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 boy had lost yourselves in the storm. Come on over… we have a table ready and we'll get some food into your cold bellies soon enough." He hustled the two in front of him, giving them no chance to speak or protest, and ushered them to the bench.
Smiling, Glam rose to make room for them. He'd understood Casca's intentions from the first. The boy chose to sit beside Glam, his tiny body dwarfed by the giant's, making them each look more and less than they were.
Keeping alert for any sign of action from the others in the tavern, Casca whispered to the man, "Just take it easy. My friend and I are not after your purse or your lives. But what in the name of Mithra has brought two such as yourselves to this place?" His mention of one of the favored gods of the legions brought a spark to the old man's eye.
"You're a Roman?" he queried. His voice, full and strong, had the air of a man who was used to being obeyed.
Casca poured his guest a portion of their beer from the clay pot container and replied, "Aye, I was born in Rome and served in her legions as a common soldier. My name is Casca Longinus, and my oversized friend here is Glam Tyrsbjorn." He looked over the old man's face, which was intelligent and strong, though time had taken its toll. There were scars on the face as well as the hands, and Casca was sure there were more under his robes. He'd been a warrior, and not a common one, either. Here was a man of noble blood and there was no way he could hide it, not even if he'd been weighted down and carrying gold. There was no way he could possibly have denied or hidden his heritage. Casca continued, "And who, if I may ask, are you, sir?"
The old warrior drew himself erect in his seat, his body assuming the old habits of command and birth. "I am Qulianius Scaevola, and this young man," indicating the boy, who was beginning to nod his head, "is my ward." The warmth of the fire after the cold outside was acting as an opiate for his tired young body.
The old man's eyes rested questioningly on Glam for a moment, but the barbarian's obvious good humor and the fact that he'd cleared off a bench so the boy could lie down and then had covered him with his own fur robe had eased the aged one's mind.
Scaevola was no fool; he'd read the intent in the faces of the other guests of the inn and knew full well that the Roman and his friend had come to their aid and saved them from a possible confrontation. For this reason, and because it was good to speak Latin again, the old man felt inclined to relax a bit. After a few mugs of mulled wine he was speaking freely to Casca, something he would not have ordinarily done, due to the obvious low birth of the former legionary. But now he felt he owed the man a debt and these were unusual circumstances. Scaevola had never been one to stand on ceremony when it was uncalled for. They soon began to talk, as all soldiers will and do. They shared the common bindings of men who had lived with violence but had not yet lost their own humanity. This made them comrades of the spirit, if nothing else.
Glam had already followed the boy's lead. Without any comment he had laid his own shaggy head on the wooden planks and had fallen into a noisy slumber, leaving the two Romans free to talk. Scaevola inquired of Casca as to the possibility of obtaining private quarters for the night and was told that it would probably be best for all of them to stay the night there in the common room where they could keep an eye on the other guests. From what Glam had told him of this place, it was not uncommon for a well-heeled guest to wake up in the morning and find he'd been robbed, if he were fortunate enough to make it to the morning alive.
Scaevola had been around in his time and agreed with Casca's suggestion that they all stay where they were near the fire and thus be able to take turns watching while the others slept.
The night wore on and Scaevola trusted his instincts. This place was on the Roman side of the Rhine, near the mouth of the river that fed into the sea, separating Gaul from Britannia, and the rule of Rome was held thinly here. But there was something about his newfound companion that gave him confidence in the man's integrity; and as the wine loosened his tongue, so his story came forth.
Scaevola was a former praetor who'd made a mistake. That mistake had been in being loyal to the man to whom he'd sworn allegiance as a judicial magistrate.
The last four years had been hard ones for the followers of Albinus. Lucius Septimus Severus, the African from Leptis Magna, was now master of the world. His legions had proclaimed him emperor after Lulianius had been murdered. But others too had put in their claim for the throne of Rome. Syria had proclaimed for Niger, and Britain had proclaimed for Albinus, but Severus had beaten them both to the Imperial City. After the death of Pertinax, Severus made a forced march to the gates of Rome. It had been said that not one soldier of his legion had removed even his breastplate between Carnuntum and Rome.