Taking Casca by the arm, he guided him through the labyrinth of streets and alleys, past shops and vendors, eating stalls and racks of drying fish.
“Well, my overmuscled friend, before we do anything else, we have to get you into some decent clothes; these rags you are wearing would embarrass a Dacian goatherder, though you have the smell to go with the description.”
Stopping at a shuttered door, he pounded upon it for admittance. “Open up, you hooked robber of decent seafaring men, let us in to see the rags you try to pass off as clothes!” Ortius kicked away a short-haired dog. which sniffed tentatively and then raised its leg over Ortius’ shin. Yelping, it raced down the street before completing an act of defilement.
After hours of haggling, Ortius grumbling and clucking over prices, Casca’s clothes finally met his friend’s approvaclass="underline" a short tunic of plain blue wool spun locally and a cloak of burgandy from Gaul, along with a broad belt of Spanish leather, set with large brass studs. A new set of ealigulae, Roman style military boots that laced up to the calves, finished his wardrobe. Adjusting the strap of his halberd, so that his sword hung properly, Casca looked at the effect in a polished bronze mirror and was not displeased by what he saw.
“By Mirtha, I’m still a pretty good looking rascal.”
Three other tunics would be delivered later to the combination inn and whorehouse Ortius had selected as their domicile while in Dubrae.
Leading the Roman along through the streets like a ship hauling a dingy behind it, the bandy-legged Sicilian kept up a rambling discourse on the faults and merits of ladies of pleasure at the Inn of Paetius the Greek.
Laughing, they reached the entrance of the twostoried structure. Nudging Casca in the ribs, Ortius whispered, “Watch out for Paetius, he’s the most notorious faggot in the country, but for all that is a good fellow who has clean rooms and doesn't water the wine to excess; he charges only slightly more than his wares are worth, but most important-he has the cleanest girls in town. So you won't have to worry about leaving here with a touch of the pox."
Bursting into the smoky interior, the barrel-chested sailor pushed his way through the crowd bellowing, "Wine for my man. We have been raping and ravaging since dawn… wine do you hear… when we had some spare time we killed a hundred Saxons… wine! Ortius the great is here, accompanied by one almost as handsome and brave!"
The crowd roared with laughter. Obviously Ortius was well known and liked. A massive figure swept down upon them; Casca prepared himself for a fight. The huge man reached Ortius first, swept him up into his arms raising him a foot off the wooden floor, kissing the struggling Sicilian on both cheeks as fat tears ran down the cheeks of Paetius the Greek.
Paetius was six-foot-six and close to three hundred pounds, most of it muscle. His finely sculptured face had an aquiline nose which seemed too small sitting on top of the mass of meat. Several knife scars were visible on his neck and arms, attesting to the fact that here was one hell of a pansy.
Squirming out of the giant's grasp, Ortius checked his rib cage and then introduced Casca to the Greek, who immediately performed an identical assault on Casca much to his chagrin, but as the man was obviously so good natured, it was hard to take offense, at least until Paetius pinched him on the ass. But the Greek set him free before Casca could respond.
Paetius lisped in a girlish voice, " Ortius, J. have been so worried about you, those horrible barbarians have been attacking almost everything that floats; it's been terrible for business. But, enough of my troubles," he said, wiping a tear of joy from his eye, "at least now I know another of my chicks has come home safely."
Calling to his tavern wenches, he threw three sailors from their seats to make room for Ortius and Casca. Ignoring their complaints, he silenced them with a stern upheld forefinger and they meekly acquiesced.
"Wine, you sluts, and the good stuff, none of the local vinegar."
The three settled into benches by the fireplace over which a spit of lamb was roasting, the rich smell of cooking fat brought instant growlings to their stomachs. Wine was poured. The Greek was silent, giving them time to swallow half a cup and relax a bit.
"Now, my darlings, what's all this about fighting Saxons. I must hear everything you can tell about those beasts. They are terrible, though the blond hair most of them have is quite attractive. I've thought about going blond myself," he touched his oiled and curled locks with a delicate pat. "Now Ortius dear, tell me everything, especially about this new friend of yours," he minced. "I can just tell he's a delicious brute," The Greek gave a long suggestive wink at Casca.
Casca blushed self-consciously and then laughed, choking on a gulp of wine that went down the wrong pipe, leaving him sputtering and gasping, trying to catch his breath through watering eyes.
Ortius gave him a slap on the back which didn't do Casca much good, but seemed to please the Sicilian who went on, oblivious to Casca's discomfort, and related the story of the Saxon attack to Paetius. The Greek oohed and ahed at the account of Casca's slaying of the raider chieftain, fairly squirming in delighted excitement. "I just knew you were a devil when I first saw you," he said and smiled, filling Casca's cup again.
Dismissing the tale of his prowess with a wave of his hand, Casca turned his attention to the firm and well rounded mounds of female flesh that bumped his arm. "Nice… very nice. I always did have a fanny fetish."
Paetius noticed his interest in the girl, sighed deeply as if wounded, then shrugged, as if to say, it's your loss if that's what you like.
Ortius also noticed Casca's wandering eye checking out the tavern wenches. Leaning close to Paetius he whispered in his ear. The Greek giggled delightedly, rose, and weaved his way with tiny steps through the benches and tables out of sight.
Casca watched his departure and the leer on the queer's face. "What the hades is he up to?"
Ortius smiled and replied, "I am just being a man of my word and living up to a promise I made some time back." Saying no more on the matter, they sat back to relax and find their land legs; it still seemed as if the table were swaying slightly. The wine flowed freely and for the first time in more years than he could remember, the Roman tasted again the sweet Falernian, whose grapes grew in the sunny hills of his first home. The wine fumes settled into his brain and the world took on a rosy glow.
Ortius seemed to have an unlimited capacity for the grape and, as the evening wore on, became merely more talkative and cheerful.
After dark settled and the lamps were lit, their oily tendrils mingling with wide columns of smoke from the fireplace, twice men came to try to talk business with Ortius, but were told that it would have to wait until the morrow… this night there were other matters that needed attending to.
The tavern was filled to overflowing with a mixture of humanity: everything from blue-eyed northern Gauls to a couple of Picts who sat in the corner drinking their sour beer, faces painted a fading blue; a dozen tongues spoken and understood, but all had one thing in common-the seas they sailed. To them anyone who lived by choice on land was less than a man.
After an endless number of wine bowls and cups had been emptied, jugs and pots filled and refilled, they had sampled everything even remotely resembling being intoxicating that the inn had to offer. The last bout of drinking the local, homemade beer left a green taste in his mouth and Casca finally pleaded for mercy.
Ortius, pleased at his victory, gave one magnifi-cant fart that Casca swore had a green yeasty tinge to it and said through thick slurred words, "Good enough my friend, now that you have surrendered, your room is ready, though in this place I'm not sure just how much sleep you will get. But never mind, just remember old Ortius is a man of his word, Roman." With this Ortius fell over into a pot of wine gurgling happily.