Oh, no, thought Casca. This is all I need to start the day off. Getting a firm footing on the slippery bottom, he raised himself up to a full height of five-foot-ten which still seemed small, woefully small, in comparison to the huge barbarian.
"Now, listen to me, lard guts," he said in German. "I have had just about enough of your mouth and this river. Take your large, overstuffed carcass away and leave me in peace, or I'll ruin your love life by braiding your legs. Verstand, sheiss kopf?"
"Shit head you dare call me? Glam Tyrsbjorn a shit head? Come out of the water, you dago mouse, and I'll teach you some manners."
"Piss on you, fur mouth. I'm no dummy. If you want a piece of my ass, let's make it even. Either you back off and let me out of the river, or come in and get your feet wet, turnip dick."
"Turnip dick!" Glam turned first red, then white, then purple with rage. Stamping his fur-wrapped feet like a human version of the old forest ox of the Aurochs, he bellowed, "I would come in after you, but I am no fish and cannot swim. So come out where I can put my hands on you. I am going to shove my right fist up your ass so far that I will grab you by the jawbone and pull you inside out."
"Big deal, big mouth," Casca scoffed. "Sure you're tough with that oversize meat cleaver. If you didn't have that, you'd be like a castratto which you may be anyway. I keep hearing your whimpering turn into a falsetto, you louse-ridden eunuch."
"By the bones of Ymir from which Odin and his brothers created the world, I will show you that I need nothing but my own hands to complete your education, Roman boy!" With that, Glam threw his monstrous long sword from him with such force that it almost severed a two-foot pine, the point burying itself in the wood. "There, you lousy dago! Now will you come out and fight?"
"You got it, sausage breath." Casca splashed his way out of the river while Glam stomped and waited, chewing his mustache in anticipation of settling the afront made to his honor. Turnip dick indeed!
As Casca came out, Glam turned and threw a long, looping punch that Casca easily dodged. Using the art of the yellow sage Shiu Tze, Casca blocked with his right arm and gave a quick, inside snap kick to the balls. Glam, between clenched teeth, tried with both hands to comfort his bruised groin. While he was involved with coddling himself, Casca went into a reverse roundhouse kick with his heel that knocked the big German into the Rhine unconscious, face down. Bubbles of air started welling up as the German drowned. Casca watched for a second, then, grumbling about being a sucker, he waded out into the river and grabbed the soggy tribesman by the hair and raised his face out of the water. Holding Glam by the hair of the head with one hand, Casca began a firm cracking slap across the face with the other. Glam sputtered, spitting out a quantity of the sacred Rhine.
"Enough!" he burbled. "Enough! I surrender. I'm your slave. Just get me out of the water."
"All right, but one wrong twitch and I'll do what I said about your legs."
"No, master. I, Glam, son of Halfdan the Ganger, may be many things, but I keep my word. You win. Just remove me from this miserable river and set my feet on solid earth."
The Norseman's helmet had gone to the bottom, so Casca got a firmer grip on the shoulder-length hair and hauled Glam to where he could pull himself out of the river to the edge of the bank and lie down. This the German did, his lungs trying to turn themselves inside out. While he finished this process, Casca returned and hauled his gear out. Sitting on a moss-covered log, he took a dry rag and began to wipe down his short sword, for he was a warrior, and a warrior takes care of his weapons.
By the time Casca had finished cleaning his gear and drying himself off as best he could, the sun was giving indication that the day would be bright and warm. Glam drew himself erect and strode to stand in front of Casca, Tensing, Casca took a firmer grip on his blade, but Glam suddenly dropped to his face and lay down in front of Casca. Taking Casca's right foot, he set it on top of his head. "I swear by the Aesir and Odin Allfather that I am your man in all things until you release me from my pledge."
Tossing Casca's foot off, Glam jumped back. "Well, now that that is over, where do we go from here, master?"
Casca looked up at the fur-draped and water-dripping giant. He grumbled, but there was a laugh behind his voice trying to break through. "For someone who's just made himself a slave, you're not very damn humble."
"Humble?" Glam asked in surprise. "Why in the name of the sacred oak should I be humble? I am the finest fighter and bravest man in the northlands from Scandia to the Danube. Sure, I'm your slave. But who said anything about being humble?" He beckoned to Casca. "Come by the fire, little master, and take the chill of the river off your bones. We'll take a bite of your smoked ass, and you will learn how fortunate you are to have a man like myself as a friend and companion."
"Friend and companion? What the Hades happened to your being my slave?"
Nonplussed, Glam continued somewhat testily, "Well, if you want to be rigid in your thinking, that's so. But I thought we might modify our relationship a little bit. It is only because I find myself liking you in spite of your parentage that I would be willing to make such an offer, because, knowing myself, I know that I would be an unhappy slave and as such would most likely cause you a great deal of trouble and concern. But as a friend and companion Ahh! that's something else. In that happy condition I would put all my intelligence and resources at your disposal. Now, wouldn't that be better than having an unhappy slave that you couldn't trust?"
By the time the big German had ended his monologue Casca was desperately trying to control a fit of laughter. Choking it back, he cleared his throat. "Good enough, my monstrous friend. We will be comrades until the time when our roads must part. Until then, we will be true to one another in our actions and trust. Is it agreed?" He held out his hand.
Glam nodded his head vigorously up and down. "Aye, Roman, that it is. And think not that I am ungrateful for your releasing me from my bonds on slavery, for certainly I was miserable all the time of my servitude."
Casca laughed out loud in spite of himself. "By Mithra, man, you were a slave for only less than an hour. How much misery could you acquire in that short a time?"
Glam responded in wounded tones, his mustache starting to bristle up. "It is not the length of bondage. It is the emotional pain of the condition that counts. And I " he visibly swelled " I have the soul of a poet. The soul, if regrettably not the words."
"Stop. Enough already, you great barbarian. I accept your reasoning. Just spare me the story." Glam nodded in agreement, and Casca went on. It was best to get their relationship straight from the beginning. "First things first," he said. "My name is Casca. And I'm no one's dummy. I've been around a long time longer than you might think. I know most of the tricks of the trade. In fact, I've invented a few of them. I have been a soldier in the legions, and I have hired out my sword as a mercenary to those who could pay the price. The only thing I won't do is fight a fight I don't believe in. There is enough action around that I don't think we have to sell our souls to the shitmongers. So, if you want to come with me, let's understand things. I am the boss, and we play by my rules." He locked eyes with the big German. The intent with which he spoke allowed for no smart answers. His tone was absolutely serious.
Uneasily, Glam looked away for a moment. There was something about this stranger that was disturbing, something for which there was no ready answer. A power? What could it be? But he looked back full in Casca's eyes and said, "Good enough. You are the leader until our road ends."
The road Casca and Glam took was, for the most part, a good one. The two rapidly found a fondness for each other that went far beyond the relationship of master and servant. Glam, with his boisterous humor, was almost as good as he thought he was though he never got used to the idea that the smaller Roman had whipped him without even using weapons. That summer of A.D. 210 they walked through the great dank forests of Germania. Casca kept his Roman armor out of sight in his kit bag. The sight of the hated Roman cuirass might lead to more trouble than they wanted. The trail through the woods had the rich smell of life, of green and growing things. The sun broke through the treetops with shining, hazy blades of light and lit up the floor of the forest so that it glowed with green fire. The feel of such spots was most welcome for in the morning and in the afternoon a chill would come.