Casca 6: The Persian

by Barry Sadler

"Oho, what have we here? Some monkeys, or maybe apes?" The Hun prisoners were thrown down in front of him, to lie prostrate before him. He was informed by the senior officer present that four of them had been captured when they'd ridden into the camp area of the infantry unknowingly. They had immediately swarmed over the Huns, pulling them from their horses and tying them up. There had been six in all. The two others were now dead. His troops had lost two men in the short skirmish. One of the men had his face eaten off by a Hunnish war horse. Casca winced at the thought.

  Ordering the four prisoners to be dragged to their feet, he sent for Indemeer before interrogating them.

  His graying General made his approach to their area on stiff legs, the leftovers of an almost forgotten wound. It acted up now and then when he was tired or cold, both of which conditions applied this morning.

  He bowed to Casca. "I am here, Lord, what is the matter?"

  Casca pointed to the four twisted legged, mustachioed captives. "These are the matter, old one. They stupidly stumbled into the camp of our infantry and were taken. Remind me to give the men a bonus when this is over. They did a damned fine job at keeping these alive for us to interrogate."

  Indemeer examined the semi-humans with distaste. "Do you wish to have them put to torture first, Lord, so as to perhaps loosen their tongues a bit?"

  Casca well understood the need for strenuous interrogation and was not adverse to roughing up a prisoner if necessary. After all, they may have the information that could save the lives of his men. He would be derelict in his duty if he did not do all that he could to acquire it, even if it meant dismantling the captives a piece at a time. He knew that he and his men would suffer no less a fate in their hands. They had no civilized rules of warfare and would not respect good treatment from he and his men; they would more likely consider it evidence of their captors' weakness. But, he decided, before he turned them over to the anxious torturers, he would first try another method.

  He looked over his prisoners carefully, watching for something, anything that would set one apart from the others. He found it! The smallest of them had a cast on his left eye, a mark of cataract on the lens. That might do it! To these beasts, anything different was enough to make them taunt you. This one probably had had a hard time growing up in his tribe. To be different was to be an outcast, and, if they did permit you to live, you always caught all the shitty detail work in the tribe. Yes, he was the one!

  Casca told his men to move the three others out of earshot but, he added, to keep them in a position to see all that went on.

  He took the man and stood with him, scanning the figure of the shorter man. His skin was leatherlike, the nose sunken, the head fat and ugly. Even among his race, people notorious for ugliness, this one would be considered homely in the extreme. He was so wretched that Casca almost laughed aloud. The man looked like he'd been beaten with a wet squirrel or perhaps an ugly stick. He was reminded then of a joke he'd heard from a sailor in Byzantium some years before. The seaman had asked him if he knew the meaning of "badger ugly." The answer had been that when a man wakes up with a bad hangover and a strange woman is lying beside him with her head on his arm, then she rolls over and he gets a good look at her face rather than take a chance on waking her up, he chews his arm off. That's badger ugly.

  Casca wondered what the wife and children of this man looked like, if he had any. Well, back to business.

  He talked to the Hun, trying a couple of dialects before eliciting any response. Casca had the man's hands untied. As soon as they were free, he reached for Casca's throat, only to have his hand trapped by a scarred hand at his wrist.

  Slowly, Casca applied pressure, increasing the force steadily. He could feel the bones starting to give before he lightened his grip and could tell by the look on the Hun's face that he was impressed. The Huns respected strength in any form and Casca's grip had left his hand numb except for a distant tingling.

  He spat in the face of his captor. Casca wiped the thick drool from his cheek and smiled gently. "As you will, as you will."

  He removed his small eating knife from his belt and fingered its razor thin edge.

  “I know you are a brave and tough warrior but now I am interested in seeing how well you'll perform as a eunuch."

  The Hun's eyes rolled wildly. To be tortured or to die he had expected, but to have his manhood cut off scared the living shit out of him. Casca continued:

  "After I remove your jewels I am going to eat them." He slid the thin blade across the man's cheekbone, slicing the skin minutely, leaving only a red line leaking through the dirty covering of his hide. Casca knew he was getting to the man, from the barely controllable shaking in the Hun's legs, now beginning to run up to his shoulders.

  "Then, my nasty little friend, I am going to turn you over to some of my men who have no taste at all. They will screw anything, even you. This they will do in front of your comrades. Then, after they have used you, I am going to have you separated from all your parts. First your hands, then your arms, feet and legs. One joint at a time, and each cut will be sealed with a red hot iron after it is severed, so you won't die too fast. After that, all your limbs will be taken and buried in different parts of the country so your spirit cannot be joined in the afterlife. Your soul will never find its way to your ancestors and it will roam the earth forever."

  Casca felt a twinge somewhere inside him at the words, "roam the earth forever."

  The Hun was beginning to break. He had no doubt that the scar faced man would do exactly as he'd said. Casca watched him, knowing he was weakening.

  "I know you. You are not really one with your brothers. They have never accepted you and you have been the butt of their jokes and laughter too many times."

  From the Hun's expression, he knew he had struck home, correct in his analysis.

  "What good will it do you to suffer for them? They will not sing your praises by their campfires. Your name will not be told in songs of bravery. No! You are going to die most horribly for nothing, or ..." He paused for effect and to give him time to think a bit.

  "Or, you can go away from here a rich man. Those over there," he pointed to the other three who were now giving his man some very dirty looks, "those three will never leave this camp alive. They will be unable to say anything to anyone, and I will do to them what I told you I would do to you. Their spirits will not survive to harm you."

  Casca removed his purse at his waist and held it before the Hun, shaking the bag. The sound of gold coins clinking was clear and loud. He hefted the bag. "Here, my little man, is life for you. Life! With this, you can buy any woman you desire. Here is more than you could ever receive from the sacking of the city as your part. You know that your Toumans will take it all for themselves, leaving you only scraps or leftovers. Why not take this now, and live? I only want you to tell me a few things that I shall find out later anyway."

  The Hun licked his lips, torn between dread fear and avid greed. The tinkling of the gold had also reached the ears of his comrades. They didn't care for him anyway and now assumed that he had made a deal with the Persian commander. One of them looked straight at him and spat on the ground, thinking you could not trust one with the white eye, it was unlucky and a bad sign.

  Casca's prisoner made up his mind when the other had spit in his direction. Now, for the first time, he spoke, his voice low and reedy.

  "You will do as you promised and kill them? And I can have the gold and go free?"

  Casca affirmed his agreement. "That is so." The small Hun licked his lips again, this time in pleasure.

  "Then do it now. I must see them dead before I talk." Casca had not expected this, but a deal was a deal, and the Huns would have to be executed later anyway. He carried no prisoners on this mission. He gave the order and swords flashed, taking the heads from the three Huns, leaving the torsos to roll on the ground, hitting the dirt before the bodies knew they were dead. His man spoke again.

  "The rest, do the rest. I must be sure that their s
pirits will not come after me."

  Casca gave the word and the bodies were dismembered as he'd promised.

  "It is done, now keep your end of the bargain or receive that which I promised you."

  The Hun needed no further encouragement. He talked freely, telling Casca of the thousands of old men, women, and children that were to be sent to the walls of Kushan this very day. He, too, answered Casca's every question about the Hun forces and told him of their leader, Boguda. Casca had a feeling that he wouldn't like the man Boguda very much and hoped they would have a chance to face one another during the battle. Any Hun who could figure out a plan like the use of the captives against the wall was too dangerous to leave running freely around the countryside.

  He questioned the Hun about his leader's appearance and what standard he rode under. Once the questioning was terminated, he handed the Hun the gold. Now that his deed was done, the Hun was as friendly as a puppy. He bowed and grinned at Casca, baring uneven ground down teeth and foul smelling gums.

  "My horse, Lord. Can I have my horse now?" Casca shook his head. "I said nothing about a horse. If you want to go you will have to walk."

  The Hun started to protest but was stopped by a back hand to his mouth. Casca turned him over to his soldiers and issued his orders.

  "Take him to the edge of the camp and release him. He is not to be harmed. Make sure he heads in the opposite direction of the city."

  Casca had kept his word, doing all he'd told the man he would do. But he knew that the man's being on foot was as good as a death warrant. Anyone who found him would kill him on the spot, taking what riches he had. With his twisted legs he could not cover much ground and it would not be long, Casca knew, before some Mongol or Tartar thief, or even a hungry nomad of the desert would find him and do him in. If the Kushanites found him, may his god help him.

  Casca didn't like what he had to order, but war was hell. Where had he heard that line before?

  He called his officers together, telling them of the Hunnish plan.

  "We ride now. Leave our baggage behind, without guards, we'll need every man and, if we fail, it won't matter who has the baggage trains. We damned surd won't need it. The infantry is to ride double with the cavalry. Have your men take turns with them so the horses won't be exhausted when we need them most. Now go to your men, we ride like hell."

  Urgency rode with them now. They moved in battle formation, flankers out. They must hurry, but still must spare their mounts.

  When the scouts came back in to report, they said that they had spotted the main Hun force less than three miles distant, and that they could see the walls of the city from the next rise. Casca called a halt and rode to the rise, looking down on the fields in front of Kushan.

  There was a distance, he estimated, of about two and a half miles before they would reach the walled city. It was an easy downhill grade, which was good. It would aid their horses in the charge.

  The Huns were laying back now, only a few bands making random sorties around the wall, firing off a few token arrows to keep the sentries on their toes and unable to relax. To the left, Casca could make out the holding pens where the villagers were being kept. From this distance they were no more than specks to the eye, but the movement of horsemen about them was easy to see in the clear high air.

  He needed to let those in the city know that help had arrived and to give them some idea of his plan. He summoned Shirkin, whispered in his ear, and handed him a piece of parchment tied to a Hun arrow. Shirkin grinned and left in obedience. Casca ordered his forces to remain behind the rise and out of sight of the enemy.

  Shirkin came back shortly, wearing the clothing and equipment of one of the Huns they'd slain that morning. He had been aware that his infantrymen had taken some as souvenirs. Instead of his own fine blooded steed, Shirkin now rode one of the dead men's, a shorter and hairier pony than the stock that the Persians preferred. Casca had to admit, Shirkin damned sure made a fine looking Hun. He wore a fur jacket over his tunic, a head cap of wild mountain sheepskin with the hairy side exposed, and pantaloons of horse leather stuffed into high boots at the top. He had put aside his own long curved sword and carried the short straight blade that had belonged to one of the captives. Casca would bet that somewhere in his infantry companies there was a pissed off warrior who was certain he was to lose his souvenirs forever.

  In Shirkin's hand he held one of the Hun's powerful bows made of laminated strips of horn and wood. Casca could see the parchment tied to one of his arrows.

  Shirkin looked to Casca for permission to leave and was given it by a nod of his general's head. He rode around the base of the hill, avoiding the rise and being noticed too soon. He galloped his horse casually the short distance and joined a band of ten Huns who were firing off shots at the walls. He waved merrily to the others and set the arrow with the parchment attached onto the gut bowstring. Galloping still, and guiding his horse with his legs, he took careful aim at a spot close to what looked like a Kushanite officer. He loosed the arrow, missing the man's head less than ten inches, sinking it into a timber beside him. Shirkin yelled to the man, "Use your eyes or lose your head!" The fact that one of the Huns spoke a civilized tongue was enough to attract the man's attention if the arrow had not already made him duck for cover. He whirled his horse around and nonchalantly rode away from the walls, leaving the Huns to their sport and amusement. He'd done his job; now it was time to get his ass out while he still could.

  Shirkin reported back to Casca after his ride.

  "It is done, Lord, and I am sure they have your message. As I rode off, I saw one I took to be an officer pulling the arrow out of the beam I shot it into."

  Casca was pleased and told Shirkin to change back into his own uniform before one of the men got excited and filled his young ass with arrows.

  He called for Indemeer to summon his staff and he'd give them the battle plan. His idea had started taking shape when he'd seen the Huns start herding the captives out of the pens and toward the walls. In less than an hour it would make or break them.

  As he waited for his officers, he watched the Hun force gathering in their strength. Forty thousand men of the steppes, circling each other, throwing up clouds of dust to rise with the wind. Shamans were casting spells to bring them luck and reading the signs of the earth and sky to ensure their victory and to please the god and spirits of battle. Boguda had ordered that a thousand women be sacrificed so that their blood could spill onto the earth and sink into the dry dust to feed the Great Mother.

  Casca watched the slaughter of the women but could do nothing about it at the moment. It was too soon now to commit his men. If he charged at this moment all would be lost. But he sent word back to his men about what had happened to the women, and that if they failed this day, the Huns would be in Persia next, doing the same thing to their women. This day, there could be no mercy, for they surely would receive none from the Huns. They must have only one thing in mind, and that was to kill, kill, kill!

  The Kushanite officer that Shirkin had nearly clipped with the shaft noticed the parchment tacked to the arrow and pulled it from the timber, taking it to Shuvar, officer of the guard at the time. Shuvar read the message and smiled, double timing off to locate his father. He finally found him looking over some wounded men, trying to decide which ones might still be able to return to the walls for their shift.

  He was scarcely able to contain his excitement as he pulled his father aside so none could hear and whispered:

  "He is here!"

  Jugotai responded somewhat testily. "Who is here, pup?"

  "Father, Casca has come. Casca the Roman. He is leading a Persian relief force. Even now they are just out of our sight over the hills to the west. He says the time has come for us to meet again and we should come to him when the moment is right. We are to be ready and mounted at that moment, then everyone must attack at the same time, even the guards on the walls are to let themselves down by rope if necessary. He needs everyone, Father."


  Jugotai jerked the message from his son's hand, reading it slowly. He wasn't very good at making out words, but his son was a fine reader. His eyes began to water, tears forming. "He is here. My old friend has come to help me once more. It is good that I shall see him again before I die."

  Forcing back his emotions, he told Shuvar to do as the Roman had bade them. "Get them all ready, my son. The time will come soon, if I know my Roman friend."

  After ordering his horse made ready for him and held at the bottom of the steps in mounting position, Jugotai went up to the wall to wait. Soon, he would ride out to meet his old friend and sword mate again.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The time was near. His men were positioned. The cavalry in two broad fronts, the infantry behind them, long lances in their hands. Many had spears that resembled gaffing hooks more than anything else. Casca had first seen them used in the forests of Germany, when the Teutonic tribesmen had used them to pull the young Equites from their horses and slit their throats before they could rise to fight.

  The women and children, wailing and crying, were being savagely whipped by the Huns and herded to the walls. Any that fell along the way died in place. Babes were being trampled beneath the hooves of the warhorses to lie broken in the dust.

  The captives reached the wall, crying and begging for mercy from those up on the ramparts. They carried with them the ladders, holding their babies in their arms as they stumbled and clumsily raised the ladders to lie against the stones of the city. They wailed and pleaded for those on the ramparts not to kill them, for they only wanted food for their babies, and themselves if there was enough.

  "Food for our starving children," they cried. "Mercy, have mercy. Pity us and save our children."

  The archers on the wall held their fire. The Huns were an equestrian cloud, circling the walls, waiting for the moment to make their own assault.

  Casca gave the order and the horns of battle blared loud and long to echo across the valley floor. Once, then again, and his men moved forth. Slowly at first, then faster, gathering momentum, ten thousand of the finest warriors in the Persian army surged forth, an irresistible tide.