by Tony Roberts
He read the letter. Ayesha assured him she was in good health but was missing him and urged him to get the task done and return to her so the entire episode could be finished and they could all get back to their lives. He ran his fingers over the words slowly.
“As promised, she is unhurt. We are keeping our side of the bargain, now you must do the same. The place the Spear is being kept?”
“You’ll have to take me there too. I won’t tell you until you’ve planned a way in and out.”
Pallos shook his head. “How can I do that if I don’t know there the place is, Longinus? Be sensible!”
“And you be sensible too, you creep,” Casca snapped. “The moment I tell you where it is you’ll go off and get it and slit Ayesha’s throat and leave me here, laughing your balls off.”
“I’ll need an approximate area,” Pallos insisted, leaning forward. This was harder than shitting a melon, getting the information out of the surly soldier. “Dastagird?”
Longinus shook his head. He uttered the word he hated almost as much as the Brotherhood. “Ctesiphon.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Casca had to be fetched from Sebastea. He was found half sitting half slumped against the wall of a tavern clutching a chicken. He had no idea how he had come to possess the bird or where his money had gone, but he had lost three days somewhere.
Kalatios screamed abuse at him the entire trek back to the camp which was in the process of packing up, the vanguard already having marched off north-eastwards towards Trebizond on the Black Sea coast. Casca clutched his head in one hand and the chicken in the other, tucked under one arm, and endured the ranting NCO all the way back. The two others sent to find Casca grinned, glad someone else was catching the grief from Kalatios for a change.
“Get changed, get that vomit off your uniform and be ready to march in ten minutes!” Kalatios shouted as Casca stumbled towards his half collapsed tent, an open-mouthed Demetros watching his approach. “And lose that damned bird!”
Casca, zombie-like, went through the motions of buckling on his sword and changing his boots, but still was half dead by the time the unit left the tents for the support corps to pack onto the wagons and lined up ready to go. Casca’s skin pallor was a deathly white. How anyone could consume so much alcohol in three days was a wonder, but Casca had equaled his feat back in Rome when he’d gained his freedom from Nero.
He supposed it was just as well there hadn’t been a statue of Kalatios in the main street of Sebastea.
“Longinus!” Kalatios screamed. “Stand up straight! You’re not mating with a goat now!”
The soldiers chuckled. Demetros looked in distaste at Casca who still had dried vomit welded to his once clean tunic. The smell was unpleasant. “Can’t you look after yourself by now?” the young Greek complained.
Casca turned his bloodshot eyes on his comrade. The look stopped Demetros from making any further comment.
Kalatios stepped closer but not too close. The odor was fairly strong. “When we get to the next watercourse you’re going to jump in and get rid of that stench. The Persians will be able to smell us approaching ten miles away!”
Casca closed his eyes and wished he was dead. Maybe he’d tried to kill himself in Sebastea. It was futile he knew, but at least fun enough trying. Anything to forget Pallos and his scum pals. Pallos would contact him once they had gotten a route to Ctesiphon mapped out and the opportunity to gain entry into the place. The only sticking point was that currently there were the various Persian armies in the way. Once they were cleared then it would be only a matter of time.
They spent the winter camped close to the Armenian border. Heraclius obviously was still nervous about what Armenia would do. A long time Christian kingdom on the north-east frontier of the Roman Empire, it had been coveted both by Rome and Persia, and many wars had been fought over possessing it or controlling it. This war was no different; as well as the fight to possess the lands of the Caesars, Armenia was once more involved in a tug of war between the two old antagonists. Having recently cleared the enemy out of Armenia, Heraclius sure didn’t want them sneaking back in again.
But when the snows cleared the following spring he had a problem; the Persian plans were unfolding and now he had to make a decision. The capital was under threat from not only the Persians under Sarbaros, but also the Shah had arranged a treaty with the wild Avars across the Danube, and they were advancing from the other direction through the Balkans.
Other Persian forces were threatening both Armenia and the Imperial frontier so Heraclius had to take the difficult decision of splitting his army into three. He sent a small section to Constantinople to bolster the defenses there; he himself would remain in Armenia and conduct a diplomatic campaign. He then sent Theodore – and of course Casca amongst his soldiers – into Mesopotamia to threaten both Dastagird and Ctesiphon, and to take out the Persian army blocking the route.
Casca, once again in full health, settled into the mind numbing anonymity of a soldier on the move. They tramped down through the mountains of eastern Anatolia towards the Tigris. Scouts had gone out and reported back that Shahin, the ablest of the Persian generals, was pursuing them from the Armenian frontier. So Theodore swung the route of march round and came to a halt with its back to a steep slope and the right wing secured against another ridge. Only the left flank was ‘open’, and he put his cavalry there to protect that part of his army.
The slingers, archers and javelin throwers were arranged in a screen in front of the infantry, and the clouds of dust ahead gave away the approach of the Persian army. Casca knew that this was the fight that mattered. Sarbaros’s army far to the west in front of Constantinople was of no importance; Shahin commanded the veteran Persian force that stood in the way of the heartland of Persia and the armies of Heraclius.
As the dust settled the skirmishers stepped out in front of both armies, and arrows and sling stones began filling the air. Casca raised his shield, as did his comrades theirs, and kept his head down as the occasional stone came spitting through the air to strike his shield or helmet. Arrows were much more deadly and they came at a steeper angle. One struck his shield and stuck, so he swept it off with a sweep of his sword, leaving the metal barb and a jagged stump of the shaft sticking out.
Eventually Theodore got fed up with the exchange, mostly because, so Casca could see, the Persians were getting the better of the skirmish. The trumpets sounded and the mass of the Byzantine infantry began marching forward, chanting with every other step, a huge armored beast, bristling with spear points and swords. Now the Persian mounted archers came galloping out from the safety of their spearmen and began pouring fire down onto the soldiers. One man close to Casca staggered as an arrow found his throat and he sank to his knees, gripping the shaft futilely.
Dust was sent up by the thousands of feet and the horses hooves. Casca wiped his brow with his wrist, and concentrated on moving forward. Hundreds of his colleagues were hit by the Sassanid archers, but they couldn’t stop the lumbering monster. Now the Imperial cavalry came thundering round the flank, threatening the Persian archers. The missile troops fled back to their ranks and the heavy infantry came on, relieved now the mass of missiles aimed at them had stopped.
But there were still the Kurdish javelin men to face, elite missile troops local to the area. They had little love for the Romans, and not much more for the Persians, but Persian gold had found its way to their palms and they had flocked to the banner of Ahura-Mazda, eager to kill someone.
“Steady!” Kalatios shouted above the deep rumbling of the advance. He’d seen the line of javelin throwers step forward and raise their weapons. As one, they released them and a wall of shafts came arcing through the air at them. Casca gritted his teeth, braced himself and stopped momentarily as two javelins struck; one sent its jagged, barbed head through his shield, while the second glanced off his helmet and hit someone behind who uttered a curse and fell. Three men in Casca’s line of sight were toppled by the missil
es, but like a dog shaking water off its fur, the infantry came on again after a brief halt. Casca chopped the javelin shaft in two, leaving a short stump sticking out of his shield, and resumed in the wake of the first line.
The stony ground rose slightly as they closed in on the Persians. Their infantry stood their ground, tough looking Armenians, clearly recruited by Shahin before he’d set off after Theodore’s army. The Byzantines halted a few paces from the Persian line and clashed their swords and spears against their shields, filling the air with a deep drumming noise. Then, as taught by their officers, they roared the Greek word for victory. “Nika! Nika!” To Casca it was another step away from the old world of the former Roman Empire. Heraclius had finally dispensed with Latin as the official language and had replaced it with Greek. Even the old title ‘Caesar’ was no longer being used. Casca had heard the term ‘Basileus’ used on more than one occasion, the Greek for ‘king’. It saddened him.
But here, this day, sadness was swept aside on the adrenaline-fueled battlefield. Time enough for sadness and depression after the fight. Now he felt the kick and thrill of being one with his army colleagues, fighting with them against an enemy. This is what made him live, what made him look forward to the next battle, no matter how many times he did it. There was a final volley of stones, javelins and arrows that took out an unlucky few, then the infantry surged forward with a roar of defiance and exhilaration.
Casca leaned forward, running at the enemy. Ahead of him the front line crashed into the Persian line and Casca rammed into the back of the soldier ahead of him, pushing him against the unyielding Armenians. Two armies strained against each other, face to face, teeth bared, nostrils flared, muscles bulging. Push. Shove.
Sweat rose in a cloud from the lines. There was no room to swing your sword. Casca once again rued the day the legions abandoned the use of the short stabbing sword. Here, today, they’d be in deadly use. His face was pressed into the sweaty leather-clad back of the man ahead of him, and behind he felt the hot body of another pushing against him. The grunting of men shoving against the opposition grew as each side tested the other; neither were prepared to give way.
Around the periphery the horses rode, seeking a way into the enemy lines, but the skirmishers and the opposing mounted forces kept each away from the other. All they achieved was to raise an even bigger dust cloud that drifted over the scene, coating the sweaty brows of the combatants.
The man ahead of Casca grunted and slid to the ground, a spear impaled in his gut. Casca was sent stumbling forward suddenly, and he had the wit to plant his forward leg hard on the ground and stop himself being thrown down. His sword was pulled back at head height and then slammed forward straight into the face of a soldier who’d lost his spear – it probably had been what had killed the Greek ahead of Casca. The Persian’s face vanished in a mask of blood and he screamed shrilly, falling where he stood into an inert heap at Casca’s feet.
Using his shield to both protect his left side and to keep the Persian line away from him, he stabbed forward again and again, using his long sword like an old gladius. He was strong enough to get away with it. His vicious slicing blade sank into the throat of a second man, eagerly seeking his windpipe, opening it to the air. Blood sprayed out, propelled by the dying breath of the man, coating Casca’s face and helmet.
He quickly wiped the worst from his eyes and slashed down on the heads of the next two men. Shields came up and this time they avoided the gory fate of their comrades. Curses filled the air in a variety of languages and Casca added his, using all sort of tongues he’d used over the years.
Orders were shouted and the lines broke apart. Casca was grateful; his arm was aching and he needed to wipe the sweat and blood off his face. It was getting in his eyes. He wiped himself as he stepped backwards and stopped ten paces back. Both sides sucked in oxygen, filling their lungs, staring with hate at each other. It wouldn’t be long before they got to grips with one another again.
The only downside was that the javelins and arrows came at them again. Shields were raised and many missiles bounced off harmlessly, but some got through and bodies fell. Theodore sent his cavalry in again and they hit the right flank of the Persians. Casca took a quick glance over the rim of his shield and saw the Persian right battling hard against the heavy cavalry. What had happened to the Persian cavalry he didn’t know, but he could only guess they’d been driven off. If that was so, then the Armenian-Persian force ahead of them was in deep shit.
Another trumpet blast and Kalatios, standing three men to Casca’s right, raised his sword and bayed rage and encouragement to his troops to attack again. Casca took up the roar and sprang forward, shield ahead of him, sword raised high. He leaped over the prone figures of the fallen, and with one bound landed just short of the enemy line and used the momentum to slam his blade down at the man ahead of him. The enemy’s shield took the blow but split down the middle, shattered by the force of the blow. The iron boss in the center held it together but it was finished as an effective device.
A desperate strike by his opponent slammed against Casca’s shield but it held. Now Casca wielded his sword and brought it down against the disintegrating shield of the Armenian. It split wider and Casca used the break to slice down through it and sever the shield arm of the helpless man. He screamed in pain and twisted away, clutching his spurting limb. He’d dropped his sword and was too injured to worry about taking any further part in the battle.
The press of men wasn’t as bad this time round, partly due to tiredness, and partly due to men having to avoid the growing piles of dead at the battle front. The second and third lines of the Persian force were thrusting their spears forward and Casca could see these were not the heavy swordsmen of Armenia, but the light infantry of the Persian heartland. Casca hacked down at one spear and shattered it. Now he stood up on a corpse, and, getting his balance, battered away at the next enemy soldier to get in his way. Alongside him his comrades were advancing, slowly carving the Persian force open as the Armenian soldiers were cut down.
Then they heard the Persian horns and a deep drumming noise heralded the arrival of the heavy armored clibanarii, spear throwing heavy cavalry, and they took on the Imperial mounted troops on the flank. The battle seemed to be in the balance. The sun beat down on them mercilessly, sucking out energy and driving them to an insane thirst.
Once more the infantry stepped back and paused. Both sides were showing signs of fatigue. The cavalry melee over to the left had also ended and the dust kicked up was concealing who was still there. Again a mass of arrows came hurtling over from the rear of the Persian lines and the cry went up of warning from the Imperial lines. Casca raised his shield and crouched low, hunkering down, as did many of the veterans. Some of the raw recruits failed to follow fast enough and they were the ones hit.
Casca found himself facing a man from his unit by the name of Andronikus. “Got any water, Casca?” he asked, his lips coated with a fine film of dust. His eyes were the only moist looking part of his face.
“Naw. The support troops ought to be on hand with that!”
“In this barrage? You’ll be lucky, man!”
Casca grinned mirthlessly. Persian archery was renowned to be heavy and massed, and here was no exception. “Time our cavalry did us a favor.”
“What in the Name of God are our archers doing?” Andronikus asked, wincing as another arrow buried itself into the soil alongside him. “We need a break!” he was as breathless as Casca.
As if on cue a cloud of arrows streaked out from behind their own lines and fell amongst the Persian infantry. “Yeah!” Andronikus thumped the ground in delight. “Take that, you goat molesters!”
“Keep your head down,” Casca warned him, and twisted round. Demetros was a few yards away, taking cover beneath his shield. Beyond him Kalatios was lying outstretched on the ground, face up, an arrow buried to the feathers in his throat. “They got the Sarge,” Casca commented and nodded towards the dead NCO.
&n
bsp; “Poor soul,” Demetros said in sympathy.
“Who’s taking over from him?” Andronikus demanded.
“Who knows?” Casca replied, placing a knee on the ground and eyeing the Persian lines. They were taking cover from the arrows and sling stones that were falling amongst their number. They were too tired to come at the resting Imperial troops.
Then the shouts went up that the Persian cavalry were breaking through. As one the infantry rose up and slammed their shields together, ignoring the arrows that still flew at them, and picked up whatever spear they had or could find lying on the battlefield. Heraclius had instilled in them a discipline to face the most dreaded arm of the Persian army; the constant drill at camp over the past few years had given them all an instinctive reaction to the alarm call.
They swung to their left and stood firm as the armored cataphractoi and clibanarii thundered down on them, spears and lances couched, or javelins raised to hurl at the hated enemy. The skirmishers fled the open areas and took refuge amongst the huge square the infantry had formed. Once safe, they resumed their loosing of arrows and hurling of stones.
The Imperial cavalry had withdrawn to a safe distance, tired and bloody, but ready to charge again once they had reformed and regained their breath. Casca watched warily along the line as the huge heavy beasts came closer. The javelin throwers came first, almost indistinguishable from the cataphractoi, and showered the troops as they passed. Two soldiers in Casca’s line staggered from impacts and fell face down, but they were replaced instantly.
The only good thing to Casca’s mind was that the Persian archers had stopped for fear of hitting their own cavalry. Now the Roman archers took their time and loosed at the huge targets, hitting them frequently but infuriatingly most of the missiles bounced off harmlessly. A few did strike home however, and a few riders were sent crashing to the ground, or one or two of the horses fell, spilling their riders as they went down.
