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
