The War lord c-3 Read online

  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 ahed 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 magnifi-cant 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 mele'e 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 places" he bellowed and tossed the Nubian into the street, fractured forearm and all, leaving him unconscious for the vigeles 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."

  The idea of eating cold grey mutton was too much for Casca and he barely made it to the chamber pot, having to throw several legs out of the way to get to it.

  A couple of hours later, when he felt his heart was beginning to beat with some regularity and the blood had drained from his eyes, he thought he just might make it through the rest of the day.

  Ortius showed no effects at all from the night's bout of drinking and took Casca everywhere, constantly retelling the sea battle until their feats began to rival the gods of Holy Olympus. Dubrae was a thriving port and Roman culture was everywhere.

  The next few days brought up-to-date the events which had been transpiring in the Empire since he had left Helsfjord and the Hold from which he and his two ships had set sail so long ago… or was it so long. Thinking carefully, he realized with a shock that it had been only four years since they set sail for the unknown and reached the lands of the Teotec where men were sacrificed on the altar to, the gods. Quetza they had called him, the Serpent. Touching the scar on his chest, it seemed so much longer ago, but then time is a matter of happenings and never stays the same. To a man in pain. minutes seem hours; to lovers, there is never time enough.

  The day came for Ortius to take ship and again leave the island of Britannia; he would make the long voyage past the Pillars of Hercules to the warmer waters of the Mediterranean. Would Casca sail with him?

  The two had grown
inordinately fond of each other in their time together and Casca readily agreed. What difference did it make where he spent his time? It must be spent somewhere and it had been too long since the warm winds of Italia had blown in his face.

  "Aye, noble Captain, scourge of the Saxons, I will be pleased to sail with you again. Besides, should you not make it on your own, I would feel responsible. So we will ship together once more."

  Ortius bellowed in joy and called for wine again. Casca laughed as the pots were brought. Paetius was saddened by the news they were leaving; he had never quite given up hope that he might show Casca the way to sincere love, the kind only men can know. Sighing, he watched the two head for the docks and a tear ran down one eye as he mentally composed a poem to commemorate the occasion of lovers parting. Ah well, at least his new friend from Thessaly would help ease the pain.

  Four

  RETURN

  The single-banked trading galley of Ortius crept gingerly along the coast turning northwards to the first port of call, Nova Cargegena, then on to the Messina, where Casca had first enlisted in the legions and received his basic training. From there he had been sent to join the Seventh Legion in Gaul. Messina had not changed much. They still made the best fish stew in the Empire.

  On the voyage, Casca often took his turn at the oars when the wind failed, falling into the rhythm of the stroke and beat that spoke of the years in the slave galleys of Rome. The exercise did him good and helped keep his arms and back strong and muscled. The sweat that flowed down into the hairs of his chest was welcome. Ortius was a good friend and would have had him do nothing but drink and eat and tell lies about their amorous adventures, but a man needs to work, to strain to be alive. At least now he rowed because he chose to. There was no cracking flash of pain from a slave master's lash to rip his back into shreds of hairline cuts. The nights were cool and Father Neptune smiled on them, keeping his storms away and sending only gentle winds to aid them on their way. The creaking of the planking served as a sirens' song to lull the mind and put the body to rest after a long day on the oars.

  Somewhat to Casca's chagrin, Ortius promised him an even more fantastic night than the one he had had in Dubrae when they reached the port of Ostia. With Ortius, one could never be certain when the chubby little sailing master was going to do a number on you.

  The wind was coming from Africa and the last days were spent tacking slowly back and forth with a greater amount of time spent using the oars, but at last they heard the call of the lookout.

  "Ostia! Ostia lies ahead!"

  Eagerly Casca climbed up the mast to join the lookout. The red tiled roofs and white buildings shimmered in the afternoon sun. He was almost there. The tide swept them into a smooth docking at the stone wharves of the gateway to Rome.

  Leaping onto the wharf, Casca felt a rush of de'ja vu, but knew it was memory of long ago when he first set foot on these very stones as the property of the patrician proconsul, M. Decimus Crespas, his owner and master who brought him to Rome to fight for the pleasure of the masses and jaded nobility. Now, as then, the city swarmed with life. Grain ships from Egypt and beyond, others like Ortius' stout trader came from Gaul or Brittania and across the straits of Sicilia from Carthage, Ortius. told Casca to stay put while he presented his papers to the cargo master, again using the tried and true method of honorable bribery to make sure his cargo was not too closely inspected.

  Bureaucrats were all the same.

  While waiting, a squad of Legionaires marched by. To Casca's eye, they were disappointing; the troops in distant Dubrae looked much sharper. These were sloppy in their dress and manner; the old razor-sharp discipline of his day was vanishing. Even the uniforms were not all the same and two carried swords other than the Gladius Iberius, a sure sign of internal rot.

  Ortius and Casca spent three days tasting the pleasures of Ostia and coming up-to-date on the happenings of the empire. It was not too good. Gallenius had been removed while they were at sea and the empire was in sad disorder on every frontier. The Legions had been pushed back until they held only central and southern Italia. Most of the north was ravaged at will by marauding bands of vandal Goths and any others who chose to rape and pillage. Gallenius had been replaced by two of his own calvary commanders, members of the equestrian order who quickly reduced the professional politicians to a state of abject obedience, Claudius and Aurelian.

  The military had control of the empire. Whether it would do any good or not was yet to be seen, but for now, the generals ruled. Walking the streets of Ostia with Ortius on one side of him they ignored the pleadings of the whores to come in and be given endless delights for only a few coppers.

  They stopped in a wine ship that boasted a good collection of rare vintages from as far away as Parthia and Egypt; making their way to a table, they sat talking of the world and politics and, naturally, women.

  Ortius still gloated over the gambit he pulled on Casca in Dubrae and fell into a fit of laughter when he related how Paetius had come to him, wounded to his soul, and described the death grip of the Egyptian whore on Casca's big toe, tears of laughter rolling down his cheeks until he fell into a coughing spasm and spilled the table over, knocking a couple of sailors off the stools next to them.

  The two tough looking Corsicans scrambled to their feet cursing and wiping a mess of spilled wine and food from their tunics. The shorter of the two reached over and gave Ortius an open-handed slap that knocked him to the floor, his face burning from the blow and head ringing where the man's hand popped his ear. Leaning over, the short man reached to grab the portly ship's master and pulled him up for another blow when a grip like steel wrapped itself around his wrist and froze him.

  "Enough. It was an accident." Casca rose, trying to control the beginning surge of anger. The short sailor tried to twist out of the iron grip only to feel it tighten until he thought the bones would snap. Years on the galleys of Rome had given Casca a grip few in the world could equal. The pressure increased…

  "Enough. Go back to your seat and we'll buy you another round."

  Before the short man could voice his agreement, a stool smashed across Casca's back and spun him over a table to meet with a boot in the mouth. He felt his lip split, letting the warm salt taste of blood into his mouth.

  So much for trying to be reasonable, thought Casca. With a bellow, he dived into the legs of the large sailor and drove him over three tables and onto the tavern floor. Quickly he was swarmed by half a dozen sailors, raining blows on him with everything from wine pots to table legs. His head ringing, he grabbed a table leg for himself and began swinging, roaring out, "Odin," a habit he had picked up in the northlands, and began to crack skulls and ribs, ignoring returning blows. He cleared an area around himself and Ortius who had now come to his senses and was bellowing in glee, begging Casca to let him at them. The stubby balding man had no lack of guts and threw himself into the center of the remaining sailors and was just as quickly knocked out and thrown back like an unwanted fish. The remaining three sailors rushed Casca and buried him beneath them, pounding and pummeling with their hands and feet. The tall one made the mistake of trying to grapple with Casca on the floor and came up screaming in agony. Casca had reached under his tunic and given the sailor's balls one long strong squeeze that ended all thoughts of further hostilities in the fellow's mind and also any idea he might have had about love making for the next couple of weeks. Jumping up, Casca made short work of the two remaining sailors with a snap kick to the throat of one and back knuckle to the temple of the other that dropped him like he was pole-axed.

  Gathering Ortius up, he tossed him over his shoulder and backed his way out of the tavern and into the dark where he quickly lost himself in the maze of streets. Finally finding his way back to their rooms, he set about waking Ortius with a combination of wet rags and gentle slaps. The Sicilian came to swinging and nailed Casca a good shot in the eye which immediately swelled shut.

  "Where are they?" he cried. "I'll teach them to mess with
Ortius, the terror of the Saxon coast."

  Another gentle slap put Ortius back into the land of Nod and Casca just looked at him, touched his sore eye and said piss on it. He hit the sack, but felt good. It had been a great fight and dear Paetius, he felt sure, would have approved of the love squeeze he had given the sailor's balls.

  Yes, indeed, Paetius would have envied him that moment.

  Leaving Ortius to nurse his sore ear, the next day Casca told him he was going to Rome for awhile and that if he didn't get back before he sailed, then Hale and Farewell. The road had been good. Ortius was too sore and hung over to more than voice a feeble protest at his abandonment, but wished him well saying they sailed in two weeks for Byzantium if the weather permitted.

  Casca left him holding his head between his hands vowing to forsake the worship of Dionysius and his grapes and devote himself to a life of piety and devotion. Paying his two coppers fare, Casca caught a ride in the morning on one of the wagons that hauled tourists and visitors to the capitol. It was early afternoon when they reached the outskirts of the city. Casca got off to walk the short distance to the school of the Galli where he had worn the armor of the Mirmillone and trained for the arena.

  The walls were overgrown with vines and signs of decay were obvious from a distance. Pushing open the gate, the rusted squeaking hinges welcomed him. Gone. All were gone. Only ghosts of the hundreds who learned the fine art of slaughter were left. Open doors and litter left by bands of beggars who occasionally stopped and lived for awhile in the school of slaughter were all that remained.

  The chopping posts were still there, gouged and scarred from the endless line of men who chopped them for hours to strengthen their sword arms and as a light wind blew small whirlwinds of dust, Casca thought he could hear Corvu again cursing and correcting, calling to low strike for the gut, try it again; over and over, the dust whirled and in it he saw familiar faces. Crysos who had died for him and Jubala, the insane savage black from Numidia, who feasted on his victims. All were gone and only dust remained. Casca. The only one left.