by Tony Roberts
Casca was given a frugal meal of bread and cheese and water. He got apologies from the owner that it was all they had. “Do not worry, Comrade,” Casca said, keeping up his image of the Bolshevik, “any meal is welcomed. The Bolshevik soldier is grateful for any support from the people, for are we not one and the same?”
He eyed the widow who was giving him the hots. Clearly she was drawn to him for a whole number of reasons. His build, his looks, maybe? Or the fact he was a Commissar and had power and rank? Or maybe she was just hungry for a man after two years or more after her bereavement. He winked at her and shifted his eyes to the door to his room. She wet her lips before taking his empty plate to the kitchen space to the side.
Casca soon excused himself. He told the elderly couple he was tired and would be resuming his journey early in the morning so they were not to be concerned if they heard him up and about before dawn.
He relaxed on the bed, a single candle on the bedside table, and waited. After half an hour, perhaps, the door slowly opened and in slipped the young woman. She closed the door and stood there breathlessly, leaning against it, surveying him. Casca got up, took the two steps to reach her and looked at her from a matter of three inches.
He let her hair fall loose and she looked at him, her face in shadow. Casca wasn’t too concerned about anything other than satisfying himself at that moment, for it had been a long time since he’d savored a woman, and in times of war the ever-present specter of death riding on everyone’s shoulders often led to men wishing for a woman before they were cruelly cut down.
She needed him, too. Her arms came up around his neck and she began gyrating her hips, rubbing her loins against his. Her breath came in fast, short, soft gasps. Even if Casca hadn’t been in need of it, her rhythm and motion would have soon got him going.
He dragged her to the bed and she didn’t resist. Together they soon got her dress off and undergarments, and she desperately fumbled at his trousers. He pulled her hands away and she whimpered, but he spread her legs apart and she groaned, and he unfastened his trousers and pushed himself against her.
She softly begged him, “da, da!” Yes, yes.
He grinned and for a moment teased her, playing at her entrance. She bit her lower lip. “Fuck me you bastard whoreson!” she pleaded, pouring out a torrent of insults to him which left him open-eyed in admiration.
So he did. She hissed, clamped her legs around his back in an embrace that wasn’t going to go away any time soon, and her hands raked up and down his back. Fortunately for him he was still wearing his jacket or else his back would have been shredded.
She bucked and thrust as much as he did, her head tossing from side to side, eyes shut, teeth clamped, nostrils flared. The bed shook, the floorboards creaked. He guessed the entire house would know what was going on but that was too bad. In the end he grabbed her hands, pinned them to the bed and thrust hard into her, telling her what a slut, a whore, a dirty bitch she was. She nodded frantically. “Da! Da! Davai! Davai!” Faster faster.
Christ, am I some kind of fucking woodpecker? he asked himself, but complied, nonetheless. When the moment came, he groaned long and hard and she cried out, her heels drumming into the small of his back.
He relaxed, head bowed, and she looked up at him, sweat coating her face. “Opyat' zhe, ublyudok,” she gasped. Again, you bastard. Gods, she was gagging big time.
“As you wish, good lady,” he said, and this time went over her body with his lips and tongue and she was driven to a frenzy.
They slept cuddled into one another, he feeling a huge amount of satisfaction, and she with a soft smile on her lips. Come the morning, he knew, he would be on his way and she would remain there with nothing but the memory of a passion-filled night and having been made love to by a man who knew how to. She had no idea, of course, that he’d had centuries of experience, and prided himself on pleasuring a woman. But then, in times of war when nobody knew whether this day would be their last, often when the opportunity came along, it was taken. The only thing Casca didn’t like was the forced taking of women.
It had always happened and he supposed it always would, but that didn’t mean one had to accept it. He’d sooner shoot one of his own side than condone him doing it.
It was just before light when Casca roused his two men, sprawled untidily in the barn. They had made themselves comfortable amongst the animals and their smells, and wore a lot of straw on their uniforms and in their hair. Casca grunted as they presented themselves rather scruffily before him. “As we go, best each of you get rid of the mess on the other. We don’t want people to think we Bolsheviks are peasant farmers and not soldiers, don’t you think?”
“No, Comrade Commissar!” both replied. They instantly beat one another’s uniforms, getting rid of the worst.
They crossed the bridge and moved on, in a long line, ten paces apart. Casca led, and the other two switched every time they stopped for a drink or rest. Pavel Rodiansky and Sergei Maranchuk were their names, and Casca didn’t trust either to lead. They were happy to let their leader take point, and both were in awe of him for the way he’d dealt with the Cossacks.
Much of the terrain was farmland here, given over to wheat. This was the food bowl of the Russians, and Casca could see why Lenin and company, now in Moscow, had no intention of letting the Ukrainians gain independence. But for the moment, as long as the Germans were at the backs of the Hetmanate, as the Ukrainian state should now be called, there was little the fledgling Communist state could do about it.
Casca thought on that as he led the other two across the long, gently sloping terrain. In Paris in 1870 the Parisians had risen up and established a kind of proto-communist society called the Communards, but it had been crushed by the French military. Here, though, the military were backing these revolutionaries, and it remained to be seen if it would last. Casca doubted the other states in Europe would tolerate them, being so different to the way the reigns of power were held in, say, Britain or Germany or Austria-Hungary, but as long as they were at one another’s throats, the Bolsheviks could lay down foundations among the disenchanted peasantry of Russia who’d had enough of imperialist-style rule.
But his main worry was what had happened in France after their ‘egalitarian’ revolution. Those who had done the job to start with, the middle-classes, found they couldn’t hold onto power or change things for the better for the bottom class of society, and it was this ‘second’ revolution, from below, that had washed away the middle-class government and installed an extreme form of government kept in power by blood and terror.
He was worried the same was happening here. Kerensky and his moderates had toppled the Tsar but in turn were no more, having been toppled by Lenin. It was Lenin and his cohorts who now would decide how they would rule, and using what power they had. And currently that power was through the rifles and machine-guns of the Revolutionary Guards, who were extremists.
Casca’s face grew grimmer. There was also the Cheka.
CHAPTER NINE
They got to the safety of Bolshevik lines two days later. What worked in their favor was the fact there were only three of them and so much harder to spot. Their disheveled look gave their story added realism and allayed any suspicion that they were deserters or spies.
They were driven to their unit, out of Lugansk, and off to the north to Voronezh. The advance of the Don Cossacks meant that Lugansk was being evacuated too, and it wasn’t long before the Hetmanate of the Don Cossacks was declared.
Casca was given a new uniform, without holes or repairs, a shiny new cap with a red star on the front and new orders. The Petrograd Soviet was insisting commissars enforced official policy more rigorously, and to root out ‘troublemakers’ wherever they may be. The war on anarchists was hotting up.
Casca sought out Nakarov, who was based across the city next to the arsenal. His unit were guarding the supplies and ordnance just in case anyone tried sabotage and struck a blow for the anti-communist forces.
&nbs
p; “Well, Comrade,” Nakarov greeted him with a smile, “its good to see your ugly face once more. Thought the Cossacks had got you and were raping you from the Don to the Urals.
“They could try but I’d kill the whoresons,” Casca replied.
Nakarov roared with laughter. “So, no doubt, my ignorant comrade, you’re here to find out the latest scandal and situation from my educated mouth, mm?”
“Something like that, yes. I want to know if we’re going to be kicked out of this place, too.”
“Not likely,” the gruff commissar said, shaking his shaggy head. “The Germans have withdrawn most of their troops for the war against the western powers, and have got reservists and second-rate troops now in the Ukraine. The Cossacks are busy establishing their rule down south. Its to the east we’ve got the biggest trouble. The Czech Legion has revolted. Seems they don’t like us Reds, and they’ve sided with the Whites.”
“Ah. They’re bad news, aren’t they?”
“Yes. If the Austrian army had more like them, then we’d’ve been in deep shit right from the start of the war. Good leaders, brave soldiers, determined outlook and a unified purpose. Georgia has declared independence and the Germans are in Finland and the French and British in Murmansk. Want to know anything else?”
“Have we enough vodka?”
Nakarov whooped with laughter and slapped his leg. “That’s what I like about you, you have your priorities right! Screw the revolution, screw the Whites, the Cossacks and the Germans. Do we have vodka? That’s the essential thing! Yes, we do.”
They decided to get some more gossip, as Nakarov put it. He revealed to Casca that his information came from the prostitutes who also had as their clients the top officials of the Soviet apparatus. His position as commissar got him into places not many could go, and he took full advantage. “The secret is, of course,” he tapped his nose as they walked towards one of the more exclusive ‘clubs’ of Voronezh, which of course was a brothel, “to not let on you know nothing, but that you’re privy to all the information known at high level.”
Casca knew what he meant. The club was in a former residence of a minor member of Russian imperial nobility who had been shot in the coup of 1917. It still retained its baroque appearance, but the stout white walls with their spiked iron rails on top now kept the outside world away from the new rulers, the Soviet, rather than a single person.
The Soviet may not have the same money, but they had as much power. The gates were guarded by two half-decent looking guards, whose smartness might not have passed muster in most other armies but they were a damn’ sight more professional looking than much of the Soviet army up to now.
Nakarov nodded to the guards who checked their passes, and snapped to attention when the two men’s ranks were known. Commissars had their own status. Best not to oppose them, or they might pass on to the political leaders the news and before you know it, someone might come along and tap the shoulder and that would be it.
Inside the place had a look of former glories now fallen. Casca recalled when these kind of places had been in their heyday, in the time of vulgar parties, powdered wigs, ‘beauty spots’ to hide the scars of smallpox and so forth. He’d never been part of that social circle but he’d been a guard in the army of the emerging British Empire, and also been in the army of Napoleon when they had entered Vienna and seen for themselves the displays of wealth and privilege.
Here in Russia, too, it had existed. Casca had been here in 1812 as part of the Grande Armee, or, rather, further north, on a march he’d rather forget. He’d not really noted too much of this during that time but it had been there.
Nobody had done the housekeeping or cleaning for a while and the new rulers had no idea how to keep such places, nor had they the money. There was also the social and political arguments; if it was truly a communist society then nobody was a servant or slave. This utopian ideal was clashing with the practicalities of being in charge of a nation at war with almost everyone else, and Casca guessed practicalities would win in the end; they usually did.
People were here, lounging about, smoking, chatting, drinking. Women glided through the room, talking to a man here and there, and sometimes the man would go off with the woman upstairs. Ah, Casca nodded. Nakarov grinned.
They approached a drinks cabinet which was covered in spilled alcohol, some glasses and carafes, and on the floor a smashed glass in pieces. Nakarov lifted a bottle of vodka and poured a glass full for each of them and waved his companion to a corner close to the bottom of the stairs.
“Here, my friend, is the first stop for the whores. They come down and we will be the first they see. Chat one up and before you know it, you’ll be led upstairs to one of their boudoirs. Happy hunting,” he chuckled and moved away.
Casca eyed those present in the room. A motley collection of revolutionary people, he guessed. Many of them were trying to look something they weren’t; cultured. They were from the lowest echelons of society who had in desperation grasped the words of revolt and taken their chance with Lenin and Trotsky, and who were, at least for now, in positions of power.
Casca smiled sardonically and looked at the women. Some were from the gutter and were trying to screw their way to the top, others women who had been something before the revolution and who were now either trying to make ends meet, or keep with the in-crowd.
He could tell which were which. The ones from the gutter were sleazy and all over their men, almost trying to rape them on the spot, while those from better backgrounds were engaging their potential conquests in conversation and looking classier.
“Ah, my uncaring commissar from the front,” a nasty voice said in his left ear.
Casca turned his head. “Comrade Astapenko. Not the kind of place I’d expect to see you in?”
The Chekist curled a contemptuous lip. “I have agents working here, ready to overhear anti-revolutionary talk. We have already arrested three enemies of the state this week, thanks to my informants.”
“Crying out to God in the moment of a climax is not anti-revolutionary, you know,” Casca remarked dryly.
Astapenko scowled. “Still being flippant, Comrade Kaskarov? One of these days I’ll find enough reason to have you arrested and then you’ll be sorry.”
“Why don’t you go to the men’s, have a damned good play with yourself and relieve the tension?”
The secret policeman puffed himself up angrily. “I would best watch what you say. I have men all around this place, and all I need is one flick of my finger and you’ll be taken to our place of interrogation where you’ll have no friends and only pain as a companion.”
Casca smiled. “Why don’t you try out one of your tarts? You’ll find it’s a much better activity than eavesdropping on conversations from this lot. Most of it is pretty boring and inconsequential, unless you’re interested in what they have to say.” He waved his glass at the nearest couple, a man with a long curling goatee beard and a woman with large breasts and a dislike for covering them up. “She’s from Kursk and came here trying to find her brother but he’s probably dead, killed in the civil war, and he’s in the Voronezh Soviet looking after the supply of foodstuffs into the city, by rail or road. He’s moaning that the loss of the Ukraine has affected the supply of food.”
Astapenko glared at the two. “What side was her brother fighting on?”
“Ours,” Casca said easily. To be honest, he didn’t know, but he didn’t want her taken away by this ugly bastard and his goons. He was rather enjoying the sight of her acreage.
“Hmmm, that’s what they all say.”
“Tell you what, Astapenko. Do me a favor and I’ll do you one.”
The Chekist eyed Casca warily. “And what is that Comrade?”
“Engage the Soviet committee member in conversation, asking him what is he doing about replacing the supply of wheat, for example, to the good people of this city now the Ukraine is in the hands of the accursed Hetmanate, while I take that tart upstairs and ravish her to a point
where she’ll tell me everything about her brother?”
“You seriously think I would agree to such a ridiculous request?”
Casca sipped on his vodka. Smacking his lips he shrugged. “Alright, then be ignorant of who her brother fought for and what the committee member is really doing with the food. Is there really a shortage or is he diverting it to his own stock for his use to sell on the black market? Tsk tsk.”
Astapenko’s head swung again, staring at the couple. Casca almost laughed at the expression on the man’s face. He really wasn’t that bright. “Very well, Comrade, I see that your suggestion has some merit. But,” and he jabbed a finger into Casca’s chest. “You had better tell me in one hour’s time of her brother’s loyalty to our cause!”
“Sure thing, Comrade Astapenko.” Casca grinned as the policeman barged in on the two, like an icebreaker, and took the man aside by the arm, none-too-gently. The Eternal Mercenary smoothly stepped up to the woman who was looking shocked at having her potential client rudely taken from her. “Evening, ma’am,” he smiled. “You’re looking fetching in that dress.”
She looked at him, then at his star on his jacket. “Good evening, Comrade..?”
“Comrade Commissar Kaskarov. At your service,” he added with a rakish smile. “And I can service you very well indeed.” Terrible line but they tended to work well with the new regime, he’d learned.
She almost visibly melted into a new stance and posture, taking hold of his arm. “Well, that is wonderful to hear. Tell me, what is your story?”
“Let me tell you upstairs, away from these boring people,” he replied, and guided her to the bottom of the stairs. To hell with finding out about whether her brother was going to fight for whatever side, he was more interested in what she could do for him in one of the rooms.