But in Rome, the new emperor had a maggot that ate at his soul. Casca knew he came from common clay. The Emperor Maximim wore a heavy crown. Corio, the shipbuilder, had brought Casca up to date as best he could on what had transpired in the empire since he had crossed the Rhine those long years ago, and the news was not good.
Rome was decaying from the inside even faster than he had thought she would. He had first seen the rot setting in when he had served under the Eagles of Avidius Cassius in Persia. In the last thirty years, there had been twelve emperors in Rome, and most had lasted no more than a year or two and some only a matter of days or weeks.
Currently the new master of the world was one Maximim. Born of the barbarian races, he now ruled over the noble bloodlines of the senate by virtue of his favor with the army, who had put him on the throne after watching the empire being sold to the highest bidder by the praetorian guards. They'd decided that Rome would be best served by one of their own-a soldier who had risen from the ranks and had proven his courage in battle fighting shoulder to shoulder along with them. The fact that he was not of fine and noble blood they considered to be in his favor. Maximim's mother was of the tribes of the Alani and his father was a Goth. During the reigns of Septimus and his son Severus, he had attained the high rank of centurion, but the raw sore of frustrated ambition always lay in the back of his thoughts. He'd waited patiently, building his reputation with the legions. Eating their food, and living in the same tents that sheltered the most common of his soldiers, he'd built a bond between him and the legion that he knew would one day serve him well. He waited, biding his time as emperors were assassinated or replaced, knowing the legions were growing ever more discontent with the weak selections of the senate and praetorians.
When Severus had returned from the Persian wars to conduct a new campaign against the German tribes, he had met with Maximim, then Commander of the Ninth Legion, on the banks of the Rhine.
There, when the troops were passing in review, the legion spontaneously, or so it seemed, proclaimed Maximim emperor and proved their devotion to him by murdering Alexander Severus. Maximim was emperor, but the knowledge of his common blood ate at him and he soon set about eliminating anyone who could remind him of his less than noble lineage. While affecting the manners of the nobility in public, he still had the rough courage and temperament of his barbarian mother and father, and proved it time and again, not hesitating to proscribe on any pretext any who got in his way. He knew his power rested on the spears of the legions, and so he set about securing their loyalties even more by giving them donatives of money that they hadn't earned by service in battle. But Maximim forgot that when one gives money to a man who hasn't earned it, the man will take it, but will also grow to despise the giver as well as himself; and it's easier to get rid of the giver than eliminate oneself. It's also a lot less painful.
Maximim's biggest screw-up was when he set to melting down the statues of past emperors. That he might have gotten away with. But when he took to melting down the statues of the holy gods of Olympus and Rome itself, he went too far. When you get the priests after your ass, you don't last long in this world. He could order a man's wife and children sold into slavery to settle a debt. That wasn't too bad; the man would just usually grumble and bitch about it for a while. But when you messed with his gods, you'd find your ass in a sling soon enough, with the priests whipping it rather soundly. There have been few in history who ever survived the wrath of a righteous priest who has had his easy living taken away.
Casca shook his head and poured another mug of mulled wine spiced with a few bits of rare cloves for himself and Corio. Casca sipped, swallowed, and wondered. Why do men seek that which will destroy them? What is the drive that forces man to seek power over the bodies of even his friends and family, when they should know from history that the same power that they will hold so fleetingly will lead not only to their destruction, but to that of their own children and comrades. It would be better to have a small holding where one could watch his children, as well as his fields and herds, grow tall and strong in the sun, instead of having to worry about seeing them cut down before his eyes by those seeking to replace him on some decaying seat of senseless power.
Corio agreed with Casca's sentiments exactly. Bidding him good night, he stumbled off to his chambers to sleep off what he knew would be a bad head in the morning.
Chapter Twelve
Casca set about reforming the small group of warriors that served him. He kept forty warriors on full-time duty for the security of the hold and the valley.
They also served as a backup force for any of the villages that might come under attack. There were four villages in his valley and about two thousand people that paid him fealty. Out of that two thousand, he could field four hundred warriors if the need arose. That included males from sixteen to fifty. Casca restored the villagers the right of enforcing their own civil laws by the ancient tradition of a council of elders. He reserved the right of appeal for himself and was the only one able to pass down a judgment of death.
The villages were run under the tradition of village ownership of the tillable land. Each year, the elders would meet and decide how much each family needed for its purposes. The houses were mostly of stone and thatch; many of them were half under the ground, this serving to keep out the worst of the winter chill. They were a tough people with rough rules of honor and chivalry. Of slaves, there were few. Casca himself only owned a half dozen.
His best acquisition was Corio, the Roman shipbuilder, who helped redesign the shallow draft fishing boats and make them better able to deal with the wild currents and storms of the northern waters.
The older warriors were hard to train in new methods. Too long they had fought in the manner of their fathers. Like most of the barbarian tribes, they had little or no armor and went into battle protected at best with shields of wicker or wood with metal rims. Most of their swords were poor things of iron. Casca had more than once, in battle on the Rhine, seen a barbarian have to stop and try to straighten out his blade by placing his foot on it and bending it. The only blades of any worth were sold by traders and were jealously guarded by their fortunate owners. There were still quite a few of the old bronze swords with leaf-style blades around. But Corio also had a knowledge of metal-working, and soon had a small foundry started to produce better blades for Casca's warriors. He just about gave up on trying to discipline the elder warriors and concentrated most of his efforts on their children. It was easier to take a young mind and mold it. Selecting boys of ten to twelve, he made it an honor to be accepted into training. They were to be his insurance for the survival of Lida's people.