had suffered to those they now held down beside the fire.
Casca moved away into the shadows to wait until it was over. He knew that it would be several hours before the last wet, gurgling screams stopped.
The women went to work. With sharpened stakes and blades heated to red-hot over the fire's coals, they cut and they sliced, taking their time, making sure their victims would feel every second of agony before they died.
It was dawn before the last raider was permitted to die. He didn't scream. His mouth had been filled, first with red-hot coals and then with his own testicles shoved down his throat until he strangled.
The women were through. They sat, tired, haggard, their bloody hair in knots, their faces drained.
It was over!
Casca and Glam left the women and their men to return to what was left of their village. Several of the women had offered themselves to the two, but after seeing how their last lovemaking had ended, not even Glam had any desire for a quickie with the still bloody-handed maidens.
They were content to take what they wanted from the bodies and baggage of the Quadii and leave the rest for the villagers. What they took were the easy-to-carry items, and that wasn't much, plus a few pieces of well- worn small coins of gold and silver to help see them through the season.
Both of them were glad to leave behind this last bit of gruesome business. They had no sympathy for the women's victims, but even so, it was still a little hard to warm up to a girl who had just cut off and shoved a man's family jewels down his throat.
A quick farewell and they headed over the pass, taking the same route the raiders would have. Any direction was better than none.
For the rest of the warm months they wandered from one tribal ground to the next, and Casca marveled at the vast expanses they'd covered where no man had ever seen a Roman. The tribes numbered men in masses too great to count. He believed the women of Germania didn't give birth to one child at a time; they had litters instead.
From others, they heard of the migration of a tribe of fierce warriors from Scandia. For years now they had been moving to the warmer regions south of them-a trickle at first, then a flood that would soon reach the boundaries of Rome. Casca wondered what would be the result when Rome met the tribes of the Goths in their full strength and numbers.
They went as far east as the northern border of Pannonia, crossed the river Danube, and spent a couple of pleasant weeks in the fleshpots of Vienne, enjoying the comforts of a city somewhat civilized by the Romans, who garrisoned the frontier along the Danube. From there, before the winter caught them, they moved back to the east along the banks of the river. For a time they detoured from the river to travel through the high mountains with their lofty summits of eternal snow, down through deep, green valleys where a man's whisper could be heard echoing a dozen times until it finally faded in the clear mountain air.
But they didn't want to stay in these high, beautiful mountains for long. If winter found them there, they wouldn't be able to get out until the next year's thaw opened up the passes. They moved on. The journey from the place of the slaughter of the Quadii raiders was one huge horseshoe that brought them back near the Rhine and the edges of the Hyrcanian forests. They were near the city of Colonia Agrippina on the Rhine, across the river from the lands of Tencteri, when the first snows came. Large flat flakes fell gently from the sky-one, then another, gradually increasing until the men were blinded by the brilliance of a blanket of pure white snow.
They kept to the German side of the Rhine until they reached the bank opposite Vetera, the last major Roman town before the Rhine emptied into the sea. Even now, large chunks of ice could be seen drifting with the current toward the greater waters separating Britannia from the continent.
After a certain degree of haggling they found a fisherman that agreed to ferry them across the river. There was nothing on the German side to make them want to stay. There were a few homesteads and trading posts, but there were still too many members of hostile tribes around. Casca had decided that if they were going to get any rest or supplies they had better try to do it on the Roman side of the river.
By the time they reached midstream, a full winter storm was on them. Raging, gusting winds tried to turn the shallow boat over and dump its passengers into the frozen flow. But the captain of the small boat knew his craft, and without much anxiety, though his passengers were definitely uneasy, he beached his craft on the Roman side, took his pay in the form of two small pieces of silver and one of copper, and hurriedly left, heading back for the German side of the Rhine.
Casca and Glam hauled their belongings onto their shoulders and walked through deserted dirt streets, now frozen hard from winter. The blasting winter wind and whipping snow pushed them along. Anyone with any sense at all was inside out of the cold. But they had no choice. They wandered for a while through the streets, leaving their footprints behind them in the new ice crust until Glam raised his nose like a hunting hound and said in a reverent voice, as he sniffed the air, 'Beer. I smell beer and roasting meat.'
Casca raised his nose to do as Glam had and all he got was a nose full of falling snow, which made him sneeze.
Glam clucked at Casca's obvious disability and deficiency in the olfactory senses and led the way unerringly to a wooden door. 'This is it,' he informed his companion.
Chapter Four
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
