Sword of the Brotherhood

by Tony Roberts

  With a roar the Persians sent their cavalry out on each flank, heavily armored cataphractoi and mobile archers, but the Byzantine mounted forces met them and the flanks were turned into a mass of wheeling, screaming men and beasts. Casca shuffled and gripped his spear tighter. If any of the Persian cavalry came his way then his spear would be his only protection.

  “Turn about! Retreat!” came the surprise order from the commander. Casca turned in surprise and stared at his comrades. They looked baffled too. But obediently they turned about and began marching away from their positions. The cavalry remained locked together in a fight to the finish, and they were moving away further from the main part of the field. Behind them they heard the Persian infantry scream in delight and begin following them.

  This was crazy. What was Heraclius thinking? They walked for perhaps three or four minutes, then the order came to halt and turn about. The rear of the infantry had come up against the foot of the hills to their east, and now they were protected. The army swung about and shields came up, a wall of wood and iron. Spears were lowered and pointed forward. Casca bared his teeth as he caught sight of the enemy infantry running towards them, hollering and shrieking.

  Suddenly it came clear to Casca what Heraclius had done. The feigned retreat. The inexperienced Persian infantry had broken ranks and had come racing after the Byzantines, and once half of them had done so, the rest had to follow.

  “Butcher time, boys,” Casca said and braced himself. Demetros glanced at Casca once and the Eternal Mercenary winked at him. Demetros smiled weakly, then his face went serious and he stared ahead, waiting for the impact of the enemy.

  Casca decided the spear could be used like the old days when he’d been part of the Seventh and Tenth legions. He knew the current up to date tactics frowned on it, but Hades, he was here fighting the battle, not some clerk in the general’s headquarters. A pox on civil servants.

  Drawing in a deep breath he drew back his spear and sighted one individual, a dark bearded guy with sandals brandishing a single edged sword. As the Persian got to thirty feet Casca planted his left foot forward, held his breath and flung the spear with all his might. The spear arced through the air and smashed into the chest of the shocked man, flinging him back with arms upraised into a colleague right behind him. Both went down in a tangle of limbs.

  Casca pulled out his sword and raised it high above the rim of his shield. Now he was armed with the business weapon! Screams filled the air as the enemy reached them and crashed into the shield wall. Men staggered back from the impact and the killing began.

  Casca thrust up his shield into the face of the first to reach him, and as the Persian staggered, his eyes wide and surprised, the Eternal Mercenary brought his sword down, and slid the point forward and into the man’s ribs. It was a quick stab and he withdrew it just as sharply. He smiled. Just like a thrust from the old gladius back in the days.

  Then a second man thumped into his shield and hacked at him with his sword, trying to slice Casca’s head open. Casca met it high above his head and shoved hard, pushing the man back. To Casca’s right one of his comrades staggered back, blood spurting from a shoulder wound and the Persian who’d done it pushed into the gap and went to hack at Casca but the Eternal Mercenary dropped low, his shield above his head protecting him from the man in front of him, and he jabbed his sword into the other Persian’s thigh. The Persian went down screaming and the Byzantine soldier in the second rank stepped forward and sliced a blow into the man’s neck, sending the head rolling back away from the line.

  Casca’s shield shook to another blow and he sprang back to his feet, sword striking back hard, dripping blood. The Persian took the blow in the neck and he sagged into Casca’s shield, eyes rolling up into his head, his lifeblood pumping out onto Casca’s shield and arm. As he slumped into a heap at Casca’s feet, yet another Persian came at him, teeth bared in a rictus of hatred and fear.

  The man had bad breath; it was like facing a basilisk. Cursing the man and whatever diseased meal he’d eaten before battle, Casca battered hard at him, beating him down, and then he sent the shield boss slamming into his face, crushing cartilage and bone, pulping his nose and lips into a gory mess.

  Briefly without an opponent, Casca whipped a look at Demetros, but the young man was standing firm, fighting in a textbook manner. His spear was embedded deeply in some opponent’s gut and he was now parrying a new attack with his sword.

  A wild yell announced his next opponent and Casca braced for the assault. A wiry mountain man with a spear came lunging at him. The point grazed Casca’s left shoulder. He’d been too slow in getting his shield up. Damn! But the mountain man was helpless and Casca slammed his sword point first deep into his gut, twisting as it sliced apart the stomach muscles. The Persian cried out, screwed his face up and fell away out of sight.

  “Forward!” the commander urged, sensing the Persian attack had failed to make any impact.

  Casca roared and stepped up onto the soft bloodied pile of what once had been living men at his feet. The front line was a wavering, writhing mass, and the sounds of steel on steel and screams filled his ears. A Persian saw Casca stepping forward and raised his oblong wicker shield as Casca’s blow descended towards him. The impact sent pieces of shield spinning through the air, and the Persian staggered back, appalled at the force of the blow.

  Now other Imperial soldiers were pressing forward, pushing the Persian force backwards, and panic gripped the outnumbered army. Casca hacked again at the man in front of him. The man staggered from the force of the blow, then turned and fled, throwing away his shield, trying to put as much distance between him and the irresistible advance of the invading army.

  As one, the Persians suddenly turned and fled, leaving only the die-hards and fanatics to stand there for a moment, then realizing they were facing the entire Imperial army alone, turned and ran after their colleagues.

  Casca stepped forward, sword raised, and ran after the disintegrating Sassanid force, but after a few moments knew he would have a hard time catching them. He lowered his blade and watched as the enemy force melted away into the hills surrounding the battlefield. They hadn’t lost that many, it was just that they had no further stomach to fight; the martial exhortations of their commanders and Shah no longer held any thoughts of glory for them. Defeat had followed defeat, so they now anticipated defeat. Better the care of goats to that of becoming fertilizer for the land.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The exhaustion he felt after all battles had settled upon him. He sat with his head bowed on the corpse of a horse that had fallen with a lance thrust into its front. The rider was lying a few feet away, his neck broken. Blood covered him and it was drying as he sat there, breathing heavily. The smell of blood filled his nostrils and the drying blood pulled at his skin and hair.

  Another Persian bloodbath and he felt just as sickened and empty from this one as he did at the great clash outside Ctesiphon all those years ago. His dull eyes ranged over the scene of devastation; the piles of bodies scattered randomly over the earth, standards and lances sticking up at all angles here and there marking where someone had fallen who’d been carrying it until they’d been struck down, the larger shapes of horses lying in groups where the cavalry had been cut down.

  And here and there a sword lay upright in the soil. He closed his eyes and tried to shut out the dreadful sound of the aftermath of a battle. Groans, cries and appeals from the wounded and dying. Many would join their dead comrades in the afterlife before long. Overhead the birds were gathering, brought from afar by scent and sight. They would feast well.

  “We-we survived, thank God,” Demetros said above Casca.

  The Eternal Mercenary slowly looked up into the horror-stricken face of his companion. The Greek was also splattered in blood and he held his sword loosely in his hand. He looked like he might throw up. “Yes, Demetros, we survived. Those poor bastards didn’t, but we did.”

  “Is – is it all over?”
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  Casca sighed deeply. “I don’t know. Maybe yes. We hold the battlefield and what’s left of the Persian army is running off east. I don’t think they’ll be fit for anything for a long time. Yes, I think it’s all over.”

  He got up with an effort and turned full circle. Here and there people were going from body to body, checking on them, looting or seeing if anyone could be saved. Those too badly hurt were being dispatched. Any Persian wounded were being put to the sword anyway. Overhead clouds were gathering. Why is it, Casca wondered, that after every battle it rains?

  He led his companion off away from the scene of devastation. Evening wouldn’t be long in coming, and he stood on a small rise away from the field looking out to the west. The sun was setting, sending golden rays striking out over the land, a contrast to the graying sky overhead. Casca put his sword down and examined his hands. They were red and black. Black with the clotted blood of others. “Come on,” he said softly, “let’s get a drink and clean up.”

  Wounded men were limping back towards the camp, being helped by some of their comrades, while others were being carried in canvas sheets, butchered limbs hanging off the sides. It was a wonder how much punishment some people could take and yet remain alive. The camp was a seething mass of humanity with the returning soldiers mixing with the camp followers and support units, and of soldiers wandering around calling out the names of their friends and comrades, hoping to get an answer.

  The top surgeons were attending the Emperor, taking care of his wounds, and the Imperial Guard was stood facing outward, barring anyone’s approach. Casca closed his ears to the sounds of pain, of praying to God and the crying of men facing death and knowing nothing could stop it. He’d heard it all before and he knew he’d hear the same again before long.

  They arrived at their tent and sat down, tired and worn out. A boy staggered past, carrying a yoke with buckets at each end, spilling water as he went. Casca called him over and used the ladle hanging from the bucket to slake his thirst, then he poured some over his arms and rubbed the worst of the blood off. Demetros did the same. Casca sighed deeply and lay back, his head inside the tent. At least his tongue had been soaked and wasn’t sticking to the roof of his mouth anymore. He still felt sick.

  “I want to return home,” Demetros said, sitting by Casca’s side. “This isn’t for me. I would serve my people better by prayer.”

  “Do what you wish, Demetros. I never thought you were the soldiering type anyway.”

  The Greek looked at the prone figure of Casca. “And you? What will you do now? You came to us from the sea. You’ve proved to be the best soldier of us all. You’ve helped vanquish the heretics.”

  Casca grunted in amusement. “Yes, I’ve done God’s work.” He sounded sarcastic. “I fought for the Empire for personal reasons, Demetros, not for any religious conviction. Be content that we fought together on the same side.”

  “You would have fought for the Persians?” Demetros sounded aghast.

  “Not against the Empire, no. I doubt I’d’ve fought for the Sassanids anyway. They have bad memories for me. But now? I have no more need to be in this army. I guess I’ll collect my pay and go elsewhere. There’s always a war to be fought.”

  Demetros looked puzzled. “Must you always fight?”

  Casca squinted up at Demetros. “So it seems, yes.” He thought on that for a moment. Maybe the Curse compelled him to do that. He didn’t really know. All he knew was that he got bored with a non-army life very quickly. War and battle called to him.

  More people came back from the field and sat down tiredly. But there were many missing. Victory was theirs but the cost had been high, if one counted the loss of friends as a measure of victory. The actual casualties hadn’t been as bad as it might have been, thanks to the Persian army falling apart so quickly.

  A messenger boy came running up and asked one of the nearby men where he could find Casca Longinus. Casca sat up and called to the boy. The messenger came trotting up to him and passed him a parchment. He stood dutifully by while Casca opened it and read the contents. His heart turned a somersault. It was in Latin, a language most of the men with him would not understand. The message was brief but clear. ‘Longinus. Come to the southern ridge overlooking the Tigris immediately.’ It was unsigned except for a stylized symbol of a fish. He crushed the parchment. The Brotherhood.

  “Thank you, boy,” he said absently to the messenger. The boy hesitated, and Casca suddenly realized he was waiting for a reward. Grumbling he fished in his pouch and tossed him a silver coin of Heraclius. The messenger bowed, smiling, and ran off.

  “Trouble?” Demetros asked.

  “Oh, not really. Somebody wishes to meet me outside the camp. I won’t be long,” he said and pulled himself with an effort to his feet. “Don’t let anyone screw you for your pay,” he said to Demetros, and wandered off through the camp. The ridge was to the south, so he pushed his way past the returning soldiers and easily slipped past the pickets who were too busy talking to the men who had come from the fight.

  The evening was almost upon him and he stood for a moment overlooking the plains below. Off to the south across the immense plain stood Ctesiphon. He couldn’t see it as the gathering dark made it impossible, but he could make out the dark snake of the river.

  He began walking along the edge, wondering where his contact would be.

  Then came a voice out of the dark. “Welcome, Longinus.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Casca slowly walked forward. Two men stood waiting for him, one thickset, the other tall. He knew who they were before the flickering torchlight revealed their faces. The tall one’s voice had already given away their identity. “Pallos, Mathu,” he said dully. He had sort of half been expecting it.

  “We meet again, Spawn of Satan,” Pallos said, a smile on his lips but not in his eyes. “This time you are not to leave our side. You are to follow my orders.” He laughed briefly, then. “You could say you’re a member of my cell, an honorary member of the Brotherhood.”

  “Drop the funny stuff, Pallos,” Casca snapped. “I’m here because I guess you’ve finally got a clear ride to where the Spear is?”

  “Correct. We are to ride this night to Ctesiphon. Where is the Spear?”

  Casca shrugged. “Later, when we’re outside Ctesiphon. But how are we to get into the city?” Casca asked sarcastically, “fly?”

  Pallos stepped forward. Now Casca could see that he and Mathu were dressed as Persian soldiers. “No. We are survivors from the battle, and have taken one of the despised officers of Heraclius captive. Here,” he thrust out a hand and in it he was holding a white tunic with decorative red edging. “Put this on, it’s an officer’s garment.”

  Casca unfastened his belt and strapping, and threw off the stained and sweaty infantryman’s tunic. The new garment was knee-length and it was much softer than what he’d been wearing. Refastening his belt, he was led away to where two more men waited, three horses by their sides. The horses were loaded with equipment as well as saddles, and Casca was shown to the horse with the least equipment.

  Pallos mounted up and gripped a spear handed him by one of the two others. Casca looked at it and frowned. It even had the old mark on the shaft identical to his old spear, the one he was now to retrieve. Pallos grinned. “A duplicate. The peace terms will be harsh on Persia. Now their armies are smashed they have nothing left to fight with. Byzantium will demand full reparation, including the return of the True Cross and the Spear. So, a duplicate to make the Byzantines think they have the right one, while we keep the proper Spear.”

  Casca grunted. “So we get into Ctesiphon. We steal the Spear. Then what?”

  Pallos shrugged. “We get out. I’ll tell you the route we’ll take once we’re safely out of that accursed city.”

  Casca didn’t like the vibes coming from Pallos. There again he was Brotherhood, and why would he trust any of the mad swine? Mathu just watched Casca, his eyes beady and dark. Casca had no doubts the
Nubian wanted his hide.

  The two others turned and vanished into the night, leaving only Pallos, Mathu and Casca on horseback. With Pallos in the lead and Casca’s mount roped to Mathu’s, they rode through the night across the dry, sandy soil of Mesopotamia, and then down into the fertile plain of the Tigris. The torch carried by Pallos led Casca on, on towards a place that had always been associated by him to dread and death.

  Death because of the huge slaughter of a battle he’d been in, four and a half centuries past, and dread because it had become the symbol of death and slaughter to him, and also because it represented Persia, and Casca had known little except pain and suffering from that place.

  So he rode in silence. But he was thinking hard, and thinking of some plan to thwart Pallos and the Brotherhood. They crossed a canal, the horses’ hoofs thundering over the bridge, and they rode on, three dark figures on horseback. Nobody questioned them. Fear kept many mouths shut and eyes averted. In these times of war, it didn’t pay to ask too many questions.

  As dawn began to lighten the sky ahead of them, the walls of Ctesiphon came into view. Pallos slowed close to the Tigris Gate and threw away his torch. “So, Longinus, care to tell me where the Spear is?”

  “The palace – treasury room.” Casca kept it short. He didn’t want to speak to Pallos any more than he needed to. Mathu pulled Casca close and bound his wrists. He glared at the Eternal Mercenary, daring him to say or do anything stupid. Casca looked away.

  A guard hailed them. Pallos waved and shouted back in Farsi that they had a prisoner and news of the battle.

  The guard wanted to know but Pallos shook his head. “My message is for the ears of the governor only. I come from General Ratatzes.”

  The guard scanned the horizon, but the growing daylight revealed nobody, so he shouted for the gates to open, and the three men rode in, under the curious gaze of the guards. Casca looked at them briefly. They weren’t regulars, merely militia or palace guards. All the proper soldiers had gone to die at Nineveh.