Casca 7: The Damned (11 page)

Theodosius was reluctant to give up his claim to the Western throne, but he had troubles enough in the East without having to deal with intrigues elsewhere.

Since the death of Honorius, the court at Ravenna was anxious to keep their independence from Constantinople and elected one of their number as the new Emperor of the West. Theodosius decided to honor Placidia's claim when she showed him she had the support of Bonifatius, the Roman commander in North Africa. Bonifatius had it in his power to stop most of the grain shipments to Italy and a good portion of the produce also went to feed the throngs of the Eastern Empire. This in itself could cause more trouble than Italy was worth, for the East would have to pay for the misery that starvation and pestilence would bring.

He granted Placidia's demands. Valentinian was proclaimed Emperor of the West. Theodosius then sent troops to take back power from Johannes the Usurper. Ravenna was taken through trickery with little trouble and Johannes had his head removed from his body as an example to all who lay claim to the royal purple without the consent of the East.

The matter in Rome had to be settled quickly for there were new evidences of the expansionist designs of the Huns. This was no time for Rome to fight against herself. Rome had to rely on hiring many barbarians to defend her, even to using Huns themselves as light cavalry, and its problems with the Church were nearly as bad as the political situation, with different factions fighting among themselves, each crying out that others were false in their beliefs concerning the divine nature of God and his relationship with Jesus.

But now the greatest danger was not in the provinces that had been lost, but in the new threat from the East.

There were intrigues upon intrigues. Gaiseric the Vandal had decided that the new alliance between the Suevii and Visigoths of Spain and Gaul were a threat to his African Empire. So he made overtures
to the King of the Huns, trying to persuade him to attack his enemies on the continent, hoping he would be in a position to pick up the pieces after both sides had exhausted themselves in battle.

The Emperor Valentinian had problems at home with his sister, Honoria. He had arranged for her to marry a prominent senator but she, as the way of women, decided not to follow his wishes. And just to piss him off, Honoria offered her hand in marriage to Attila.

This, of course, was not meant seriously. But Attila used the offer as a pretext to make demands on Valentinian, demanding that he be sent his bride, and as her dowry half of the Western Empire.

Casca took all this in with a deepening sense of irony. For all of the blood and passion, it didn't make much difference. Things were always the same: someone was always trying to screw up someone else.

As it turned out, they didn't have to travel all the way to the Tsai River; instead, they met the first elements of Rugisch's tribe heading west between the Danube and Aquincum.

Rugisch called to the first outriders and identified himself.
He and Casca were immediately taken to his father, who was at the head of their tribe. To the rear, in a line that stretched for miles, a nation was on the move. Everything they owned was packed on the backs of horses or being hauled in large, two and four wheeled wagons.

Rugisch's tribe wasn't the only one on the move. There were Goths, Vandals, Romans and the people of a dozen races refugees from the hordes that were sweeping all before them. The Huns had broken out and were heading west.

Rugisch's father, Torgau, greeted his son emotionally from horseback, gripping his boy's right arm with his own withered right hand. He was barely able to keep his dignity in front of his warriors.

He was a rough looking old pirate. One eye
, the left, was gone; a scar creased his brow to his cheek on the left side. He wore a good tunic of blue linen and carried a copy of a Roman shield of the oblong style on his back. He was about the same height as Casca but thicker in the body and chest. He was an old warhorse, but from the looks of him, one who could still put up a hell of a fight if pushed, and he was being pushed.

That they had fought hard was evidenced by the number of wounded they carried with them in their wagons. They also had a number of Hunnish prisoners. All the captives were nobles of either the Huns or one of their allied tribes. They were kept alive so that Torgau could eventually exchange them for members of his own tribe who had fallen into the hands of the Huns.

While Rugisch and his father talked, Casca rode back to get a look at the prisoners. The last time he had seen Huns was on the borders of China where they were known as the Hsiung nu. That had been years ago.

From a distance, they appeared to be the same, but on closer examination, he saw that many of them had features of the West mixed with the flat faces and high prominent cheekbones of the steppes. There had been much intermingling of bloodlines since last he had fought against them; several even had eyes the same color as his.

But, if they had some of the blood of the West in their veins, it had not diluted their primal savagery; in that they were the same. Among the prisoners were several who had no blood of the East in them. They were the allies of the Huns and rode with them willingly for the sake of plunder or revenge.

Under his gaze, they were impassive as they stumbled along on feet that weren't used to walking. The guards kept them chained together and under constant watch. Any who looked as though he were even thinking of giving them trouble was immediately impaled on the poin
t of a spear.

When Casca returned to Rugisch, he and his father had pulled off to the side letting the column pass them as they talked. He welcomed Casca with even more interest and a degree of affection since Rugisch had told him of Casca's saving his life. There had been two other sons, but they had lost their lives in battle on the banks of the Tsai trying to prevent a crossing by Huns.

Casca stayed with the column for another three days before deciding to head out on his own. He still wasn't used to having so many people around him. There were just too many; he couldn't sleep with the noise of riders and wagons going by. Besides, he wasn't sure if Rugisch and his father could deal with the Huns if they caught up to them. He didn't feel like getting involved in a losing battle right at the start. They were good warriors with plenty of courage normally, but they had had the crap kicked out of them and were still too demoralized to be an effective force. It would be some time before they regained their confidence.

After informing Rugisch of his decision to take off, he was given a message by his father to take to the Roman commander of Gaul. Perhaps now they would give them aid, for if the Hun was not stopped soon, they would reach the sea.

Turning his horse back the way he had come, he left the slow moving line of refugees behind him. It felt good to be alone again.

The return trip gave him time to think about the Huns. They were not acting in the same manner as when he had fought them before. Their basic battle tactics hadn't changed much, but now they were using pressure in a different manner than they had in the Far East. Now they would threaten here and then strike somewhere else, leaving enough men behind to tie up forces that could have been used against them at their real target. From what he had learned from Torgau about the new Hunnish methodology, someone was giving them some pretty damned sophisticated advice and they were taking it. They no longer blindly charged, simply trying to smash an opponent under the hooves of their war horses.

Sometimes they still used the old trick of faking a retreat to suck their prey in until he was over extended, then turn when the pursuer had exhausted himself, break them up into small units and dispatch them one at a time at their leisure. Now they timed things carefully. The rate of march of their enemies and place of battle were nearly always of their choice.

They would hit an enemy column and whiplash it by striking at the head, forcing the rear to rush to give assistance,
then withdraw. Once the enemy column was stretched out again, they would repeat the attack, this time hitting the rear elements, forcing the leading units of the column to rush back to the rear. After this had been done a few times, the enemy was so tired, demoralized, and exhausted they were easy to deal with.

At Vindonissa, he was stopped by a patrol of mounted federati,
Frankish cavalry patrolling the river banks of the Upper Rhine to the Alps.

They had heard the Huns were moving but thought he was overreacting to the threat. If the bowlegged little bastards ever did show their pushed in faces on their side of the river, they, the greatest warriors in the world, would teach them what it meant to fight real men.

Casca had heard that kind of crap more than once and knew there was no sense in trying to tell them any different. They would just have to learn the hard way.

He rode with them for a piece,
then went on his own once more. He did find out who was commanding the Roman forces in the west – Flavius Aetius. That was who he would try to see. Perhaps he would listen from what the Franks had told him. Aetius was a good leader who had fought the Huns before.

Aetius had long been the man most familiar with Huns of any leader in Rome. More than once he had been sent to live with them as part of a hostage exchange. He had known Attila when they were both young men and taken some pleasure in always being able to get the better of him in every deal they had made, whether it was trading horses or gambling. He had always taken an air of superiority around him as he felt he represented the culture of Roman civilization.

Attila had to work hard to control his temper when Aetius used to needle him about taking up the marathon run for his tribe. He had even put him down in their wrestling matches using the tricks taught him by his Greek tutors. The only thing that Attila could do better was to ride and shoot at moving targets from horseback while at a full gallop. Aetius denigrated these accomplishments as being only natural for one who had the intelligence and smell of a horse.

Attila swore in his heart that one day he would make the smug superior Roman eat his words, showing him once and for all who
was the better.

After Aetius had reached his maturity and gained rank in the legions, he had often gone to the Hun encampment to talk with old Kara
-ton or Attila's uncle Ruga about hiring a few thousand of his warriors to fight for him as light cavalry and would always end up paying less than half of what it would have taken to get Vandals or Goths to fight for him. Even then he would pay in gold which was less than pure.

He knew the Hun better than anyone else did, and though he had been in and out of favor at the court several times and lost his office more than once, he was the one they always sent for when they needed the horsemen of the Huns to perform some chore that no one else would take.

He understood their way of thinking and knew that it was both their strength and their weakness. The Huns could be beaten, but it wouldn't be easy.

Aetius was pleased at how things had finally come his way. He was now the magister ultriusque militiae, the supreme commander of Roman forces since his predecessor, Felix, had been assassinated.

He was the real power in the West now, but still he had to deal with the Senate and the Emperor. Because of the distance they kept from the field, they were constantly able to interfere with his plans. It was a temptation to let Attila take all of Italy and liquidate the smug officials. Then he would drive the Huns back and make himself Emperor. But that, he sighed, didn't look to be very likely. He was a soldier and couldn't let his country be overrun and put to the sword.

And he had other things to do now. Attila was coming. They both knew that one day they would meet on the field of battle. There could be no other way, it was their fate.

Casca was admitted to the presence of Flavius Aetius.

The two men eyed each other. Casca liked the look of the Roman magister. He reminded him of some he had met when Rome had consistently produced great leaders. It was good to know there was at least one left.

Aetius was around fifty but moved with quick, sure actions. His eyes were clear and he had an intensity to him that spoke of his years of command.

Aetius listened to the message from Torgau. He had met the old man several times and knew that he was a solid thinker not given to flights of imagination; in fact, Torgau didn't have any imagination.

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 C
tesiphon 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 a
ll, 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 saluted, 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.