Casca 43: Scourge of Asia

by Tony Roberts

  Casca looked up. “Thank you. I know of a pass that will be open. Once we are victorious I shall take my leave. If this lot fall then you’ve got Delhi, and control of northern India. You won’t need me anymore.”

  “That sounds almost like a permanent statement.”

  Casca looked up, then sighed. “Who knows how many more campaigns we have together? You are not getting any younger.”

  Timur leaned against the table, resting his aching thigh. “That is true but I feel as strong as an ox!”

  “You look it too. But who knows when death will reach out his bony hand to you? If you die then I shall leave for some other place.”

  “And Adil?”

  Casca breathed out sharply. “I fear her days, too, are numbered. I hope to be with her as much as I can, but this winter is upon us and she is not strong anymore.”

  “I understand. Let us pray to Allah we shall be victorious in the morning.”

  Casca nodded. He hoped so too.

  ____

  The battle raged all day. A line of tethered buffaloes and camels was set alight at the command of Timur and sent screaming down the hillside into the ranks of elephants, who, as Casca predicted, panicked and scattered like birds before the hawk. Rank upon rank of enemy infantry was crushed under the stampeding feet. All that remained on the slope were blazing corpses of camels and buffaloes and mounds of animal shit. Isolated, the Indian infantry were hit on each flank by the cavalry of Timur and crumbled, but it wasn’t until they had taken severe losses that they fled, leaving the battlefield to Timur. Another victory.

  Casca watched from the hilltop, not wanting to get involved. He had never felt part of this campaign and was glad when the fighting ceased. Timur rode up to the command tent and punched the air in delight. “Hah! They fled like women. And your trick worked with the animals. We can all feed on roasted buffalo tonight!”

  Casca nodded and looked over the ground, covered in corpses. “You have the victory, Timur, now I will return to Samarkand with your permission.”

  “You have it” Timur smiled and wheeled his horse around. “Go to your woman. I shall return to Samarkand myself in the spring. I shall greet you then with the spoils of this campaign.” He rode off in a cloud of dust, whooping with delight. Casca sighed and went to the tent, gathering his belongings and saddle and having his horse fetched by a guard. He saddled up the horse, stowed his possessions, mounted up, bade the men farewell and rode off northwards towards the crags of the mountains, covered in snow. He was returning to Adil, hoping she was still alive.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The ride back was a nightmare of snow, ice, wind and rain, but Casca rode on, unflagging. He stayed in towns and cities in the best of places; his status and papers he carried from Timur ensued that. The journey to Samarkand took him through the mountain passes to Kabul, and north once more along the trade route to Balkh where the going got easier and he was onto the plains once more. A thousand miles he travelled and more, but his mind was fixed only on Samarkand and Adil.

  Finally, two weeks after leaving Timur and his army and almost at the end of the year, he passed wearily through the southern gate and made his way to his home, sliding painfully off the saddle and allowing his horse to be tended by the stable boy. The steward met him at the door anxiously. “Master, you are back early!”

  “I left to be with Adil. What news of her?”

  The steward grimaced. “She is not good; we feared you would not return in time.”

  Casca threw his gauntlets and outer coat onto the floor and took the stairs two at a time. He entered the main bedroom and made his way to the bed, draped with hanging silk. The room was in semi-darkness and he carefully made his way to the bedside and looked down at the woman lying there. “Adil?”

  She stirred and looked up, surprise then delight showing. “You returned!”

  “Of course, did you doubt I would?”

  Adil smiled, then closed her eyes. “And the campaign?”

  “As good as won. I left as there was nothing more for me to do, and Timur was happy to let me return.”

  Adil sighed and seemed to sink further into the bed. Her voice was very low and Casca bent forward to hear her words. In the background he was aware of the maid who had entered after him, but he ignored her. “I knew you would come back, and I waited for this moment.”

  Casca took her frail hand in his, the thin, wrinkled hand that once was strong and firm. Whatever had ailed her had left her too weak to leave her bed. He suspected it was a form of wasting disease, or perhaps some other such affliction, but one that didn’t have the distressing side effect of vomiting. Adil was simply wasting away gently with no apparent pain. “I never wanted to go, but it seemed Timur couldn’t cope without my expert advice.”

  Adil smiled again, then gripped his hand tightly. “Stay with me, Casca, stay with me tonight.”

  “I won’t leave you.”

  Adil nodded and remained lying there tightly holding his hand. She still gripped his hand as tight when in the early hours she breathed her last. Casca felt the heavy lump settle in his chest and stomach once again; another woman he had loved had gone and he was left to mourn. How long he sat there bending over her body weeping he didn’t know, but eventually his servants gently took his hand away from hers and led him to another room to sleep. Exhaustion and sorrow had left him a shell and he sank into a deep sleep tortured by the death of Adil.

  ____

  Slowly he recovered, but the house was too full of memories and he sold it and allowed the servants their freedom, keeping his horse and personal belongings and moving to a smaller abode closer to the citadel. He brooded there awhile before visiting the garrison and finding out the gossip. It seemed Timur had gone mad in India, according to reports, and massacred the Delhi troops who had surrendered. Over a hundred thousand had died some said. Casca shook his head. Timur was nothing but a butcher. He was sick of it all and resolved to persuade him to move west which would be Casca’s last campaign. Either Timur took on the Ottomans now or that’d be it.

  The garrison commander had a further piece of interesting news. Sitting in his chair looking out over the city, he tapped a scroll on his side table. “Reports have come to me from Shiraz that Amarinshah is trying to stir up rebellion amongst the local chiefs. He is actively encouraging them to rally to his standard and not that of Timur.”

  “That does not surprise me, Farzad” Casca said tiredly, “he was always an untrustworthy one.”

  Farzad steepled his fingers under his chin. “He is offering great riches to those who join his side, did you know that?”

  “And how does he intend to pay these amounts? With what?”

  Farzad smiled. “With the taxes collected the last year.”

  “What!” Casca sat upright. “He had not yet paid them to the treasury?”

  Farzad shook his head. “It would appear he is trying to take advantage of Timur’s campaign in India to take control. I doubt he will do it but one cannot be sure.”

  Casca grunted. “Agh, he’ll persuade some treacherous snakes to follow his lead. I ought to go there and beat some sense into the silly little man.”

  “It would be unwise to do so without Timur’s permission, would it not?” Farzad said evenly.

  “I know. But I’d love to be given the job of sorting him out. Has Amarinshah approached anyone in Samarkand to your knowledge?”

  Farzad shook his head, “but he has an agent within the city who came here with bribe money.”

  “And what happened?”

  “We arrested him and threw him into our cells. He will await Timur’s return.”

  Casca nodded. “How much money did he have on him?”

  Farzad shrugged. “He had spent most of it by the time we arrested him. Not much and what there was left is in our vaults.”

  Casca grinned. What Farzad meant was that he’d taken most himself and left a small amount to Timur. A dangerous tactic if Timur found out. “Where is h
e? I’d like to see him.”

  “But of course! My guard-captain will show you.” Farzad clapped his hands and a soldier appeared. The garrison commander barked a few commands and the soldier nodded, leading Casca down the stairs to the captain. The officer took Casca down again underground and in the flickering torchlight they passed by a few barred cells, some occupied and some not, all containing foul, smelly straw and damp walls, then at one cell the captain stopped, jangled some keys and opened the gate. Casca stepped in, the captain closely behind and shone the torch he held down on the occupant.

  He was a swarthy, medium sized man with dark hair and shifting eyes, dressed in a loose brown garment. He shuffled to his feet and stepped back to the rear of the cell. Casca examined him closely, seeing nothing remarkable in him. “You are Amarinshah’s man?” he barked.

  The man looked from one to the other. The captain gritted his teeth. “Answer, dog!”

  “Yes” the prisoner said sullenly.

  “And what were your orders?” Casca asked, looking down at the booted feet, then up again to the shapeless bundle the garment formed.

  The prisoner said nothing so the captain stepped forward and cuffed him about the ear. The prisoner yelped and threw up his arms and as he did so the garment parted to reveal a once-good quality tunic underneath, now with buttons torn off, revealing in turn the man’s chest. Casca stiffened and turned to the captain. “Was anything found on him when he was taken?”

  “The money” the captain said, “and some jewelry.”

  “Where is this jewelry now?”

  The captain shrugged. “Either the commander has it or maybe some of the men took it when he was being brought here.”

  Casca took a deep breath. “And you, captain?”

  The captain stared at him silently.

  “Look, I don’t want to take anything, I just want to see what he had been wearing around his neck, that’s all. It was a charm wasn’t it?”

  The captain’s eyes became wary. “And what if it was?”

  “And this charm, what was it in the shape of?”

  The captain stared at the prisoner, then Casca. The prisoner watched the two carefully, his hands slowly pressing against the wall. Casca saw the movement and swung to his right just as the prisoner flung himself off the wall at them, arms clawed, teeth clenched. Casca took a quick step back and swung his fist in a blurred uppercut that caught the man in the midriff, sinking in deep. The prisoner gargled in a strangled voice and collapsed to the floor in a fetal position, clutching his stomach. The captain, having been caught unawares, had been pushed to the floor and had struck his head on the cell bars painfully on the way down.

  Casca pulled the prisoner up and banged him against the bars. “Who am I?” he demanded. The prisoner stared at him with pain-filled eyes, and with a mixture of fear and loathing in them too. Casca snarled and ripped aside the tunic to reveal on the prisoner’s chest a tattooed stylized fish. “Who – am – I?”

  “Longinus” the prisoner hissed, “the spawn of Satan!”

  “Fuck you!” Casca screamed and flung the man backwards against the back wall. The prisoner sank to the ground unconscious. Casca, breathing deeply, turned and helped the groaning captain to his feet. The officer rubbed his neck then glared at the figure lying on the floor. “Dog!”

  “Leave him” Casca said, helping the captain out of the cell. “Lock it. Do not approach him again, do not speak to him, and do not listen to him. Do not let any of your men remain within earshot of him. Only allow a brief visit for food, then the guard must return immediately to the guardroom. Is that understood?”

  “Yes sir” the captain replied, uncomprehending. “But why?”

  “I take full responsibility as Timur’s general” Casca answered grimly. “He is to be left until Timur returns.

  The captain agreed, particularly when Casca said he’d ignore the items removed from the prisoner. Casca knew what the item had been anyway; the tattoo had given that away. He returned home and sat in his living room, deep in thought.

  So the Brotherhood of the Lamb had found him again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The Brotherhood of the Lamb, the secretive fanatical organization that had been hunting him all these centuries, intent on keeping him in their sights as they believed he was the path to their blessed Jesus who had vowed that Casca and He would meet again one day. They had in the past alternatively persecuted him or kept him out of harm’s way, depending on their ulterior motives, but they sure as heck weren’t to be trusted one little bit.

  His mind went back some years to a time when Adil and he had spoken on the subject. It had all begun when she had wanted to know more about his numerous scars and where they had come from. It had been the one round his wrist that had got it all started. Casca sighed and shut his eyes in the gloom of the room, his memories of the woman he had loved filling his head.

  “Who are this Brotherhood?” Adil had asked, running her forefinger on the scar circling his wrist.

  “A fanatical religious sect intent on persecuting me. They believe I am the way to their prophet Jesus and when he returns once more I shall be there to greet him, therefore their reasoning is that if they keep me in their sights they’ll find their prophet and achieve paradise in his presence.”

  Adil had frowned. “But why then persecute you? Why not ask you to join them?”

  Casca had laughed heartily, drawing another frown from his woman. “Oh that’s good! They hate me, Adil, they know I killed their prophet all those years ago so to them I am the epitome of evil, so although they know I am the path to their prophet, I am also their greatest enemy.”

  “You killed Jesus, the one on the cross the Christians worship?” Adil had stared wide-eyed at him in disbelief.

  Casca’s look had said enough in reply. Adil had put her hand to her mouth in shock. “You! You were the one with the spear their book speaks of?”

  “Me. Jesus cursed me to immortality until He returned once more, so that is why I am the Unchanging One. But to the Brotherhood I am the evil one to be persecuted, kept in sight, never allowed to roam freely. Oh, I can escape their attention for years but sooner or later those bastards find me again. They are patient and their agents are everywhere, and all it takes is some tale of a man with remarkable healing powers and a scar on his face and they come like flies to shit.

  “I’m never free from them for very long and no doubt they have agents scattered throughout the lands seeking me. My description is somewhat unique,” and he had laughed bitterly at that, “and sooner or later they will hear of one who cannot change fighting for Timur and they will come.”

  Casca had stared at Adil for a long moment, his mind seeing death, torture and butchery. His expression had caused her to worry. “My love, what is it? What is the matter?”

  “Nothing, only they kill anyone I love, as a petty act of revenge for what I did all those years ago at the crucifixion. If they find me they will kill you if they can.”

  Adil had snorted at that. “Pah! Let them try. Death would be their reward.”

  “They are determined and ruthless; do not underestimate them, Adil. They have killed those close to me before, and I won’t let them do it again, not if I can help it.”

  Adil had embraced her man and he had enjoyed the intimate moment. Then he had told her of the full history between the fanatical sect and him. “My hand being chopped off was the beginning; they let me go and a companion sewed it back on, then the next time I came across them this fool tried to burn me at the stake but I was saved just in time before I was completely burned, but it took me months to recover.”

  “But that would have cut off their route to their prophet!”

  Casca had agreed, nodding. “Some fool who exceeded his orders, no doubt. I went to Constantinople a little while later and my woman and her child – I was not the natural father – were abducted and slaughtered by the Brotherhood. I exacted my revenge for that!”

  Casca had ret
old of the pursuit across Asia, not too far from Samarkand until he had crucified the leader of the Brotherhood, called The Elder. Upon his return to Constantinople he had embarked on a bloodthirsty course of revenge, killing dozens where he could find them and destroying their hideouts. “But they were too numerous and devious. Also their most holy relic, the very Spear I had used to kill Jesus with, was always looked after much too closely… that was until the Persians took it!”

  “When was that?” Adil had asked, her eyes wide in wonder, absorbed in the tale.

  “Ahhhh….. the war between Byzantium and Persia. Jerusalem was taken by the Persians and they stumbled onto the Brotherhood’s headquarters and stole the Spear, taking it back to Ctesiphon. They needed someone special to recover it, and they got him.”

  “Who was that?”

  Casca’s face had grown grimmer. “Me.”

  “What! How? How could you assist them?”

  “I was forced to do it, Adil, I had no choice.” Casca’s voice had grown bitter as he told her of the Brotherhood holding his woman as hostage for his co-operation. He had reluctantly gone ahead and made it to Ctesiphon as part of the Byzantine emperor’s army and had managed to bring the Spear back. But there had been two double-crosses, one he pulled on them, the other they on him. “I switched spears in Antioch after killing the Brotherhood guards who had been with me, but when I returned to Jerusalem I found they had poisoned the mind of my woman and turned her into one of them! It had all been for nothing!”

  Adil had groaned in sympathy. “So what happened then?”

  “Islam happened, that’s what. We swept out of Arabia and overran those damned corrupt cities, including Jerusalem. I wanted blood, but the Brotherhood had gone, but not before losing most of their adherents. The substitute spear was gone too. I thought for a time they had been exterminated by the rise of Islam, I really did.”