circle, slicing the hamstring muscles of a Saxon who came close. Then, raising himself under the guard of the leader, they locked, the Saxon’s axe barring Casca’s Gladius Iberius, while his other hand held the dagger away from his stomach where it was only millimeters away from opening him up like a gutted fish.
They broke away and locked again, two strong men face to face; again they broke, then whirled around each other like madmen, striking, parrying, sparks leaping when their blades met. The force of their combat brought the rest of the fighting to a stand-still. The protagonists from the two ships separated, keeping a wary eye on each other while the two in the center of the deck met again and again like charging bulls. They grappled, faces touching.
The Saxon spoke between clenched teeth, “Who are you? I have seen you before.”
They broke again and Casca made a deep lunging attack that changed in midstroke to a swipe to the gut, leaving a thin line of red across the Saxon’s muscled belly.
“I am the man who is going to kill you, barbarian. I am Casca, the Roman.”
The Saxon stumbled back, nearly falling over a pile of ropes. “Casca from Helsfjord, the Walker?” Terror slipped into his voice and for the first time courage began to slip away from him. “You’re dead. You sailed to the ends of the earth.”
Casca struck a blow that numbed his own arm to the shoulder and knocked the horned helmet off the Saxon’s head.
“I’m back.”
The Saxon countered, forcing Casca back. They separated, each gasping trying to catch his breath.
“You must be over sixty. My father, Hegsten, fought you at the field of Runes over thirty years ago.
Remembrance flashed. “Yes, Saxon dog and whore, I only chopped the left arm off the sire, I am going to kill the pup.”
Casca sliced down in a long stroke that forced the axe up high to counter; as the steel from the blade and the axe met, Casca gave a strange sliding movement obliquely that turned his opponent half around unable to use his free hand. Then Casca’s dagger slid to the hilt between the striated muscles of the abdomen, sinking deep within, the point of the blade puncturing the great artery running along the spine, letting the Saxon’s lifeblood flow into his abdominal cavity.
Pulling the Saxon to him and holding his opponent like a lover, Casca plunged the blade deeper into him, moving the hilt from side to side, severing organs. The death glaze was already creeping over the Saxon’s eyes, fogging them.
Through blood-flecked lips he whispered, “You are he. The Walker.”
He died shuddering, his last act to raise his head back, throat cords standing out from the strain, then drew his last breath. “Odin.” The name of his god echoed across the water.
Casca raised his body, grunting with the strain and tossed the carcass over the side. The raiders were still, silent, shocked. Their leader had fallen.
Sensing this was the moment, Casca cried out to the crew, “Kill! Kill!” He rushed the stunned barbarians like a whirlwind, his blade and dagger doing bloody work. The crew hesitated but a moment and then followed cheering.
The Saxons broke. Their leader dead, their courage left them. They fled back to their ship across lines, leaping the span separating the two ships. Several fell into the waters, but none gave them aid.
The trader crew cut the lines of the grappling hooks mooring them together and the ships parted, Ortius’ crew cheering.
The Saxons backed water to get away from what they had thought to be easy’ pickings, instead proving to be a shark; several of which were already tugging at the bodies in the water, taking the living along with the dead.
Ortius quickly resumed command. “Back to your post and oars, you miserable sea lice. Clear the Saxon scum from my decks and send them to their brothers to feed the hungry ones below.”
The battle was over.
Casca, as usual, after a fight, felt drained, his limbs trembling, not only from physical exhaustion, but from the emotional release as well. Breathing deeply, he gulped down air. “It is over.”
Ortius slapped him on the back. “By Poseidon’s green sea beard! It was a lucky day when we found you bobbing like a cork. You have made a friend this day, Casca Longinus, and never let it be said that Ortius, the ship’s master, forgets a debt. When we make port I am going to buy the ten best whores in town and see if they can kill you. By Jupiter’s brass balls man, I never saw such fight in all my life!”
Three
No further incidents interrupted the journey of the trader to the safe port of Dubrae from which on a clear day the coast of Gaul could almost be seen across the channel. The crew was in good spirits; their valor increased with each retelling of the battle and had multiplied several fold by the time the city came into view as a light colored speck on the hills behind.
There were enough souvenirs left behind by the Saxons so that everyone on board had a trophy to attest to his courage: helmets with horns, swords, and enough of those terrible throwing axes so that even each slave had at least one.
Ortius, pleased at the way the oarslaves had fought alongside his freedmen, knocked a year off his deal with them and several were to be given their letters of manumission as soon as a magistrate could be found to witness and document the releases.
The trader slipped into port under a fair wind, passing several others on their way out, carrying cargos of tin and wool to the Empire and beyond. Like all ports, this one had its own particular blend of the odors of fish and garbage. The town itself was set upon a small group of hills that faced the channel. The immediate area around the port was lined with docks and piers along with a tannery and several warehouses, adding their scents to the already pungent atmosphere.
In this area also were the places for sailors and their like: wine ships and inns along with an undetermined- number of whorehouses catering-for the right price-to all tastes. The homes and businesses near the hillsides were for the upper classes. Several villas had obviously been built in the Roman style; here the captains of the ships found amusement.
Ortius gave his men their unloading orders, then, accompanied by Casca, left to present his papers to the port authority. There he declared his cargo and paid his duty, accidentally dropping a purse of silver denarii as they left, to insure the amount and kind of cargo he declared were not too closely looked at by the customs officials.
Taking Casca by the arm, he guided him through the labyrinth of streets and alleys, past shops and vendors, eating stalls and racks of drying fish.
“Well, my overmuscled friend, before we do anything else, we have to get you into some decent clothes; these rags you are wearing would embarrass a Dacian goatherder, though you have the smell to go with the description.”
Stopping at a shuttered door, he pounded upon it for admittance. “Open up, you hooked robber of decent seafaring men, let us in to see the rags you try to pass off as clothes!” Ortius kicked away a short-haired dog. which sniffed tentatively and then raised its leg over Ortius’ shin. Yelping, it raced down the street before completing an act of defilement.
After hours of haggling, Ortius grumbling and clucking over prices, Casca’s clothes finally met his friend’s approval: a short tunic of plain blue wool spun locally and a cloak of burgandy from Gaul, along with a broad belt of Spanish leather, set with large brass studs. A new set of ealigulae, Roman style military boots that laced up to the calves, finished his wardrobe. Adjusting the strap of his halberd, so that his sword hung properly, Casca looked at the effect in a polished bronze mirror and was not displeased by what he saw.
“By Mirtha, I’m still a pretty good looking rascal.”
