Casca 35: Sword of the Brotherhood Page 6

  Casca grumbled, rolled out of his blanket – they hadn’t set up any tents that evening seeing they were so close to the enemy – and stretched, yawning. His arms cracked in a couple of places and he stood up, looking round. The dark shapes of men getting to their feet, accompanied by a chorus of grumbles, coughs, farts and spitting, rose all round him. A couple of the officers hissed at them to keep quiet. The Persian camp guards could hear them if anyone made too loud a noise.

  “Where are we going?” Demetros whispered, his voice catching with tension.

  “Shh!” Casca replied. “We’ll find out soon enough.” He rolled up his blanket and tied it to his pack and left it there. Once battle was over either they would have won and he could collect it at leisure, or if they lost, then it wouldn’t matter.

  The men were quickly herded into a large square on the level ground to the east of the cliffs the Persians had camped close to, and told to wait and be ready for battle. The sound of hundreds of men relieving themselves could be heard, and the ammonia smell of urine wafted across the line of men. A few took early morning drinks and some spat it out, adding to the dampness of the ground.

  Casca checked his weapons and equipment. They were fine, as he knew they would be, but it was an old habit that was good to retain. His sword rested in his sheath hanging from his belt, and he stood in line gripping his spear. The basic infantry tactics and weaponry had changed little from his days with the legions, but there were enough differences to know that things had progressed. Archery was more pronounced and cavalry played a bigger part, but the infantry was still armed mostly the same, albeit without the old gladius iberius.

  A dark shape ambled in front of them, and a glow of light followed him. Casca was intrigued, until he smelt incense. A priest and his acolytes, wafting incense over them and sprinkling holy water. Casca caught the low murmurs of a prayer or two from the priest. He smiled sardonically. Religion. It was all about religion. Christianity against Zoroastrianism. A Holy War to regain holy objects. A religious sect determined to regain their holy object. Nothing but one set of mad priests compelling their followers against another.

  The dawn was coming now, behind them, and the shapes began to take form. Casca grinned under his iron helmet, his nose guard resting against his long Roman nose. Heraclius had set his army up so that the rising sun would be in the enemy’s eyes. First good move to the Emperor. The sound of horses galloping ahead of them now caught his attention; whose were they? It was too dark to make out but they looked like the mobile horse archers – the hippo-toxoi or something like that, he’d heard – that had recently been added to the Byzantine army.

  Shouts came to him from ahead and as the darkness ebbed away he could see the Persian army massed at the far end of the plain, right at the foot of the hills ahead of them. The horse archers had flung them into confusion, attacking before the Persian general Sarbaros could organize them properly. Now the Persian cavalry came thundering out from their lines and the horse archers were turning to flee.

  “Ready ranks,” came the calm order from the regimental commander, standing close to the right edge of the huge phalanx of soldiers. Casca glanced over in his direction and saw that the three massed phalanxes were arranged in a slight concave arc, the center set slightly back. Casca was with the left flank under the Emperor’s brother Theodore, and between them and the central phalanx there was a gap of about thirty feet.

  The sun was coming up, throwing its rays across the valley and highlighting the dips and rises in the ground, and the crevasses that stood to the flanks. The Persian cavalry thundered on, chasing the mounted archers from the ground that separated the two armies. The Byzantine cavalry thundered into the gaps in between the infantry. Spears came forward and the men braced themselves.

  Casca was in the sixth rank and although he gripped his spear tighter he doubted he’d be in action right away. Screams punctured the air as the Persians crashed into the waiting infantry. Men were sent tumbling from their mounts, smashing into the packed ranks where they were quickly dispatched and their bodies thrown unceremoniously out to lie in bloodied heaps on the ground.

  Horses whinnied in fear, thrashing in pain on the ground or lashing out with their hooves as they tried to avoid the bristling ranks of spears, their riders chopping down brutally at the hated Christians.

  The sound of wood and steel striking each other competed with the curses and shouts of men. Casca stood patiently in line, waiting for his turn. The mass of men moved with the pressure put on them from the attack, and Casca’s feet trod this way and that as he went with the flow.

  The Persian cavalry turned and staggered back away from the bloodied nose they’d received, and now Heraclius raised his sword and pointed it directly at the Persian force. Theodore stood high on his mount and repeated the gesture and shouted something Casca couldn’t make out, what with the distance and noise of the battle. But the regimental commander knew exactly what was required. “Forward! Kill them, kill them all!”

  With a roar the infantry broke ranks and charged at the confused mass at the end of the valley. The cavalry had stumbled back in disorder and were trying to reform, but they had disrupted the lines of their own infantry and what with the rays of the sun blinding them and their own cavalry pushing them out of the way, the infantry were facing this way and that and not able to form up in time.

  Casca threw down his spear and dragged out his sword. This was what he really liked using the best. Spears were ten a denarius and he could pick up one anywhere on the battlefield to replace the one he’d thrown down at any time. But his sword was a different matter.

  He forgot for a while the Brotherhood and Ayesha, and the brooding mood that had settled on him lifted as he ran towards the disorganized enemy, yelling at the top of his lungs. He pushed past some of the slower moving men ahead of him and came at his first opponent, a man in light faded blue tunic and pants, wearing a kind of turban and sporting a black beard. The Persian had avoided the first couple of men and was trying to find his own line. Casca slashed down hard, splitting apart the tunic and feeling the blade bite into flesh and bone, and the Persian screamed and spun round, blood splashing the sword and his now ruined tunic. Casca felt a fierce delight course through his veins. At last! Someone he could take out his frustrations on!

  Savagely pulling the blade from the dying man’s body, he ran on, leaving the Persian to fall to the ground, an obstacle that those following Casca leaped over. Demetros tried to keep up with his companion but the scarred soldier was faster than he thought.

  Casca, unaware that Demetros was trying to stay with him, had found a second victim, a tall spear carrying man sporting a Phrygian type of cap. One downward cut took care of the spear, chopping off the head a foot down from where it was fixed to the shaft. The Persian looked desperate; one minute he’d been safe in his line, then their own cavalry had come thundering back, knocking them this way and that, and he’d been separated from his comrades. The next minute these screaming mad Christians had appeared left and right, and he was faced with this crazy scar-faced devil.

  Casca smashed the spear shaft aside with another hard swing and was inside the reach of it, taking a step forward as he struck. He rammed the hilt upwards, the steel pommel crunching into the man’s jaw, breaking it and splintering teeth. The Persian’s head was sent back hard and the force of the blow lifted him off his feet. He landed inertly at Casca’s feet, out cold.

  Shouts were everywhere. The Persian cohesion had dissolved and individual fights had broken out all over the place. The Persian officers screamed themselves hoarse trying to get their soldiers into some semblance of order but it was hopeless.

  Casca turned full circle, gripping his sword in both hands, seeking out yet another enemy soldier. What he saw to his left was Demetros being knocked to the ground by a large Persian who was holding onto the Greek’s collar and was raising his sword high to administer the killing blow.

  Roaring like a bull elephant, Casca charg
ed the man, enraged. The Persian paused and looked at Casca in shock. The Eternal Mercenary’s shoulder hit the soldier under the left arm, knocking him clean off his feet. Casca didn’t pause for a moment. His foot came stomping down, crunching cartilage and bone as the nose and face vanished into a mask of blood. The Persian writhed in agony, arms and legs shaking in shock, and Casca stamped again, this time onto the throat, crushing the windpipe.

  The Persian’s eyes went wide and a fountain of blood vomited out of his mouth, splashing Casca’s leg. Casca stepped away and offered Demetros a hand. “Get up. You want to be trampled like him?”

  Demetros shook his head and allowed him to be pulled up. Leaving the young Greek to collect his spear, Casca looked round again. Michael Pallos and Mathu were battling a small group of Persians together with some of the others in the unit, so Casca looked in the other direction.

  The Persian army was running. The trouble was, they were hemmed against a cliff and although some were climbing in a panic, throwing away their weapons, there was a crush at the foot of the ridge. Some Persians had turned away and fled left and right, right towards the crevasses. The Byzantine cavalry came galloping in, chasing these unlucky souls, and the Persians screamed as they realized their error and piled to a halt, but those behind kept on pushing and the ones at the edge went over with cries of horror.

  Casca sucked in lungfuls of air. The battle, such as it was, had ended. The enemy had been overconfident, expecting the Byzantine army to flee such as it had done over the past ten to fifteen years, but Heraclius had trained them to fight once again, and Sarbaros’ army had disintegrated.

  “That was – horrible!” Demetros declared, staring round at the scene of carnage in distaste.

  “That’s war for you, lad,” Casca said absent-mindedly as he wiped clean his blade.

  Demetros pulled a face. “You saved my life,” he said, turning to his larger companion. “Thank you.”

  “It was nothing,” Casca shrugged. To be truthful, it was nothing. He’d done that sort of thing many times before, and he guessed it wouldn’t be the last time either. He wiped sweat off his brow and inhaled deeply. Corpses dotted the ground, but not as many as there could have been. What Persians remained had either surrendered or were climbing up the cliffs away to safety. The general and his guard had probably fled the field by now. The Persian camp wasn’t too far away and Casca grunted in satisfaction. At least there he might get something from this fight.

  “Hey,” Demetros trotted after him, “where are we going?”

  “Camp,” Casca jabbed the point of his sword ahead to the tents that stood in a rough circle. Already others were descending upon them. “Loot.”

  “Loot?” Demetros was aghast. “That’s stealing!”

  Casca laughed despite himself. “Well then stay away. I’m here to be rewarded for putting my hide on the line, and army pay isn’t enough – when it does turn up which isn’t guaranteed!”

  Not caring a damn whether Demetros was following him or not, Casca strode into the Persian camp. Men were ripping aside tents and overturning pots, throwing aside objects they saw as having no value. Casca shoved aside one of the looters and beat him to a tent, curses ringing in his ears. There were piles of clothes in one corner, two rolled up blankets, one to either side, and a small wooden box at the far end.

  Intrigued, Casca knelt and tested the lid. It was locked, the clasp held in place by a padlock. The box was of a dark wood banded with a lighter type, possibly cedar. After struggling to force the lid, Casca put it down and brought the pommel of his sword down on it hard, cracking it apart. A second blow smashed the lid in completely.

  Inside was a folded length of felt. He flipped it up to reveal a gleaming golden disc and chain. The object depicted on it was a winged bull, a typical Persian piece of art. Assyrian. Grinning, he placed it over his head and slid it down his chest, under his tunic and armor. “What was it?” Demetros asked from the tent entrance.

  “Thought you weren’t interested in looting,” Casca said, standing up and turning round.

  “I’m not,” his companion said with disapproval. “But I’m interested in the beauty of things.”

  “Well it’s not your thing; it’s a nasty pagan object.” Casca felt annoyed with the man. He couldn’t resist poking fun at him.

  Demetros huffed and looked behind him. “The general’s coming; they’re putting a stop to the looting.”

  “That’s fine by me,” Casca said, pushing him out of the way and shading his eyes in the bright sunlight. “I’ve got something for my pains. Come on, let’s get back to our camp. We’re done for the day.”

  The general and his bodyguards herded the more reluctant looters away from the Persian camp. One or two had to be struck down as they refused to obey orders. The rest soon fell into line as the sight of the bloodied corpses of their comrades ended any enthusiasm they had felt in taking loot.

  They set up proper camp that afternoon. The wounded were cared for by the medical support staff while the dead were buried. Many of the burial detail were those who’d been caught looting the camp, but Casca and Demetros had evaded the net and so they sat together sharing a meal of cheese, olives and bread with Michael Pallos and Mathu.

  “Where did you get to today?” Pallos demanded. “You two took off like Satan was at your heels when the Persians ran away. We lost you.”

  “He looted something from their camp,” Demetros said, still with a disapproving look on his face.

  “Oh?” Pallos leaned forward, his eyes lighting up.

  “None of your business,” Casca warned him. “It’s mine and I’m not showing it off to anyone.”

  Pallos shrugged, smiling. “No need to get touchy, man. Just interested, that’s all. Isn’t that right, Mathu?”

  The dark man grunted, fingering more olives into his maw.

  “Doesn’t say much, does he?” Casca noted.

  “Not much,” Pallos conceded. “But he fights like hell. I bet he’s as strong as you, Casca.”

  Casca scowled. He doubted it. He’d known some tough guys in the past but had come out on top of them. Jubala in the Circus Maximus back in good old Rome, that fat slob Teypetel the Olmec and even his old friend Glam. Casca had defeated Glam by using the Way of the Open Hand Shiu has taught him. So even if they were bigger and stronger, Casca could use that against them.

  “You think Mathu here could beat you in a fight?” Pallos leered, daring Casca.

  “No,” Casca said with certainty.

  Pallos slapped his legs in delight. “Heh! Mathu you miserable soul, here’s a fool who thinks he can better you! What do you say to that?”

  Mathu grunted again and ignored the conversation, preferring to chew the filling bread and cheese. Demetros looked in concern between the two.

  Pallos caught the look. “Oh, don’t you worry about a thing, Demetros. It’s not using any weapons or the sort; its wrestling. Mathu is a champion of Nubia. Or so he says!” He looked again at Casca, a challenge in his voice. “So, what about it? A wager, too. Say ten nomisa?”

  Casca rinsed his mouth out with the contents of his water skin. He spat some of it out onto the ground. “None of us have any money, Pallos. You know that.”

  “You have that whatever it is you took from the Persian camp,” Pallos said slyly.

  Casca stared at the smirking man opposite him. “So you have something of equal value on you to match it? Think I’m a fool, eh?”

  “Mathu has. Go show him,” Pallos jabbed the black man in the arm.

  Mathu frowned, then irritably threw down the remains of his meal and pulled up the sleeve of his cloak. A golden arm band in the shape of a coiled snake rested on it. It looked Egyptian. Casca nodded. It was just as beautiful, and probably as valuable.

  Pallos encouraged Mathu to surrender it to him. “So. Here’s our wager. Where’s yours?”

  Casca reached into his collar and withdrew the medallion and chain, and silently passed it to Demetros. “Okay, wi
se ass. So where do we – ‘compete’ for these items?”

  Pallos laughed in delight. “Mathu’s never lost. You might as well hand it over now and save you the trouble of getting bruised and hurt.”

  “Oh fuck off,” Casca snapped. “Maybe I’ll take on you and shut your big mouth up.”

  “Tetchy,” Pallos laughed. “Over there. I’ll start a book. Hey, you lot,” he called over to the next group of men, “Mathu and Casca’s going to wrestle!”

  Casca groaned. Slowly, reluctantly, he got to his feet. Mathu belched, wiped his mouth and got up. He threw his cloak off and flexed his arms, walking the twenty yards or so to a clear patch of ground. Casca trudged in his wake, watching as a few interested people gathered around. Pallos was already whipping up the odds, having brought out a small roll of parchment and was writing down the odds and who had bet. Demetros decided he’d better go along too, having suddenly been left on his own. He wasn’t sure what was going to happen. This was all new to him.

  Casca stood in one corner, glowering. He disliked being manipulated into it, but he knew Pallos wouldn’t have shut up. It was clear that Pallos had been after the medallion right from the moment he heard about it, and was using Mathu as the means to get it.

  “Right, you lot stay clear of the skamma,” Pallos said, waving the over eager spectators away from the designated patch of earth he’d decided was the wrestling area. “Right, this is a Pale contest,” he said to the two men facing each other, ten feet apart. “That means only holding above the waist permitted. Clear? Winner is the first to two points. A point is decided when he throws the other out of the skamma, or forces the loser onto his back or gains a submission. No gouging permitted. Both of you clear?”

  Casca nodded. Mathu sneered and slipped off his tunic, revealing a well-muscled gleaming body. He’d done this before, clearly. Casca decided to use some psychology himself. He took off his tunic, revealing his heavily scarred torso and muscles. Pallos looked thoughtful while Mathu’s expression didn’t change in the slightest.