No further incidents interrupted the journey of the trader to the safe port of Dubrae from which on a clear day the coast of Gaul could almost be seen across the channel. The crew was in good spirits; their valor increased with each retelling of the battle and had multiplied several fold by the time the city came into view as a light colored speck on the hills behind.
There were enough souvenirs left behind by the Saxons so that everyone on board had a trophy to attest to his courage: helmets with horns, swords, and enough of those terrible throwing axes so that even each slave had at least one.
Ortius, pleased at the way the oarslaves had fought alongside his freedmen, knocked a year off his deal with them and several were to be given their letters of manumission as soon as a magistrate could be found to witness and document the releases.
The trader slipped into port under a fair wind, passing several others on their way out, carrying cargos of tin and wool to the Empire and beyond. Like all ports, this one had its own particular blend of the odors of fish and garbage. The town itself was set upon a small group of hills that faced the channel. The immediate area around the port was lined with docks and piers along with a tannery and several warehouses, adding their scents to the already pungent atmosphere.
In this area also were the places for sailors and their like: wine ships and inns along with an undetermined-number of whorehouses catering-for the right price-to all tastes. The homes and businesses near the hillsides were for the upper classes. Several villas had obviously been built in the Roman style; here the captains of the ships found amusement.
Ortius gave his men their unloading orders, then, accompanied by Casca, left to present his papers to the port authority. There he declared his cargo and paid his duty, accidentally dropping a purse of silver denarii as they left, to insure the amount and kind of cargo he declared were not too closely looked at by the customs officials.
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 approval: 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.
Casca followed the brown-haired little tavern wench who led him to the rickety stairs to his room. The stairs seemed to be weaving as if he were still on the deck of the ship. The girl giggled constantly. Leaving Casca at the doorway, she fled laughing back to the bottom of the stairs and stopped, waiting.
Casca looked down at her thinking, "What the crap is wrong with that dippy little slut?"
Suddenly he was tripped and thrown to the floor as the door slammed behind him. A feminine laugh, along with a tongue pushing its way into his mouth stopped his automatic counterattack, especially when a soft hand slid under his tunic. An oil lamp was lit in the corner.
Casca froze in shock, Ortius was indeed a man of his word. Ten women from ten countries lay in wait for him, all stark naked and smiling, blondes, redheads and hot-eyed dusky maids from Syria and Egypt.
A brunette with white even teeth and laughter in her eyes stuck a rosy nippled tit in his face and cried out merrily, "Roman, I am going to screw your brains out before you get out of here."
Several of the other girls countered with, "Not if we get him first", and the mele'e was on! Twenty hands grabbed him, throwing him onto the three beds which had been pushed together in anticipation of the event about to take place.
In less time than it takes to flip a denarii, he was as naked as they. The girls yelped in joy. Here was a man.
Instantly he was covered in warm naked bodies, perfumed hair and thighs mingled with pressing breasts and mouths until he felt as if he were drowning in a sea of women. They piled on him, each anxious to get her fair share of the man beneath them. Lips and legs covered him from head to toe and one bitch, the Egyptian, had his big toe in her mouth sucking away. Casca squirmed in pleasure, he had never felt anything like it. The Egyptian, obviously aware of the erotic effect she was having on the scarred Roman, was content to do her part in the night's orgy.
Paetius opened the door a crack and peeked in, just in time to see Casca surface like a porpoise, catching a breath of air and then joyfully plunging back into the quivering mass of women, sinking into the best of all possible oceans. Closing the door quietly, Paetius mumbled wonderingly, "I just don't see what they get out of it." Shaking his head in sad confusion, he went back to the main room in time to break the arm of a Nubian who pulled a knife on a fellow Greek from Thessaly.
"I don't allow that shit in my places" he bellowed and tossed the Nubian into the street, fractured forearm and all, leaving him unconscious for the vigeles to find.
Casca woke to the pounding on his door, thinking for a moment that it was coming from inside his own head. His whole body ached and he hadn't felt this bad when he had been a gladiator in the arena at Rome. The pounding continued, "Just a moment," as he untangled himself from the mass of naked bodies that covered him, moving legs and arms out of the way. Slipping his tunic on he stumbled to the door and upon opening it, the portly form of Ortius stood leering from ear to ear, a pot of wine in his hand which he stuck under Casca's nose.
"My gods, no! Get that shit away from me!" His stomach performed a minor upheaval which he squelched with some difficulty.
"No? Then, I'll drink it myself." Ortius swallowed the cupful in one gulp and tossed the empty vessel into the room where it joined the pile of exhausted whores, who had done such noble duty.
"Come my friend, a good breakfast of cold mutton is just what you need to fix you up."
The idea of eating cold grey mutton was too much for Casca and he barely made it to the chamber pot, having to throw several legs out of the way to get to it.
A couple of hours later, when he felt his heart was beginning to beat with some regularity and the blood had drained from his eyes, he thought he just might make it through the rest of the day.
Ortius showed no effects at all from the night's bout of drinking and took Casca everywhere, constantly retelling the sea battle until their feats began to rival the gods of Holy Olympus. Dubrae was a thriving port and Roman culture was everywhere.
The next few days brought up-to-date the events which had been transpiring in the Empire since he had left Helsfjord and the Hold from which he and his two ships had set sail so long ago… or was it so long. Thinking carefully, he realized with a shock that it had been only four years since they set sail for the unknown and reached the lands of the Teotec where men were sacrificed on the altar to, the gods. Quetza they had called him, the Serpent. Touching the scar on his chest, it seemed so much longer ago, but then time is a matter of happenings and never stays the same. To a man in pain. minutes seem hours; to lovers, there is never time enough.
The day came for Ortius to take ship and again leave the island of Britannia; he would make the long voyage past the Pillars of Hercules to the warmer waters of the Mediterranean. Would Casca sail with him?
The two had grown inordinately fond of each other in their time together and Casca readily agreed. What difference did it make where he spent his time? It must be spent somewhere and it had been too long since the warm winds of Italia had blown in his face.
"Aye, noble Captain, scourge of the Saxons, I will be pleased to sail with you again. Besides, should you not make it on your own, I would feel responsible. So we will ship together once more."
Ortius bellowed in joy and called for wine again. Casca laughed as the pots were brought. Paetius was saddened by the news they were leaving; he had never quite given up hope that he might show Casca the way to sincere love, the kind only men can know. Sighing, he watched the two head for the docks and a tear ran down one eye as he mentally composed a poem to commemorate the occasion of lovers parting. Ah well, at least his new friend from Thessaly would help ease the pain.