Casca 9: The Sentinel (7 page)

Casca stood before the great walls of Constantinople, his arm around the shoulders of Ireina. She was carrying their son; his head was resting against her shoulder. He mumbled sleepily that he wanted to go to bed. Casca reached over and ran a hand through his dark curly hair. "Soon, my son, soon you'll have a warm bed."

Going in front of Ireina, he forced a path for them through the throngs entering the huge gates of bronze and hardwoods. Pushing past an Arab merchant in flowing robes and turban, he found himself in front of a young bright-faced officer of the city guard.

Raising his face, the young officer found his eyes locked on those of the scar-faced man. Casca leaned over the table where the young man was taking a count of those who entered or left through his gates each day. "Where can I find quarters for my family?" he asked.

The boyish centurion tried to remember his official position, though his voice cracked a bit as he responded to this brusque, somewhat intimidating questioner. "Before I answer that, what
is your name and your business here?"

He didn't have to ask the man's occupation. The deep scars on the arms, hands, and wrists made it quite clear that the man was a fighter. But he had to observe regulations. Orders stated that anyone entering the city was to be questioned, and those who looked to be of special interest were to be reported to the praefectus vigilum, who would in turn review the list, weeding out those of no real interest, and then submit a list of the remaining names to the eparch, who was directly under the thumb of the magister officorum, otherwise known as Gregory the Eunuch.

The centurion didn't know the reason, but for the last few years they had been required to make daily reports on the comings and goings of strangers, especially those who appeared to be warriors of a particular type: thick-bodied, heavily muscled men with scars and light eyes. It was a pain in the ass to do it every day.

Casca responded wearily and a bit snappishly to the questions. "I have come to seek employment with Sicarus the mercenary, and I am called Casca. Anything else you wish to know, young master?" Although the words were respectful enough for one addressing a member of the Illustrii, the tones left something to be desired. However, the slightly built officer decided that the man was obviously ill bred and didn't know any better. Therefore, he would be gracious and not press the issue.

Affecting a slight tone of superior contempt, he told Casca, "You will want the street of the potters. That is where most of the hirelings of Sicarus stay. They can direct you further."

Casca nodded and left, with Ireina trailing in his wake as he separated the mob in front of them. The centurion made a mental note to set an appointment to have his hair curled and perfumed; the other note was to tell his corporal to transfer the name of Casca to the list that was to be sent to the praefectus. He remembered the hair but forgot the other matter till he was already being relieved of duty. For him to send the note in late would have reflected on his capabilities. Besides, the man, whatever his name, was just another brute of no importance.
Best to leave things alone.

Casca and his family walked through the streets of the city of Constantine, treading over stones that had known the passing of countless legions and conquerors. It was the largest city in the world west of the thousand-mile wall of China. The streets were busy with hawkers crying their wares to wives, slaves, and tourists. Caravans of camels and mules left their droppings on the cobblestones to collect on the feet of unwary pedestrians.

Casca took Demos from Ireina, who was showing signs of fatigue, though she made no complaint. Holding his son cradled in his left arm, he led the way to the street of potters without having to ask directions. He had been in Constantinople when it was known as Byzantium and a half dozen times since then. Unless they'd rearranged the streets, there would be no problem finding his way through the maze. Most of those on the streets gave way readily to the man with the child. They recognized a warrior when they saw one, and as most were simple folk, they had no desire to hinder one who lived by the sword, which was well enough, since Casca was tired and a bit ill-tempered from their journey.

It took nearly an hour of winding in and out of narrow byways and bazaars to reach the street of potters, which lay next to the main market where food, weapons, silks, and slaves were offered for sale in an endless stream. When Casca came to a stuccoed, three-storied building with the sign of a broken lance over it, he turned inside.

The inn was not of the caliber frequented by the Illustrii of the capital, but it was familiar enough to him. All inns were basically the same, differing only in the degree of cleanliness and the quality of the food and clientele. He handed Demos back to Ireina before entering the darker confines of the hotel. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the change in light from the glare outside to the darker smoky insides of the Broken Lance. He saw several men sitting at tables, eating and drinking, who wore the mark of fighters on them: scars on faces and bodies, which they wore as soldiers did their medals of valor. There was harshness to their voices and manner that was universal to those of their ilk.

They also watched him. Eyes sized him up quickly; then they looked at his woman, admiring the silver hair and firm breasts; then they returned to the man again before deciding to leave her and him alone for the time being.

Casca didn't like bringing Ireina and Demos to such a place, but he had to find employment. Their money was nearly gone, and Demos ate more than he did. Ireina kept close to his back, not liking the looks given her by the patrons. Grabbing a serving wench by her arm, Casca asked where the master of the inn could be found. Ireina liked even less the look the serving girl gave her man than she did those given her. She made up her mind to keep a close eye on Casca while they were here.

Following the girl's pointing finger, Casca moved across the plank floors to the one fire, where an obese man with a greasy apron was basting a goat on a spit. Polonius cursed and stuck a finger in his mouth to ease the pain where a touch of flame had licked him when the stranger behind him had startled him.

Still sucking his finger, he tried to speak, but the words only came out in a childish gibberish. Casca stopped the man's mumblings by pressing his fingers deep in his collarbone until he had his full attention.

"Rooms, landlord!
I want a clean room for my woman and child."

Polonius eyed his potential guest, taking in the travel-stained clothes and the pack on the broad back, which he knew without
asking contained the man's armor. Looking over Casca's shoulder, he saw Ireina and Demos. It was unusual. Very few mercenaries ever brought their women and children with them. But as long as he could pay, it made no difference.

Casca knew what the innkeeper was thinking, and after they had haggled long enough to satisfy honor, a price was agreed upon and Casca was finally able to take Ireina and Demos up to the second floor, where she was able for the first time in weeks to lay her body on a semi-clean bed and place Demos down where the child could stretch out his legs and then curl them up again and sink into a deep sleep.

Casca moved a thin cover over Demos and Ireina, telling her to stay where she was until he returned, emphasizing that she was not to open the door for anyone. Ireina nodded her head in agreement. She was too tired to think about going anyplace, not even downstairs. All she wanted was the incredible luxury of curling up next to her son and holding him while they slept the day around.

When Casca left the inn, returning to the crowded streets, he did a mental tally of the few coins left in his purse. If he didn't get some money soon, he might have to knock a tourist in the head. From the innkeeper he'd gotten directions to where Sicarus stayed. He had an office in an unused portion of the old imperial barracks, near the western wall. It took nearly another hour to cross to that side of the city.

He could tell at once that Sicarus ran a pretty tight ship. Usually mercenaries were a pretty sloppy lot, but he was challenged very professionally by a member of some obscure tribe of barbarians who asked all the right questions and showed more good manners than the centurion had shown at the city gate. Once he had his questions answered as to why Casca was there, he politely told his guest to take a seat on a bench reserved for such things just outside the guard post, saying, "Someone will come for you in a moment."

The guard quickly sent a half-naked beggar boy off to find whoever it was that would come for him. Casca was glad to sit down for a few minutes; his feet were sore, and he was tired.

He had nearly dozed off by the time two armed men showed up. They looked the same as the one who had told him to take a seat: sharp, clean-looking men with the aura of discipline about them, even if their arms and clothing were not of a uniform type. One of them, obviously a Greek, nodded for him to join them. They placed themselves one on either side of him, leading Casca across a compound where once soldiers of the emperors had trained but which was now rented by the mercenaries of Sicarus for close-order drill and weapons practice. A number of men were squared off practicing casts with javelins, while others sparred with blunted swords. It reminded him of his own days when he had trained under the watchful eye of Corvu the Lanista, of the school of Galli, when he had been a gladiator.

The mercenaries led him to a stone two-storied building where two others stood guard with spears. Once there, they took his sword and knife before permitting him to enter the building. Obviously, Sicarus was a man with enemies. They gave his weapons to a black slave who placed them in a box near the doorway.

Casca's escort stayed with him as they walked down a long hall past several doors before stopping at one near the far end and knocking. A smooth clear voice commanded them to enter.

Sicarus sat behind a plain desk, going over his accounts; the cost of maintaining his three hundred men was high. He was well formed, handsome in a dark serious manner, of average height. Hair graying at the temples was held back with a plain silver band. The face was intelligent, that of a man who made few mistakes. Casca had no doubts about the abilities of Sicarus to lead. He carried authority like part of his skin.

One of the guards removed himself to the outside of the door, and the other stayed a bit to the rear of Casca. Both waited for Sicarus to finish his inspection of the new candidate.

Aiming his quill at Casca like a lance, he asked his questions quickly and expected responses to be delivered the same way. Casca gave them back in the order they were asked. Although he evaded any question pertaining to time, he had no difficulty providing Sicarus with more than enough information to let the man know he'd had plenty of experience. The fact that there were areas he chose not to elaborate on took nothing away from him. Most of those who came to sell their swords had reasons for not wishing their entire life story to be known.

Sicarus knew how to read his men. He could tell those who killed for pay and those who killed for pleasure. There were some like this one who did not really fit into either category. They killed because they had to, receiving no pleasure from the taking of life but not avoiding it, either.

Sicarus knew that he wanted this man from first sight. His eyes didn't have either the lackluster of the brute or the burning passion of those who walked the borderline of madness. This man would be as steady as his grayish eyes. But it was always best to test your instincts from time to time.

"Have you ever fought against Vandals before?"

The question was plain but loaded. Casca nodded and responded without emotion, "Enough to respect the throwing ax."

Sicarus pointed to a shield hanging on the wall of the office. "To whom did that belong?"

Casca glanced at it out of the corner of his eye. The sun symbol in the center boss was not that of Rome.
"Persian. It's the shield of an officer of the Persian light cavalry, but it's an old one. That style hasn't been used for many years, but you can still find them among some tribesmen on the frontier."

Those answers said much for the man. If a warrior knew both the Vandals and Persians and had survived, he was definitely worthwhile, and Sicarus wanted only the best. That was why he could demand and get the price he did for his services. "I would guess from your build that you're either a sword or spear man. Which do you prefer?"

Casca shrugged his sloping shoulders. "I have had experience with both, but favor the sword."

Sicarus dismissed the remaining guard with the message to find Hrolvath and bring him to the training ground. The man saluted with hand to chest and left to obey Sicarus's order.

Rising from behind his desk, Sicarus walked closer to Casca. Their eyes were on the same level. "There is one other thing to do before I will accept you into my company. Everyone that joins me must go through it. Come with me."

Casca followed Sicarus as the leader of the mercenaries led him out to the training compound. He had a feeling that he knew what the test was going to be, and he didn't blame the mercenary leader for it. It was a good way to weed out the phonies in a hurry rather than find that they couldn't do the job when your life depended on it.

Sicarus cried out for the attention of the other men training on the grounds. "Comrades, I have with me one who would join our illustrious company of gentlemen. Shall we see if he is worthy of us?"'