Casca 6: The Persian

by Barry Sadler

  "The King Shapur has given you this opportunity to save your families from death. You have already been sentenced to die, some of you for treason, others for robbery or murder or refusing to accept the state religion. It matters not what your crime against the Great King was, you are all as one in your sentence. But this day you shall be permitted to atone for those crimes and the Great King will spare your families. They will not have to go under the headman's ax. Let not one of you hesitate. Do as you have been ordered and all will be well for those you leave behind. Such is the order of the Great King."

  Each of the five thousand raised his only weapon, a single knife, in salute and bowed low at the words of the Great King, Shapur.

  Casca turned from them and returned to his position on the ridge to await the Hunnish horde.

  What he had just done had not been an easy thing. He wished now that he hadn't told Shapur of the manner by which the Viscount of Wu had achieved victory over the Ch'u seven hundred years before with the use of three thousand men. But he had told him and Shapur had ordered him to try to same technique in this battle. Shapur, in his mind superior to any Chinese, had given Casca five thousand instead of the three used by the Viscount.

  The only consolation he could muster for the plan was that these men were already condemned and most of them would die this day with less pain than they would have if left to the tender mercies of the royal headsmen who delighted in their own forms of experimentation. And, Casca knew, Shapur's word was law. Their families would be spared. He had explained to Shapur that it would make the men accept their fate more easily and the King had conceded.

  The five thousand men stood waiting in five ranks across the sunbaked floor of the valley, each to his own thoughts and fears. They knew they had no choice but to obey. They shuffled their feet nervously, the sun pounding on their temples and backs. Many already had the look of men dead, or at least men at peace with themselves. In their faces, Casca could see no panic. Fear, yes. Fear of the unknown. Some of them, in a perverse manner, even seemed to be looking forward to what the next minutes would bring.

  At the far entrance to the valley the horsemen of the Hephalites began to gather, a cloud of dust rising over them as their horses milled about in their thousands.

  War drums began to beat and the Huns sang and chanted as their shaman prayed to the elemental spirits. They whipped themselves into a fighting frenzy, ragged and savage apparitions, their horses wild, red eyed and rearing, white streaks of foam dripping from their mouths and down their flanks. It was rumored that the Huns often fed their horses the flesh and blood of humans. Their Khans waited also, waited for the precise moment when their men were so filled with the lust to kill that they could no longer be restrained.

  Now, horns blared. Under the horse tailed standards, the Huns charged against the stationary line of the waiting Persians.

  The first line of the five thousand condemned men stepped forward ten paces, separating themselves from the rest of the Host. They stood alone, without shields or spears to protect them, with only their short bare blades held above their heads, waiting for the Huns to close. Casca watched from his vantage point, feeling a little sick to his stomach. He couldn't let the Huns get too close or their own impetus would carry them through the first line. His trumpeter stood close by. Closer and closer the Huns advanced, the bravest of them on the fastest horses at the forefront, screaming.

  The heads of vanquished enemies hung on ropes, draped from the necks of their foam mouthed, red eyed war horses. Closer, the drumming hooves came. Casca raised his sword, holding it above his head for a moment, the midday sun twinkling off the polished steel of its blade.

  Now! He swung the blade downward and his trumpeter sounded a long single note to echo across the sun bleached rocks of the valley floor. At the signal, the first rank of the condemned stepped forward two more paces and raised a single cry to the glory of the King of Kings, Shapur, then sliced their own throats open. In less than the beat of a heart, a thousand men cut their own throats in front of their Hunnish enemies and fell forward in their own blood.

  The leaders of the advancing Huns slowed their charge. The horn sounded again and another thousand stepped forward to where the first had died, raised their knives in salute to Shapur, then sliced wide open their windpipes and fell across the bodies of those already dead.

  The first wave of the Huns halted altogether. The smell of blood reached the flaring, foam flecked nostrils of their steeds. Once more, then again... and again, the lone signal of the trumpeter called forth a thousand to their death until the five thousand lay dead by their own hands. The Huns wavered; superstitious fear told them that this was something outside their experience. Killing the enemy they were used to, but an enemy who killed himself while shouting to the glory of his king was more than their barbaric mind could comprehend. And what one cannot understand, one fears. And, behind the five thousand dead waited thousands more.

  Basic primeval fear of the unknown rushed over them as the remaining forces of the Persian Host raised their lances and spears on high and cried out in the Hunnish tongue as Casca had taught them. "Death! Death! Death!"

  The Huns broke, and turning back from the madmen they raced to the rear, for it was well known that the mad were protected by the spirits and to touch them was to invite disaster and death. They fled from the field, pursued by the Persian Cavalry. Having the fresh animals, the Persians quickly overtook the panic stricken Huns whose horses even now were staggering and windblown. Some dying from ruptured hearts were throwing their twisted legged masters to the earth where the Persian infantry quickly dispatched them. Among those whose animals could still run, panic spread as wildfire feeds on dry grass. Nothing could stop them but death. They raced to get away from the insane suicides.

  Casca didn't join in the battle; there was no need. When the Huns broke, he knew then that it wouldn't be a fight, but a slaughter. And slaughter it was. All that day and into the dark, the Persian Cavalry pursued the Huns.

  The following morning they counted the heads taken in battle. It required two hundred carts to carry the twenty thousand gape mouthed trophies back to Nev Shapur.

  The Khans and Toumans of the Huns would think long and hard before they came again to the lands of the Sassanid kings. A nation that doesn't hesitate to kill itself is an enemy to be avoided. Besides, there were always easier pickings elsewhere.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The bloody business over with, Casca turned command of the Persian forces over to Indemeer and told him that he was returning to Nev Shapur.

  Indemeer bowed, accepting the responsibility and advising Casca that it would be wise to have a strong escort in his return. Many of the Huns that had escaped were now broken up into parties of varying sizes and scattered to the winds. There could be some behind them and it would probably be, Indemeer warned, at least a week or two before the last Hunnish forces could be rounded up and wiped out.

  Casca agreed and Indemeer assigned a detachment of two hundred light archers to escort him back to the capital. The archers were under the command of young Shirkin who had not, as of yet, the full grown beard favored by the Persians. It would still be a year or two before the dark fuzz turned into a proper growth. But Casca had noticed the young officer in battle. The youth had displayed a cool mind.

  He had husbanded his forces and kept them from overextending themselves and being cut off from the main body. His courage was evident from the number of minor wounds he had received in the fight. His left arm, Casca could see, was nursing a saber cut almost to the bone and Casca knew the youngster had experienced agony from the red hot iron used to cauterize the wound and keep it from corrupting.

  Shirkin's face showed no sign of fever. His eyes were clear, though he did wince from pain now and then when his horse made too sudden a move.

  They left the valley in formation, with scouts and skirmishers out. Half of their small force was utilized in this capacity while the rest rode in two ranks along th
e road. At midday they switched off, the outriders coming in to take up the ranks on the road while their comrades took their turn out front among the rocks and barren ground. Even when they switched it was not done all at once. In turn, one element would come in, then another. This way, they could not be caught by surprise with all their forces on the road and no scouts out.

  As they rode from the place of slaughter they could see birds by the thousands flying over them, heading back from where the riders had come. Kites and vultures. Somehow they knew that ahead lay a place where food could be had. Even packs of jackals could be seen furtively scurrying between the scrub brush and rocks, making for the feast. Casca knew that before two days had passed there would be nothing left of the Huns' remains but scraps of cloth, fur, and scattered bones to whiten in the sun.

  One of the outriders came at a gallop, his horse lathering at the chest and mouth. He reined up in front of Casca and Shirkin.

  "Lord, I have sighted a band of Huns heading to the north of us. I think they are making for the river crossing."

  "How many?" Shirkin beat Casca to the question.

  "Perhaps as many as we, not more."

  Shirkin turned eagerly to Casca. "How say you, my Lord? Do we pursue the beasts?"

  Casca thought it over. "No! We'll let them go this time."

  The messenger spoke again. "Forgive me, Lord, but the savages have already laid waste one village in their path and have slain all there. Even the old men and babes. And Lord, there lie at least two other villages in their path before they reach the river. Will you leave your people to face them alone?"

  Casca had seen the handiwork of the Hunnish tribes too many times not to know what anyone who came across them would face, and death, he knew, would be the least of the agonies. Raising up in his saddle, he called:

  "Bring in the flankers and scouts, we ride north!"

  Shirkin cheered at the words, as did all in hearing range of Casca's voice. They turned the column northward, riding swiftly. Casca made them alternately get down from their horses and run along beside them while hanging on to the saddle straps or to the horse's tail. This would give the animals rest from the weight on their backs, and though not as fast as riding constantly, Casca knew from experience that they would more than make up for it in the long run by covering more distance and still having fresher mounts when they needed them.

  By sundown they had come across one of the villages previously visited by the Huns. The sweet stench of death greeted Casca's small force. All were dead. What the scout had said about the other village was also true here. Men, women, and children had all been slaughtered. The Huns had obviously rounded up everyone and herded them into the center of the small village, and there had methodically cut every person's throat. Even the babes, lying still now beside their mothers, had not been spared. It was a scene like this that, more than anything else, always brought the black urge to kill over the Roman. And as they rode on, the hate grew with each league as they closed in on their quarry.

  All that night they rode, eating and sleeping in the saddle. By dawn, they knew they were very close. The droppings from the Hun's mounts in front of them were still damp and steaming. They were only minutes behind them now and Casca, red eyed and angry, wanted them badly.

  He hadn't fought in the battle in the valley. There'd been no need. But this was one he would not miss out on and his sword would be needed. They crested a rise and Casca called a halt. Below, crossing a small plain, were the Huns, strung out in a ragged line. Their numbers, as his scout had estimated, were about equal.

  Wondering how to catch up with the Huns, Casca noticed the enemy would be forced to cross a large field of high grass, shimmering yellow now in the morning light, thigh high to a man.

  Casca called to Shirkin to send him four riders and a spare mount for each. He explained his plan for stopping the Huns to Shirkin and the youngster grinned in boyish glee.

  "As you command, Lord." Shirkin gave the orders and the four light archers sped off to the side of the rise, riding as though there would be no tomorrow. Whipping their horses, they raced the already tired animals, leading their spare mounts by lead ropes. About halfway to the field of grass, as Casca watched, they leapt first one, then another, from the backs of the spent horses onto their spares, releasing the tired animals and whipping the others onward. They passed the Huns, who were staring at them in wonder. The riders were too fast and the Huns let them pass without trying to give chase. They and their horses were too tired and besides, what danger could four lone riders represent when they were this near to the river crossing and there were no Persians ahead.

  The Persian riders raced on into the highest part of the grass, disappearing from sight. Casca waited impatiently. He didn't let his horsemen leave the heights, not wanting to give the Huns any more to alarm them.

  Shirkin pointed with his drawn sword. "There, my Lord! They have started!"

  From the grass came one lone tendril of smoke, and then another. In ten minutes, the entire field of grass was one solid line of flames in front of the Huns. At this precise moment, Casca gave the order to form and advance.

  The wind was blowing in their direction, into their faces and those of the Huns, but the Huns' attentions were focused on the sea of fire before them; their tired, frightened animals whinnied and shied at the crackling roar of the flames. They halted now to wait out the fire. From where they were situated, the Huns knew the flames couldn't reach them and would burn themselves out without too much trouble. All they had to do was wait. Many of them took this opportunity to dismount and take a leak or a crap while squatting beside their mounts. Several were still in this awkward position when the first arrows of Casca's archers reached them.

  The wisdom Casca had shown in having his men give the horses a break while running beside them proved its value now. His men were tired from the forced ride, but the memory of what they'd seen in the village had been riding with them. It gave them the needed factor to drive down on the rear of their ancient enemy. Hate drove them, hate so strong that it drove away fear of their own deaths.

  The Huns were still strung out in a single ragged line up to the edge of the grass. Casca and his warriors swept down and over them, rolling them up a few at a time as they hit en masse.

  Casca left the use of the bow to his Persian archers, who were much more proficient in shooting from the saddle than he himself was, and used only his sword. The longer Persian blade proved it’s merit over the Roman short sword by giving him a longer reach, which he used to good advantage. The strength of his swing was aided by the movement of his horse. His blade flashed again and again, and with each stroke a Hun went down minus his head, the body standing momentarily before falling to lie twitching in death on the ground.

  About one half of the Huns had managed to gather in force, their backs against the searing wall of flames, grass smoke swirling about them, gray clouds stinging their eyes and sending their mounts into a state of frenzy. Only the strong hands of their masters kept them from bolting and running wild.

  The Persians drew up in line, facing their enemies. Both sides had bows drawn and arrows notched, waiting for what both sides knew would be death.

  The horses of each side stood, legs wobbly, their flanks heaving. No word was spoken. Only the crackling of the raging grass fire made noticeable sound.

  They waited, each side trying to gather its strength. One of the Huns in the line threw back his head and, face to the sky, he held his sword to the heavens and began to sing, a strange gutteral cry, rising and falling. He was calling upon the primal spirits of the earth and sky to accept him The others took up the death cry in unison and the Huns prepared to die.

  To Casca's ear, the combined voices of the Huns were not unlike the howling wail of wolves. The final note of the death song faded. Small fires flared up, then died under the stamping hooves of the horses. Smoke bit at their eyes, causing tears to run freely from the eyes of the Persians as well as from those of their fo
e. They waited, both sides crying, the moment tense while each watched the other. Then, at an unspoken command, the Huns broke and charged. The wild creatures of the steppes whipped their flagging beasts into a ragged gallop. The Persians waited until only a hundred feet separated them, then raised their bows and fired. The arrows, streaking single shafts of death, glided through the air to find their targets. The Huns went down under the rain of wooden shafts and the Persians dropped their bows and drew swords to close in upon the survivors.

  Casca raced the short distance with his men; blood pounding in his temples, face red from exertion, hands sweaty, the cords standing out in his neck, he struck again and again, the longer Persian blade reaching out to lay open the bellies or throats of all he could reach. One black, gap toothed mouth after another disappeared in a mask of blood. The Huns gave no real resistance. They had in song conceded the fight before they'd charged. This was only their way of showing courage before death. And it came at the merciless hands of the Persian Cavalry. None were spared. Even the wounded horses of the Huns were put to the sword to lie kicking beside their bestial masters, who now in death seemed ridiculously harmless. They were merely dark, broken, bleeding clumps, spotting the ground in their filthy furs and leather trousers. Dark pools of their life source marked the spot where each lay, waiting for the birds and hungry jackals.

  The Persians were now starting to take heads trophies to take back with them but Casca put a stop to it. He did not relish riding three hundred miles with the smell of rotting meat in his nostrils each step of the way. With some reluctance, his men obeyed and tossed the heads they'd collected back to the ground to lie mute on the stones of the plain's floor; eyes open, watching their killers.

  Casca and his riders moved away from the killing ground, away from the smoke and mess of the grass fire to a spot by the river where they could rest and water themselves and their animals. Each of them took turns soaking their bodies in the waters of the Oxus, but only a couple of them ventured out farther than a few feet from the shore. The Persians were plainsmen or from the hill tribes and few knew the art of swimming.