Casca 6: The Persian

by Barry Sadler

  They rode even faster now, the beat of their horses' hooves' pounding in time with their own pulses. Casca was in the lead of the element on the right. He'd chosen this position because, not only would it take him straight to the gate of the wall, where he was relying on Jugotai's exit, but it also put him in the vicinity of where he'd seen Boguda's standards. Casca carried one of the long lances grasped firmly to his side, letting the urge for battle take him. There would be no time for fine tactics of war today. It was plain. They were to break directly into them and kill relentlessly, until there were no more.

  The infantry was doing its best to keep up with the rest of the troops, while, at the same time, obeying his orders not to wind themselves. He'd warned them to half walk and half run until they were near enough to the foray to form a square, then they would halt until ordered to move. They would form an island in the sea of battle, from which Casca's men would regroup and charge again.

  He rode faster now, bent low over the mane of his steed. He could smell the acrid sweat from the lunging animal, hoping it wouldn't lose footing and fall in the charge.

  They could see the faces of the individual Huns now, looming ever closer as they neared. The shock of surprise showed clearly in their eyes by this change of events; they were not prepared for this. It would take some time for them to reorganize for an attack and they clearly did not have time for that.

  Casca cursed as his spear sank into the belly of a nomad and was twisted from his grasp. "Damn, Jugotai, come on out." The main Persian forces split the Huns into two disjointed fragments, then, whirling about and keeping the momentum of their charge going, they struck with everything they had. Horses screamed and men died, gasping for breath and not finding it.

  Casca rode on, gritting his teeth, yelling silent orders to his old friend behind the walls.

  "Now, Jugotai. Come out now!"

  The Huns were rallying in force and beginning to repel the Persians. Casca rode through the ranks of the Huns, wildly swinging his blade like a cleaver. There was no time for any of the finesse of the arena now. He barely missed trampling a knot of terrified women and children. He whipped his horse into a turn and as it reared in fright, he screamed at the women and old men

  "Help us! Now is the time. Fight if you want to save yourselves and your babies. Take vengeance on these animals. Fight, damn you all. Fight!"

  The women hesitated a moment, torn between fear of the Huns and indecision as to what to do. It was near panic all around, but suddenly, one woman handed her baby to an old crone and threw herself into the path of an oncoming Hun on horseback. She grabbed his reins and the horse stumbled, tossing its dwarfish master to the ground. That did it. The women broke, setting their children into the arms of the older women and aged men, or even on the ground if no one was there to receive them. They tore the downed Huns to pieces with their savage hands and untrimmed nails, and went immediately after more who'd been knocked from their mounts or thrown by their scared animals.

  Casca wheeled his horse around, and kicking it in the flanks, urged it forward and through the mass of men, animals that had fallen, and wild vengeful females, to the other side of the circling Huns. Cut and battered, but still in the saddle, he rushed his sobbing animal to the safety of the square that had been formed by his arriving infantry. He rode through a gap they'd just opened in their ranks and gave them his orders.

  "Advance one step at a time. Set your spears with the butts to the ground and aim for the horses' chests. If you kill the horses, the Huns will be nearly useless on the ground."

  He charged out once more, content that his orders would be obeyed to the letter.

  A trumpet came to him from the walls as the sound of the massive gate of iron and wood crashing down told him that Jugotai was coming. It seemed much longer to him, as well as to his soldiers, but the actual time that had elapsed since their first assault, had been only seven minutes. Yet, a lifetime for the hundreds that now lay dead.

  Boguda tried to get his men into some sense of order, but they were too confused. Where had all these Persians come from? He slashed open the face of an enraged woman and trampled her small child underhoof. The brat had tried to climb up into the saddle with him, screaming that she was going to kill the rider.

  Boguda gathered a force around him and called to the other Toumans to restrain their men and attack as one.

  As Boguda gave his orders, so did Jugotai give his. He and Shuvar led the throngs of the city as they all burst from the gates. He'd warned them that this was their last and only chance for survival, and they hit the Huns outside their walls like winds of death. Each resident of Kushan was determined and bound to take at least one Hun with him if he fell. They broke the Huns' flank and turned in on it to aid the Persians, who were now beginning to falter. They'd now lost the initial impetus of the charge, as the battle had been downgraded into ten thousand individual conflicts.

  Most surprising to Shuvar was the vicious attack by the women. They were picking up weapons from dead warriors of both sides and doing deadly work against their enemy. They weren't experts at what they were doing but their hate made them as dangerous as any warrior. There was no stopping them now. Any Hun who fell and ended up in their hands, was more than lucky if he died swiftly. It seemed that the women were somehow finding time to pay them back for the rapings and killings.

  Shuvar stayed close to his father's side. It was an honor to be with him in battle and if they were to die, then he would share the moment with the man he loved most in all the world. They rode at the head of their forces. They'd mustered nearly six thousand men that could sit upon a saddle. Those that didn't have horses were even now coming over the walls to join the women in their rage.

  Many men saw women in a new light that day not just feeble things waiting for their bellies to be filled by the seed of their mates, but as wrathful raging powers that hated as no man ever could.

  The, battle surged on, back and forth, but the square of infantry that Casca had ordered made the difference. The square advanced as he'd ordered, one step at a time all the way to the wall until they had split the forces of the Huns into parts that could be dealt with separately.

  The superior discipline of the Persians began to tell. They reorganized faster and responded to a single will with more rapidity than the Huns could ever hope to master. Gradually, they began to gain control of the battle.

  Jugotai waged war as if this might be his last battle. His blood boiled and the passion of the day overrode all else. For a time, youth came back to aged muscles and bones. He fought with a ferocity that left his son in open mouthed awe of his father. They worked their way into the center of the gap held by the infantry and wheeled to slice into the left flank, rolling the Huns up into a massed, milling knot of blood lusting savages, aware that they would have to win or die. This was a fight to the finish and it was known by all that the victor would show no mercy to the vanquished. They killed, both sides, the Huns crying aloud for their gods to give them strength to kill their enemies.

  Casca was drenched with both his own blood and that of the Huns. His tunic was torn in a dozen places; all that had saved him thus far from even worse injury was the shirt of fine chain mail he wore beneath his green cotton outer garment. His sword was becoming dull from the repeated slashing against Hun shields.

  The battle was beginning to get to him. He could feel what the Nordic tribes called the berserker rage gaining control of him and he fought it off, not wanting to lose that control. But he was unable to resist it. The berserker finally took complete charge of his sanity as he rode over the body of a ten year old that had been trampled by the hooves of Boguda's horse. The sight of the small bleeding body snapped the final restraints and he broke entirely.

  He sobbed and cried, tears running freely down his scarred face, as he raced forward slashing and killing, then laughing hysterically. His sword reached endlessly for new bodies to drink in. He thirsted for blood, a berserk slayer of the enemy, unable to be
sated. Even his own men drew away, avoiding him in fear. They'd never seen anything like their commander, who would circle like a child in play, laughing wildly, then slash down on a foe, splitting him open from his brain casing to his chest, then crying out to the Huns to send him some more for he had yet to have his fill.

  Jugotai spotted Casca. Even his blood stained tunic and flinging arm and crying face had not hidden him from his Kushanite friend.

  He kicked his mount in the flanks and tried to fight his way through to Casca's position. Huns were as close as lice on all sides and it seemed impossible to proceed more than a foot or two without getting slaughtered. Yet; inch by slow inch, he came closer to his old sword mate. Shuvar had been separated from his father, fighting desperately just to stay alive himself. He cut and thrust his blade, reaching out to pluck an eye out or dance across the throat of his opponent. He was an artist, picking his targets and conserving his strength by wasting no motion. But his father was away from him now and he could not get to his side. At least for the time being, he couldn't. Shuvar, too, had seen the scar faced stranger who had saved him in the desert five years before, and knew that his father was trying to reach his old friend.

  A loud cry brought Jugotai's head around. As he turned, a spear sank its full length into his leg, piercing through the other side and into the horse's side. The animal stumbled and threw Jugotai to the ground.

  He called out, "Casca!"

  The sound of Jugotai's voice broke through the blood mist surrounding Casca's mind, pulling him back from the slaughter.

  Boguda was in a blind rage, aware that he was losing the battle and his glory that was to be. Victory was slipping through his fingers as his men kept falling and dying all around him. He knew his end was near and decided to go for it all. If he had to die, then he would take as many of them with him as possible. He spotted the leader of the Kushanites, Jugotai, and started toward him just as the chieftain with the graying ponytail fell to the ground. He managed his way through the melee, beating his horse with the flat of his sword. Nothing mattered now except to kill anyone or anything within reach, especially the leaders. Jugotai was directly in his path now as he bore down on him. The chief of the Kushanites, pinned beneath his horse but sitting up, raised his sword as Boguda struck downward. Boguda's eyes were wild with passion and he slashed at the chieftain in hatred. Jugotai was able to deflect the blade of Boguda just enough to ward off a killing blow, but still, the power of the blow broke through and Boguda's sword sunk into the side of his chest, slicing through to the rib and laying the chest cavity open to the extent that the lungs were exposed.

  Casca had seen the blow from the Hun chief that had ripped Jugotai open and a cry of ancient primeval grief came from him. He still saw Jugotai as the young boy that he'd taken with him on the long trek years before. In his eyes the man was still a child. He screamed again and again. His horse faltered and he jumped from the animal before it fell, fighting his way on foot to where Jugotai lay. Boguda was involved with the killing of a young officer of the light lancers of the Persian cavalry and hadn't seen Casca approach through the melee.

  His first indication that something was going on behind him was when he heard Casca cry out to the heavens in anguish. The sound sent shivers up his spine. Boguda had never heard anything like it. Wheeling his horse, he saw the Roman on his feet, standing over the body of the man he'd just sliced open. From the green cloth band around the stranger's steel helmet, he could tell that the man was a high ranking officer of the Persian relief force. He bore down on Casca, trampling bodies beneath the already bloodstained hooves of his warhorse.

  The stranger, instead of waiting in wide eyed terror for his death from Boguda's hand, was throwing himself into the path of his horse. What was the fool doing? The onrushing animal crashed to its knees as Casca's sword rammed straight through the hide and flesh, piercing its heart. Blood was coming from its mouth and nostrils as it fell, yet it was trying to sink its yellow stained teeth into the face of the man who'd killed it.

  Casca leapt deftly aside to avoid the last effort of the animal's teeth and grabbed the Hun by his tunic. He pulled him from the saddle and swung his sword with a blow that should have taken the Hun's head from his shoulders. Instead, it was met with an equal force that rattled his arm all the way up to his own shoulder. Boguda had squirmed his way from beneath his fallen horse and was under Casca, blocking his blow. The force of his counter was such that he'd knocked the Persian commander back on his heels, taking advantage of the respite to regain his footing. He stood, facing the Roman, his eyes flecked with blood rage and killer lust, his legs bowed like the weapon his men carried. Even with bowed legs he was still as tall as the man before him. His chest was barreled and his arms were long and knotted with stringy muscle. The two men squared off.

  Casca moved first, a low lunge to the Hun's midriff. Boguda countered with a low sweeping blow that changed in mid direction to go for his opponent's head, only to hit empty air.

  They struck again and again only to find each blow countered. Both were master swordsmen and knew they'd found their equal. A dozen times each had tried to kill the other, only to fail and find himself standing with his sword singing in his hand and his wrist growing numb from the effort.

  Finally, they stood back from each other, chests heaving from exhaustion, gasping for breath. The rest of the battle had moved away from them, leaving them alone in their own space. They would have it no other way. The two men warily watched each other. Not a word was being spoken, but the hate they both felt was as heavy as death itself.

  They moved again. This time Boguda let loose his sword and grabbed the wrist of Casca, shaking the Roman's blade from his hand. They strained against each other, two titans locked in a titanic struggle that could have only one end.

  Immobile, they held each other, their muscles and backs straining, the cords in their necks standing out like bands of steel. Face to face, body to body, they stood erect, each testing the strength of the other.

  Casca was tiring, but so was Boguda. Casca heard Jugotai's voice coming from his rear. He listened but he did not turn away from his opponent.

  "Put his head on my grave, Casca. Do that for me and all will be well." The voice was weakening with the effort.

  Casca took a deep breath, drawing it into the depths of his already laboring lungs. He moved, using the strength he had built up on the galleys of Rome. He concentrated. But he could not move him.

  By all the fords of heaven and hell, he thought, this is the strongest sonofabitch I have ever met.

  Again they were face to face; Casca could smell his foul breath and the tepid odor of the man's body. This man in appearance was a damned animal. An almost forgotten memory came to him from somewhere in the distant past. "Use the other's strength against him. Have a mind like the moon. Use no emotion and you will conquer." Shiu Lao Tze, the ancient sage from beyond the Jade Gate, had said it many years before. He relaxed and let the strength of Boguda go to work for him.

  The Hun suddenly made a strong effort to break Casca's grip. Lunging forward and expecting to find resistance, there was none. Casca rolled with him, drawing the Hun with him as he moved forward then; turning his body, he caught the Hun on his hip and slung him to the ground. Casca threw his body atop the Hun and wrapped his legs around his waist, beginning to squeeze. Degree by degree his thighs tightened, putting pressure on Boguda's lung cage. He was trying to squeeze the life out of the Hun warlord.

  Boguda beat at Casca's face with his fists and fingernails, straining, pounding and clawing, now and then tearing pieces of skin off. Still, Casca squeezed. Calling on every ounce of remaining strength his legs tightened their grip and Boguda began to weaken. Feeling the ease of resistance, he kept the pressure on for a minute more, then shifted his position to the side, where he could get a grip on the Hun's head. He locked his arms around it and began to turn. The muscles in his back threatened to break out of the skin containing them, as he strained. He took a
great breath and turned his body, giving his arms the aid of his back muscles. Boguda's head turned until he heard in his own mind a distant cracking that told him his neck was broken. He was not dead yet, he knew, but it would not be long in coming. Now he knew what his victims had experienced the many times he'd done the same. It was ironic that he should die this way. He almost smiled.

  When Casca heard Boguda's neck snap, he knew it was over. He rose from the ground, holding the Hun's head between his own scarred hands, and raised the man's body from the prone. He cried loud for all to hear, especially Boguda's men.

  "See and witness how the Hun dies, as shall ye all." Groaning and calling on reserve strength, he raised the limp necked Hun from the ground and above his head. Holding him there, Casca turned and twisted, the bones in Boguda's neck grinding against each other as they moved into positions they'd never been in before. They were not designed to look backwards. His massive body was unable to give the death shudder so as to free his spirit, for Casca's hands had crushed his throat to such a degree that no air could escape. Casca let the body fall to the ground and picked up a fallen sword. The blade was so dull from battle with the shields that he was forced to hack at the neck until Boguda's head came free. He held the draining head above his own where the crowd could see. Then he yelled out loud.

  "Your chief is dead."

  The Huns broke. With their master dead, they resigned themselves to dying also. Their spirit was gone; there was no fight left in them, and die they did. Singly and in groups of a hundred or more, they died. The battle was lost with the death of their great chief, Boguda.

  The forces of the Persians and Kushanites had joined. They were making a final sweep, bottling up the surviving Huns so that none could escape. The women were with them also. They had a taste of blood and demanded full measure for what they'd suffered at the hands of the Huns. None were spared. The horse and yak tailed standards were trodden into the earth to lie broken, ground into the blood of thousands.