The Saracen
Page 22
Casca was grabbed and pinned fast. The officer, breathing heavily, strode up and delivered a stinging smack to the jaw with the back of his hand. “Dog! Insubordinate cur! You shall be punished for what you have done.”
The soldiers marched Casca off away from the city walls. It looked bad; nobody was intervening, as anyone who watched could see that one disobedient soldier was being disciplined by a senior officer and his men. The camp loomed ahead and they marched into it, weaving their way past tent after tent, cooking pot after cooking pot. At last they came to a clearing surrounded by tents and Casca was disarmed and stripped to the waist.
Some soldiers were busy erecting a wooden frame and another came out of a tent holding a whip. They stopped at gasps from one or two of the soldiers as they caught sight of the myriad scars all over Casca’s body. The amir kabir stepped up, eyes roving over the muscles and scars, wondering how many there were. “In the Name of Allah!”
“You think lashes will have any effect on me, effendi?” Casca sneered, enjoying the feeling of wonder the others were experiencing. “You can see I have suffered much in my lifetime. What could a few measly lashes inflict?”
The officer shook his head slowly, more in wonder than anything else, and circled the defiant man, held in place by a ring of spear-toting soldiers. Casca made no move to escape, merely being content to stand there and wait for the scheming man to come up with something else.
Just then a squad of soldiers came marching in and halted, their amir demanding that Casca be released and reunited with his uniform. The amir kabir paled and bowed, obviously apprehensive as to the identity of the man in charge of the squad, and Casca noted he wore the head scarf of one of the elite guards units. Casca shrugged his gambeson on, but held his mail across his arm and nodded he was ready to follow.
They marched across the camp to Salah-ed-Din’s large tent in the center and he was shown in without delay. Sitting at his desk was the Emir, surrounded by the inevitable collection of attendants, guards and courtiers. Salah-ed-Din sighed at the sight of Casca and leaned back. “Kasim. You bring me much trouble. I hear you insulted one of my regimental amirs and assaulted some of his guards. You have also deserted your post and your unit; I have searched for you last night and this morning, and I find you being prepared for punishment. Have you anything to say?”
Casca looked at Imad who was scowling at him. Clearly the Secretary was not going to offer any support. “My lord, I was coming to the aid of a Christian lord who was being held up by the amir kabir. He was demanding extra money in a head tax.”
“And, are there any witnesses to verify your side of this story, Kasim?”
“No lord. The Christian lord and his party are on their way to Tyre.”
Salah-ed-Din put one hand to his forehead and closed his eyes as if in pain. “Kasim, Kasim, Kasim. You may be a fine soldier and loyal servant of mine but you do not cross a man whose family has great influence in Syria. He could well insist you are punished when he speaks to his family in Damascus, and for the life of one – renegade mercenary,” the Emir looked up at the silently standing man with genuine regret in his eyes, “I cannot risk the enmity of such an influential family. You understand?”
Casca looked ahead over the emir’s shoulder into a space a million miles away. “Yes, lord. I am expendable.”
“At least you are in possession of a set of brains,” Salah-ed-Din commented. “You shall remain with me as a personal guard until I leave Jerusalem, and then I shall arrange for you to be transferred out of Syria and serve on the Seljuk border, away from any possible intrigue and revenge. I shall of course state you have been dismissed and no longer serve me, and they can look for you wherever they wish, but you will not be in Syria. I will instruct your new commander never to let you return here, you understand?”
“Yes lord,” Casca said automatically.
“Very well. Your new tent is ready next to this one. Do not involve yourself in any activity I do not approve of and do not leave this area without my express permission. Go!”
Casca turned smartly round and left, escorted by two guards who showed him a small tent ten feet from the emir’s. Once inside he was left alone and he threw his mail onto the flat bed that rested across half of the floor space. “Fuck!” he breathed. “Thrown out just as things were looking good. Bastard amir!”
He sat down and stared at the tent flap, wondering what awaited him in the mountains of the north where the Seljuk lands bordered those of Salah-ed-Din.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The weeks flew by. Casca was present with Salah-ed-Din when the emir re-entered the al-Aqsa Mosque and re-consecrated it. Shortly afterwards he was sent north with an escort of soldiers to one of the border amirs based in Amida, in the region they now called Diyar Bekir. Casca was familiar with the terrain, having passed through these parts many times before, right back in the days of the old Roman Empire.
This was tough country, bandit land. Mountains rose up all round and the rivers that flowed from here, the Euphrates amongst them, twisted and foamed through canyons, rapids and valleys steep and treacherous. Here, roads and paths were valuable and formed not only the few routes through which trade could flow, but also where armies could pass. Most of the military forces on both sides were housed in small forts along the main routes and these sent out foraging and reconnaissance parties into one another’s territory to gather plunder and intelligence.
The Seljuks had been in decline for a while and Casca had seen the beginning of this during his time with the Crusaders when they had traveled from Constantinople to Jerusalem. They had fragmented into various small states and although still dangerous, weren’t capable of invading in any great force and capturing towns. They were, Casca’s new commander insisted, people to watch, and given to frequent raids. He was a short, round man with a huge mustache and a liking for goat’s cheese. He wasn’t a man who led by example, and liked the more warlike of his command to patrol far and wide so that he could enjoy the delights of the fort’s supplies and female slaves.
Casca was happy to oblige, not wishing to be around the greasy, irritating man any more than possible, so he volunteered for the furthest patrol he could get, one that went as far as the shores of Lake Van, a region much in dispute with the Seljuks.
Casca was part of a thirty man patrol that rode out one morning into the damp air of the mountains. Summer had gone and winter was coming, but they would patrol as long as the snows held off; then the passes would close. The winter would be less exciting as patrols would be restricted to this side of the border.
The patrol went on deep into disputed territory, but the scouts reported all was clear, which was strange. Lately the Seljuks had been getting bolder with their raids and now that Salah-ed-Din and his main army was in Syria and Palestine, there was no strength in numbers to oppose them. Casca found his companions to be an odd bunch; Kurds, Turks, Arabs and a few Persians. There were even two renegade Greeks who had despaired of the Byzantines ever regaining land once owned by their families and they had embraced Islam and joined the Saracen army, rather than starve in the hills.
They had ridden almost to Lake Van when the ambush hit them. Arrows flew down from the sides of the canyon, sweeping eight off their horses before they knew what had hit them. The patrol leader yelled to scatter and find shelter, and they found cover behind a mass of boulders along the valley floor.
Arrows struck rock, earth and flesh, and constantly came down like rain. “What happened to our scouts?” the commander demanded testily, craning his neck round to assess the situation, which didn’t look all that good.
“Probably dead,” Casca replied, peering round the side of his boulder, trying to see where the hell the attackers were. The horses had bolted away from the scene and were down the valley, gathered in a group eating grass. No arrows came their way. “They’re leaving the horses alone,” Casca noted.
“Yes. They have value,” the commander replied. “They will kill us firs
t, then take the horses.”
A couple of the men groaned in pain, trying to stem the flow of blood from wounds. “Be silent! You are like children, crying like that!” the commander snapped. “Where are these dogs?”
One of the others, a Kurd, grimaced as an arrow narrowly missed his face. “Up on the other side, on foot, behind that line of rocks one third of the way up.”
Casca stared at the man in admiration; he’d been looking and seen nothing. The Kurd shrugged as if to say, shit it was nothing. The commander nodded as if he expected such a response, then asked how many there were. The Kurd spat and leaned against the boulder. “Fifty, maybe less. They won’t attack us until they are confident we are weak enough to overrun.”
“Very well,” the commander said, thinking hard. “They will try to steal the horses. We must get to them first and get away. Who will fetch them?”
The men all looked at each other, huddled for cover. Nobody said anything. The commander grimaced and eyed Casca. “Very well. You, Kasim, will go together with you, you and you.” He pointed at the Kurd and the two others nearest him. “The rest of us will give you cover. Arrows!”
The men unslung their bows and fitted arrows. As they loosed blindly out from behind the rocks, Casca and his three companions began scuttling across the rocks towards the horses. Arrows came their way and one of the others grunted and slid to the ground, impaled through the back. “Keep going!” Casca breathed, leaping over one rock and down the other side into temporary cover.
The horses were not too far away, but Casca could now see a party of Seljuks sneaking towards them from the other side, and he nudged the Kurd and pointed. The Kurd pulled a face and brandished his sword. “Kill the pigs!” he hissed. They scrambled over the rocks and grasses that marked the edge of the road and headed across to where the Seljuk group were heading. Casca skidded to a halt just as the first three arrived and they got ready for a fight. They had mail coats, round helmets and white linen skirts and leggings. Each had a shield decorated with Arabic script and sported spears and swords. One, the leader, was armored with lamellar strips of iron and his mail hauberk went up over his head, leaving only holes for the eyes. His round helm was topped by a feather and he had iron greaves and a leather cuirass underneath the armor. Casca realized he was a ghulam, a very professional warrior. He’d be a tough nut.
“Take the horses,” Casca snapped, facing the growing number of Seljuks, “I’ll hold them off for as long as I can.”
The Kurd nodded and took the other man to get the beasts while Casca blocked the progress of the eight Seljuks who now faced him. Their leader, the ghulam, waved at him irritably. “Someone kill this fool!”
Two men stepped forward, spears thrusting. Casca twisted out of the way of one and pulled on the shaft of the other, dragging its wielder towards him and onto his blade. The Seljuk sighed in pain and sank to the ground. Casca withdrew his blade and knocked the second spear thrust aside before slamming his sword hilt into the man’s face, breaking his nose. As the Seljuk fell to his knees, clutching his bloodied face, two more stepped in, swords flashing in the air.
Casca stepped back, met the first blow, then pushed up against the first man so the second couldn’t hit Casca without hitting his colleague too. The Seljuk hissed through his teeth with effort, but Casca’s greater strength pulled the man to and fro so that the second man’s efforts were frustrated. Then Casca brought his knee up to collide with the Seljuk’s balls and the man cried out and doubled up.
Stepping back Casca fenced with the other swordsman while the ghulam cursed Casca to eternal damnation, causing the mercenary to smile momentarily. The sounds of hoofs behind him brought the Seljuk leader to decide on a greater move of desperation. Ordering the rest to rush Casca, the ghulam drew his sword and waited at the rear. Faced with four opponents Casca could only retreat and climbed back onto the road and backed away. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the horses being led to the rocks, arrows still not being directed at them. Clearly the Seljuks were under orders not to hurt the horses if they could help it.
Two of the Seljuks had met their end under Casca’s blade and the ghulam lost all patience, stepping forward. “Now, pig, you will know what it means to face a master.”
“Big deal, son of a Baghdad whore, you trying to impress your boyfriends here?”
The ghulam screamed in rage and sprang forward, his sword a blur. Casca was forced back in a desperate retreat. Casca tried to find a chink in the man’s armor but he was too quick. He was now on the other side of the road and down amongst the tumble of rocks that lay there in huge numbers. Horses came galloping past, the commander yelling encouragement to him, but arrows flew at them and four fell off to lie in the roadside. The rest galloped off, pursed by Seljuk riders who had come into action now that the enemy was getting away.
Casca was now alone facing an enraged foe, and more Seljuks were appearing to left and right, attracted by the ringing of steel and grunts of effort. Very soon he was surrounded by Seljuks, all watching the battle in fascination. Casca was tiring and wearily blocked the thrusts and slashes of the ghulam. He was in a fix and knew there was no hope of getting out of this one. Suddenly he threw his sword down and backed away, waiting for the reaction of a better swordsman.
The ghulam stopped and stared at Casca for a moment, then made a gesture to some of the men. Hands grabbed him and forced him to his knees. “You have cost me much gold in lost horses,” the ghulam said, breathing heavily, “but you are a brave fighter and I will honor that fact by not killing you. Instead, perhaps you will fetch me some gold in a market as a slave. Bring him!”
Casca was pulled to his feet and dragged off to an uncertain future, leaving behind a scene scattered with the bodies of his former comrades, while the survivors galloped southwards to safety, thanks to the sacrifice of the man they had briefly known as Kasim.
EPILOGUE
Samarkand. One of the great cities of central Asia, and one of the centers of trade where merchants from Chin and across the Indus came to buy and sell with those from the world of Islam. Everything could be bought and sold, including lives.
One slave was being avoided by all, a great man in chains, snarling at all who came near. He was a frightening apparition, whom the slavers had dubbed ‘the beast’. Consequently nobody wanted to buy him for fear of being attacked and ripped limb from limb.
Casca cared little for their fears. He was in chains and it ate at his soul. He had hoped to escape some time but the chains put an end to that. But he knew that one day, sooner or later, the opportunity would come and he would take it with both hands and regain his freedom.
The slaver cried out to all to look at the Beast’s fine physique. Wouldn’t he make a fine strong slave to carry and work hard? Nobody answered, backing off as Casca bared his teeth and snarled. Casca had been beaten and whipped but it made little difference to him. Why, he’d suffered far worse in the past. To hell with the bastards.
“I will take him,” came a voice in a heavy accent. All eyes swiveled in astonishment to where a Tatar nomad stood, filthy and repulsive. Casca eyed him with contempt and hatred.
The slaver nodded. “Ten bezels of silver, esteemed one,” he whined.
“Two. He is marked with the whip and is trouble. I am taking him off you and it is a service I provide.”
“Seven. He has a strength unmatched.”
“Five and that is my final offer.”
They shook on the deal and the nomad stood in front of his acquisition, eyeing him thoroughly. “Yes, this Beast will do well in the arenas.”
“Who shall I note down as his buyer?” the slaver inquired, relieved to have got shot of this trouble maker.
“Zhoutai.”
Casca glared and then squatted down, sulking. Some mad Tatar nomad was going to put him in the arena like some mad fighting dog. So be it, he’d find a way of escaping, and when he did he’d kill this Zhoutai with pleasure.
But until then, he, Casca Rufi
o Longinus, would wait.
Casca series available new in paperback, all $12.95 except the Warlord which is $11.95
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CASCA: THE ETERNAL MERCENARYCASCA: GOD OF DEATH CASCA: THE WARLORD CASCA: PANZER SOLDIER CASCA: HALLS OF MONTEZUMA CASCA: JOHNNY REB
CASCA: THE CONFEDERATE CASCA: THE AVENGER
CASCA: NAPOLEON’S SOLDIER CASCA: THE CONQUEROR CASCA: THE ANZAC CASCA: DEVIL’S HORSEMAN
CASCA: SWORD OF THE BRO’HOOD CASCA: THE MINUTEMAN
CASCA: ROMAN MERCENARY CASCA: THE CONTINENTAL CASCA: THE CRUSADER CASCA: BLITZKRIEG
CASCA: THE LONGBOWMAN CASCA: BARBAROSSA
CASCA: SCOURGE OF ASIA CASCA: BALKAN MERCENARY CASCA: EMPEROR’S MERCENARY CASCA: THE CAVALRYMAN
CASCA: THE VIKINGCASCA: THE AUSTRIAN CASCA: THE LOMBARD CASCA: THE COMMISSAR CASCA: THE SARACEN
CASCA: HALLS OF MONTEZUMA audiobook $19.95
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Other series by Tony Roberts
Kastania series
Empire of Avarice
Prince of Wrath
House of Lust
Path of Pride
Throne of Envy
Coming in Summer 2019 – Gods of Gluttony
Dark Blade series
Dark Blade
The Heir of Gorrodan
Okra’s Tower
Faerowyn’s War
Coming in Autumn 2019 – The Black Island