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.
Chapter Five
The two men stood, dark figures in stark contrast to the blinding white of the snow-covered fields and valleys below. From their aerie in the heights, overlooking the sheltered valley, they watched with wary eyes.
The ice wind from the sea, racing in from the frozen waters to the far north, whipped at their fur robes and leggings. Both men wore beards and mustaches. What skin was exposed was darkened from the months of exposure to the elements. Wisps of frozen breath rose from their mouths and nostrils, small steaming clouds of vapor that rapidly disappeared in the gusting winds of the Nordic winter. On the horizon, dark clouds were gathering to once again assault the rocky crags and valleys with new waves of snow and ice.
Casca pointed to the stone buildings below, his words punctuated by renewed bursts of frozen breath. 'Do we go down?'
His companion grunted, as was his habit, in the affirmative. 'Aye, we don't have much choice in the matter. There's nothing behind us but that which we have left-endless woods and starvation. And I'm hungry enough now to consider boiling down my own furs for supper.'
The thought of Glam trying to digest his own louse and flea-infested robes brought the beginning of a smile to him, but it passed as rapidly as it had come. 'I don't know. From what I've heard, the old bastard that rules here at Helsfjord is not the most gracious of hosts.'
Glam nodded. 'Aye, but still one thing he has to do is honor the laws of hospitality. Anyone from outside his lands who claims shelter before he can kill or declare them enemies must be given three days of shelter before he has to leave. In that time, the master of the hold may not give him injury without just cause.'
Casca responded, 'And just what might those below consider just cause?'
Glam reflected a moment. 'Almost anything that would remotely resemble an affront to his honor. If we go down there, we'll have to walk slowly and speak carefully. These weapons of ours, made of good steel, are wealth enough for Ragnar to have us killed or fed to the crabs at the tide stakes.'
Casca eyed the walls of the hold, built with native stones quarried from the sides of the surrounding fjord. Smoke rose from several fires and chimneys and in his mind, even from this distance, he thought he could smell the odors of roasting meat. They had had none in the last four days since they had killed and eaten their last horse, a bad-tempered semi swaybacked beast that tried more often than not to take a plug out of Casca when he came too close. Casca enjoyed the thought that he had at least had the last bite where the foul-minded beast was concerned. It had been tough and stringy, with too little fat on it to give a man strength. True, the soup they had made from the marrowbones had been satisfying, but with Glam at the table, there wouldn't have been much left after one or two feedings even if they had been eating an elephant.
Glam put his long, double-bladed, two-handed sword back into its sling on his back and hitched the battle- axe, hanging from a thong at his waist, a little higher.
'Well then, if it's settled, my little Dago titmouse, we might as well get our asses down there and see what kind of greeting we'll get at the gate.'
Casca shifted his pack up on his shoulders a little higher, bitching at the weight, and Glam responded with a lack of understanding as to why Casca hadn't long since sold the contents. He could see no good reason for the Roman to hold onto the legionnaires breastplate of boiled leather with heavy iron rings sewn to it. True, it had come in handy a time or two when they had pawned it for enough copper or silver to see them through until they could get their hands on some money or find a job. But the Roman always went back for it. Why?
Casca said nothing about his reasons, though he sometimes questioned himself about his holding onto the armor. Perhaps it gave him a sense of identity that he needed from time to time. The legion, for all its faults, had been the only home he had ever known. It was where he had grown into manhood, those years when his personality had been formed. No matter how far away from the legion he might run or for how many years or even centuries, it was the same for him as for other men who were raised in a settled home with family. You could never completely lose them. In the remote recesses of the mind, home would always be with you, and the legion was his home.
Stumbling and sliding, they worked their way down through thigh-deep drifts of snow, tripping and falling over hidden roots and limbs, then rising only to slip and fall again. When they reached the last fifty feet, they just gave up, picked out a long, icy slide, and, like children, sped down the last of the climb to the bottom of the valley floor
