Sword of the Brotherhood

by Tony Roberts

  The man’s bloodied lips parted in agony and his fetid breath covered Casca’s face as the chief gasped in a long shuddering exhalation. Then he slowly slid to the floor and sat there, eyes staring vacantly into the far distance.

  Casca raised his sword to eye level, examining the red stains over the steel, then turned and faced the gathered men at the doorway. “Well?” he demanded of them, “which of you is next to feel death?”

  There came mute shakings of heads. Casca sneered at them. He looked up at the balcony. There were eight women stood there, saying nothing. Casca guessed they had been the dead chief’s. Now they would be looking for husbands.

  “Please, spare the rest of us,” one of the men at the doorway pleaded, kneeling and placing his sword on the floor. “We are a poor, simple people who were dominated by our chieftain there. Now he has gone we can return to our traditional ways.”

  “Which is what?” Casca barked. “Stealing goats?”

  “No!” the man shook his head. The others with him nodded or shook their heads. It was doubtful whether they were agreeing or disagreeing. Casca snorted and turned round to look up at the balcony. “And you women – what will you do now your lord and master is no more?”

  One of them, a dark haired buxom maid with a lean, long nose leaned forward. “We can return to our families and take husbands. The village suffered by him taking all the best young women for himself.”

  “And the deal he made with my captors? Is that to be honored?”

  The man kneeling by the door shook his head. “No, no! You are free to go. Just leave us to return to our old ways before he changed everything! We have our dead to bury too, and we would prefer you to be far away when this is done.” He looked at Casca with a beseeching look.

  Casca scowled. “Why should I do that? I have no idea in which direction I should go. I need to clean up, be fed properly and find out where the Emperor’s army is.”

  The villagers decided they would discuss the situation between themselves. The women came down and joined their families, and Casca was soon left sat on his own at the back of the hall by a long table, lost in his own dark thoughts. He felt depressed, but at the same time relieved that his stint at that damned wheel had come to an end.

  He cleaned the sword and then looked for a sharpening tool. Finally he managed to get a knife from one of the rooms upstairs and borrowed a whetstone from a villager. The knife sharpened to his satisfaction, he then searched the abandoned building for a mirror or some reflecting vessel. Finally he unearthed a copper plate and worked on the surface, polishing it to a point where he could see his reflection in the daylight filtering through from one of the windows set high in the wall. It was close to midday by then.

  Shaving his face, removing the winter’s growth, was a long and painful process, and he had to sharpen the knife a couple of times. Finally it was done and he rubbed his stinging chin with satisfaction. Now for the lank hair. He roughly cut the worst of it off, sawing through the tough clumps, and brushed the remnants off his shoulders as he stood up and examined himself in the copper plate. He’d do.

  He stepped out into the sunshine and inhaled deeply. The bodies had been removed and taken back to their homes. No doubt the grieving families would burn for revenge. Another good reason to get away from this place yesterday. He didn’t want someone sneaking up on him in the night and stabbing him in the back out of a sense of vengeance.

  The village elders came out of one of the houses and slowly gathered at the foot of the steps. Casca looked down at them. “Well?” he demanded.

  “We wish you to leave as soon as possible. The snows have gone so you can use the mountain paths without danger. We wish to return to our normal way of life, and your presence here is unwanted. You have been held prisoner here and used as a beast of burden, but you have caused many of our families grief by killing those men today. It would be best if you left us and allowed us to grieve for our lost ones.”

  “So point me in the direction I must go to rejoin the army. You must know of their whereabouts unless you’ve been sitting here all winter with your heads up your asses.”

  “As you say, we do know. They are to the north of here, camped ten miles down in the next valley. Follow that path there,” and the elder pointed to a track running in between two rock walls, “and you will see a river running ahead of you. Follow the route down to it and you’ll find the army camped a mile from it. You will see the camp when you come round a set of boulders three quarters of the way down.”

  “So close all this time,” Casca grunted. “Very well, I’ll leave after you’ve provided me with a meal. I’ve eaten nothing but the slops since I’ve come here. I want a decent meal before going. I’ll be in there,” he pointed behind him.

  There was one more thing he had to do before going. He searched the dead chieftain who’d been left where he’d fallen, and retrieved the medallion. He grunted almost in amusement as he placed it over his head. It was his and nobody was going to take it until he decided.

  A couple of nervous girls served him a meal of roast goat and bread. Casca found it perfectly acceptable and wolfed down the entire lot, the two girls, aged about fifteen or so, standing close by waiting for anything Casca wanted. They served him the fresh tasting water from the spring. He wondered who would power the wheel now he was no longer tied to it. No matter, they’d survive. If needs be they’d get a couple of the stronger men to do it. They were wiry and tough, like most hillmen.

  Finally Casca stood up, belched and patted his gut. It was good to feel human again. He’d need to clean his uniform once he got back to camp; it had gone to rat shit during the winter but nobody had bothered to wash his clothing. White always went dirty first. He’d have to arrange with the camp laundry to get the season’s grime and filth off it. Also, he’d have to get a new set of armor. Pallos had taken his last set, the bastard. If he happened across the scheming smirking sonofabitch again he’d eviscerate the swine.

  Without saying farewell to any of the tribe, Casca set off downhill, passing through deep canyons, overshadowed by sheer sided rock walls and carefully negotiating narrow paths that clung to mountainsides with a dizzy drop to the other side. Goats and the insane would be fine with it. Then he came to a narrow grassy valley with a stream chuckling down the center, and rocks lying scattered along its length. Buzzards circled lazily on updrafts high above him, and he even caught the sight of a flock of mountain goats, white colored beasts with curved horns. They watched him carefully from their vantage points high up on a series of ledges hundreds of feet up one slope as he passed by.

  At the bottom were a series of large jagged boulders, a remnant of some huge rock fall in times long gone. As he passed around the corner of the last of these a series of tents came into his vision, a few miles distant. The villager had been right. Just off to one side a wide river ran its way lazily off to the north towards a set of dizzying peaks he knew to be the Caucasus Mountains. What the army was doing here way out of the usual routes that ran from the Empire into Persia was anyone’s guess. Casca wondered if it was something to do with securing Armenia before turning on Persia proper.

  He resumed his journey and before long came out of the mountains, reaching the valley, and forged through wet long grass until he got to the place where it had been flattened by thousands of feet. After that it was easier to make his way to the camp.

  He was challenged by the first sentry who spotted him and Casca had to wait for a few moments while the officer in charge came to see what the fuss was all about. Casca lazily saluted him, his fist across his chest, and reported he had been captured by bandits but had made an escape and wanted to rejoin the army.

  He was questioned further but the officer decided he should be handed over to Theodore’s wing and so he was escorted through the camp to the right side where familiar flags and faces could now be seen. One or two hailed him and he waved back, glad to be back.

  Demetros was beside himself with delight. “Where
have you been? Kalatios has had you branded a deserter and said you’d be arrested if he saw you again! And Mathu and Pallos! It’s been so long I thought you dead or deserted!”

  “No. I was taken prisoner and held in the hills back there. Pallos and Mathu did desert; they did a deal with the bandits. So where’s the hero Kalatios?”

  Demetros nodded to the squad leader’s tent. “He’s had a few new recruits to train and he’s not in the best of moods these days.”

  Casca snorted. “He’s never in a good mood; he’s as bad as a bear with toothache.” The Eternal Mercenary threw his sword into Demetros’ tent.

  “Hey, they replaced you with a new guy; he sleeps in here now.”

  “Not any more he doesn’t,” Casca said shortly. “What’s his name?”

  “Gidritus. He breaks wind in his sleep,” Demetros added. “It’s awful!”

  Casca smirked. “So you’d have no objection to me throwing him out?” Demetros shook his head. Casca nodded and walked off to find Kalatios. The squad leader was close by, barking instructions to a group of young looking men who were sparring. Casca appraised them for a minute, then shook his head in despair. What barrels were they scraping these days to find recruits? The good old Tenth Legion would eat this lot for breakfast.

  “Casca Longinus reporting back for duty,” Casca said loudly in Kalatios’ ear, causing the squad leader to jump.

  “Sweet Blood of Jesus!” Kalatios yelled, clutching his chest. “You nearly made me shit myself there! Where the devil have you been? I’ve had you marked as a deserter!”

  “So I hear, Sarge. Bandits captured me and held me all winter. Just made my escape.”

  “Really?” Kalatios clearly didn’t believe him. “Well you’ll be starting over again like a recruit – like these dumb asses here. You’ll be quartered with them and train with them.”

  Casca scratched an ear. “Well this is the thing, Sarge. I’ve already set up in my old tent with Demetros. And you’ll be wasting your time trying to train me. I could outfight you, let alone mother’s pretty boys here.”

  “Hey, that’s my place!” a tall, black haired man said in outrage. “You can’t just come along and do that!”

  Casca stepped up to him. “You Gidritus? Well I say I am. You going to argue?”

  Gidritus looked at Casca, then swallowed and shook his head. Casca nodded and turned round. “So Sarge, with your permission I’m going to get cleaned up and make myself ready for evening inspection.” He walked off, leaving Kalatios open-mouthed.

  The news was interesting. They were preparing to move north east into Armenia and the area where the Persian’s religious founder, Zoroaster, came from. Heraclius had decided it was intolerable that the temples and beliefs of this heretical religion should exist in the region, and had determined to stamp it out.

  Oh great, Casca thought to himself as he cleaned his leather belt, more religious campaigning. They’re a right pain in the ass. Still, it would infuriate the Persians and distract them. Word was that there were two armies massing on the frontier, and preparing to invade in two separate places. Heraclius couldn’t be in two places at once, and rather than sit still worrying, he was going off to do his own thing and to hell with the Persians’ plans.

  At least Casca was going to war again.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Armenia was mountainous and hard. The places an army could march were few and far between and the passes were flanked by high peaks and sheer rock faces. It was perfect ambush and bandit country. But here and there were stretches of arable land and the settlements and villages of this region sprang up wherever they could to sustain the population. Casca was always amazed at how many people lived in these harsh regions.

  There were a few towns and the army camped close by to one on more than one occasion. The Persian garrisons fled at their approach, hugely outnumbered, and Heraclius wasn’t here for a holiday. Any Persian official left behind was put to death and their temples smashed to the ground. The mostly Christian Armenians were glad to see their overthrow.

  Beyond Armenia the land sloped down to gentler rolling hills and, in the distance, a glittering sea. Demetros pointed in wonder at it the day they crested a rise and first caught sight of it. “The Sea of Caspian,” Casca commented. He’d never seen it before himself but had heard of it from his many journeys. “It is said that giant fish live in its depths and that their eggs are prized as a delicacy.”

  The Greeks looked on in wonder. Then another soldier exclaimed in wonder and pointed to the north, away from the Sea. Faint plumes of smoke were seen rising from the ground. “What is that?”

  Casca shrugged. “Now that I don’t know,” he admitted. It didn’t seem to be coming from any settlement. “It’s not like a burning house or village.”

  They marched on and descended into a large plain where wild grasses and cereals grew in abundance. Herds of antelope-like animals scattered from their approach and as they neared the smoke all could see that it came from an area of land that looked as if it had been burned. Flat black liquid seeped over the ground and small fires flickered up in places where the ooze bubbled out of the earth. The smell was overpowering and many covered up their mouths and noses.

  “What in God’s name is this?” Demetros asked in wonder.

  “Hell, that’s what,” Kalatios said grimly. “This is the Land of Fire, the birthplace of that evil heretic Zoroaster and his vile teachings!”

  Casca knelt by the side of the nearest pool and prodded it with a stick. The stick was instantly covered in the ooze and the stuff dripped from it in huge globules. He sniffed it experimentally. There was an odd smell to it, like nothing he’d encountered before. There had been long ago a time when he had been in the land of Chin and there were places there where a strange black rock that burned for a long time could be picked up, and the smell was vaguely similar, but this was a liquid whereas the rock in Chin had been solid.

  He threw down the stick and stood up, pulling a face. “Smells awful.”

  “The Devil’s work, to be sure,” Demetros said in awe. “Stay clear of it, Casca.”

  Casca shrugged and returned to the ranks. “Can’t eat it or drink it, that’s for certain. Unless anyone can put a value on it I doubt it’ll be good for anything.” He looked along the edge of the pool and saw blackened skeletons. “It’s no good for animals either. Something deep from under the ground. Best left alone, as you say.”

  They marched on. Word came down from the front that they were on their way to destroy the main temple of Zoroaster at a place called Ganzak where the prophet had been born. Casca wondered what the religious Shapur II would have thought if Casca had told him one day he’d destroy the place his deity originated from. A wry smile played across his lips. In a way he was exacting revenge for his burning at the stake three hundred years on.

  The smoke from the fires of the Zoroastrian temples filled the air all around. As night fell the glow of fires and the natural flames from the ground gave the area an eerie ethereal quality. Many of the men shivered as the temperature dropped and huddled close, crucifixes in their hands. Casca snorted in derision and stood on guard, his spear resting butt first on the ground. It was an oddly beautiful scene but totally alien to his mind.

  No wonder the Zoroastrians worshipped fire. The very ground here spewed flames.

  The next morning officers yelled orders and the men hastily grouped into their units, many of them tired for lack of sleep. Demons in their minds had stopped them from falling asleep lest the devils that lurked in the bubbling, smoking pools crept out and stole their souls. Casca had slept soundly after his guard stint.

  He and his sword-mates were detailed to follow their commander into the town. Other units surrounded the town and formed a cordon. Nobody was to escape God’s mercy that day. The temple loomed ahead as they tramped down the muddy track that served as the main street, and frightened faces peered through narrow openings in doorways as they passed the thatch and mud dwellings. Not much
was of stone here except the religious centers.

  “Right,” their commander said, turning to face the sea of faces as he got to the bottom of the staircase that led up to the huge platform the temple was sat upon. “The Emperor has declared in God’s name that these pagan idolaters must be destroyed together with their vile places of worship. You are to burn it to the ground. Nothing must be left to salvage. Take everything out from within and smash it. Pile it outside here. And if any of you are tempted by Satan to take anything, your souls with rot in hell for ever more! Do you understand?”

  “Aye, sir!” the men chorused.

  “Then go do God’s work. Praise be to God!”

  Casca sneered from behind the head of a tall soldier. All this religious bullshit always ended up with someone dying and someone else vowing revenge. He dutifully followed his comrades up the wide stone staircase to the platform. Ahead stood the tall stone temple itself, with a flickering fire in a wide metal dish stood on a tripod in front of the main entrance. Above the doorway an emblem of a blue colored bird caught his eye. It was beautiful, and he sighed as he realized all this was to be destroyed in the name of God.

  So be it. Perhaps one day it will be the turn of the Christian churches. He followed his comrades through the doorway into the cool interior and saw a white robed priest with a tall, rounded hat and holding a tall staff standing in front of the altar, protesting. Kalatios, leading their small group, struck him to the floor without hesitation. The priest tried to raise himself to his feet but Kalatios kicked him aside and spat at him. Casca grimaced, but reckoned the priest would have done the same to him at his burning way back in Shapur’s time.

  “Tear this place apart,” Kalatios ordered, sword in hand, and Casca strode off to the left to see what portable possessions he could take. There was a large gold colored book stand and he lifted it with an effort, grunting. It must have been solid gold! He turned and carried it outside to the platform and threw it down, where it bit into the stonework, chipping it, and the corner of the stand bent.