Casca 7: The Damned (10 page)

A face danced in the ground fog, then another. Somehow he knew them all. It came to him that they were the men he had killed. All around him they beckoned, many of them with the wounds he had given them still on their faces.

Jubala, whom he had killed in the arena of Rome, threw his head back and laughed, pointing at him, then was replaced by Malgak, then Teypeytal, King of the Olmecs. Faces rushed at him one after another, each pushing the preceding one away. Jeering faces filled with dead eyes of hate. Then they were all there.

Dozens of dead faces crowded around him, all pointing with accusing fingers. Goths and Vandals, Huns, Saxons, Persians ... faces he didn't even recognize, but he knew it had been he who had given them their deaths.... All mocked him with their dead eyes and gaping mouths that spoke only in his memory where he couldn't cut them out.

He screamed for them to go away, to leave him alone, but their laughter just increased, building to a crescendo of pain as they called for him to join them in death.

Tears ran down to his beard in rivers. He sobbed out, "You know that I can't. I would if I was able but He won't let me die, blame Him, not me...."

They were gone, silence. Then another voice touched him, one that he had laughed with in the past, one that loved him well.

Glam was there, standing in the mists, a horn of mead in his right hand, his great ax in the other. Throwing back his head, he roared in laughter. "Don't let them get to you, old friend. They're just jealous. If you hadn't done them in then someone else would have. They all needed killing and deserved what happened to them. They are where they belong, each in
his own special hell."

Glam drained his horn and threw it over his shoulder. He put a large wispy hand toward Casca. "You have friends waiting for you. Come to me. I have saved a place for you by me in the Great Hall of Valhalla. Come to me, my friend ..."

Casca repeated his earlier plea. "I can't. You know that. I would if it were possible."

Glam nodded his
head, another horn appeared in his massive paw. He drained it in one draught, then wiped his walrus mustache with the back of his hand.

"There is another who is also waiting for you. She couldn't come but told me to tell you that she will wait for you. Lida said she will wait ... a thousand years...."

Glam began to fade. His voice a distant echo, he called to Casca, "A thousand years, old friend, a thousand years. Come to us when you can...."

The mists whirled around faster and faster, taking his mind with it in a speeding whirlwind that had no beginning or end. It sucked him into it, drawing his soul out of him into the spirals of twisting vapor.

When Casca came to, he was back at the Hold with no memory of how he got there. For the first time since he had returned, he felt lonely. The fort was an empty place, fit only for the dead, or lost memories, and his memory was back, crowding him.

He watched the skies, knowing his time here was growing short. He couldn't stay.

Two weeks later, he stood upon his walls wondering what fate had in store for him next. The wolf had departed that morning with three new cubs; she had become strong, with Casca's help, and had given birth on the fourth day. Casca was almost sorry to see this little family leave; he was beginning to crave companionship for the first time in years.

Suddenly, a shadow in the brush by the base of the walls moved. His eyes clicked to it. It moved again. He dropped back behind one of the archer's slits to see but not be seen. Out of the brush a man staggered, holding his gut, weaving on weakened legs. He was obviously trying to reach the gate.

Casca ran down the stairs to the inner courtyard, then to the gate, which was locked from the inside. He put the side of his face to the thick wood and listened.

After a few moments, he heard the shuffling steps of the man outside. A weak pounding on the door followed by a young voice saying, "I ask for the rights of hospitality."
Then a groan, a sliding sound, and silence.

Casca cautiously opened the gate a crack to peer out. His guest was
lying face first in the dirt. Casca didn't know why he brought his visitor inside; the last guests here had not fared very well. Perhaps it was that the young man in his arms had claimed the ancient rights ...

He carried the young man into the hall and laid him on a pile of straw. Then he brought water to wash away the crust of grime and blood on his guest's face; under it were the features of a fine looking man of around twenty, fair haired, good cleancut features, who had obviously had the crap beaten out of him. Not only that, but once Casca had removed the boy's hands from his gut, he saw that there was a deep stab wound in his abdomen. He had noticed the rest of the dark stains on the boy's tunic but just thought they were from the beating he had taken. On closer examination, Casca saw there were a number of other lesser cuts.

His guest had been in one hell of a fight, and it looked like he had come out second best. Well, he had seen men beat up before. But it was the stomach which concerned him. If the wound was not too deep, the youngster would have a chance to live. But if the stomach itself were punctured, then the boy would surely die.

He left him there and went out into the fields to find the things he would need. There was no great rush for the boy would either live or die, no matter what he did. While searching, he stopped to drink at a still pool and saw his reflection looking back.

He didn't recognize himself under the beard and hair or recall the last time he had seen his reflection in this same pond. It was a shock to see himself in this manner. He thought out loud, "If the stomach wound doesn't kill the boy, he will probably die of fright when he gets a good look at my face."

He returned to his foraging and returned to the hall where he put what he had gathered into a battered copper pot to boil. Then he set about scraping and hacking the growth of years from his face and head. It was a painful thing, for he had no razor and constantly had to rehone his knife, but still the blade tugged and pulled until his face felt
more tender than the fanny of a newborn babe. At last he had most of it off, though there were still a few patches on his cheeks. His hair had been hacked off to a ragged shoulder level. By the time he had finished doing this, his pot was well aboil and the pungent aroma of herbs and wild onions filled the hall.

With a wet rag he wiped away the crust of blood from the youngster's stomach, exposing the cut. He then cleaned the boy's face and wet the youngster's lips. His guest came to, with a frightened look, but was calmed by being informed that he was being shown the rights of hospitality and had nothing to fear.

Casca raised him to a sitting position, his back against the wall, and went for the pot. Carrying it over to the pallet, he set it down and dug a wooden spoon out of the straw. With this he fed the boy his mixture of onions and herbs from a cup. Then he put his head down to the wound, pulled the edges apart and sniffed at the cut for a moment, then repeated the process again, making the youngster eat still more of the pungent mixture.

Again he pulled at the cut, opening it a bit more, and put his nose down to sniff. Satisfied, he wiped off the cut again, sat back on his heels, and spoke to the boy who was looking at him as if he were mad.

Casca smiled so as not to frighten him too much. "No, I am not insane and I think you will live. If the blade had penetrated your stomach, I would have been able to smell the onions and herbs at the wound. There was no smell; therefore, you have a good chance to grow a full beard." The boy started to speak but Casca stopped him.

"There will be time for talk later; first I have to take care of your wound." Casca gathered some fresh cobwebs, of which there were plenty in the Hold, placed them around the cut after washing it again,
then bandaged it as best he could with some of the cleaner strips of cloth available.

After finishing his medications, he told the boy, "Now you can talk, but there is no need if you do not wish to. You are welcome here."

"I am Rugisch," the boy began, "son of Torgau, sent to take the words for the tribes to send their leaders to a great gathering to form an alliance against the Huns."

Casca nodded in understanding. He always knew the day would come when the Huns would move farther west. The fact that they had come far enough
that tribes from the North Sea regions were being asked to give aid surprised him.

Rugisch continued with his tale, "I was on my way to meet with the tribes west of the Danube when I lost my way. After many days of wandering, T was set upon by four men not too distant from this
place. I killed one but was hit in the gut before I could make my escape. I have ridden one whole night and part of this day. My horse died under me this morning, just before I saw the walls of your fort."

Rugisch looked about the hall at the ruins and wreckage. "Are you the only one here, good sir?"

Casca asserted that it was so. Feeling no need to go into any extended explanations, he just said simply, "I found this place the way it is now and have spent some time here, for I had no need to go elsewhere and the isolation suited me well enough. That's all there is to my being here."

Rugisch accepted his host's explanation. Of course he had no other options if he wanted to keep breathing.

It was good for Casca having this young man there to take care of. It did much to return him fully to himself and the dreams had finally stopped coming to him. He was returning to reality though for a time he still felt as if he had been spiritually purged and drained.

He had been right about the wound it stayed fresh with no sign of rot. Rugisch was up and moving about in two days, though slowly at first. But by the week's end, he had regained most of his strength and was ready to go on with his mission.

He spent some time trying to get Casca to go with him. Between the two of them, they would have a better chance of reaching all the tribes of the Rhine and Gaul. There was no longer any reason for Casca to remain in the Hold, so he agreed but said they would have to wait a few more days. He didn't want the wound to tear open and have to carry Rugisch a hundred or more miles.

Casca picked through the things he had brought with him when he had first arrived years ago, the weaponry given him by Alaric, and made them up a couple of packs. There were more than enough arms to go around.

In a corner of Lida's room, he found his helmet lying covered over by cobwebs and rusting. It took several hours of rubbing to remove most of the rust and restore it to a semblance of its former self.

By the time they set foot outside the walls for the first steps of their journey, Casca was his old self and looked the part, though he was still leaner than he had been. His eyes had lost their hot glow and faded back to their normal blue gray.

This time when they climbed the ridge, Casca didn't look back. The past was dead. He still had uncounted tomorrows to contend with.

They made good time. The days were fair and the weather held no severe storms or early snow to hinder their steps. Of others they saw none, until they had traveled over a hundred miles and were near the river Maas. There they were ferried across by an old man who had stayed behind in the migrations because he was too old to make the march. He was glad to give them passage over the river in exchange for a haunch of venison. He was getting damned tired of eating fish and rodents.

He told Rugisch that the tribe he wanted to find had left their lands and had gone in the wake of the Franks across the Rhine into Gaul. It was there he must go if he wished to see them.

Rugisch was dejected by this news. If his kinsmen had crossed the Rhine, then they would not be likely to offer any help, if it meant a march of several hundred miles to do so. But still he had been instructed to deliver his father's message and would do so no matter what the difficulties or response.

Gradually, as they neared the Rhine, they came upon increasing signs of human habitation. A farm, some plowed fields, cattle grazing; from these they obtained directions and went on their way. Casca had a few coins in his purse that he had saved along with his weapons. These served to keep them fed once they reached lands where they could buy food.

Rugisch had some small bars of silver of his own, and between them they had no problem in getting the things they needed most, which consisted of two horses
; a pair of over aged geldings. But they went much faster now that they would set foot on well used trails and eventually the roads of Rome.

They passed through several well populated villages and then were over the Rhine and into Gaul proper. From there it was easy going. The new masters of Gaul seemed to Casca not much different than the previous masters there. The land looked the same and the fields were well tended, ready for harvest. It appeared the rough tribes of Germania had been gentled somewhat by easy living and fair weather.

They were left alone and were not delayed on the roads by other than normal questioning looks from those they passed. Casca was surprised to see several patrols of Roman cavalry on the roads. When he had last been through here, all was controlled by Visigoths or Franks. Now he saw in the faces of the legionnaires about an equal number of Italian and Germanic faces. Alaric was long dead. The Empire had returned, a bit feebler, but still master in name if not in fact.

At Lugdenesis they found the Suevii and their leader, one Svatova, an uncle by blood on Rugisch's mother's side, serving with the federati, assigned to the local garrison under the command of a praetor.

They entered the wall of the city and found quarters among the cousins of his tribe in their barracks. His uncle provided the light cavalry for the region, who were respected allies of the Romans who were very short of horsemen themselves, and had to rely on their new associates to provide them.

They welcomed Rugisch as a kinsman and Casca because he was with him. Casca stayed to himself. He still felt awkward with so many people around him and left Rugisch to meet his uncle alone.

When Rugisch returned, it was as expected. His uncle could do them no good. He had a contract with the Romans and it couldn't be broken at this time. Yes, he knew the Huns were on the march and many cities had fallen to them. But there was nothing he could do about it. They were not his lands anymore. Where he was now was what concerned him, and the Huns would never get this far.... There was too much between them for him to be concerned about the savages of the steppes. He had problems enough now with countering raiding bands of outlaws or renegade tribesmen who preyed on unwary travelers or convoys of food destined for the Roman garrisons.

He offered Rugisch a position in his cavalry and said there would be a place for his strange friend if he wanted it. Rugisch turned down the offer on his part but relayed the rest of the message to Casca who said he would think about it for a time before giving his response.

Casca thought about it for some time, then decided to pass on the offer. Rugisch asked him if he would prefer to stay with him for a time and return with him to meet his father, who should be on the other side of the Tsai River.

For Casca one place was as good as another. He could feel the storms of
war gathering, so what difference did it make where he was. There would always be work for one such as he.

The Empire had been in a state of confusion ever since Alaric had sacked the city. It had been unable to regain its full power. Much of the spirit of the Roman citizens was broken as a result.

His young companion was well educated on the events of the times and what was taking place where. His father had sent him to schools in Rome and Constantinople to learn the ways of those he would have to deal with in the future. He kept up a running dialogue, bringing Casca up to date on all that had transpired since he had crossed the Rhine and gone to Helsfjord.

Honorius had died and his nephew, Theodosius, was for a time master of both the Western and Eastern Empires. However, Galla Placidia, the sister of Honorius, had her son Valentinian lay claim as the legitimate heir of Honorius and appealed to Theodosius in Constantinople to acknowledge their claim.