The Avenger

by Tony Roberts

  “More than ten thousand, General,” Gundoric replied.

  Casca nodded, swearing. He had guessed about the same, which outnumbered his five thousand by two to one. He’d been misinformed by Belisarius or Buzes. It mattered not; they were here and they had to stop them. Most of the Persians wouldn’t be worth much and he stepped through the spearmen and turned to face his force, standing there watching the Persian force slowly forming up, the dreaded cataphracti to the fore, ready to form an irresistible battering ram through which they would plan to smash the Byzantine force in two, then deal with the survivors at will.

  “Okay, here they are,” Casca said dismissively, “apart from their armored cavalry they’re not worth spitting on. Their infantry will run given half the chance; they’re levied peasantry and you’d eat them for breakfast, believe me. They’re only here to mop up after the real fighting’s over, and if their cavalry are defeated then they’ll run or die. Simple as that.” He turned to watch as the lighter more nimble mounted archers began riding out on the flanks, eager to come to grips with the hated invading Greeks. “Archers! You know what to do!” He nodded at the commander of the archer unit who began to direct their attention to the approaching light cavalry.

  “Persian tactics are straightforward,” Casca boomed out. “Soften us up with long range arrow fire, then drive at us with their heavy stuff and smash us into pieces, then their infantry arrive to finish off what’s left.” He looked over his right shoulder again. He could hear the distant beating of the enemy drums and reedy pipes as they built up their courage to enter the fray. “The Cataphracti will charge, leaving behind their infantry. We will be facing a thousand of these bastards and if we can destroy them, then we will be victorious. Remember; you are Goths. You will stand and fight and you will prevail. Show these goat screwing morons they are fighting real men today, not cowards who’ll run as soon as they attack. They’ll expect you to run, and that’ll surprise them! And don’t forget; each of these gorgeous dazzling riders has riches you can take by right as victors.”

  The Goths roared and thumped their spear butts into the stony ground. Behind them the second line shuffled their feet over Casca’s secret weapon, something he thought would tip the balance in their favor. There was another part to his plan, and he looked up at the top of the valley slope to one of his men standing there holding a pole with a banner atop it. It was lowered at the moment, but Casca knew this man was the key to the second phase of his plan.

  He walked back through the two ranks and took up his spot again, in the middle. To the right Frindicar stood, looking nervous and Casca nodded at him in encouragement. He would have to hold the right wing no matter what. To the left another Gothic officer stood giving encouragement to the men around him. Casca went over his plan again, and decided he’d done everything possible. Now it was down to the gods to determine who would win, and maybe a little luck. He kept on going over the plan in his mind, repeating under his breath the same word over and over: “Cannae, Cannae, Cannae…”

  He’d learned as a youngster the glorious past of Rome, and even the less glorious moments when Roman courage had failed, such as the time the Carthaginian general Hannibal had incredibly destroyed 50,000 Romans at Cannae even though he’d been outnumbered. The way he’d done it was recalled by Casca and he used it – adapted of course to the conditions – as a bedrock to his battle plan.

  His force was arranged in a shallow arc, the center inwards, following the contours of the end of the valley, and his plan was for the Persians to keep to their tried and trusted old battle tactics. If they did, then they must enter the trap, and he would spring it.

  The sudden noise of men springing to action brought him out of his reverie and he realized the Persian nomad archers had closed and were beginning to let loose their shafts. Casca had warned the men about this and the infantry raised their shields. The Syrian archers began shooting back, using the advantage of height, and it served to keep the mounted archers at a distance, but they kept on riding up, shooting, and then wheeling away. Eventually they decided to form one large circle and take it in turns to let loose as they came close to the enemy lines. It meant the Byzantine force was constantly under attack, but at a reduced rate.

  A few archers were hit and their bodies littered the slope, and one or two spearmen slow to cover themselves were also struck. A few died, the rest dragged themselves to safety, sporting wounds and in some cases the shaft still protruding from their bodies. Casca’s support squads went to work over the hill, out of the way in safety.

  The ground began to shake and Casca peered forward. The Persians had organized themselves and were now commencing their charge. The cataphracti would be on them in moments, and Casca now swung into action. “Now!” he yelled at the flagman, who turned and raised his pole and began waving it. A short distance off another man lay on a second ridge and waved back before scrambling down out of sight into a hidden gully and to where the thousand cavalry under Casca’s command waited.

  The spearmen gripped their shafts tightly and steadied themselves, mouths dry, hearts thudding. Casca peered through the dust the nomadic horsemen had kicked up and spotted dark shapes thundering through it. “Spikes!” he screamed.

  The second row dropped their spears and grabbed the rows of hewn wooden spikes that they had made over the past couple of days. They had grabbed a combination of disused siege equipment at a nearby town that had been provisioned by Belisarius, and attacked a grove of olive trees and ripped it apart. Each spearman had then been assigned to sharpen one end to a wicked point, and the end result was they had thousands of pointed poles of between twelve to fifteen feet in length. The second row now pushed these through the gaps in between the first rank and waited for the Cataphracti to reach them.

  The Goths braced themselves for the impact of the armored horde bearing down on them. They saw ranks of glittering iron, flaring nostrils and evilly pointed lances. Their riders were covered in mail, even their faces were hidden except for their eyes. They rode, stirrup to stirrup, heading for the center. “Stand fast!” Casca yelled and drew his sword. The front rank prayed to God and many shut their eyes, waiting for the blow, and when it came, it was worse than any of them had ever experienced. Many horses were impaled as they hit the front line, their barding and heavy armor only being designed to take blows from above or alongside, and the beasts fell screaming, spilling their riders onto the ground where the ax wielding archers butchered them at will. But many more horses crashed through the pitifully exposed infantry, skewering them on lances or trampling them under hoof.

  Casca jumped forward, his sword catching the sun, and he brought it down on the knee of a Persian who had broken through and was turning to slash at the backs of the Goths. The blow cut through the chain mail covering the man’s leg and bit deep into his flesh. The horseman screamed and Casca hauled him off the saddle, throwing him onto his back, and then slammed his blade down onto the Persian’s chest, driving the point deep into his body, skewering him neatly. The Persian writhed and emitted a long, bubbling scream, and then fell quiet.

  The air was full of screams, metallic clangs, horses neighing, and shouts. The smell of blood and sweat mingled in the air, filling the battling men’s nostrils. The Goths had been driven back and fragmented and were in danger of being cut to pieces. However, the pointed wooden stakes had wreaked havoc with the charge and the bodies piled up in the center blocked any further progression. The few that had broken through were cut off, and the ones behind backed up and sought to attack further along the flanks. Casca and Gundoric led the counter attack, screaming madly to gather the stunned Goths back into order and butcher the few Persians who were behind the front row.

  To Casca’s right the giant Gundoric swung a mighty ax that cleaved open skulls left and right. Casca roared and swung his sword down on a man who had been unhorsed but had cut down a Goth from behind. Now the Persian found he was himself being attacked and tried to pull his blade from the corpse of the sp
earman, but Casca’s blow cut through his neck and sent his lifeblood spurting up. The Persian gargled and sank to his knees, vainly trying to stop the fountain of red fluid, but Casca was in no mood to take pity and smashed him to the ground with a kick to the head.

  “Reform!” Casca roared, standing on the Persian he’d just vanquished. “Get into line!” The Goths staggered together, some of their number never to rise again. The dead or dying horses were getting in the way and the few remaining Persian cavalrymen still fighting were surrounded by desperately thrusting Goths, all trying to down the heavily armored men and kill them off. The pressure changed as the rearmost elements of the Cataphracti changed direction and charged the two flanks, seeing the way ahead was mostly blocked by the dead and dying.

  An added problem now reared its head. Casca could see the Persian infantry running towards them, hollering excitedly, expecting to be confronted with a broken enemy. There were about thirty surviving Persians in front of Casca and his men were battling to pull them off their horses. Slashing madly at the packed Goths, the horseman pulled away from the scene of death and reformed a short distance away.

  The battle had been going on for ten minutes and already hundreds lay dead on the parched earth. Casca pushed the men in front of him to form a new front, bristling with spear points, and looked to left and right where new battles were breaking out. The right under Frindicar seemed to be holding, but the left was buckling and the newly arriving Persian infantry began to get mixed up in the hand to hand fighting. Casca grabbed Gundoric. “Come on, bring every last spare man and follow me!”

  He led the run across the slope towards the wavering Goths. The Persian infantry, a solid mass of undisciplined hillmen and peasants, milled about around the left flank, getting as much in the way of their own cavalry as fighting the Byzantines, but the effect was to bring too much pressure on the overworked defenders. Casca roared at the Goths to hold firm as he approached. At that moment the left flank collapsed and tried to run but the Persians cut them down as they went, leaving only the outnumbered centre and right flank to cope.

  This is it, Casca thought, we’ve left it too late and now our asses are in a sling. Screaming to Odin and Thor he charged into the midst of the enemy, laying open the chest of the nearest unfortunate he came across. Suddenly he gasped as a thrust from a pike drove deep into his side and he sank to his knees. Gundoric screamed in rage above him, smashing in the head of the Persian that had done the wicked deed. Pulling out the pike Casca sat on the dusty ground while Gundoric stood above the groaning figure of his commander, defying anyone to pass. The other Goths who had come with them stood behind him, facing the other way with the remaining archers, holding off the Persian infantry from the rear for they were now surrounded.

  Casca was in a world of pain, clutching his side which seemed as though it was on fire. It was the same every time he got wounded, great pain and waves of nausea. Curse that Jew Yeshua! he screamed in his mind, why couldn’t He have allowed me to die? He was aware that the wound was slowly closing, the organs that had been ruptured by the shaft of steel were mending, the diverted passage of blood returning to its old route, all of which gave him extra pain. The blood had stopped flowing from the wound already and he knew he would have to do a lot of explaining to Gundoric if the Goth survived the battle. He looked up and saw the huge Goth standing there furiously defying the Persian infantry who were, to be honest, standing back in horror at this demon of death that cut down huge numbers of them. Just then there came renewed shouts and cheers from the surrounded Goths and Casca sensed a change in the whole atmosphere. The Persians were turning in confusion, retreating from the circle of Goths they had almost overwhelmed. Casca staggered to his feet to the utter amazement of his men, still clutching his side and leaning on his sword, and he saw his reinforcing unit of cavalry sweeping round from the end of the valley, and charging into the confused mass. Grinning in relief he gripped his sword tightly, drew in a deep breath and pointed his sword at the backs of the running Persians. “No prisoners!” he gasped to Gundoric, “kill them all!”

  Gundoric took up the order and bellowed it out to the men and ordered the attack. Casca sat down again, clutched his side and grimaced. He wouldn’t be much use for a day or so, that was certain!

  Yelling in renewed vigor the Goths broke out from their circle and pursued the enemy, sparing none. The surviving cataphracti, realizing the battle had turned, dug their spurs in and rode madly for safety, not caring that they rode down their own panic stricken men in their flight. They regarded the infantry as rabble, fit to exist off the land and not much else. Who cared if they died? There were plenty more where they came from.

  Casca’s cavalry, fresh and eager, cut down scores of fleeing men and outpaced many of the heavy cavalry, their lances skewering many riders in the back as the Persians trampled each other in their flight. Only the nomadic archers got clean away, their fleet-footed mounts keeping them far away from danger, and they shot arrows at anyone foolish to come too close. The Byzantine cavalry contented themselves in butchering the helpless infantry, heads rolling and torsos twitching as more blood drained into the thirsty soil. It had drunk plenty before and no doubt it would drink plenty again.

  The battle was over and now only the wounded remained to be cared for or killed. Casca left the pursuit to his men and wearily surveyed the carnage, Gundoric standing silently by his side. His men lay mostly in a great circle, surrounded by equal numbers of Persians, and here and there lay a horse or two, their flanks rising up like islands amongst a sea of dead.

  Casca had lost perhaps a thousand with the Persians probably about half their total number. Not a great battle as far as battles went, but to him it was just as important, for he had won against superior numbers and put them to flight.

  Frindicar came up to him, blood dripping from his sword and sword arm. “I thought you to be dead,” he said in wonder.

  “I was lucky,” Casca replied, “it only pierced my side a short way. Painful but not as bad as it seems.”

  The Goth shook his head in disbelief. Clearly God favored their commander. The two commanders of the relief units came up, sweat pouring off their faces but delighted they had put the enemy to flight. In all it seemed only two thousand Persians had escaped and were heading towards Amida as fast as they could, leaving behind their wounded and weaponry to the care of the Byzantines.

  Gundoric laughed and slapped his commander on the shoulder. Casca winced and glared at his bodyguard. Gundoric on his part bent and examined the rip in the armor and the drying blood surrounding it, whistling slowly. He went to touch the blood but Casca, knowing it to be deadly poison, hurriedly covered it up. “No, it’s very tender and I don't want your dirty great fingers poking in my wounds! I’d prefer a gentle wench to take care of that!”

  The others laughed, relieving the tension of the battle, Casca joining in. Just then a messenger came running up, chest rising and falling. He handed Casca a note and stood back, saluting. Casca waved to Gundoric to open the letter and pass it to him. He scanned it, a frown breaking out all over his face. He nodded to the messenger and waved his dismissal. “Gentlemen,” he announced, “the army is ordered to stand and defend Edessa for the time being while I must go to Belisarius for a meeting of senior officers near that city. Take care of our wounded, finish off any Persians you find, then make your way to the garrison at Edessa to await further orders. I shall take a small escort only.”

  “Yes sir,” Frindicar saluted and turned away to shout orders at the men who were searching the bodies for valuables. Casca nodded to Gundoric to accompany him and heaved himself up, biting his lip. It would be a painful ride to Edessa and he’d end up with yet another scar. Together with twenty guards they mounted horses and rode off south-westwards towards the city of Edessa.

  Casca arrived to find the place in turmoil and dismounted gingerly, hurrying to where Belisarius had set up his headquarters. There was definitely something going on and he was admitted
into the building without delay. Casca recognized Procopius with a nod but the writer merely looked worried which didn’t ease the anxiety he was feeling. What was wrong? Two of Belisarius’s personal guard checked Casca over, allowing him through after they were satisfied he was who he said he was and that he hadn’t come from Constantinople. In fact they were very concerned about where he had come from and he wondered what in the name of Jupiter the matter was. Everyone looked as though they had pissed in the wine and were fearful of being found out. Was it a revolt? Was the Emperor dead? Had some catastrophe engulfed the Empire?

  He strode forcefully into the chamber to see Buzes, Belisarius and the other commanders. Belisarius greeted him grimly, clasping his forearm and congratulating him on his victory and asking as to his health, but the battle meant nothing for there had been a terrible development. “We have been advised that the plague has broken out in Constantinople and is striking down thousands each day. Moreover, the Emperor is stricken and may die. We have been summoned back at once. Including you!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Casca never forgot the sight that greeted him the morning he got back to the capital. As he and the other members of Belisarius’s party were rowed across the narrow waters separating Europe from Asia, they saw huge burial pits being dug across the Golden Horn and uncountable corpses being dumped in them. Small fires burned here and there, their smoke spiraling lazily up to form a shroud over the stricken city, and there was absolutely no sign of activity to be seen anywhere. No sign of life along the waterfront, no sounds of sellers or potential buyers, not even a single bell being rung. All was silent.

  They were guided into the Harbor of Hormisdas, the one that allowed them access to the palace, and once within the walled harbor they saw an escort awaiting them, standing patiently until they were moored and had disembarked. The officer of the guard was none other than the eunuch Narses and he smiled evilly as he saw Belisarius and Casca. Casca’s heart did a skip before continuing, and he didn’t like the way the eunuch was smiling one little bit. “That ball-less old man has something nasty up his sleeve,” he muttered to himself.