by Tony Roberts
The barkeep shrugged.
Casca tried again. “Heard any interesting news recently?”
“Nope,” the barkeep said.
“Hell, you’re great for custom,” Casca commented, “bet they come for miles around to have a conversation with you.”
Another man came through the doorway at the back, a tall man with graying hair, tightly curled and wiry. He had tanned skin and a long nose, and a slight double chin. Here was someone who ate well. “Who are you and what do you want?”
Casca grunted. At least here was someone who spoke, if not in a friendly manner. “We’re here to buy a supply of ale. We’ll pay well.”
“We’re out. I’m afraid harvest was bad last year and we haven’t got enough for us, let alone anyone else.”
Casca looked around at the locals, all drinking from full mugs. “Looks like plenty here. One barrel, that’s all.”
“I said we’re out. Now I’d be obliged if you leave, and take your – friends – with you.”
Casca tossed a small leather pouch onto the bar. It clinked with the unmistakable sound of coins. “I’m sure one could be found. Perhaps there was somewhere in the store that was overlooked last time it was checked?”
The owner scowled. “I don’t want your money. Now get lost.”
“You make friends easily, don’t you?” Casca said, picking up the pouch. He caught sight of the barkeep staring greedily at it. He swung it in the air, then clinked it into his palm. “Pity, this would make you fairly comfortable through the winter.” He pocketed it and turned to his men. “Ah well, let’s go. Locals hereabouts aren’t that friendly.”
The men scowled and grumbled, and pushed their way out reluctantly. They stood on the street, in a miserable bunch. “Now what, Sarge?” one asked in a gravelly voice.
“Wait around the corner. The barkeep might be persuaded to assist us in our mission of mercy.”
They followed him along the street to the huge doorway where the carts were driven into the back yard. After a few minutes of foot stamping, hand blowing and shivering, the door creaked open a little bit and the barkeep stuck his head out. “If I get a barrel for you, would you give me that money?”
Casca brought the pouch out and jingled it in mid-air. “All yours, after we taste it, of course!”
The barkeep vanished, and a few moments later came rolling a torso-sized barrel up to the door. He righted it, pulled out the bung in the top and pulled out a small mug from his apron. He tiled the barrel awkwardly, spilling some of the dark amber liquid into it and passed it to Casca. “Here, I think you’ll like it.”
Casca sipped a lit, smacked his lips and nodded. He passed it to one of the others and placed the pouch into the man’s hand. “Thank you. We’ll appreciate the taste of your ale even better indoors. Know of a place we can stay for a couple of days while we empty this vessel?”
The barkeep pointed down the road to a large building. “It’s a bit rough and had a reputation.”
“Really?” Casca said, looking round. “I think that’ll be perfect. Thanks again.”
He had the bung replaced and assigned two of the men to carry it across the street, while he and the others escorted it to the door of the hostelry. Loud country music was booming out, with plenty of stamping feet and singing accompanying it. “Ready for some exercise, lads?” Casca asked. The others nodded, grinning. Arms were flexed and knuckles cracked.
Casca kicked the door open and crashed in, followed by two of his men. “Right!” Casca shouted, silencing the revelry. He saw a crowd of Armenians who had been dancing, men and women, and musicians on a small stage. Tables and chairs were dotted about the room. “We’re going to stay here a couple of days upstairs. Nobody had better disturb us. We’ll leave you alone as long as you leave us be.”
“Who are you to come in here,” one man wearing a wide mustache and his white teeth fixed in a snarl advanced on them, his fists balled. “Armenians here only!”
“We’re honorary Armenians,” Casca replied in Armenian, bracing himself, “we are after all keeping your beautiful country free from the filthy Persians who wish to rape you and your goats, in no particular order of preference.”
“Go away, dirty Greek pigs!” the Armenian screamed in fury, his arms swinging.
Casca sent a right full into his face, cracking teeth and splitting his lips. The Armenian crashed backwards onto his ass and sat there, stunned. In an instant the other locals broke into a roar of outrage and came at the soldiers, who jumped forward, arms raised, and met the charge head-on. Casca blocked one wild punch from a short, cropped haired man and sank his fist into the man’s gut. The Armenian tried not to throw up as he sank to the ground.
A chair came flying at Casca and glanced off his shoulder. Roaring in anger, he stepped forward, fists pummeling at another two who went down in a tangle of arms and legs. A leg kicked into his thigh and he grabbed the leg, pulled hard and upended another Armenian. The man’s head struck the floor hard and Casca picked him up and tossed him at a knot of others who were pressing two of his men back across the room.
Someone grabbed him round the throat and another crashed into his legs, sending him to the ground. He used the moment to knee one of them in the face, and he was satisfied to hear a muffled cry, then bit down on the wrist of the man trying to throttle him. A scream almost deafened him and he jabbed a knuckle into the eye socket of the Armenian who lost all interest in the brawl.
Casca rose and flung a chair hard into a group of locals, scattering them. Two of his men were methodically laying out all opponents, advancing slowly across the room, and suddenly the Armenians fled, leaving about fifteen of their number lying in various states of distress on the floor.
He walked up to the first man, nursing a bloodied mouth, and picked him up. “Now listen to me, asshole. We want to be left alone to get very very drunk. Here’s something for our rent,” and he dropped a couple of gold coins into the man’s palm. “We won’t cause any trouble if you leave us be. And you can sing whatever crap you like in the meantime; we’ll be too drunk to worry about that. Understand?”
The Armenian nodded, clutching his bloodied hand. Casca went over to his men who were rubbing sore knuckles and sporting a number of reddening faces, split lips and forming bruises. “Right, upstairs with the ale.”
The men happily followed Casca up to a room which they requisitioned, throwing out a man who was busy humping a whore. His clothes followed him out into the corridor, then a coin to silence his outraged tirade. The whore was kept in the room and was soon lying with her legs open while one after the other of Casca’s men took their turn with her. She was pleased enough; the coins that had been handed to her had bought her for the rest of the week. Casca was content just to drink and get absolutely blind staggering roaring drunk.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
As all things do, the pleasure ended and the pain began. The pain was a rather rude awakening. It consisted of a lot of shouting and hands grabbing him roughly and throwing him down the stairs. It also involved being deposited rather callously into a very cold and wet pile of snow, while he was wearing nothing but his undergarments.
“Are these the men?” a cold voice asked someone.
“Yes. They assaulted us and insulted our women and stole….”
“Enough!” the cold voice snapped. “I don’t want an epistle from the Word of Saint Peter! Rest assured these men will be punished.”
Casca opened one eye and thought it was a bad idea. He was trying to keep his stomach under control while simultaneously attempting to cope with the mother of all hangovers. Lying alongside him were the others, all looking as bad as he felt. Hands hauled him upright and he swayed like wheat in a storm. The cold bit at his flesh and he put his arms around himself, trying to stop the worst of the cold against his skin.
“You disgrace the uniform of the Emperor!” a voice screamed at him.
Casca blearily saw a neatly dressed officer standing before him, a stout
rod in his hand. By his side stood humorless guards. A crowd of people had gathered on the other side of the street, kept at bay by more guards. It seemed half the army had been summoned to deal with the six drunks.
“Haven’t you got anything to say for yourself?” the officer demanded.
“Nice morning, sir,” Casca mumbled, wondering how far vomit could travel and if so, was the officer’s neat and clean uniform in danger?
“What? ‘Nice morning’? Are you mad, or just insolent? Stand up straight!”
Casca groaned and leaned over. The contents of his stomach splattered onto the ground by his feet. Alongside him the others were being dragged to their feet. These men were being shackled and roped together. Casca was kept apart.
“You horrible example of humanity,” the officer said in disgust. “Get your clothes on. Then you will follow me back to camp.”
The journey back was something Casca endured rather than enjoyed. He was escorted closely. It was unnecessary; Casca couldn’t fight off a five year old, let alone two fully grown and tough soldiers. The climb forced the blood into his pounding head, making him feel worse. His men trudged miserably along in a line, tied together, and they were going to be beaten and humiliated, that was for sure. As for Casca, he knew he was the man in charge and would probably have the world thrown at him.
He hoped it had been worth it. His mind went over the previous day after they had arrived in the hostelry. The drinking and singing had competed with the locals downstairs and there had been some kind of argument, but he couldn’t remember exactly what. The prostitute had wanted to leave, something to do with being the object of some unpleasant drinking competitions; the men had poured ale over her and had then drank or licked it off her, and the places they used got more and more personal.
Eventually two of the men had gotten into a fight over her and she had fled, her clothes in her hands, running out stark naked in her haste to escape. Then things had gotten confused and the barrel had been nearly empty by the time Casca had passed out, with only two others conscious. What they had done after that he had no idea. He felt it would be pointless to ask.
He was taken to the Ekatontarch’s tent and presented there. The commander listened to the charges sadly. Casca was charged with using false documents to leave camp; of threatening a local businessman; of bribery; of assault; of disrespecting local traditions and customs; and lastly of being drunk in charge of a squad of his men.
The commander looked at Casca with deep regret. “You realize this means your rewards due you will now be withdrawn, and your record of achievements torn up? A shame. A pity. I don’t know what possessed you to behave in this manner. You will be demoted back to the ordinary ranks. And, as an example to the men, you will be publically beaten. Is there anything you wish to say before your punishment is carried out?”
“No, sir. Just that the men were following my orders and are blameless in all of this.”
The commander studied Casca for a long moment. “I really do not understand you, Longinus. You do not behave like a fool – most of the time. Yet here we have seen you behave completely out of behavior. It is as if you have been possessed by the devil.”
Casca looked in alarm at the officer. He hoped he wasn’t thinking of some stupid religious ritual. The officer caught the look. Then he shook his head. “No, Longinus, you will be punished in accordance with military protocol, not religious protocol.”
“Thank you sir,” Casca puffed out his cheeks in relief.
“Your men will be punished, but only for being drunk. As you have gallantly pointed out, they are blameless for everything else other than for carrying out your orders. In fact, you look relieved. Maybe the burden of command and responsibility was too much for you? It is well perhaps this has happened before the Emperor made a mistake and appointed you to a high position within the palace. God forbid that should happen!”
“Indeed, sir. I would serve the Empire better as a simple soldier.”
The commander nodded. “I agree. But you will still be punished.”
Casca was led outside, and smiled. Now those records of his would never reach Constantinople. Now he could get on with the rest of the war.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The two armies lined up facing each other, separated by a few hundred yards. To Casca it seemed the Persians had grabbed everyone they could to have one last huge effort to stop the Imperial army from taking the entire Mesopotamian basin. Even at that distance Casca could tell many of the infantry were youngsters or old men. Fear showed on their faces, and many were too small for the padded uniforms the spear-wielding infantry habitually wore.
In contrast to their rudimentary shields the Imperial army had the stout wooden ones with iron bosses and edging. While not the old Roman legion standard, the shields were adequate enough. Casca felt confident that this day would prove victorious. He glanced at Demetros and the others around him. All were showing a steely, determined look, the look of confident professional veterans. So different than the day, five and half years back, they had marched out of the training camp near Issus, a collection of raw, green troops. Casca knew he could rely on these men to do their job without him worrying unduly.
The long war had taken its toll on the Persians; they were no longer the tough, efficient military force they had been. The war had turned against them and now they were scraping the barrel to get a force to face the relentless army of Heraclius.
The infantry were in three large blocks with cavalry on the flanks. The Persians looked as though they were in one huge infantry formation with their cavalry also on the flanks. The ground was hard but damp. The winter in this part of Mesopotamia could be cold at nights, and was prone to the occasional rainfall. It had rained overnight and at least it was preventing the damned dust from getting into eyes, mouths and noses, and obscuring the battlefield.
Casca leaned on his oval shield and watched as the usual pre-battle maneuvers went on. Challenges were called out and insults thrown back and forth. He just wished they’d shut up and let soldiers like him get on with it and sort it all out without this showing off. It was, as one of the camp soldiers had described once, a big pissing contest.
Suddenly a deep murmur went up from the ranks of the Byzantine army and Casca leaned out and peered along the front of the army to see what the commotion was. He gaped as he caught sight of the Emperor, Heraclius, walk his horse out, escorted by his elite guard and aide-de-camp. The Imperial soldiers began chanting his name and banging their swords on their shields, and Casca joined in, wondering what in the name of all the gods of creation he was doing.
It soon came clear. He was challenging the Persian commander, Ratatzes, to a personal duel. And incredibly Ratatzes took up the challenge. Both sets of body guards stepped back to allow the two commanders room to fight, and a hush descended upon the mass of men as they waited to see what would come of it.
Casca glanced at Demetros who was whispering a prayer, no doubt to God or Jesus or some saint or other to give Heraclius strength to defeat the Persian general. The Persian was resplendent in white and blue, and his black horse sported white plumes of ostrich feathers. His sword flashed in the early morning sunlight and he came at Heraclius, dressed in a red cloak and an undergarment of white with purple edging. He also wore chain armor, like his opposite number.
The sound of the two commanders clashing reached Casca’s ears, and he watched as they wheeled and fought. Both struck hard and found their targets, and the drawing in of breath was audible. Casca caught sight of whitened knuckles gripping shields along the line, and time seemed to stand still.
Ratatzes struck again and Heraclius flinched, gripping his face. But then almost impossibly, he leaned forward and slashed at the figure of Ratatzes, and the Persian stiffened before sliding off his horse to lie on the ground in between the two armies. Heraclius, bloodied but triumphant, saluted the Persian horde before wheeling, and now escorted by his guard, came galloping across to his army, cheered by th
ousands of throats. Casca shouted too, exultant that the enemy commander had been vanquished, and was even at that moment, being carried prone back to his own lines.
Heraclius rode along the front of his army, accepting the shouts and cries of triumph, his sword raised high in the air. Casca saw he had been hurt and blood dripped down from his face, but the Emperor was ignoring what pain he may have been feeling to take the praise of his troops.
Now the armies got ready for the serious business. Casca let the sounds wash over him, the noise of men readying themselves for battle. It was so familiar to him. Being part of a greater organism carried him away from his self, his ego, his consciousness. The blood began racing through his veins and the adrenaline kicked in. Part of his mind told him that he would not – could not – die this day, but even so the deliciously terrifying thought of being hurt and cut up sharpened his senses and heightened his mind. He would not allow these damned Persians defeat him. Pride alone dictated that.
The deep drumming noise of men rapping their spears and javelins against their shields rolled along the lines and Casca joined in, shouting defiance at those facing him. Casca was in the front line, an honor awarded to those who were the best. Theodore’s unit was on the right, a sign of great favor, and Casca one of those assigned to the right of that unit, again a greater sign of favor.
Even to Casca’s eye where he stood, far over towards one flank, it was clear the Persians were outnumbered. They looked as though they had around twelve thousand or so, while Casca knew Heraclius’s army numbered nearly three times that number. Now their general had fallen, which must have damaged their morale even further.
