by Tony Roberts
Amarinshah’s composure cracked and his cheeks colored. “How dare you….”
“No, how dare you! You plot behind his back because he treats you like the snot-nosed brat you are. Without him you would be nothing, don’t forget that, and when he’s gone your little world of comfort will vanish faster than you can piss. He makes you governor and the reward you give that is to intrigue! Why don’t you grow up and thank your father what he’s done for you? Only I doubt it as you’re too busy listening to the ass-lickers you surround yourself with, and they are busy telling you what a god you are and how much better you’d make the job of ruling than your father. Well I’ve news for you, kid; you haven’t got what it takes, because if you had you’d have taken his place long ago and had the army behind you. You haven’t because they know what a blustering moron you are. They want to be with a winner, and your father is a winner, like him or not.”
Amarinshah stood up, fists balled. He squeaked an order and two guards came rushing in to stand uncertainly by the fountain. “I’ll have you imprisoned for this disrespect!”
Casca laughed. “You go try and then explain to your father what you’ve done. With any luck your head will be decorating the citadel gate by dawn.” He turned to the two guards. “Want to try to fight me, boys?”
The two guards swallowed and stepped back, fear of the legend clear in their faces. Casca nodded to them, congratulating them in their wise choice, then lazily turned to face the fuming prince. “I won’t tell Timur about this, but if I were you I’d lay low for a while and be a good boy and do as you’re told. You like your rich surroundings; if you want to continue that way then don’t oppose him.”
He then swung about and stamped from the room, brushing past the two petrified guards and went out into the fresh clean air of the streets and breathed deeply, glad to be out of such a poisonous atmosphere.
____
Later when he’d returned home, but not informed Adil of the content of his discussion with the prince, he wondered why he’d been approached by the prince. He could only reason that Amarinshah needed allies to effect his coup and Timur had such a grip on the local nobility that none dare oppose him, and Casca was the only one Timur couldn’t dominate so maybe could be swayed away from him. He was right; Amarinshah did need looking out for, and promised himself to do so carefully in future.
____
The next time he saw the prince was at the celebration two nights later and Amarinshah avoided eye contact, spending much of the evening in the company of two young effete looking officers who were members of his army unit. Timur as normal got himself blind drunk and joined in the dancing and performing of the entertainers, many of them young women. What Timur’s wives thought of this was unknown and they were not permitted to attend anyway. His three surviving sons were all there and Casca was surprised at how tall the youngest, Shahrukh, had grown. He was fifteen now and virtually ready for a governorship. Casca remained seated quietly at the back of the large chamber and watched as the senior members exceeded their limit and fell over one by one, often in the arms of some dancing girl who had been divested of their upper garments.
The following morning Timur called a council and stood there glaring at the assembled sore heads and groaning bodies. He of course had no trace of any ill effect and sneered at his men’s delicate condition. “What’s the matter with you all? I have a bunch of women under my command!”
Casca sympathized with them, having been many times the worse for wear after a wild session of drinking, but he’d learned the hard way amongst these wild tribesmen to moderate. When he eventually returned west he’d be able to drink those people under the table without half trying.
“So, when you’ve all stopped vomiting we will discuss the new campaign for the spring.”
Groans greeted these words but Timur slapped a palm down on the table he stood behind. “Stop moaning you pathetic dogs! I want to hear ideas, and not any involving molesting hill sheep either!”
Some grinned. One, a smart officer by the name of Shaykh Arslan, waved a hand to the south east. Casca knew him as a governor of Bukhara. “India. Unconquered, rich, powerful. A good test of our forces and unimaginable treasures await us.”
One or two nodded at that. Another waved north. “The Golden Horde again, they are tottering and one good blow next year will finish them off, then your northern frontier is secure.”
Casca agreed silently the wisdom of this, then cleared his throat. Timur looked up at him. “You have a recommendation, Casca-Badahur?”
“I do.” He stepped close to the map and peered at it, upside down as it was. “West.”
Timur snorted and one or two sucked air sharply through their teeth. West was a standing joke with Casca amongst them. Casca grinned too, then slashed his palm through the air, indicating the land west of the Caspian Sea. “West, then north. I agree about the Golden Horde, Tokhtamish is not to be trusted and I think he ought to be finished off, and the next campaign would do that. But also consider the western frontier; it’s faced by a number of small states, and now is the right time to strike, thus destroying their capacity to act if you do eventually intend to move east against India. You will never be able to do that while these states here exist untouched. Look,” he pointed south of the Golden Horde. “Georgia, a Christian mountain kingdom, secure and safe at the present and a danger if you move either north or west.” He then pointed south east of Georgia. “The Sultans of Baghdad still call themselves leaders of Islam and believe they can call all the Faithful to war, a danger you cannot ignore as long as they exist. To their east, the Muzaffarids have recovered from the campaign five years ago and are even now rearming and rebuilding to oppose you. The next campaign would be perfect to strike here, for maybe in three years or so they may be stronger and a campaign would be much more difficult.”
Casca saw the man who had suggested the Golden Horde nodding in agreement, perhaps, he thought cynically, because he’d included the Golden Horde in his overall campaign.
“But this would mean a campaign over many years, not one,” Arslan objected.
“So? We have campaigned over multiple years before. Remember Herat?”
Timur grinned; he enjoyed these arguments between his generals. “You would prefer to be away from Adil that long?” he asked slyly.
“She’d come along” Casca said carelessly. “What about your wives?”
“Hah! Those old crones hardly dare move outside my harem, let alone go to market place! Besides, I have plans for one of those dancing girls.”
A chorus of chuckles echoed around the table. Timur sighed and leaned over the table, peering down at the map. “I agree; as much as India may be a tempting target, I think the time is not yet ripe. I also like your idea, Khwaja, about moving to finish off Tokhtamish. And, Casca-Badahur, your suggestion about the west has some merit, so I propose to bring to heel all those pigs to the west. Baghdad will praise me rather than that fat slug of a Sultan who squats on his throne and Georgia will bow to Islam. I shall end Tokhtamish’s reign and have those people bow to me instead.”
Casca stood back, a warm glow of satisfaction spreading through him. He’d managed to persuade Timur to move west, and it only needed the Ottomans to foolishly interfere in the campaign to bring down upon them Timur’s wrath, and his mission could well be realized. He now hoped Timur would continue with his winning ways, and even if the Ottomans remained within their own borders, lands bordering theirs would be under Timur’s influence for the first time. The coming campaign would be very interesting.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
As Casca had hoped, Adil came along as they marched west. The Muzaraffids were the first to suffer, their army being smashed, and those lands were given to Umar Shaykh, Timur’s eldest surviving son, to rule as governor in his name in the south, and Amarinshah in the west. In the summer he took Baghdad from Sultan Ahmad Jalayir and then sent raiding parties further west against the minor Turkish emirates to the west of the Caspian. I
t was at this time that Tokhtamish foolishly tried to extend control over the Caucasus so Timur marched north and drove him back deep into his own territory.
Casca was with the raiding party that reached Moscow, deep in the northern pine forests of Russia, and wondered at how far their territory extended. They turned back before the harsh winter set in and slowly retreated towards Samarkand, ravaging as they went. Tokhtamish was finished and would never again trouble Timur. In all, this campaign had lasted nearly five years and exhausted many of them, most were glad to see the minarets of Samarkand again.
Adil was more tired than Casca had seen before and for the first time feared she would not be around much longer. Certainly she would not be coming on any more campaigns; she didn’t have the strength for it.
Fortunately Timur seemed to have run out of the enthusiasm for conquest and instead set about making Samarkand into a capital fit for an empire. Casca suspected Amarinshah’s hand in this, but as long as the restless son was satisfied then so much the better. Casca settled down into a domestic life, enjoying his time with Adil, knowing that it wouldn’t last forever. They moved into richer property when the new buildings had been constructed, and Adil looked around open-mouthed at the opulence of even this humble two-story dwelling they had moved into. They had a few slaves but not as many as some, as Casca thought it unnecessary to have slaves for appearance sake. They had a house steward, a cook, a cleaner and a maid, and that was it. For the two, a life of court appointments and entertaining friends and other important persons of Samarkand filled their time for the next couple of years. During this time the city changed and became opulent and grand, palaces and gardens grew in profusion and foreign dignitaries visited and were impressed by the scale of the building work.
One of the most enjoyable visitors to their home was Shahrukh, the youngest of Timur’s sons. Casca and Adil always seemed to have a closer friendship with him than any of his siblings, and now only Amarinshah of his brothers was alive, for Umar Shaykh had died whilst Timur had been on campaign. Perhaps it was because Casca could not have any issue, something Adil had accepted with regret, that they enjoyed the youngster’s company. Adil had come to see that immortality was indeed a curse; no children, no settled home, no normal life.
Timur pointedly ignored his two surviving sons and groomed Pir Mohammed as his successor, the second son of Timur’s first son, Jahangir. Shahrukh himself didn’t take offence and spoke to Casca on many evenings of the city of Herat, and Casca began to think that the time the young man had spent there whilst on that campaign as a child must have struck a chord with him. It had been no surprise when shortly after Timur had last returned from campaign he made Shahrukh governor of Khorasan and the prince had made Herat his capital.
But all things come to an end and Timur’s restlessness got the better of him before long, and his eyes tuned south to India. Casca was resigned to a campaign there, but kept on hinting all the same that the Ottomans and their Sultan, Bayezid, were trouble. Now the buffer states were suzerain to Timur, any Ottoman move eastwards would directly enter Timur’s sphere of interest.
Adil was finding the winters hard now and Casca began to worry for the first time that her time was coming to a close. Adil was the main reason he remained reluctant to go on campaign this time round but Timur insisted his senior general accompany him. Adil bade him a tearful goodbye and Casca had a sense of foreboding as he embraced her; would he see her alive again?
The army made its way south through Khorasan and Herat on its way to India before swinging east into the crags of the Kush Mountains and slowly made its way to Kabul. Casca’s mind flitted back to the time he had first come this way, seeking the lands of Shiu Lao Tze. Then he had been escorted by the Kushanites along this very pass. Happy memories clouded over as he now realized those proud warlike people were no more, and Kabul was now part of the lands of Timur.
Casca had been through here before a few times, and he was one of those most familiar with the area. Timur used local guides but made sure his general was close by in case one tried to use treachery. None of the guides were stupid enough to try. As for Casca, his mind was only half on the job, his thoughts kept on returning to Adil, back in Samarkand. He was concerned now that the next winter would be too much for her to survive, having seen so many of the women he’d loved in the past fail at that time of year. The household would look after her but there was only so much they could do, and time always had the last word.
The campaign passed him by as though he was in a dream, until they were poised outside the capital, Delhi. Timur had noticed the distraction of Casca and used other generals to command the various wings of his force, bringing Casca instead into his inner council, his General Staff Officer, so to speak. He would rather have men commanding soldiers with their minds on the job rather than someone thinking of home. If it had been any other man Timur would have ordered him beheaded, but Casca was different. Timur was beginning to regret bringing him along, but he had become reliant on this Talisman, a Talisman that had never seen defeat. Timur may have been the leader, the Khan, the man the army and the foreigners looked to as the man who never lost a battle, but Timur himself would never dream of going into battle without Casca-Badahur.
The infantry Timur was using was mainly from Khorasan but Shahrukh was not on campaign so Timur had appointed Ali Tovachi, a trusted general, to command them. Tovachi showed he was a capable officer and Timur felt satisfied he had picked the right man.
However, the Indians used something not even the infantry could do anything about and it struck terror into the army.
Elephants.
The evening they had completed a series of wooden defenses around them, Timur called his generals to his tent to discuss what to do. The enemy, who had sallied from their capital a short distance away, were crouched in the darkness preparing to assault the hilltop defenses the following morning, and if they used the elephants well, the infantry would be crushed.
“So, my generals,” Timur leaned heavily on the table, wincing as the pain from his old wound in his thigh shot up his body – something that occurred with increasing frequency these days – and gazed at the assembled group. “What do I do about these monsters the Indian army uses? I cannot charge them with my infantry as they will be crushed, and the horses fear them and refuse to approach.”
The generals all stood uncertainly, chewing on lips or frowning. This was something none of them had faced before. Timur grunted and looked to his left where Casca stood idly, a faraway look in his eyes. “Badahur?”
Casca started and fixed his gaze on the Khan. “I have an idea” he grinned, “a story I heard many years ago about Alexander the Great defeating an army of elephants.”
The others straightened and looked at him, the generals with hope; hope that this scarred man could save them from the silence they were trapped in, and Timur with expectation. “And what was this story?” Timur asked.
“Elephants are formidable it is true, but they have a tendency to panic if something noisy and unexpected happens to them, and then they usually trample their own army to get away. Alexander used that tactic, a mass of fire pigs.”
“Fire pigs?” one of the generals, a man called Pir Ali, exclaimed in surprise.
Casca nodded, smiling. “Fire pigs. Coated with tar or pitch and set alight, they were chased into the path of the elephants and it scared the life out of them!”
The generals laughed and Timur nodded, excitement in his eyes. “Then this is what I shall do, but I shall not use pigs.” He drew in a deep breath. “I want you all to organize foraging parties this night to collect as many water buffaloes as you can. Buffaloes are not afraid of elephants, so I have noticed, so we shall use beasts afire that will not shy away from these mountains of flesh. Then I shall be victorious.”
Excited, the generals sent runners to their respective camps to order the seizure of buffaloes, then they returned to the tent to listen to Timur outlining his tactics for the following day.
“The Indian army is much larger than ourselves it is true”, he conceded, “but with Allah’s blessing I shall prevail. Also I wish for my cavalry to be on either flank, so as to crush their army in a pincer movement.”
“And the elephants?” Tovachi queried.
“My fire buffaloes will spread panic in their ranks and they shall stampede.”
Casca cleared his throat. “They could stampede into our infantry as much as their own. I’d suggest separating the elephants and isolating them by making sure they cannot reach Tovachi’s men.”
“And what would you do? Build a wall of stone?” Timur’s eyes crinkled.
“No. Spread caltrops over the ground to lame the elephants, stopping them from reaching our men, then they can only go backwards into their own ranks.”
Pir Ali frowned deeply. “But this supposes our own beasts reach the elephants. What about the enemy cavalry?”
“What do you mean?” Timur growled.
Pir Ali folded his arms, a defensive gesture. “If their cavalry can screen their elephants then they can drive off the buffaloes.”
Timur nodded. He swung round to face Casca. “You have a solution?”
Casca nodded slowly. “Use camels as well, horses are petrified of camels.”
Timur clapped his hands together in delight. “Fire camels as well! What a sight that will be!”
Casca shrugged. “Tough on the beasts but it’ll work.” He thought to himself that it had better. “Best spread the caltrops tonight under cover of darkness… if the enemy spots us doing it in daylight they’ll guess what were up to.”
The council of war continued for a few more minutes, then it broke up and the men went to their own camps to prepare and pass out further orders. Casca sat on a three-legged stool in Timur’s tent and stared at the map on the table without seeing it. Timur noted his look and came over to him limping badly. “After this battle I shall allow you to return to Samarkand. Hopefully the passes will still be open but the snows may have blocked them.”
