Casca 43: Scourge of Asia

by Tony Roberts

  CASCA

  SCOURGE OF ASIA

  This is a book of fiction. All the names, characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and any resemblance to real people and incidents are purely coincidental.

  CASCA: SCOURGE OF ASIA

  Published by arrangement with Eastaboga Entertainment, Inc.

  Printing History

  2015

  Americana Books

  A Division of Lonewolf Group Inc.

  Copyright 2015 Eastaboga Entertainment, Inc.

  Cover Design by John Thompson

  All Rights Reserved

  Including the rights to reproduce this book or portions thereof

  in any form or format without permission.

  For information contact

  Americana Books

  P.O. Box 210314

  Nashville TN 37221

  ISBN 978-1513602059

  Printed in the United States of America

  TONY ROBERTS

  My mother was my unlikely route into becoming a Casca fan. On one shopping trip she bought me a copy of Casca 3: The Warlord. 3 was not a great place to start but I devoured it anyway, loved the character and the sense of history made real. Then followed 13 years while I collected the original series; without the help of the internet. Then what to do, the series was over. I started to write my own Casca novels, and set up my website www.casca.net, building a worldwide base for Casca fans and contacts.

  My first Casca novel, Halls of Montezuma, was published in 2006.

  Scourge of Asia is my seventeenth novel in the series, and was one of a number of Casca stories I began writing in the 1990s.

  I live in Bristol, with my partner Jane and a mad cat called Nero, who does his best to help my writing by walking on my keyboard.

  Table of Contents

  TONY ROBERTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  EPILOGUE

  Titles Available from Americana Books

  PROLOGUE

  The Western Wall, Constantinople, 1362

  The mass of humanity that passed through the Gate of Charisius that morning presented a pitiful sight to the guards manning the walls. Refugees of all descriptions and walks of life entered the capital of the Byzantine Empire, rich, poor, young, old. Some carried backpacks, some were transported on carts with their meagre possessions, while others had neither. Children cried, women wept, men looked down at the ground in shame and bitter helplessness. The air was filled with sound; rumbling cart wheels, the hoofs of beasts, the shuffling scrape of tired feet, and the sobbing and deep mutters of the people who passed into the city and safety. Behind and around them a huge dust cloud billowed in the shifting wind, coating many in a thick film that added to their discomfort and sense of despair.

  Behind them, miles away to the west, their homes burned or were looted and now housed their new owners, Turkish marauders sent to drive them out by their new Sultan, Murat, who was determined to make the lands of Thrace Turkish at all costs. The Byzantine force outside Adrianople, second city of the Empire, had been routed and the city had fallen as a result. Now its former inhabitants – those who had managed to escape enslavement – shuffled into their capital, unsure as to their future or even as to the Empire’s. Apart from the city of Constantinople, only a few fortresses and islands remained in the Empire’s hands now. All around them stood the hostile lands of the Ottoman Sultan, an Islamic power determined to conquer the Christian city sooner or later.

  One man who passed into the city did not look down at the ground. He had a hard, lean look of a warrior about him and on his back he carried a long sword as well as his personal belongings. His light blue eyes flickered with recognition at the defenses of the city as he passed through, for he had been here many times before, and this place was no stranger to him. He knew the Empire had need of soldiers such as he, and he would find no trouble in getting employment - provided of course that there was money to pay him.

  He was a mercenary, ready to hire his sword out to whoever could afford his skills. He had no city, no land that he owed allegiance to for his home and country had long ago ceased to be, now being owned by people foreign to him. However, of all the lands in existence at this time, he supposed that the Byzantine Empire was as close to ‘home’ as any, so he felt a pang of distress at the state it had sunk to. He had known it in all its splendor and glory, many centuries past, when it had separated from the Roman Empire and gone its own way.

  Now it was dying and it was a pitiful sight.

  He passed through the double gates and paused at a drinking font, sipping from the bronze ladle to slake his thirst. He had walked a long way from Adrianople to be here, dodging rampaging bands of Turks, so he allowed himself a brief moment to drink.

  “A soldier, by chance?” a cultured, educated voice interrupted his drinking.

  The mercenary turned to see a well-dressed Byzantine officer regarding him with interest. The mercenary nodded a greeting and noticed the officer was a Stratopedarch, a unit commander, judging by his colored insignia on his chain mail. In fact, wearing chain mail indicated wealth and position in these times of hardship and dwindling resources, so this man was quite important. He was also a native Greek, a rarity in the Byzantine forces which were mostly made up of mercenaries.

  “Just in from Adrianople, Stratopedarch” he replied in fluent Greek.

  The officer opened his mouth in surprise, but quickly regained his composure. “You are not native to the Empire, surely,” he said, examining the mercenary’s dress, coloring and build.

  “No, sir, but I have served the Empire before.”

  “May I have your name?”

  “Casca Longini. Currently unemployed mercenary.”

  The officer smiled briefly. “I think we could fit you in here, if you are looking for hire. What service have you done?”

  Casca thought for a moment. It would not do to tell the truth, that he had been fighting wars for thirteen centuries and had not been allowed the luxury of death, even though at times – too many for him to recall – any ordinary man would have died from the wounds he’d received. No, he had been transformed into some unkillable being by the Jew Yeshua on the cross in the dim and distant past during the years of the Roman Empire and had wandered through the passing of time, witnessing the birth and death of nations.

  He turned his thoughts to more modern times, the past fifteen years to be exact. He would tell the waiting Greek of his service in these years. “I have served in the English army in France before travelling east and joining the Empire’s forces in Thrace. After the defeat outside Adrianople I decided to come here for safety’s sake.”

  The Greek nodded in agreement. “It is wise to find safety behind these walls, for no army can breach these mighty ramparts. You say you were in the
English army? Were there any Varangians present?”

  Casca shook his head. The Greeks regarded the Western European kingdoms with distrust, thanks to religious differences and the horrors of the Fourth Crusade which had sacked Constantinople and subjected it to a half century of misrule. To the Byzantines, a westerner was either a Frank - an enemy - or a Varangian, a friend. The fact Casca had been fighting for a nation that had supplied many recruits to the elite Byzantine Varangian Guard, the English, stood him in good stead. Further, he had fought the French who were identified as Franks by the Greeks.

  “Come, my friend,” the Greek said, extending a hand to his shoulder. “You are a Frank?”

  Casca shrugged. Strictly speaking he came from Italy when it had been part of the Roman Empire. “I don’t profess to be any nationality but Florentine will do.”

  “You speak my language very well, are you fluent in any others?”

  Casca grinned. Thanks to his condition he could speak scores of languages, many now no longer in use. “A fair few. I have a knack of picking up tongues.”

  The officer smiled and pointed towards a large building a short distance away. “That is the local garrison building. I would be pleased if you joined up, for we need good soldiers, especially in these troubled times. You look a useful man to have. Also, just down the street is a tavern. Tell the innkeeper you are signing up with the garrison and he will allow you to stay one night and you can pay him when you receive your signing up fee from the recruitment officer.”

  Casca bowed and thanked the man. The officer lost interest in Casca and resumed his scan of the arrivals, frowning in dismay at the appalling state many were in. Casca pushed his large frame through the throng and headed for the tavern. He hadn’t told the officer he had a few coins on him, so these would go towards a meal and a drink or three before he joined up on the morrow. He smacked his lips as the thought of a good meal and better still, alcohol, filled his mind.

  The tavern was no different than ones he’d been in before in Constantinople, but he didn’t recall ever being in this one. No matter, he instinctively knew where to go to get a decent meal and in no time he was reclining in a wooden chair, feet up, with a full belly and a mug of ale in his fist, watching the clientele of the dark and noisy room go about their serious business of getting blind staggering drunk.

  Inevitably, as things do, tempers got frayed, no doubt fueled by fears of the Turks and the future of the city, and in no time a full-blown fight was taking place. Casca tried to keep out but it was impossible to stay in the tavern and remain unaffected. A man crashed into his table and for some unknown reason decided Casca was responsible for the woes of the world, and pulled out a wicked looking knife with the intention of filleting the large muscled mercenary.

  Casca snorted in distain before punching the man in the face, breaking his nose, and sending the man reeling back into the fray. Bottles flew, heads were broken and a small, slant-eyed man with a moustache scuttled away from the chaos and sat behind Casca, cowering. Casca turned in surprise at the sheepskin-clad figure, for there was no mistaking his race. “You are a long way from the lands of the Mongols,” Casca addressed the Mongol in his tongue.

  The Mongol, for his part, looked shocked at hearing his native language. “Aiee! It is good to hear my language, Big One! I shelter here behind you like one from a storm, for I am not used to fighting on foot!”

  “True,” Casca agreed, then grabbed another who was flailing his fists in all directions and sent him back into a huge knot of struggling men with a push. “What are you doing here?”

  “Ah, I am a trader who sold his furs today. I am about to return to my lands but need to travel with others before I can set off. It is a dangerous land out there to the east, my large friend.”

  Casca agreed. Just then the door burst in and a squad of soldiers flooded into the tavern, using large wooden sticks to subdue those still fighting. It didn’t take long, for most of the combatants were tired and very drunk, and stood little chance against the professionals. Two soldiers turned on Casca and the Mongol but here they faced a different opponent; sober, a fighter and one who was immensely strong. Using a chair, he brained the first who tried to knock Casca out, and the second received a kick in the balls after landing a blow on the mercenary’s shoulder.

  The Mongol shouted in delight but then four more soldiers came their way, all intent on adding two more cracked skulls to their collection. The Mongol went down right away and Casca, even though he knocked one clean out with a single blow, was pummeled into unconsciousness by the others.

  As the unfortunates were being dragged out, the officer in charge of the unit recognized Casca and ordered him to be revived. Two men found and, smiling hugely, upended a large bucket of water – which wasn’t too clean – over the somnolent figure. Spluttering and sitting up sharply, Casca clutched his head and glared up at the figures surrounding him.

  “Forgive me,” the Stratopedarch said, “my men thought you to be just another of these ruffians! And who is your friend here?” he asked, pointing at the gurgling Mongol.

  Casca groaned and got to his feet, glaring at one or two of the grinning Greek soldiers. Muttering an obscenity in Greek, he picked up the limp trader and slapped his face. “Just an innocent Mongol trader who got caught up in the fight, like me.” He began growling at the trader in Mongol. “Wake up you diseased vulture’s droppings!”

  The officer shot a sudden glance at him. “Mongol? You speak that language?”

  “Oddly, yes.” Memories of Genghis Khan flooded back, those halcyon days in the saddle creating a mighty empire out of the Steppes, then with Subedei sweeping aside Hungarians, and lastly with the more cultured Kubilai Khan in China. That was a half century past. “Why do you ask?”

  The Greek suddenly took on a cautious look. “I shall explain to you in private. Will you please come with me outside a moment?”

  Casca shrugged, then groaned as a wave of pain shot through his head. The Mongol was dropped onto the floor and the two men went out into the night air which was much cooler and fresher after the stuffy atmosphere of the tavern. The officer stood a little distance away from the men who were reviving the ruffians none too gently. “One of my functions is to find a Mongol speaking soldier who knows lands east of here. Do you know that land by any chance?”

  “Yes, I have travelled there in my time. Why do you ask?”

  “My superior, the Megas Doux,” the officer inferred in his tone that this man was of great importance, “resides at the Palace and has given me orders to bring to him anyone who speaks Mongol and knows the lands to the east. I do not know why, and I will not ask! I must ask you to accompany me to the Palace this night.”

  Casca opened his mouth in surprise before finding his voice... “The Palace? You mean the Blachernae?”

  The other nodded, clicking his fingers to an aide who brought two horses across to them. He indicated Casca to take the smaller one before swinging up into the saddle of his own horse. “With my superior and, if I am not mistaken, the Emperor too. Don’t worry, you will be given a bath, shave and allowed to choose a set of new clothes fit for an audience with the Chosen of God.”

  The officer was not being facetious. The Byzantines honestly believed their emperors were selected by God to rule over His chosen people. The fact that a fair number of them had been murdering sadists or pathetic and corrupt individuals mattered not.

  Casca climbed into the saddle and wondered what the emperor would want a Mongol-speaking man for. There weren’t many around; that was certain. With a funny feeling of the unknown in his stomach, he trotted after the Greek who rode north towards the Palace, abode of the Emperor.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Grande Place, Brussels, Belgium, May 2015.

  One of the most expensive places in the world to eat was surely this place, thought the smooth-skinned American sat with a striking looking red-haired woman in the wrought iron chairs that stood outside on the huge square. All around
stood the Gothic-fronted buildings, their facades blackened by the exhaust fumes from traffic, their ledges dotted with the white of bird droppings.

  The American glanced at his watch and frowned. The man he was supposed to meet here was five minutes late. He picked up his extremely expensive cup of coffee and saw a thick-set man skip over the road, avoiding a bus load of tourists busy peering through their smoked glass windows at one of Europe’s sights. After this they would be herded towards the Atomium, the silver colored metallic construction meant to represent an atomic structure.

  The thick-set man dumped himself in a chair opposite the Americans and looked them in the eye. “So we meet again, Danny, Hayley” he greeted his companions.

  “Yes we do. What do we call you today, still Carlos?”

  “It will do, one name I have been known by amongst many others in my time.”

  “Of course.” Danny nodded.

  Carlos’s face grew more serious and he pulled out from his jacket a flat mid-grey metallic device the size of an iPlayer. “I brought along this device for your use. I know you like to record what I tell you at these meetings and I wouldn’t like you to miss out on any. Do you still take them to Doctor Goldman?”

  Danny nodded curtly. “He is always very interested to hear your historical accounts and always presses me as to your whereabouts if he does not receive one every two to three months or so.”

  Carlos grinned briefly. The ageing Goldman had been a US army camp doctor in 1970 when Carlos – then known as Casey Romain – had been admitted, badly wounded, and the commanding officer, Colonel Landries, who had been Danny’s father, had assigned Goldman to treat Casey. It was then he had first been made aware of Casey’s incredible story.

  Ever since that night in 1970 when Casey had begun his story, way back in Roman times, the Americans had been spellbound. At times they doubted some of what was said but somehow they knew deep inside that what they heard must be the truth. They knew they could never go public with what they heard for they would be branded mad and historians would hound not only themselves, but the enigmatic Casey – or Carlos, or to give him his original name, Casca, as he had been long ago. Carlos himself insisted that they keep the story secret for there were sinister men who hunted him, members of a sect that had seen him spear Jesus on the cross and knew of his condition and now searched for him throughout the world, partly for sport and partly to keep him with them when the Second Coming came. So far they had not succeeded in trapping him permanently, only at times torturing him beyond belief. Carlos avoided them for that reason. He may be immortal but he could feel pain just as much as the next man.