Casca moved near, standing directly behind the headman's sleeping place. The women waited until they saw his sword flash gold in the light of the campfire as he waved a signal. Then they moved. Each one crept silently until she had reached her objective; then each lay down beside the sleeping man. Quietly, easily, their mouths silenced any protest from those who woke at the feel of a naked body lying next to them. When they were all in place, Casca filled his lungs and yelled, his voice echoing across the valley, "Kill!"
And, kill they did! Wooden stakes struck deep into stomachs and hearts. The freed men finished off the few that managed to escape the wrath of the women. Grim butchers! Work was done this night.
The headman rolled out of his shelter, instantly alert, weapon ready. He gaped for a moment at the sight of the women killing his men, then roared in anger and lurched forth, long sword swinging. His sword hand was stopped in midair as Casca moved quickly behind him and grabbed his wrist. Swinging the barbarian around, Casca grinned a look of killing and spat, "Sing your death song, hero." He drove his short sword into the man's gut, angling the blade up. He struck so hard that he raised the man clear off his feet. Grabbing the man by the hair, he forced him to his knees and moved his sword hand down. Drawing the blade out in a long, smooth slice, he opened the chieftain's stomach from chest to groin letting the hot, steaming intestines fall in a convoluted mass, wet and quivering, to the ground.
The chieftain never had a chance to sing his death song. His mouth had filled with his own blood before he could open it.
Several of the raiders had not yet died and their former slaves were in no hurry to put them in that blessed state. The women gathered around them, dragging them nearer to the campfire.
Casca knew what was going to happen next. Even he, with all the fighting he had been in and the slaughter he had seen, had no stomach for what lay in store for the raiders. But this was their way, and the only way he could have stopped it was to kill the women. Besides, they had earned the right to return the pain and humiliation they 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.