoths, dressed in the same manner as he was now, joined in with an assault band of Huns going against the walls. They shot several arrows over the walls with the message that on this morning at first light, Casca would be coming to them. They were to have the gate ready to open at a moment's notice. They had signaled their assent at the hour when Venus appears in the night sky by lighting three fires on their parapets. They let the fires burn for five minutes, then extinguished them. They would be ready.

  A troop of Roman cavalry arrived to provide Casca with an escort through their lines. If any of their men saw him in this dress, he would have his ass filled with missiles of many designs before he could protest.

  Once through their outposts, he was on his own. He kicked his beast into a reluctant trot and headed into a grove of trees. He had about a four hour ride before he would be able to see the walls of Orleans.

  At dawn when the Huns made their regular morning attack, he had to be there. He rode hunched over through the trees and brush, keeping his head down to avoid the whipping branches that tried to stab his eyes out. Once he was out of the trees, the going was easier and he had a clear run to Orleans.

  He swore that his horse was intentionally running at a stiff legged gait just to fracture his spine and ruin his butt. Casca was positive that because he had spent so many weeks in the saddle that he could clinch the cheeks of his ass together and be able to crack walnuts. Gods! How he hated horses!

  The acrid smell of wood smoke from a thousand campfires reached him before he even came within eyeshot of the city. When he did see it, he was on the edge of the cleared area, which had once been farmland, leading all the way to the walls.

  He eased the pony into a walk, not wanting to attract any attention. He passed a couple of patrols and waved at them in a comradely fashion, not stopping. The day was beginning to break as he came to a small knoll and pulled up. From there the gates of the city were clearly seen; there was little more than a mile to go.

  The light of the new sun was turning the skies red over the fields. The sounds of the Hunnish encampment reached out to him ... that peculiar distant murmur of thousands of men being formed up into ranks.

  Over to the west he could make out several large devices. Obviously siege machines had been built during the siege and were nearly ready to be put into operation. A mixed detachment of Huns and Gepid cavalry formed up right below him. That was good. He looked the enemy warriors over. They weren't in too good a condition and neither were their animals. Attila had to take the city soon or his men would begin to starve. It was too bad they couldn't eat the gold and silver in their wagons.

  He did recall a time when he had seen a man ordered to dine on such a meal. It had been at the court of the Sassinid King Shapur II, who had ordered a thief's mouth filled with molten gold. The idea of it made his teeth ache.

  Horns were sounding; skin topped drums picked up the beat. It would be soon. Taking his shield from the straps where it hung on the other side of the pony, he put it on his left arm. The shield would be his key to getting inside the gates.

  On the outside of the shield was the emblem of a gold eagle flying. When that was spotted, the gates would open for just enough time to let him enter. If he was too slow or the Huns too close, he knew they would be shut in his face.

  The Huns and Gepids moved forward, staying just out of bow range. He did the same, careful to draw no attention to himself. To his left he saw about five hundred men. They looked like Alans carrying scaling ladders toward the walls. Casca moved in among the horsemen mingling with the mass as they started to ride at the walls, drawing their bows back.

  Casca kicked his horse to the front of them, then broke away heading straight for the gates, his shield raised high showing the emblem of the gold eagle. It also gave him a little protection in case someone on the wall hadn't gotten the word and tried to nail him. Several did let loose shafts; they were not near to hitting him but it made it look good.

  It was easier than he had thought it would be. He pulled the slip knot on his pack, grabbed it and hit the ground running, letting his horse go back to its original owners with his curses. He had to dismount because the gate he was using was too small for a horse to get through. The door swung open and he was inside before the Huns outside had a chance to figure out what had happened.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Immediately he was taken to the headquarters of the praetor inditarium, where he had his staff gathered, waiting for Casca's report and orders. The praetor, Commitus, was showing the effects of the siege. Fifty was too old for all this. He hadn't had a full night's sleep in weeks. The tension left him with a semi-permanent nervous tic at the corner of his mouth.

  Casca saluted as Commitus rose to greet him and receive what he hoped would be more than a message – a salvation. Casca sat at the head of the table where he could see the faces of all the officers present and made his report.

  They listened without interruption until he informed them of the situation and what role they were to play. The last part didn't sit very well with them, but Casca left them few alternatives in the matter. It was a case of do as they were ordered in the coming battle and maybe get killed, or not do it and be killed for certain.

  There was no way they had a chance to win unless they obeyed. That argument stopped their objections. They were to be ready to move at an instant's notice with all the manpower they had, including any civilians that hadn't already been pressed into service.

  Casca changed back into his Roman uniform and armor, complete with his badges of rank, and went to the walls to observe the enemy.

  The Huns weren't seriously attacking. They were just keeping those inside
nervous and doing a damned fine job of it. When the siege machines were ready, the main assault would come. Once they reached the walls with the battering rams and three story mobile troop platforms from which they would be able to attack the walls by just running over a ramp it would mean the death of the city.

  From what Aetius had learned from the prisoners, the machines would be ready in just two more days. Therefore, the conclusion of the siege had to be reached before they could be used.

  Standing on the walls, he saw a strong party of Huns escorting two men. They came under flag of truce to parley. Commitus joined Casca on the wall. He gave the order for his men to stop their fire and let the party approach.

  They halted just out of bow range. Their leader called out to those on the walls: "I am Ongesh, servant to Attila. I bring you the master's words, heed them and live. If you this day open your gates to us, he will spare your lives and your city. What good is the wealth of your city if you are dead? Submit and live. There are no other choices. My master makes this offer only once to show his mercy. He wishes to avoid further bloodshed. You have fought well and bravely. There will be no dishonor in surrendering to our forges which outnumber you by at least ten to one." He paused for effect. "You have until the sun reaches its zenith to make your reply. After that, there will be no further communication." He pointed back to the rear where one of the siege machines was being pulled up by captives, straining to haul the several tons of the battering ram as their backs were laid open by Hun overseers.

  "There will be more machines tomorrow, enough to breach your walls with ease. These are the words of Attila. Think over what I have said. Your hours are numbered."

  When they rode away, Casca noticed the figure of a slightly built man in the rear of the party looking as if the armor he was wearing wasn't natural to him. He had a look to him that was definitely not Germanic or Hunnish.

  Commitus joined Casca. "What do you think of the offer?"

  Casca grinned evilly. "You think the Huns will honor his pledge if you surrender to him? I think not and to prevent the world from knowing he lied, I'll give you odds that the only one in that party that spoke our tongue was the leader. Anyway, in order to keep the world from finding out he's a liar, he will have to kill everyone here and he will. Don't even think about surrendering or I'll kill you myself before the first Hun enters the gates."