Casca 43: Scourge of Asia

by Tony Roberts

  The column of mounted and foot soldiers passed through defiles, ancient waterways of the river they paralleled. Casca shook his head and grumbled to his lieutenant that no scouts had been sent out. His junior shrugged. Such things just were not done under this Khan.

  It was just on midday when the ambush hit them, arrows hurtling through the air to crash into the vanguard. Within moments the front of the column was a mass of bodies and wheeling horses, blocking the road. Unit commanders cursed their men and attempted to get some semblance of order but panic spread. The army was low on morale and ill disciplined, and this was not to their liking. The rearguard backed away, only to become targets of the ambushers themselves. Now the entire army was bottled up in the defile with the enemy above them on each side throwing rocks, arrows and spears down on them.

  The noise of screaming, shouting and cursing men filled the canyon. Casca swore and wheeled his horse about, yelling at his lieutenant to get the men up one side of the canyon. As his officer tried to make himself understood, Casca galloped back to the baggage section and looked for Adil. Just behind him a rock missed him by inches and crushed the skull of a horse, bringing a rider down with him. Adil appeared at the flap of one wagon, waving furiously. Waiting no longer he rode up, grabbed the woman and deposited her firmly behind him. “Hold on tight. We’re getting out of this trap!”

  He turned about and made his way past clouds of dust, writhing men and horses, bouncing rocks and madly running soldiers, not knowing where they were going. In a matter of minutes the Khan’s army had become a confused mass of frightened individuals wanting to flee to safety. Casca’s unit was one of a few making its way up the side of the canyon, but enemy sharpshooters were picking them off from the other side. He looked about and saw a group of men running towards him. He rode across their path, causing them to slow.

  “You men, draw your bows and cut down those archers up there, then follow those men climbing up that cliff! It’s your only chance to escape.”

  The men hesitated, then as one drew out their curved bows and nocked arrows. Two fell under the barrage but the rest let fly, striking down a few of the enemy and making the rest take cover. This was just what Casca’s men needed; and fifteen made it to the top, meeting light resistance, for the enemy had strung out his forces along the whole of the canyon.

  As the hand to hand combat spread at the top, the barrage from above slackened at this part of the ambush and more men began scaling the cliffs. Casca saw his chance and rode along the canyon floor to where he saw a defile leading up. Urging his horse up, they scaled the heights and emerged at the edge of a vicious fight. Drawing his curved sword he lopped off one head and plunged on, scattering men left and right. Behind him the enemy was pressing in with reinforcements, forcing his men back over the cliff. There was no surrender for there would be no prisoners taken. Men who tried to give up were picked up and thrown over the cliff.

  Casca cut his way free of grabbing hands and wheeled about. An opposing rider came at them, his long spear tipped with a yellow pennant. The mercenary had time to deflect the block and hack at the man’s back as he passed, sending him toppling off with a cry. The spear struck the ground point first and remained there, pointing up to the sky.

  He picked this up and sheathed his sword. The dead rider wore no apparent insignia making him different from many of Casca’s side, so perhaps he could pass himself off as one of the Astrakhan faction. The battle was virtually over, the ambush having destroyed much of the Khan’s force, and what was left had broken out and was fleeing as fast as it could back towards Berke-Sarai.

  “So ends the Khan’s brave attempt to capture Astrakhan” he remarked dryly. “He will be lucky to hold on to what he has from now on.” He turned away from the scenes of looting before any of the enemy realized who they were, and rode slowly along the edge of the canyon. They passed men making their way down, and one or two looked at them curiously. “Spoils of war,” Casca growled in triumph, nodding towards the woman, “a slave I have captured.”

  The Astrakhani men grinned. Someone at least was going to have fun that night!

  ____

  The destruction of the Khan’s army was soon forgotten as they passed south east, sleeping rough and keeping out of the way of bands of armed men. Luckily nobody came too close to question their presence and before long they came in sight of the glittering expanse of the Caspian Sea, filling the horizon. Adil stared at it for a long time. “Somewhere on the other side is my homeland” she said quietly.

  “Then let us find a boat” Casca replied. “We might find friends there.”

  They descended to the shore and rode along until they came to a small settlement, a collection of villager huts and fishing boats. After some hard bargaining, Casca hired one boat to take him, Adil and his horse across the sea to the eastern shore in return for some items he carried of value. The fisherman told them it would take a couple of days and they would have to work their way across in addition, helping out as and when the weather turned against them.

  Casca shrugged. As an experienced sailor this made little difference to him. He explained Adil was a slave and was unable to help on a boat but he would do his share. The fisherman nodded. Normally these horsebound Mongols and Kipchaks detested the sea and stayed well away, so it was unusual enough to have one agreeing to help out.

  Their journey across the sea was peaceful and calm, and they enjoyed their two days sailing south east across the gentle waters. On the third morning they bumped onto shore on a low, marshy, deserted stretch, just as Casca had requested. They stowed their food in the saddlebags and waved farewell to the fisherman before riding off along the firmest ground they could find.

  They were now in the land of Khwarazm, and to the south east of this was Bukhara, the city of Adil’s birth.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The land of Khwarazm was changed from the time Casca had last passed through, way back over a century before. The effects of the Mongolian conquests were still to be seen in the bones of dead animals or people, of empty shells of buildings and of once fertile land now barren and dry, for the land here needed the waterways that were to be found underground - the qanats - to remain lush. Without people to maintain these underground canals they would silt up and cease supplying water to the land. The Mongols under Genghis and Mongke had slaughtered the defiant people of Khwarazm, and now the land was uncared for.

  Here and there some vegetation survived and the occasional animal had the misfortune to stumble across their path which was enough for the skilled Casca to turn it into a meal. Adil was too hungry to complain, and after an initial feeling of disgust at eating some of the unorthodox offerings she quite enjoyed it. She did insist that no pig meat would be offered though, for she was Muslim and that was banned by decree of the prophet, Mohammed.

  Casca nodded. In fact he knew all about Mohammed’s decrees, for he had been there when many had been made. “The Prophet was most wise. I shall not prepare any unclean meat.”

  Adil was surprised at his knowledge of the ways of Islam. “You are of the Faith?”

  The mercenary smiled wistfully. “I follow no Faith, yet I know of them and their ways. You might say I understand them better than many who profess to follow them.” He stared into the fire he had made and saw massed camels pouring out of Arabia to overwhelm the war-weary Byzantine garrisons of Jerusalem, Syria and Egypt. He saw the bloodied corpses of the aftermath of Yarmuk, the decisive battle for the control of Syria. Then, Islam had been united, pure, vibrant. Now, it had descended into squabbling divisions, so much like Christianity. Sunni and Shi’ite, Catholic and Orthodox. How so different these religions, yet how alike!

  Adil decided she had better tell her master about how the lands of Transoxiana were ruled. Casca had said he knew of the rule of the Mongols under Chaghadai, son of Genghis. Adil now brought him up to date with the more recent history of the area. It seemed that the Khans held firm control until one Tarmashirin Khan came to power, some for
ty-five years previously. He converted to Islam and began to assimilate the land to an Islamic culture. This had the effect of infuriating the more conservative of the Mongol elements in the land and they kicked him out. However they could not undo his work and eventually the Khanate split into two, the western part becoming known as the Ulus Chaghatay, a loose confederated area under a number of tribes which adopted Islam, and the eastern part becoming known as Moghulistan, the more conservative and more traditionally Mongolian area.

  Transoxiana fell into the western half and like the rest of the confederation became embroiled with a civil war which had lasted until about fifteen years before. Now the local tribal leaders held sway in each of their particular areas and there was no central authority. Much depended on local co-operation and if any of the tribes looked like getting too big for their boots the rest turned on them and slapped them down.

  But when the Moghuls to their east threatened, it was then the tribes united to drive them back.

  “So your tribe, the Barlas, hold Bukhara.” Casca thought it sounded much like how Mongolia had been shortly before Genghis Khan had taken control.

  “Yes, and Kish and Qarshi. When I was taken captive our leader was Hajji Beg. We must go and see him. He will be overjoyed at my return.”

  “No doubt,” the mercenary said thoughtfully. Mongol tribal names sprang from the name of its founder, and he searched back through his memory for a warrior with Chaghadai with the name Barlas, but it proved too much. He had known far too many people for such a name to come readily to his mind. Perhaps a few days mulling at the back of his mind might bring it to the surface. To know of how a tribe was founded would give him prestige in that tribe’s eyes.

  Another good point stood in the Barlas favor; they held the central area of Transoxiana which included three important cities and therefore the trade they attracted. That formed a good power base from which to launch a campaign.

  Their journey across the land took them through a series of hills. Past these the land changed. No more did it slope upwards, but assumed a more level attitude, and there was more pasture for the flocks of goats and sheep to graze. They passed such herds and saw one or two herdsmen and their homes as they went, but they stayed away, not wanting to attract too much attention to their presence.

  Adil pointed eastwards one evening, into the gathering darkness. “Urgenj, capital of Khwarazm, lies just over there, on the Oxus River. It was where I was taken when I was first captured.”

  She sounded bitter, and with good reason. Casca sat upright in his saddle for a moment, but could see little. “No matter. We must travel there for our food supplies are getting low, and we will have to use the river as a guide for the rest of our journey. Besides, you are a slave, are you not, so you should have no fear of the slavers.”

  “I suppose not, yet they are cruel men who treat women like cattle.”

  “Slavers the world over are like that.” Casca thought back to the many times he’d been a slave, in Roman times, on the galleys, and others. He’d hated the sadistic people who took delight in inflicting pain on helpless slaves, and for this more than any reason was why he treated his slaves fairly. Besides, he found a slave served better if treated well.

  Adil shuddered and Casca drew her close. She leaned against his body and closed her eyes. That a noble woman born into one of the four most important tribes of Transoxiana should enjoy her captivity so much was due to this strong yet gentle man with the sad eyes that sometimes gazed into the far distance with a faraway look of pain. In a way she felt as though she could ease whatever was causing him such distress and did her utmost to make him happier. What her long term future was once they go to her homeland was another matter, and her confused state of mind precluded any definite plans.

  In the morning they reached the Oxus and the city of Urgenj, a typical Asian walled city set in a valley that the river wound through. The streets were narrow and crowded and vendors sold everything from fruits and exotic spices to young girls or boys. The two new arrivals walked through the western gate, Casca holding the horse’s reins, and made for the far side, close to where the Oxus flowed. Their route would be upstream so a boat was out of the question. What they needed more than anything else was a place to stay for a few days and hopefully get food.

  Casca led them to the merchants’ quarter, where employment would be found. Even though civil war, and more recently plague, had afflicted the region, trade still went on. The mercenary knew how to find a job; it was just a matter of selecting the right one.

  Along the Street of Coins he found a likely place to stay, a stone building with two entrances, one of which led out onto the main street and the other a back alleyway. The proprietor demanded an exorbitant price from the scruffy looking Kipchak and his beautiful slave, but the new arrival smiled sadly and exited, leaving the owner looking wistfully at the wiggling rear end of the woman, until his wife appeared and began berating him for mooning over young wenches rather than keeping the place in profit.

  Casca had decided to stay there so the next thing he needed was a job. A few enquiries along the street soon pointed him in the right direction.

  Yayik Ahmed was a buyer and seller of most things, from girls he picked up here and there and selling them at a profit to wealthy fat nobles, to trinkets made by his many employees and slaves which went in the bazaars of Transoxiana. He was a swarthy, thin faced individual who smiled easily and frequently, born of confidence in his social position and the fact he had two particularly big personal guards standing by him at all times. Rumors abounded he even had one sleep in his bed but that might be merely jealous gossip started by his trading rivals. Nevertheless Yayik continued to make money and expand his business each year.

  The rough looking nomad who appeared before him bowed low and greeted him in the proper manner that the laws of Islam and the Mongol Jasa permitted. “May Allah bring good fortune on your house and your descendants, good sir” he said courteously.

  Yayik cocked a curious head at this nomad. The accent was odd, clearly not Mongol or Turkic, or even Persian, yet he spoke fluently and was idiomatically correct. He looked like a member of the Kipchak or Tartar nomads employed by the Golden Horde to the north; yet his skin was the wrong color - it was too light, as were his eyes. Perhaps a renegade Greek or even a Russian. “And may He bring good fortune upon you, noble sir” Yayik responded. “Make yourself comfortable, my house is yours.”

  The nomad bowed solemnly and indicated the young and ravishing woman holding the reins of a horse in the street close by. “My slave and property are yours, honored sir.”

  Yayik sat up straighter. This man meant business. No ordinary nomad readily allowed his animal or slave to be given away. There again, Yayik knew the words meant little, as did his. It was a figure of speech, born of courtesy and tradition centuries ago in the lands of Arabia and carried to Asia by the conquests of the Caliphs. “Please, sit and have refreshments, you appear to have journeyed far before appearing at my humble abode.” He clapped his hands and a slave, half hidden in the gloom of the house behind, turned and sped off to get food and drinks.

  Casca indicted to Adil to come sit close to him. She handed the horse over to another servant and sat quietly by her master’s side, listening to the conversation.

  “A pretty slave” Yayik bowed to the woman.

  “One who is a native of Bukhara” the mercenary replied. “We are returning there but need food and shelter for a few days before continuing our journey. I noticed your fine home and possessions and surmised you are a man of substance. I was informed you are a merchant.”

  “That is so. Are you in the trading business?” Yayik knew he was not but to ask directly was not good manners.

  “I am a warrior. Until recently I was an officer in the Khanate of Berke-Sarai but we were defeated in battle, the army destroyed. We were fortunate to escape with our lives. It was then we decided to come to Bukhara.”

  Yayik nodded. The civil war to the nor
th was disrupting trade, diverting more to India, China or Syria. He lost little himself, but some traders were feeling the pinch. “It is hard to escape conflict in a civil war” he said sympathetically.

  The food arrived, dates, olives and cheese, together with hot sweet mint tea served in small glass cups. After each had taken their obligatory tasters, the conversation turned to business. “You have something you desire of me?” the merchant began.

  “I am told that you are a man of some substance,” Casca chose his words carefully. “A man who has a wide range of knowledge concerning the politics of the Chaghadai Khanate. I am travelling to Bukhara to deliver this slave to the Amir of the Barlas tribe.”

  “Timur?”

  Casca cocked an eye. “I was informed it was Hajji Beg.”

  Yayik waved a lazy hand in dismissal. “Timur became emir two years ago when Hajji was killed by the Moghuls in Khorasan. Timur is also in Khorasan at the moment, the last I heard near Khiva with Amir Hussain of the Kara-Unas tribe. You see, much of Transoxiana is under the control of the Moghuls at the moment and they exact a high toll on goods passing through their territories.”

  Casca sighed. It seemed another plan had come to naught. “Therefore we must travel to Khiva to meet Timur.”

  “Perhaps not. Rumors abound that the kings of Sistan further to the south have asked for help in a local matter and Timur has agreed to help. I may be able to find out his exact whereabouts but as you know times are very difficult and communications poor. What is certain he will need soldiers but will not rely on ones he does not know. He will recruit from his own tribe.”