by Tony Roberts
Cheku grinned and turned about, already forming in his mind what he required for the journey south. He would send word to the governor of Balkh, his old friend Murat, to ready supplies.
Adil was as good as her word. When Casca told her they were to head south into Herat and Sistan she began packing, ordering her two most valuable servants to pack, too. Casca left her to organize the household, shouting at the housekeeper to make sure everything was kept together when she was away.
Supplies were gathered, consisting mainly of the winter’s stock, wagons checked, repaired and oiled, yurts packed carefully, wooden planks stowed neatly, equipment packed and stored in their proper places, soldiers sent for and gathered in Samarkand, then, early in spring, before the last snows of the winter had really gone, they set out south for Herat.
Murat had done his job well, for when the sixty thousand troops crossed the Oxus he had the supplies for them ready, as well as twenty thousand more troops, his contribution to the army of Timur. As the days slowly warmed they made their way to the border cities that nestled in the foothills of the Hindu Kush, the great rise of mountains that separated India from Transoxiana. Here were Shaburkan and Maymana, traditional homes for the Arlat and Apardi tribes.
In the years following Timur’s rise to power, these tribes had come under the control of his own men, so now they provided men for the army as the great force stopped outside to take on more supplies, and to gather information about the land ahead. Casca rode alongside Timur and Cheku, and they often reigned in alongside the road to watch the army as it rolled past, like some unstoppable monster. First came the vanguard of several infantry Tumens, marching proudly ahead. Next came most of the cavalry, followed by the bulk of the infantry. Next was the baggage train, protected by elite units of cavalry. This baggage was regarded by Timur as irreplaceable, having his mobile court, treasury, armory and equipment. Lastly came the soldiers’ families on wagons and carts, as well as the other camp followers. In all, an immense line of men, women and children, all bound for the upstart King of Herat.
They skirted the Hindu Kush, keeping to the plains, until they came to the great gap between the Hindu Kush to the east and the Binalud range to the west. This marked the entrance to Khorasan proper, although nominally Khorasan lay south of the Oxus. Riders were sent out with demands to the King of Herat to surrender and the vast horde, numbering now over one hundred thousand, passed into the gap and followed a wide river upstream. Guides reported that the city of Herat lay along a tributary to the east so riders were sent to the other bank to keep an eye on things just in case the main army of Malik came thundering out to face them.
Two weeks after setting out they encamped beneath the city, set out on the steep hillsides of the Kushan Mountains. Malik hid behind the walls, trembling as the camp fires spread around, cutting him off from the outside world. He knew the size of the enemy force from reports of his agents and his pleas to his neighbors had gone unanswered. His small army was shut up in the city with him, ready to defend the walls but ill prepared to do much else.
Faced with destruction, he sent an emissary out to hold talks. Timur peremptorily ordered the King to show himself in Timur’s yurt. Malik came, afraid for his life, and prostrated himself on the soft carpets that adorned the yurt’s interior. Timur allowed him to remain there for a few moments, then gave him permission to rise. Two very large body guards stood close by, one to each side, to intimidate the miserable Malik. Timur looked at him with distaste.
“You may be a king in Herat” he said, “but you are nothing outside. Remember that. I now command the environs of Herat and you will only remain king as long as I permit it. You will pay me homage as your Lord and master, and whenever I request your presence anywhere I choose you will journey there without delay. You think you are safe behind your measly walls? No you are not. If you defy me once more I shall return here with an army under orders not to spare your life or anyone else they encounter.”
Malik trembled before Timur’s wrath. News of the devastation of Moghulistan had reached him. “Please forgive me, master, for I was badly advised.”
“Were you?” Timur’s tone made it clear he was unconvinced. “Then execute your advisors. I shall appoint others in their place.”
Malik paled. His brother-in-law was his chief advisor. “It shall be done, master” Malik said dumbly, thinking how he was to explain away to his second wife the execution of her brother.
Timur turned to one of his generals, Alikujan. “Go send two Tumens south into Sistan and devastate it. I want all to know what it is to defy me, and make sure all know it is because of the king’s foolishness that this is happening. Return in a week. I shall remain here until then.”
Malik groaned. Sistan was the source of much produce, maintained by a delicate irrigation system.
“You wish to object to my commands?” Timur asked dangerously, turning back to the king. “If so, how do you propose to oppose me?”
Malik said nothing. He was in an awkward position, and he knew he could not challenge the warlord. Timur smiled coldly. “You will provide for my army while I am here and you will also accommodate any of my men who wish to stay in the city, although for my part I shall remain in my yurt outside the city walls. You will issue a proclamation to your citizens that if any of my people are hurt in any way by them, then I shall burn down the part of the city the perpetrator comes from.”
With those words ringing in his ears the king was sent on his way. Casca requested if he and Adil could stay in Herat for the duration of the stay and Timur gladly gave his consent. In fact, as well as a squad of specially hand-picked men to serve as bodyguards, he also permitted his son, Shahrukh, to accompany them even though he was barely five years of age.
Their days in Herat were enjoyable. The green of the trees contrasted with the fine, sandy soil that lay thereabouts, and they wondered at the crags of rock that jutted up all around. Camels were everywhere, laden down with goods to trade, for even though a foreign army was encamped on the city’s doorstep trade went on, some of them heading westwards to Persia, others eastwards to India. Casca thought now and again of the Delhi Sultanate and what was going on in the place he once served. They were left well alone by the citizens of Herat and it seemed as though the orders of Malik were understood and obeyed.
Shahrukh wanted to play in the citadel all the time, fascinated by the mighty walls and echoing corridors, but soon it was time to return home and Timur sent word that the expedition was at an end. Herat had been brought into line, Sistan pillaged, and the emirs and kings of Khorasan were all queuing up to pay homage to the all-wise, all-knowing Timur the Lame.
Adil remarked on the way home that the expedition hadn’t been as long as she had thought but her husband replied that they would have starved Herat into submission by a long siege if that was what had been needed. Casca worried inwardly about the savagery the tribes were showing and what would happen if they did come across a foe that refused to submit.
He was soon to find out.
____
The next two years were repeats of the earlier raid into Khorasan, to remind the locals who was top dog in the neighborhood. The trouble was that once Timur turned his back Malik and his allies went back on their word. Timur eventually lost patience and removed Malik, installing one of his own men in the King of Herat’s place, and brought the city under direct rule. He did the same to Mashad and Kandahar so that most of Sistan, what was left of it, was now ruled by Timur.
Then, following urgings by Casca, Timur turned his attention further westwards and campaigned in Mazandaram, once more installing his own man in place of the existing ruler. Timur’s army then rolled through the Persian heartland, capturing the cities of Astarabad, Tabriz and Sultaniyya, before entering Georgia and reaching Tiflis.
All this time events had been happening in the north in the Golden Horde. Tokhtamish, once he had gained absolute power in the Blue Horde, had attacked and conquered his neighbor, becoming the K
han of the Golden Horde as a result. Encouraged by his success and thinking that Timur now was an equal, he began demanding the return of cities formerly in the Horde’s territory. Timur refused and both sides prepared for war, sending out raiding parties on both sides to pillage each other’s lands.
It was showdown time.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The army of Timur was encamped on a wide plain of endless horizons, and set out like a mini city. Shops opened for trade and the tents and yurts were neatly arranged in rows so that ‘streets’ ran through in regular lines. Everyone knew where each unit was, for the Mongol tradition of arranging everything in tens had passed down to this army. If someone had a broken saddle, then nobody needed to ask where the leatherworker was; they knew. Each time they made camp it was arranged in exactly the same way, so that anyone could find their own place in the dark, which was one of the reasons why it was done this way: the other good reason was in case camp needed to be struck in an emergency or should they ever become under attack. In each case order would be kept. A disciplined army was hard to defeat, and Timur the Lame’s army had yet to suffer that indignity.
The ageing woman who crossed one wide street, her head hidden under a black shawl, considered this. Timur was a good general, yes, but it was the silent brown-haired man behind him, the one all renowned to be the Unchanging One, who had brought subtle tactics and innovations to the army that really made it unbeatable. She paused and smiled in pride. Her man. Adil may be past her fiftieth year but she knew he had never taken another woman in all the time they had been together. He remained the same, yet even though she was now silvering and wrinkling, he never changed his ways with her. That he loved her she didn’t doubt for a moment, and she knew he would remain with her until she died.
It was a comforting thought.
Adil reached her yurt and pulled the flap aside. Although he was one of Timur’s Trusted Few, one of his Inner Council, Casca never made any ostentatious presentation of wealth or position. He was down to earth and never veered from that. He had changed in as much that he now had grown his hair in the Mongol tradition, long and plaited, and maybe had altered his dress since she had first met him, but he was just the same. He greeted her warmly and waited till she had sat down on the stack of cushions at the rear which she had made her own place. Behind her were the flaps that led to the sleeping chamber of the yurt.
“A warm night, Adil” he said, stirring a broth made of horse meat.
“A clear night, too. The stars fill the sky. I saw Khandabih, and he said Timur was asking for you.”
Casca groaned. “Not again. Perhaps he’s found Tokhtamish’s army this time.”
Adil smiled. The young guard, Khandabih, had been a regular visitor to their yurt in the past few days, bringing messages from Timur each time the warlord wanted to discuss an important matter with him.
The immortal soldier took one last taste of the broth and grunted in satisfaction. Then he kissed Adil before grumbling about demands made by the tireless warlord and going out into the night. He strode grimly across the hard, flat earth towards the immense tent in the center of the camp that served as Timur’s court. Ever the nomad, the Lame warlord always preferred to sleep under a tent. As he acknowledged the salutes of the guards, he pondered about the summons. It could only be that Tokhtamish’s army had been spotted and now they were going to go after him. This was going to decide who ruled the Mongol domains in the center of Genghis’ old empire. Whoever won the coming battle would then be free to conquer the western portion that used to be known as the Ilkhanate but was now shared between the Jalayrids and the Muzaffarids, two corrupt Persian-style dynasties. Once that was achieved the ruler could move either east, south-east or west.
West was towards the Ottoman Empire, the Turkish sultanate he was still intent on destroying. If only Timur could be swayed to campaign in that direction.
One of the guards threw open the tent flap and grunted to the sergeant inside that Casca-Badahur had arrived, then resumed his position outside, rigidly standing to attention. Casca flicked a half-smile at the guard’s correctness before ducking slightly as he entered. Around the tent flickering torchlight lit up the figures standing behind the single table at the far end, throwing weirdly moving shadows across the felted wool of the yurt. The tent was held up by a single huge wooden pole in the center and Casca moved round this and approached the four men standing in a group.
“Ah!” Timur the Lame exclaimed, catching sight of the familiar general approaching him. Timur was weathered, wrinkled and tough as nails, his skin dark and dried out by the wind and weather of the High Asian Steppes, but the fire of life burned still as brightly inside him. Casca considered him for a moment and reckoned the old warlord must have the constitution of an elephant. With him stood his son Amarinshah, the third of his four male offspring, and two generals, the reliable hard-bitten Cheku, and the younger more energetic Haydarun, a man of Turkish stock. Amarinshah was only twenty-five yet he was already a veteran and earmarked for governorship of the territories of the west once they were conquered. He had a steely appearance and often looked as if he was about to argue a point with his father, but given Timur’s inability to take insubordination, he wisely kept his mouth shut.
“Has Tokhtamish been found?” Casca asked, coming up to the table upon which he saw a map of the area unrolled and weighed down.
“Yes. That cur has finally turned to face us after running away for so long” Timur said vindictively. Casca didn’t give the enemy leader much hope if he fell into Timur’s clutches. The old warlord was still livid at Tokhtamish’s betrayal and never forgot the treachery by the other warlords in his younger days. It always got to him.
“So when do we fight?”
Timur looked up from under his bushy eyebrows. “Patience, Old One. First I shall review my army and keep those whores’ offspring waiting. Then I shall defeat them and have Tokhtamish lick the dung of his horse from my boots.”
Casca grunted. “And the battle plan?”
“You will command the right wing and smash his left. I’m afraid that will put you close to the river but we have no choice. At least your right will be protected.”
“But father” Amarinshah protested, his dark eyes flashing, “the right wing is my place!”
“Silence dog!” Timur slammed his palm down on the table, causing two of the weights to fall onto the earth. “You will go where I command! You, my son, will command the tactical reserve, ready to strike the final blow against these unspeakable animals. Yours is a very important position, one directly behind me and one of absolute trust. Do you understand?”
Amarinshah nodded and looked down at the map, chastened. Casca watched the exchange and decided that Amarinshah would need watching in the future, here was one man chafing at the bit and ready to break away from the old man. He smiled to himself, recognizing Timur had changed his mind from times past when he’d never have a reserve, or even have a son of his behind him. Maybe his advice had finally borne fruit?
“Cheku will take the left.” Timur jabbed a stubby finger down on the map. “Also each of the three front units will have a vanguard under junior generals. I will put Haydarun in charge of my vanguard. You two” he pointed at Casca and Cheku, “will appoint a man to take charge of the vanguard in front of your respective wings. And may Allah grant you strength to stand firm until we wear them out and my son here enters the fray and turns them back.”
“So the vanguards are delaying units?” Casca queried.
Timur nodded briefly.
“Ah,” Casca sounded unsure. In fact he didn’t like it; the men in those vanguards were sacrificial lambs, men with little chance of surviving. They were to wear out Tokhtamish’s forces and when they broke they would come up against the fresher more numerous center and wings and the battle would be won there. The arrival of Amarinshah and his reserve would tip the balance and finish off the Golden Horde. So went Timur’s theory.
“Any argument?” Timur
challenged.
Casca grinned. “Plenty but none that really make any difference. I have no room to maneuver with the river on my right so I’ll have to stand or die.” He knew it would be a butcher’s battle, stand toe-to-toe and slaughter the opposition. He who tired first would lose. “No argument.”
Timur slapped the map. “Excellent, as I’d not listen!” He roared with mirth. Casca grinned and eyed the others. The two generals were laughing obligingly while Amarinshah twitched his lips but remained silent. Casca hoped to Hades the young man wasn’t contemplating betrayal or they’d all be in the dung heap. History was full of such moments of betrayal and battles had been won and lost on such moments.
“Tomorrow I want the army lined up for review in full battle dress. I shall personally inspect each and every man, and any who don’t meet my approval will be punished, along with the officer responsible for them!”
Casca took a deep breath. One way of making sure everyone was properly dressed. Punish the officers as well as the slovenly wretch they were in charge of. Casca would damn well make sure all his subordinates were correctly attired or he’d sit them backside naked into a thorn bush.
They discussed a few more moves and the question of supplies and where the camp followers would go. They also talked about who would guard them before they all left, and then all went to their units with instructions to prepare for the review and beyond that, the battle to decide who would rule the Golden Horde. Timur or Tokhtamish? Would Timur’ long unbeaten run of battles continue or would Tokhtamish’s tired and trapped army turn the tables? They had the river to their backs so they had nowhere to go, and trapped men fight harder.
Casca went to his bed with some disquiet, worried about the river to his right which would constrict him, worried about the left flank and its openness, would Cheku be able to contain the Golden Horde, as this was the obvious point for them to try to break out? He was also worried about the loyalty of Amarinshah; would he turn on his father and ruin the whole campaign? He groaned and threw himself over onto his shoulder; battles always made him worry so. He always survived, thanks to his condition, but he’d rather survive without wounds and as a victor, not as a bloody loser. He went to sleep with images of Huns, Vikings and Saxons in his mind all falling in bloody heaps and the screams of men and horses vivid. In three days more of the same would come.
