The Sentinel Page 8

  "Ave, and good morrow to thee, master. Who is this you have with you?"

  Everything about the boy was so perfect that Casca was beginning to get a bit irritated. Even his voice was that of master singer, clear and chiming. No one had a right to be that perfect.

  Sicarus introduced Casca. "This is one who wishes to join us. I believe he has merit and would have you put him to the test."

  Hrolvath smiled pleasantly at Casca. "I would be pleased to do so.

  He extended his hand in a friendly manner to be shook by Casca, who was surprised at the strength in the small hand and wrist. The boy was no weakling; there was strength in those thin limbs.

  Hrolvath looked over the body of his challenger admiringly but was not the least bit intimidated by it. He observed with the same good-natured tones to Sicarus, "I believe you're right. If those wounds are any indicator, the man is clearly a survivor of many combats. I like him!"

  Casca had a feeling the boy wasn't lying. Hrolvath seemed completely sincere in his words. Casca wasn't sure the boy knew how to lie. On his part, he merely tried to grunt as good-naturedly as he could.

  Moving to the weapon rack, Hrolvath removed a sword that Casca had wondered briefly about when making his own selection. It was a thin blade, about the width of man's thumb and nearly a foot longer than his own weapon. Like his own stubbier sword, the point was dulled, as was the edge.

  Hrolvath swung the sword in a graceful sweep, twisting it in a smooth circle. Then he stopped to test the flexibility by bending the point in till the sword formed an arc. Casca didn't like the looks of it. He had never seen a sword quite like this one, and from the boy's actions, he knew it was not a toy.

  Hrolvath gave the sword to Sicarus to hold for him as he tied his shoulder-length hair back with a strip of soft red leather to keep it out of his eyes. Sicarus was grinning from ear to ear through the whole process, obviously having a good laugh at a show he'd seen and enjoyed many times before.

  Casca was becoming a bit impatient. He didn't like being played with. Sicarus gave Hrolvath back his sword and stepped away from the two men, with orders not to begin until he gave the word. They were to stop instantly on his command. He warned Casca that if he didn't obey instantly, he would regret it. This was not a kill contest.

  The circle formed by the watchers was about fifty feet in diameter. Casca and Hrolvath went to the center, keeping a space of about five feet between them. At the word to begin from Sicarus, they began to circle each other, taking their time. Casca held his blade well to the front, moving sideways. He was still uneasy about the long flexible sword of Hrolvath and how it was to be used.

  Hrolvath, on his part, moved with easy grace, lightly swinging his long toothpick back and forth in the air, using only his wrist. Casca moved in cautiously, probing the strengths and weaknesses of Hrolvath's guard. Hrolvath didn't seem to be very interested in the process. Almost with disdain he used his weaving weapon to fend off Casca's probes with light flicks, using only enough force to deflect the attack, not block it.

  It came as a shock to Casca that even as he increased the tempo of his attack, Hrolvath never changed his attitude or seemed to use any more effort to ward him off. It was beginning to get a bit aggravating. The audience began to renew its jibes at his feeble efforts. Hrolvath smiled sympathetically, as if he hated to have to embarrass his clumsy, sweaty opponent.

  Perhaps because of his sympathy, Hrolvath decided to begin his counterattack. Then Casca found out the secret behind that long, thin toothpick. It never left his face. The extra length and the lightness of the blade made his heavy counters nearly useless. He would block it with a strong counter only to have the flexible length whip back to the front of his face, where it constantly threatened his throat and eyes.

  If he'd had a shield or even a small buckler, he might have been able to use that as cover to get close enough inside the darting point to where his shorter sword could have been of some use.

  Frustration, anger, and embarrassment ate at him. His inability to make even one effective attack was humiliating. It was all he could do to keep the thin sword from pricking him with every graceful sweep or lunge that Hrolvath felt like making. He was facing something new in the art of swordplay and had no defense against it by using the methods he had been taught. If the things he normally used didn't work, he would have to try something they didn't expect.

  Hrolvath extended his arm fully, causing the blunted point to make small circles in front of Casca's eyes. Casca shifted his grip so that he was holding the handle of his sword reversed. As he dodged down to avoid the darting shaft, Sicarus saw this and only had time to wonder momentarily before he saw the reason for the strange grip. As Casca completed his half turn to get away from Hrolvath's sword point, he drew his sword arm back and then thrust forward, casting the blunt end of the haft like a javelin. The butt of the sword struck solidly into Hrovlath's stomach, knocking the wind from him and causing him to lower his guard for a moment. When he did, Casca was on him, one hand holding Hrolvath's sword wrist, the other on the boy's neck, twisting so that Hrolvath lost both his balance and his sword. Casca had the boy where he couldn't move, and if he had chosen to, he could have easily killed the young man simply by breaking his neck. But he knew that this wasn't a kill contest, and he was more angry at himself than at the young mercenary.

  Sicarus, just to be certain, hurriedly called an end to the contest. There was muttering from among the onlookers at the trick Casca had used against their favorite. He gave the boy his hand, pulling him back to his feet.

  Laughing and holding his tender throat, Hrolvath hugged the big Roman. To Casca's embarrassment, he cried out happily, "You certainly taught me something with that. I won't be quite so confident next time."

  Casca grinned a bit sheepishly, saying, as all who watched knew anyway, "You didn't leave me many choices, and I know that you could have impaled me on that pig sticker you call a sword whenever you chose to. Your only mistake was in waiting too long and playing with me. That gave me time to think. But you could have won the match any time you chose to, and we all know it."

  Sicarus was pleased at the exchange taking place between the two men. It was good to have men admit their mistakes and weaknesses; then they could do something about them. He'd thought that Casca would not have a chance against the thin, lightning-fast swordplay of young Hrolvath. No one had ever beaten Hrolvath, not even he. But the Roman had shown that he could think on his feet, even when angry.

  CHAPTER SEVEN - Mercenary

  Once the other mercenaries saw that their chieftain had accepted Casca, as had Hrolvath, their attitude changed radically. They began to say that perhaps he was a good fellow, though there was a touch of envy behind some of their words. None of them had ever thought of taking the same course of action as he had against Hrolvath, or they would have done it too.

  Hrolvath bade Casca farewell, leaving him with the promise to meet again. Sicarus took over from there, taking Casca back with him to his office, where he explained the rules of his brigade. He had great pride in his men and their performance. They were, in his opinion, the best independent force in the world, and he expected all his men to act as such. There would be no looting unless express permission had been given, and rape was forbidden on the pain of death. However, in their contract, they did have first selection of all captured women, and these, of course, could not be considered rape victims since they would become the property of their new masters.

  The pay was good: twenty silver denarii per month and a one-third share of all captured loot. There were also additional benefits for a man if he lost an arm, hand, or leg or his life. Sicarus would not have any of his men thrown out to starve because of wounds received in his service.

  Sicarus released Casca to return to the inn, telling him to inform the master of the inn that his room bills were to be put on the mercenary's account and billed to him until Casca received his first pay. Then it would be deducted a bit at time till it was mad
e up. Casca left, feeling all in all that he had made a good choice in joining this company of mercenaries and their dapper leader. The man was fair and seemed to have high ethics for one involved with such a bloody business. He had said nothing of the forthcoming campaigns against the Vandals in Africa, but Casca figured that he probably thought there was no need to go into detail at this time. Everyone knew that the campaign couldn't begin until after the rains ended and Belisarius came back from Italy.

  It was nearing sundown when he reached the Inn of the Broken Lance and pushed his way inside. Upstairs, he knocked on the door to wake Ireina, but it was Demos who came and unlatched it, letting him in. Casca gathered the boy in his arms, gave each of his sleepy eyes a kiss, and put him back in bed beside his mother, pulling the cover over them. He undressed and slid in beside them. It could wait until the morrow before he told Ireina of the day's events. They would just sleep this night, the three of them together. Demos rolled over the top of his mother, sticking his rear in Casca's stomach, snuggling down between his father and his mother to sleep, content that all was well in his world.

  The sounds from the inn below increased with the dark as wine and beer flowed more freely, but the noise was lost on the sleepers upstairs. They never heard the fight that killed a Syrian sailor from Rhodes, nor heard the door being broken down in a fight between some of the mercenaries and a squad of the imperial guards who tried to establish their authority by attempting to arrest two of them. The guards returned to their barracks minus two swords, a couple of breastplates, and all their money. Most of them felt they had gotten off easy and made no complaint of their treatment to their superiors. It would not look good on their records to be beaten in such a humiliating fashion by the hirelings of Sicarus.

  Casca was awakened by a repeated, insistent rapping on his door that forced open his unwilling eyes. He removed Demos's foot from his throat and stumbled over to the door, where he opened it, ready to heap abuse and verbal filth on whoever it was who had the temerity to wake a man at such an ungodly hour.

  It was almost as bad, facing what he thought would be the foul, greasy landlord, as it was to stand there and be bathed in the glory of white perfect teeth in a smiling face wishing you a good morning and sticking rolls of fresh-baked bread, still warm from the oven, under his nose; along with half a wheel of the overripe goat cheese of the Bedouins, considered a delicacy in the capital.

  Hrolvath, when he saw that he had disturbed Casca's slumber, began to apologize profusely. Then, over Casca's shoulder, he saw the figures of Ireina and Demos still in bed. His face blushed with embarrassment as he withdrew, saying that Sicarus wished for Casca to present himself to him in his office within the hour.

  It took a few minutes for Casca to get dressed, clear the crap from his brain, and tell Ireina to wake up. He left the rest of his remaining supply of small coins for her to buy some food for the child while he was gone.

  It was near the hour of midday when he and Hrolvath reached the mercenary camp. He noticed, in contrast to the previous day, that there were no men on the exercise field. From the area of the stables he could hear the whinnying of horses and the clatter of equipment. Several groups of men passed in a rush, their faces red and sweaty with excitement. He didn't have to be told what was happening: He had experienced the same thing too many times not to know the signs that there was war in the wind; these men were preparing for battle.

  This was confirmed when he saw Sicarus approaching them, accompanied by a secretary to whom he was dictating at a rapid pace his needs of the next weeks: grain, spare horses, leather to repair harnesses and equipment. Spying Casca, he stopped his dictation momentarily and waved for Casca to join him as he made the rounds of the camp.

  "I am sorry that I had to call on you this way, but things have changed radically overnight. Belisarius has returned, and we are to leave as soon as possible, by ship, as the vanguard to secure a bridgehead by which he may land his main force, which will be a couple of days behind us. He has made an agreement with the barbarians in Rome not to interfere with our operations in Africa if the emperor will recognize them as the legal and lawful rulers of those parts of the old empire they currently hold."

  He gave another spurt of instructions to his secretary and then continued his dialogue with Casca. "I know that you have your woman and child with you. No! Don't interrupt me. I have a small farm not far from here where my own wife resides. I would deem it an honor if your lady and son would stay with her while we are gone. I am sure that your mind would rest much easier to know that they would not be left alone in this city. And I know that my lady would be pleased for the company and especially the presence of the child, as we do not yet have one of our own, to our sorrow. If this is agreeable to you, I will have slaves escort them under guard to my farm tomorrow morning before we sail."

  Casca nodded his head in agreement, though he found it a little difficult to digest everything as fast as Sicarus threw it at him. But he did know that the master of mercenaries was an honorable man, and he would certainly be more comfortable in his mind if he didn't have to think of Ireina and Demos being left alone in a city of this size and nature, where almost anything could happen to the unwary or innocent.

  Sicarus beat him to his unasked questions. "We leave on the morning tide to rendezvous up the coast, where we will be met by Belisarius himself, who will give us our battle orders; from there, on to Carthage. Now go and spend the day with your woman and child and present yourself to me on the docks by the grain houses one hour after dawn. Oh, by the way–" he removed a small sack of clinking coins from his waistband and tossed them to Casca. "Give these to your lady. It should be enough to cover her expenses until we return or until you are able to send her more from your wages if the campaign takes longer than I think it will."

  Ireina was up and moving, Demos by her side. The two were sharing a breakfast of cheese and olives, washed down with fresh goat's milk. Demos ran to Casca when he saw him enter the room and wrapped his chunky little arms around one of Casca's large thighs to catch a ride as his father walked.

  Casca removed the rider from his leg with one hand, grabbing the boy's tunic and lifting him to his shoulders. Taking a handful of ripe olives from the bowl, he filled his mouth as he told Ireina of Sicarus's offer for her and Demos to live on his farm while they were gone. Ireina gave a small frown of disappointment at the news but, as she always did, accepted whatever he said without argument. If he said that he had to go to some place called Carthage, wherever that was, he must have a good reason. The idea of living on a farm pleased her, and she knew that Demos would like being around the animals.

  The rest of the day they spent alone, each of them taking turns keeping Demos amused. It was good for him to watch Ireina and their child together. Casca reflected on their time together and how much of a child she still was. He loved her, but it was not in the way he'd loved Lida of Helsfjord those long years back. This was a different kind of love. In some ways it was similar to what he felt about Demos. The innocence and trust of the child was equaled in the mother. They both had a trusting faith that as long as he was near them, nothing could do them harm. To Ireina, he was still the sleeping warrior who had waited for her to awaken him. He was a fantasy character who had come true, and she was living the fantasy. If she had been able to put that away, he might have been able to love her in a different manner.

  Now the best he could do was to make sure that she and Demos wouldn't be hurt and would have enough money to live on when he left them, as he knew he would have to do some day. The thought hurt, for he loved the boy and the boy's mother each in their own fashion. But the child would not stay small forever, and even Ireina must one day see, as her hair turned silver and her skin wrinkled, that he stayed the same. He would have to go before then, and he would need money to give her security, for she was not very wise in the ways of the outside world. Her life in the distant mountains was the only one she knew. She would never have the guile to make her way in
the civilized world, where lies were more powerful than truth.

  Well, that was in the future. For now, he was content just to enjoy having someone who cared for him. He would handle the rest of the problems as they came. As was the norm, they went to sleep with the setting of the sun; oil was still too expensive a luxury to waste on lamps. His internal clock woke him before dawn. He opened the shutters to their room to let in what light was available from the glow of the moon. By this, he prepared himself for departure. When he was ready, he woke Ireina and helped her gather their few belongings into a bundle as they waited for the slaves of Sicarus to come for her.

  With the first light, he heard the clatter of a wagon on the street below. Wrapping Demos in a blanket, he carried the child down the stairs, with Ireina toting their bundles. She had said little about his leaving. She knew that he would return and that, as always, everything would be well. Demos snuggled his head closer to Casca's chest and mumbled in his sleep, never waking as he and his mother were put on the cart, Demos to lie on a bed of straw in the back and Ireina to sit next to an elderly house slave on the seat of the mule-drawn cart. A single rider was to escort them, a stern-faced man of nearly fifty with the marks of a warrior on him and eyes that did not turn away from a straight look. He was one of Sicarus's retired fighters who now lived at his farm. Ireina and Demos would be safe with him.

  She leaned over for Casca to kiss her farewell. Childlike in her trust and love, she let her lips rest gently on the man from time. He touched the curls of Demos, gently marveling at the fine texture of the boy's hair. He hated to leave them. Turning quickly, he returned to the inn for his gear as the clatter of the wooden wheels of the cart faded on the cobblestones. He felt not only a little sadness at their leaving but also a sense of relief that now he would be free for a time from the responsibility of wife and son now that they were on their way to safety. He could now put his mind completely on the job at hand. If things went well on this operation, he could possibly make enough to buy them their own farm, in an area where wars seldom came and trouble was something that happened only to others.