by Tony Roberts
Casca led the four others off quickly; he didn’t want to run the risk of being run through from behind by one of them who may not be able to resist the opportunity. The camp ended at the ditch they’d dug earlier but Casca vaulted it with a big bound and landed amongst thorns, weeds and scrub. Typical broken ground, scattered with rocks and small ankle high vegetation. He heard the scuttling of small feet as the creatures of the night fled his approach.
Keeping one eye on the four dark silhouettes pursuing him, he kept on walking for a minute or two until he was sure they were a reasonable distance from the camp, hidden by a slight rise and in darkness. The sound of fighting would carry to the camp, but he didn’t really care. As long as nobody saw him fighting he was reasonably sure he could get away with what he was about to do.
Philatelis and his cronies gathered, surrounding him. All drew their swords. Casca slid his feet around the small parcel of land, feeling for stones or other objects that could trip the unwary up. “Scared I might beat one of you?”
Philatelis snorted. “Making sure you don’t return to the camp after this. We’ve had enough of your interference.”
“Think I’ll be as easy as that poor kid you slaughtered the other night for his jewels?”
“Sure,” Philatelis replied, nodding to his three buddies. “Show him how you did it.”
Casca didn’t wait for the three to close in on him. He turned and sprang to the attack singling out the man behind him, guessing he was the least prepared of them all. Casca raised his sword high before ducking low and sweeping his blade up under the surprised and clumsy attempted block.
The sharpened steel cut easily through the padded tunic of his enemy. It sliced into flesh and grated against bone. The man retched. Casca caught him by the shoulder, holding him for a brief moment before pulling him aside and wrenching out his sword, turning to meet the next man.
The two remaining henchmen closed, both of them expecting to triumph. Now they had revenge as an extra incentive and came at Casca, one on either side of him. The falling man sank at the feet of the one to Casca’s right so he turned on the opponent to his left, a thickset shaggy haired individual. The man was muscular but not agile. He struck at Casca.
Casca’s block rang out across the night but the Eternal Mercenary was still moving, stepping across the man’s path. He slashed down hard, scoring a cut down the man’s arm and he cried out in pain. The other henchman now stepped up, teeth gritted, breathing hard, and cut down through the night air, intending to slice the lone man to pieces. Casca met the blow above his head and stepped in close, fist ramming in hard, connecting with the swordsman’s gut.
The victim staggered back, ashen-faced, rasping for breath. He’d never been hit that hard before. Philatelis began to look concerned. One of his gang was down, probably dead. A second was wounded, blood dripping down his arm, and the third temporarily out of the reckoning. He slid his own sword out of its scabbard and prepared to enter the fray.
The wounded man hacked at Casca but suddenly he wasn’t where he had been. Casca’s back step meant the blade that had been aimed for his neck passed harmlessly by. Casca now struck back, an upswing that was halted only by the luckless man’s ribs. The blade cut in hard, slicing apart leather, linen, flesh and a couple of ribs. The crunch clearly came to Casca. The henchman groaned and dropped his sword, falling backwards onto the hard stony soil.
Philatelis now came at him. Casca heard the crunch of stones and whirled. “Oh, here’s the brave boss.” He deflected the first blow and took a couple of steps to his right, bracing his right leg and striking across Philatelis’ approach as the Greek went to strike again.
Alarmed, Philatelis changed his blow and tried to block but was too slow. Casca’s blade scraped past the clumsy parry and cut into the Greek’s jaw, sending his head jerking back. Pain flared through Philatelis and he screamed, flinging his sword away and clutching his injured face.
The remaining henchman had recovered from the punch to his guts and came at Casca from behind and stabbed him hard through the back. Casca twisted in pain and reversed the grip on his sword and rammed it back behind him, narrowly passing his own side. The henchman took it clean in the stomach and he sighed in pain before slumping to the ground.
Casca sank to his knees, wracked with pain. He saw Philatelis staggering away, holding his face, before he fell to his hands and fought the waves of unconsciousness, but the pain was too much and he crashed face down to lie alongside the three he’d cut down.
Slowly, hesitantly, two figures glided out of the darkness and stood over the prone figure of Casca, looking down at him dispassionately. They exchanged looks, then as one bent towards the unconscious man.
CHAPTER SIX
When he opened his eyes Casca couldn’t see anything. He was disorientated and in pain. But when he tried to move he found he was unable to. There was a brief moment of panic before his mind began to work. The memory of the sword blow to his back came to him. He was lying on his back and it wasn’t on the hard, stony soil of the land surrounding the camp.
He was also now sure that something was wrapped around his head, which was preventing him from seeing. Why? And why the hell was he tied down? He could now feel the restraints on his legs and torso, and his arms were strapped to his side.
He strained at his bindings but they were too numerous and strong.
“Hold still,” a rasping whisper came to him from close by. “Spawn of Satan.”
“Oh shit,” Casca said. “Can’t you Brotherhood people just leave me alone?”
“Lower your voice,” the whisper came again. “You are under our protection.”
Casca began to chuckle despite himself. “’Protection’? Like hell! What would you want to protect me of all people for? And from what? You can’t kill me, nobody can! So what the heck is the protection for?”
The cold hard unforgiving length of a sword slapped him on the leg. “If you don’t lower your voice now I shall use this until you do!”
Casca snarled but lapsed into a sullen silence.
“Very good,” the whisper continued. “You were foolish in doing what you did this evening. Fortunately for you we keep a close watch on you. You are not to endanger the mission you have promised to undertake for us, so there will be no further incidences of this sort of bravado.”
“Philatelis deserved being taken out.” Casca had a thought. “What happened to him? Last I saw……”
“We took care of him,” whisper interrupted. “We will go now and someone will be informed as to your location in a short while. Remember your primary reason for being here; it is not to act like a one-man army. You are working for us, not Heraclius, or his army, or yourself. Remember your woman!”
Casca tugged angrily at his bindings, but again they were too tight. He relaxed and cursed over and over under his breath. Nothing for it but to wait until he was rescued. He guessed the Brotherhood man, whoever he was, didn’t want Casca seeing him so that he would be easily recognized in future. They were being too damned careful.
A few minutes went by, then voices came to him and suddenly people were around him. “God, look at him! Casca, are you alright?”
Casca recognized Demetros’ voice. Before he could reply more voices cut in, commenting on how he was tied, and willing hands pulled off the head cloth and began working on the bindings. Casca blinked as daylight struck his vision. He was in a tent.
“What happened to you?” Demetros demanded, slicing through a few strips of thin leather that had been used to tie Casca up.
“Don’t know,” Casca said. “I was walking through camp one minute….. and then here I was!”
“What happened to Philatelis?” Michael Pallos asked. “This is his tent! All of them have gone!”
“Is it?” Casca was genuinely surprised. Now he could get up and he gingerly stood up, wincing at the pain from his back. He rubbed his wrists and legs, forcing the circulation back into them. “I’ve no idea where he is.” In
that he was absolutely truthful.
“Your back!” Demetros exclaimed. “There’s blood on it!”
“Yeah? My back does hurt…. maybe it was cut on something when I was captured.”
“Better have a look at it,” Demetros said.
Casca shook his head. “Nah, it’s not too bad. I’ll be fine, thanks.” He slowly worked his shoulders, then thought better of it as it sent shards of pain shooting across his back. It would take a while for it to settle down properly. The others escorted Casca back to his tent. The camp was preparing to pack up and resume its journey. In no time Casca had regained his place and the army was once again tramping northwards into the foothills of the Taurus.
Conversations inevitably centered around the kidnapping of Casca and the disappearance of Philatelis and his three cronies. Nobody had been found and it was accepted as a mystery. Kalatios declared they would be treated as deserters and left it at that. Casca was happy enough with the decision. The sooner people shut up asking questions the better. He’d done his bit in getting rid of the unit bully, and the men with him did seem to be more relaxed.
The environment began to change. Folds of land rose up on either side of them, sometimes as slow rising slopes, on other occasions as sheer faces of rock. Stunted trees clung to crevasses and loose rocks and stones lay to either side of the route they were taking. The river changed too. Now it was a white foaming torrent plunging down towards the plains behind them, and its noise dominated their march.
Goats scrambled up away from the noise of the approaching army and stood there, impassively staring down at the thousands of men and beasts as they passed beneath them. Casca caught sight of a couple of buzzards circling high above, catching a thermal, watching for an opportunity of an easy meal. A large body of people on the move always ended with something dying, either en route or at the scene of a battle, and the birds seemed to sense this.
The army marched with plenty of pack animals carrying the camp equipment and extra supplies, both edible and military. Along with these came the non-combatant members of the army, cooks, priests, slaves and so on.
For Casca the journey into the mountains was a painful one, until his back healed enough for it to fade to an irritating throb and then an itch, over the space of a couple of days. Every morning the army was commanded to kneel in their units in front of their respective priests and pray. Casca did what he could to avoid these but ultimately he too had to kneel. Head bowed, his thoughts went to Ayesha and the mission ahead of him to recover the Spear.
How was he to find it? It was in Persia, most probably Dastagird or Ctesiphon. The True Cross would be there as well and Heraclius was intent on bringing this back to Christian ownership, and nothing would get in his way. It was likely that the emperor would fetch the Spear too, so Casca would have to outwit not only the Persians but the people he was campaigning with as well. And he intended to outwit the crazies of the Brotherhood at the same time. It was damned complicated and ultimately he was on the side of one, while he was opposed by three sets of many.
The men with him were full of religious fervor; they saw it as a Holy War against the infidel fire worshippers who had stolen one of the greatest religious objects of their God, and so they were blessed by God to return His property to His subjects. Casca couldn’t give a damn about the Cross; it had been a chunk of wood to which the damned Jew had been nailed when he’d cursed Casca to immortality, so it had bad memories for him. The Spear was something else. It had been his, and he’d touched it once deep in the wilds of Asia, and he’d had his left hand chopped off for his pains.
Then he’d come across it again in Constantinople the last time he’d been there, under a hundred years ago, when he’d carried out a one-man war against the Brotherhood. It had then vanished and now he knew that it had been taken to Jerusalem where the Persians had grabbed it when that city had fallen to them.
So the Brotherhood wanted it back. The Emperor wanted it. Casca wanted it. All for different reasons. Casca cared nothing for the religious connection. Let priests and their fanatical followers have religion, they could keep it. It had given him nothing but a pain in the ass down the centuries. The less he had anything to do with it the better. No, he wanted it back because it was his, and also because it would piss the Brotherhood off. Maybe he would destroy it. Maybe he’d capture a Brotherhood crazy or two and then burn the damned thing in front of their eyes, if he had the chance.
But first he had somehow to rescue Ayesha. And that was going to be the most difficult thing of all.
Demetros was definitely the most pious of the unit; he was the loudest of them all at prayer, speaking the words of his faith with passion and conviction. To him this was definitely a Holy War. Casca would have to watch him when the time came to turn on the Byzantine army and steal the Spear from under their noses, should they get to Dastagird or Ctesiphon.
Ctesiphon!
Casca’s mouth turned down. That place had bad memories for him. I tried to end it all after that slaughter there back in the days of Avidius Cassius. It still gives me the occasional nightmare. I hate the place.
But he would possibly have to go there and steal a holy relic, a valuable object coveted by two rival factions.
His thought turned back to his unit. Michael Pallos was more of a soldier’s soldier. Pretty tough, took orders without much hesitation or complaint, and liked his drink and, judging by his talk around the camp fires at night, more than the occasional woman. Mathu by contrast was fairly quiet, being contented enough to keep his weapons clean, sharp and tidy.
They seemed to reflect the general composition of the Byzantine army. Heraclius had inherited a right old mess and it had taken him years to build up confidence and belief. There had been the necessary purging to carry out, too, after his seizure of power. Casca knew what that entailed; anyone unlucky enough to remain around who had actively supported the old emperor fell, as the incoming one couldn’t trust them. And, besides, Casca mused with cynicism, there were always plenty of supporters willing to give their services to the new ruler.
Casca listened with a keen ear at night, listening to the talk. Much of the Empire had been taken by the Persians but most of the land they’d seized hadn’t been kept. Most of the countryside remained free from the invaders. It was only the larger towns and cities where Persians remained, whether it be a garrison or tax collectors or both. Heraclius was going to make sure his rear was secure first before turning towards the true Persian lands.
“So what is his plan, then?” Casca asked, warming his hands by the fire. The autumn had come and the nights in the Taurus Mountains were chilly.
“According to what I’ve heard, he’s chasing one of the Persian armies around the region,” Pallos replied, mumbling through a meal of cheese and bread. “We’re hot on their tails but so far they’ve stayed ahead of us. I was talking to one of the young cavalry officers, you know, that lot who think they’re God’s gift to the Emperor,” he jerked a disdainful thumb behind him vaguely in the direction of the corralled horses. The others who were listening nodded or snorted in disgust. Pallos nodded to emphasize his statement. “Anyway apparently they’ve been given orders to ride out and find the enemy and force them to fight. Once they’ve made contact we’re to close and give them a right old beating!”
“Do they still have the cataphracti?” Casca asked. He expected the feared heavy cavalry would still form the hard core of the Sassanid army. It had for centuries, even when he’d been in charge of one of their armies back in the day of Shapur II.
“Yeah,” Pallos nodded, “but we’ve got them too now. The Emperor’s decided he’s going to fight fire with fire.”
Casca knew that was a sound idea; and he had the idea Heraclius was keen on that tactic, having trained mounted archers of his own back in the summer camp. “Not much use in mountains, though, eh? That’s down to us, the good old foot soldiers.”
“Too right,” Pallos agreed. “We win; the cavalry get the triumphal w
reaths.”
Some of the others grumbled in agreement.
Casca rocked back on his heels, squatting in front of the flickering flames. A short distance off, gathered around the tents and other makeshift quarters the camp followers and support teams had put up, laughter came to him on the night air. He longed to be able to relax and join in, but he knew he couldn’t. He also wanted to lead these men, but again too much was on his mind for him to do the job properly, so he would have to remain in the ranks of the ordinary soldiers, something he had been content to do before the day that had changed him forever.
Since then he’d changed. Slowly, but when one lives for centuries this isn’t such a slow process. He found that he could now lead men whereas before he couldn’t. Was it something that Shiu Lao Tze, that Oriental philosopher Casca’d known so long ago, had touched on once in their many conversations?
Also the Brotherhood had made it clear to him he wasn’t to draw attention to himself, and as an ordinary soldier he was that much more anonymous and could slip away when the time was right and not be missed that much. If he were to be a general then it would be near impossible.
Over the next few days they climbed down the far side of the mountains onto the plateau of Cappadocia, the heartland of the Empire. Gullies and ravines split the land and they had to detour for miles to cross these, and the frequent jagged outcrops of rocks diverted them the more, so that for every ten miles they advanced, they had to travel thirty or so.
But the Persians found it equally tough. Finally Heraclius’ cavalry ran them to an area where they could only escape by climbing a near vertical cliff, and so the army closed in, their excitement increasing. As the sun set, about seven weeks after leaving camp they caught sight of the enemy army, and encamped close by, ready for the battle on the morrow.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The darkness was still upon them when Kalatios shook Casca awake. “Come on, up! We’re going to form up before daybreak.”
