Glam entered the smoky confines of the tavern first, and Casca followed. Once inside, they shut the wooden door behind them and, like dogs, shook their bodies to rid their shoulders and furs of the snow that had gathered on them. The smoke from the fireplace and oil lamps bit at their eyes and nostrils. It took them a moment to adjust to the new dimmer lighting after the stark brilliance of the whiteness outside.
Since they'd entered, other eyes had been watching them. They were sizing up the new guests, while doing a mental tally of how much they would be worth and if the value would be worth the effort. And the watchers were deciding against any trouble with these two. The giant German's size alone was enough to discourage all but the most foolhardy, and his friend had a hard look in his eyes that said he was well-familiar with death and had drunk of the cup of pain more than once and survived.
The two made their way through the mixed company of border thieves and outcasts. It was easy to read their faces, for they had one thing in common: the feral look of givers of pain for pain's sake.
They found a spot near the fire and threw their robes off to lie steaming in front of the open hearth. Keeping their weapons close at hand, they moved a bench around and situated themselves with their backs to the wall so that they could keep a ready eye on the rest of the guests in this haven of murderers and thieves.
The food was plain but filling. The wine was as sour as the beer, but they both agreed it beat the hell out of trudging back through the bitter wind and snow in search of food and drink.
Talking quietly, they too sized up the opposition in the room, mentally cataloging those that would most likely give them trouble. A burst of frigid air from the sudden opening of the door attempted to blow out the fire in the hearth. A new figure stood in the darkened doorway, his body outlined from what little light there was outside, for the snow's brilliant reflections were fading as night began to fall.
A low murmur ran through the crowd of other watchers. The newcomer was of different stock than the two warriors near the fire. He wore expensive robes of fine cloth and had jeweled rings on his fingers, both silver and gold.
Then a smaller figure stepped out from behind the man-a boy of perhaps ten years, with fine features and curled hair cut short. He took the man's hand to lead him inside and looked over the crowd of hoodlums with wide, intelligent eyes that showed no trace of fear.
The man was near sixty, with hair as white as the snow outside and a body, though now stooped with years, that had once been much larger and stronger. The broad remnants of massive shoulders, the long arms, and the knotted, scarred hands said that once this had been a man to be reckoned with. But now, to the scum that were watching, he was something to amuse themselves with for a while and then to divide among the strongest. In this place he could only be considered as dead meat.
An impulse made Casca move from his seat. Hand on his sword, he quickly approached the newcomers in the doorway, jovially calling out with seeming familiarity, "Well, it's about time you showed up. We thought you and the boy had lost yourselves in the storm. Come on over… we have a table ready and we'll get some food into your cold bellies soon enough." He hustled the two in front of him, giving them no chance to speak or protest, and ushered them to the bench.
Smiling, Glam rose to make room for them. He'd understood Casca's intentions from the first. The boy chose to sit beside Glam, his tiny body dwarfed by the giant's, making them each look more and less than they were.
Keeping alert for any sign of action from the others in the tavern, Casca whispered to the man, "Just take it easy. My friend and I are not after your purse or your lives. But what in the name of Mithra has brought two such as yourselves to this place?" His mention of one of the favored gods of the legions brought a spark to the old man's eye.
"You're a Roman?" he queried. His voice, full and strong, had the air of a man who was used to being obeyed.
Casca poured his guest a portion of their beer from the clay pot container and replied, "Aye, I was born in Rome and served in her legions as a common soldier. My name is Casca Longinus, and my oversized friend here is Glam Tyrsbjorn." He looked over the old man's face, which was intelligent and strong, though time had taken its toll. There were scars on the face as well as the hands, and Casca was sure there were more under his robes. He'd been a warrior, and not a common one, either. Here was a man of noble blood and there was no way he could hide it, not even if he'd been weighted down and carrying gold. There was no way he could possibly have denied or hidden his heritage. Casca continued, "And who, if I may ask, are you, sir?"
The old warrior drew himself erect in his seat, his body assuming the old habits of command and birth. "I am Qulianius Scaevola, and this young man," indicating the boy, who was beginning to nod his head, "is my ward." The warmth of the fire after the cold outside was acting as an opiate for his tired young body.
The old man's eyes rested questioningly on Glam for a moment, but the barbarian's obvious good humor and the fact that he'd cleared off a bench so the boy could lie down and then had covered him with his own fur robe had eased the aged one's mind.
Scaevola was no fool; he'd read the intent in the faces of the other guests of the inn and knew full well that the Roman and his friend had come to their aid and saved them from a possible confrontation. For this reason, and because it was good to speak Latin again, the old man felt inclined to relax a bit. After a few mugs of mulled wine he was speaking freely to Casca, something he would not have ordinarily done, due to the obvious low birth of the former legionary. But now he felt he owed the man a debt and these were unusual circumstances. Scaevola had never been one to stand on ceremony when it was uncalled for. They soon began to talk, as all soldiers will and do. They shared the common bindings of men who had lived with violence but had not yet lost their own humanity. This made them comrades of the spirit, if nothing else.
Glam had already followed the boy's lead. Without any comment he had laid his own shaggy head on the wooden planks and had fallen into a noisy slumber, leaving the two Romans free to talk. Scaevola inquired of Casca as to the possibility of obtaining private quarters for the night and was told that it would probably be best for all of them to stay the night there in the common room where they could keep an eye on the other guests. From what Glam had told him of this place, it was not uncommon for a well-heeled guest to wake up in the morning and find he'd been robbed, if he were fortunate enough to make it to the morning alive.
Scaevola had been around in his time and agreed with Casca's suggestion that they all stay where they were near the fire and thus be able to take turns watching while the others slept.
The night wore on and Scaevola trusted his instincts. This place was on the Roman side of the Rhine, near the mouth of the river that fed into the sea, separating Gaul from Britannia, and the rule of Rome was held thinly here. But there was something about his newfound companion that gave him confidence in the man's integrity; and as the wine loosened his tongue, so his story came forth.
Scaevola was a former praetor who'd made a mistake. That mistake had been in being loyal to the man to whom he'd sworn allegiance as a judicial magistrate.
The last four years had been hard ones for the followers of Albinus. Lucius Septimus Severus, the African from Leptis Magna, was now master of the world. His legions had proclaimed him emperor after Lulianius had been murdered. But others too had put in their claim for the throne of Rome. Syria had proclaimed for Niger, and Britain had proclaimed for Albinus, but Severus had beaten them both to the Imperial City. After the death of Pertinax, Severus made a forced march to the gates of Rome. It had been said that not one soldier of his legion had removed even his breastplate between Carnuntum and Rome.
The praetorian guard had proclaimed Lulianius as emperor, but the real power of Rome rested with the legions, and they were outside the walls. The praetorians deserted their choice, and when they'd gone over to Severus, so had the senate. The pen may be mightier than the sword, but not when the sword's at your throat.
Lulianius had been murdered and later the praetorians were exiled to within a hundred miles of the city with the warning that if any should return they would be put to death. Severus had formed a new guard of his own men and the senate had confirmed his claim as emperor; but before July he'd had to leave for the east to deal with Niger. Three engagements had been fought, the last of which took place at Issus, where Niger had been killed. It had taken Severus another two years to pacify the regions of the east and in the process, and destroyed a good portion of Byzantium.
After that, he'd turned his attentions to the west and Albinus, who'd made Britain his stronghold and had strong forces to the north of Gaul.
Severus still needed the support of the senate, and had so far lived up to his bargain with them. None had been put to death and they blessed his achievements and gave him the laurels of conqueror and savior of the empire. With the support of the senate and fresh forces, he met Albinus on a plain to the north of Lyon between the Saone and the Rhone rivers.
The old man wiped a tear from his eye at the remembrance. "That," he continued, "was the worst conflict between Roman armies since the battle of Philippi." He swallowed a drink and continued.
"My Lord Albinus knew the battle was lost, and before the final blow was struck, he ordered me to leave the field and flee to Britain. I obeyed, and this," he indicated the sleeping boy, "is the reason. He is the natural son of Albinus and as such, is condemned to death. The mother, my own daughter, took her life at the news of Albinus death. That is why we are here-to avoid the proscription that has come forth. Now that Severus has eliminated all his opposition, he has taken his mask off. In order to legitimize his succession, he has proclaimed that he is the son of Marcus Aurelius and the brother of Commodus."
He paused for a moment to catch his breath. The passion of his story was tiring him. "So far, Severus has put over sixty senators to death on charges of having sympathized with Albinus. I have come to this place with hopes for taking a ship to Spain. There I will find sanctuary for the son of Albinus, my grandson, among friends who will see that he is protected,"
Weariness was overcoming the old man. Casca told him to rest and that he would watch over them this night. In the morning he would help them find a ship that would take them to Spain. He liked this aged gentleman and wished him well, but he feared that Rome was too powerful an enemy to leave alive anyone that might later have claim against the throne. The first law of power was to survive at any and all costs; and what was the value of one sleeping child against the glory of being known as the master of the world? Shaking his head sadly, he knew the answer: none! There was little chance that the boy would ever grow to manhood.
That night while the three others slept, Casca sat in the red glow of the fireplace and kept watch over the sleepers. One hand to his bared sword, he waited for the dawn and the passing of the winter storm. The others in the room did not miss the implications of the bared sword, and decided to leave the matter alone for the night.
One by one, all fell into their own state of sleep. The inn was silent, save for the crackling of the fire, which Casca replenished from time to time, and for the snoring of the men in their sleep. Several times Casca felt himself starting to doze off, but his head would jerk back up as if startled by something, and his eyes would come into instant focus.
He used old soldier's tricks to keep himself awake-breathing deeply to pump air into his lungs, standing for a while and stamping his feet, stretching his body-anything to keep his mind alert. For he knew that if he slept, there would be death in this room tonight; and he didn't care to experience that crap merely because he couldn't manage to stay awake for a few hours.
The boy snored softly in a child's slumber, and Casca pitied him. Through no fault of his own the youngster's was bound up in the fate of the empire and subject to its harsh laws. Casca knew from experience that fate was often cruel. Intellectually, he understood the laws of power and its survival. He knew some people felt that it would be better for all concerned that this single child should die now, for in later years he might prove to be the rallying figure that would bring thousands to their death in war uprisings. One small death in exchange for many?
The hours crept by until, instinctively, he knew the hour of daybreak was near.
Going from one to the other he shook his companions gently into awareness. The silence outside told them that the storm had passed over.
Waking the innkeeper, they settled their bill and bought a packet of food for each to take with him. Scaevola wrapped his grandson in the boy's cloak and took him by the hand as they left the smoky confines of the inn.
They walked through the narrow, icy streets; those streets were clean now, but with the coming of spring, the filth that lay below the blanket of virgin snow would come again into its own. Before leaving, Casca had looked over the men in the tavern and had waited until Scaevola and the child were safely outside with Glam before speaking. Softly, almost gently, he warned those awake and watching.
"If I see even one of you outside, you'll die. The old man and the boy are not for the likes of you. Leave them alone or sing your death songs before leaving." The soft, deadly intent of the manner in which he spoke did more to convince the thieves and murderers present to let these easy pickings go. After all, there would be others; there was no rush. Time was always on the side of the killer, and they knew it.
The door closed behind him as he moved a little faster to catch up with Glam and the others, now heading for the river. There they contracted the services of a fisherman to take them downriver to the estuary where the old man and his ward could find a vessel to sail them to what was hoped would be the safety of far-off Spain.
As for Casca and Glam, the fisherman would set them on the other side of the river in Germania. He and Glam had had enough of civilization and now longed for the clean isolation of the primordial forests. At least there the dangers were clear, the men easy to understand, and the reasons for living and dying less complicated.
Scaevola held his grandson's left hand while the boy waved with his right a good-bye to the Roman and his hairy companion. Casca wished he could have done more for them. He liked the praetor, but he could detect the smell of a man already dead about him, and knew that there was nothing he could do about it. Each had to follow what Glam called his "weird," and reach his own destiny, wherever it might be. As for the boy, Casca merely sighed and his head felt a little heavier. The circle turns; it has happened before and it shall happen again: one small life for many.
Ambition is the greatest disease and killer of man that the world has ever known. More than any plague, man's desire to inflict his will on others has caused the senseless deaths of millions, and to what end? All kings must die. What then have they accomplished with their ambition and self-delusion of power? For their lives are nothing more than fleeting moments in the course of centuries, and don't really matter all that much.
Glam broke trail into a line of pines that marked the end of the world, at least as Rome knew it. They were back in his lands now and he was content. He breathed in deeply the crisp, clean air and kicked up a flurry of snow from a covered bush.
"Hey there, you Dago titmouse," Glam called out, "knock off the long face. Everything awaits us. Somewhere out there." He indicated the deep woods, pointing. "Yes, my friend, somewhere out there lies adventures for us and a good clean warrior's life. Don't worry about the old man; he'll do all right for himself and the boy. And if he doesn't, he's only living the life that the gods have ordained-so why fight it?" He urged Casca on, "Come on, you Latin castratto, or I'll beat you to the women."
Casca laughed, the tension of the previous night broken by the good-naturedness of Glam. "What women, you great hirsute mongrel?"
Glam shrugged. "How should I know? But somewhere there are always women; we just have to find them, that's all."
The trees closed around them, and once more the Rhine was left behind them.