Casca 6: The Persian

by Barry Sadler

  Casca stripped to his loincloth and let the rushing waters rinse the smell of smoke and the stench of blood from his body. The sight of his scars and the knotted twisted muscles that rippled and turned with his every movement gave him new respect in the eyes of his warriors. Casca knew he was being watched and wondered if they would have liked to earn his muscles and scars the way he had, from years on the rowing benches of galleys. He had always been a relatively stout man, but the endless months of keeping time to the hortator's beat had given him a strength in his wrists and back that only one who'd served likewise could have. He'd met stronger men than himself in his lifetime but they'd been few.

  The water felt good: It eased the ache in his butt from days in the hard saddle. The inside of his thighs were rubbed sore. He knew the aching would pass soon and for now it was sheer luxury to just get off the damned mobile torture rack for a while.

  He gave the order to set up camp and for cooking fires to be lit. The horses were to be taken care of and put on a line where they could be fed and watched. Details were sent out to gather wood and to cut some of the high grass for use as fodder for the mounts.

  Following this was the cleaning of all weapons and the cleaning of blood from their clothes. Good soldiers were sharp soldiers.

  Here they would spend the night before the long journey back to Nev Shapur. Rest had been well earned by these Persian warriors.

  Casca slept fitfully, remembering the five thousand condemned men.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  They rose from their beds before dawn and made ready to ride. The miles dropped rapidly behind them this time; there were no interruptions to their journey. The warriors, it seemed, were in good spirits. Even the wounded made little complaint about their injuries.

  After two days' march, Casca decided to leave the wounded behind with a strong escort and move on ahead with only a few guards. They'd make even better time that way.

  He and his guards ran into the survey party of Imhept the Egyptian. They were returning from surveying the flow of rivers to the north. With pleasure, Casca joined his own party with that of Imhept. He'd always been impressed with the quiet strength of the mild mannered scholar.

  The two men, a warrior and a scholar, passed the hours with ease. They had much to talk about. From Imhept, Casca learned many things about the ancient Egyptians. He learned of their gods and their religious beliefs, and of their ways of life. He was amazed at how many centuries the Egyptians had ruled as a power. It made the few centuries of Roman rule seem pitifully short and from the looks of things, he couldn't see much possibility of Rome even coming close to the thousands of years that Imhept had told him of the dynasties of Egypt.

  They were only a day's ride from Nev Shapur when he called a halt for them to rest and clean themselves up a bit before going on. Also, it would give him a little more time with his newfound friend. Casca was really fond of the bald little man and he hoped that their individual duties would not keep them apart too often.

  He was enjoying the brief respite from the trail as he and Imhept walked through the streets of a village close to their campsite. To both their delights, the annual festival was taking place there. Casca had wondered about the number of tents and yurts that were scattered around the outskirts of the village, but had thought at the time that it might just be a time for trading or census that had brought so many tribesmen in from the desert and mountains.

  That was part of it, too, but the real reason was the holding of the annual Buzkash during the festival. He had never seen one before, but he was aware that the wild tribesmen of the north were heavily addicted to the sport. The villagers, being lowlanders, didn't participate in the game and Casca didn't blame them. It looked damned rough, and dangerous as well, to a man's health.

  From what he had seen so far, he figured that the idea was basically this: two sides mounted up and faced each other around the carcass of a decapitated calf on the ground. Then they would proceed to have a free for all. One side would grab the carcass and try to race around the field to a marked spot and set it down before the competition could take it away from them. It sounded simple enough until you realized that either side could use anything other than knives and swords to get the damned thing away from your team. This included ramming one another with their horses, hitting with fists, and lashing the others with short riding crops.

  It was not unusual for two or three men from each team to be killed, or at least crippled, in each event. Each event was settled through a process of elimination as to who was the victor. The prizes varied each time. A horse this time, a slave girl the next. The nomads all had one thing in common: they were proud, fierce men who took offense easily and normally spent most of their time either robbing or killing one another, but during the festival of the Buzkash, there would be no fighting among themselves, except on the field. In their faces he saw traces of the Mongol mingled with the fair hair and blue eyes of the Kushanites, who claimed they were the descendents of the armies of Alexander.

  In the open air market place, the vendors cried out for the noble lords to see and buy their goods. Everything was for sale, even their women. Casca was tempted but rejected the women, mostly because he didn't wish to offend the sensibilities of his companion.

  They had made their own camp and Casca regretted that they had no baths. But he would at least wipe the worst of the trail dust from him and have his uniform taken to the stream where it would be stone pounded and washed by a couple of the village women. It wouldn't help much, but it would perhaps remove a little of the sour smell of overheated horse and stale blood from it.

  While this was being accomplished, he lay around in the shade in his loincloth, enjoying an evening breeze that helped to cool his body and diminish some of the aches of battle and days in the saddle. He regretted that he would once again have to climb back into the saddle the next morning. But there was nothing to be done about it; he had to report in. This side trip meant that he was already late, and surely by now Shapur had word of the battle and was wondering where in the hell his general was. Casca didn't want to piss off his king and knew that Shapur had short reins on his temper. But if Shapur would give him time to explain the reasons for his delay, he was sure the king would approve.

  That night, he and Imhept sat by their campfire listening to the chanting of the tribesmen and the beating of their drums. Each, it seemed, was trying to be louder than the other. These, combined with reed flutes, mingled with the nasal, almost whistling trill of the village women in their black robes.

  He and his companion fed on a spiced stew of young lamb and flat cakes of bread, toasted on hot stones. The meat was flavored with a trace of mint, which these people had a predilection for.

  Imhept sat, facing Casca, wearing only his thin robe of linen. He didn't seem to mind the night chill at all, though Casca gave a shiver or two and tossed a couple of dried camel chips on the fire to warm things up a bit.

  They sat up late that night and talked of things far away, of the minds of men and deeds men had accomplished and of gods and luck. The Egyptian's voice was low and patient, as if he were trying to give Casca the benefit of his years. Casca knew that it was strange he should feel so much younger than this small, pleasant man when, in actuality, he passed him by many years. But he had not the maturity of Imhept, maturity that comes with age and the peace of mind that comes with time. Perhaps that was part of his curse, too. He would be always what he was until the Second Coming...

  When Orion the Hunter passed over the clear night sky, they slept. Tomorrow they would both have to face Shapur again and that was not a chore to be relished under the best of circumstances.

  It was near the evening hour when they finally arrived at the gates of Nev Shapur the next day. The crowd was flowing outward, merchants and farmers returning to their homes. There was no place for them inside the walls after dark.

  Casca led the way, acknowledging the salutes of the guards at the gate with an offhanded wave of his ri
ght arm. Once inside, he bade a temporary farewell to Imhept and the two of them went their separate ways, Imhept to his house and Casca directly to the palace.

  He dismissed his guards at the entrance to the palace grounds, letting them return to their barracks to do the things all soldiers find pleasurable after a victory. To boast to their comrades and recount the deeds of their valor, deeds that would grow with each telling until their achievements rivaled the feats of the immortal gods of Olympus themselves.

  For Casca, he had to face another power, one he found more fearsome than the gods of Greece and Rome combined. They were only phantoms, designed to scare children, but Shapur could provide anyone that offended him with an immediate entrance to the gates of hell.

  He was admitted to the palace by the majordomo, who looked with some distaste at his travel stained apparel. Casca didn't really care whether the eunuch approved of him or not. He knew that his dress would not go against him, for Shapur was interested in results, not fancy clothes.

  Passing through the same fresco lined halls that he had entered on his first visit to the throne room, he tried to pull his thoughts together. He wanted to make the shortest and clearest report he possibly could. He reached the door to the throne room. On each side of the entrance stood the Immortals of Shapur's personal guard. Inwardly, Casca was amused at their titles. Immortals? If they only knew.

  The massive doors swung wide and the majordomo turned Casca over to the chamberlain, who immediately announced his presence. Tapping his metal tipped staff on the marble floor three times, he called out for all to hear and bear witness that Casca, sent by his sovereign lord, Shapur II, to wage war against the Hephalites, had returned.

  Casca strode to the center of the hall and stood rigidly at attention, looking straight ahead. Shapur was seated on his alabaster throne, wearing, as was his usual habit, only simple, plain clothes. His only jewelry pieces were two bands of silver, set with turquoise, on his wrists. A single silver headband served as his crown and bared in his hand was the ever present sword. He rose from his seat.

  "Welcome, Lord Casca. I see you have returned bearing your shield rather than sitting on it. May I presume that your campaign was successful?"

  By his tone, Casca knew that he'd already received a full report from his agents on Casca's mission. Shapur spoke.

  "Well, Lord Casca, how did our little ruse work? Did it perform as well for us as it did for the General of Chin?"

  Casca admitted that the five thousand who'd slit their own throats had done good service and had fulfilled their end of the bargain.

  Shapur was pleased. "Then I shall do likewise. Their crimes and dishonors are forgiven and their families shall bear no guilt. This is my word, so shall it be recorded."

  Scribes hastened to put down his words of command, as Casca related the details of the battle, even though he knew that Shapur already had the information. He explained his delay in reporting back because of the raid he'd made on the Huns by the river. Shapur accepted his explanations and raised his sword, pointing it at him.

  "Hear me well. This man has done our bidding and has returned victorious. Let none of you do otherwise. This warrior is in my favor and it shall be so noted and demonstrated by the fact that from this time on, he shall have the full rank of general. He shall also be granted a reward of three thousand pieces of silver and a talent of gold."

  He addressed the entire hall. "Know ye full well, that I know how to reward those who obey as well as how to punish those that offend me. Mark this man's example. He came to our court as a stranger and is now honored and trusted by us. From this time on, no one shall refer to him as a foreigner, for by my word, he is accepted into our ranks. Casca, Baron of Khitai, and now general of my armies, is a Persian by my order. So it has been said, therefore it is done. For I am Shapur."

  Casca bowed his way out of the royal presence and returned to his own residence to soak and scrape off the caked grime of the Persian deserts and plains. On his way out of the palace he was intercepted by Rasheed, who asked after his health and whether all was well with him. Rasheed had volunteered to give him whatever support he could in his position at court. His words were honeyed, but something told Casca that the flavor in back of them warranted his watching out.

  Casca spent the next twenty four hours sleeping the deep rest of exhaustion that comes when one has finally finished a long and tiring journey. When he awoke, he felt drugged, his head and limbs heavy and slow, his thoughts hard to gather. It took a few hours and some solid food, washed down with wine, before he could get his body moving properly.

  It was near the twilight hour when, escorted by two of the household bodyguards, he ventured out into the streets. His personal bodyguards, he wondered? Or his jailers? He still wasn't quite sure of his status with Shapur. It didn't really matter.

  He wandered into the market places, enjoying the freedom from the spine jolting saddle he had ridden on for the last weeks, pleasuring himself at the stretching of his legs and being able to stop and sample fresh grapes from the mountains or wine from the vineyards of Armenia.

  He passed the street of potters, their ever spinning wheels being powered by naked feet, and made his way through a crowd of merchants and hawkers crying out for him to buy their wares.

  He entered the grand bazaar, where the last slaves of the day were being offered for sale, and decided to watch the action for a while. He had no intention of buying anyone, but he was curious to see what kind of merchandise was being offered on the block.

  Slaves from many lands were available to those with the silver or gold to buy them. There were fair haired Circassians, and even some wild men from the Colchis, where, it was said, that the legend of the Golden Fleece had its origin. The savages of the Colchis make the gathering of gold their principle occupation, supposedly, by placing sheepskins in the fast flowing streams, the oily hair collecting the particles of gold being swept along.

  The bidding was noisy, as the buyers, each with his own need, made offers on strong black males to work in the fields, or contractors, looking for cheap labor for the constant building programs they had received contracts on from Shapur's ministers. They all yelled out their bids loudly. Female slaves, several who were real beauties and proud of their bodies, twisted and turned, showing their charms, hoping to attract a wealthy purchaser who could give them at least a minimum of comfort, rather than the hovel of some goat herder who wanted a slut to slop his pigs and warm his bed.

  The bidding was brisk but the prices, as near as Casca could see, were reasonable enough. A good looking wench was going for an average of fifty denarii or two gold solidii. Actually, not a bad price. Casca watched the women and was tempted to bid a couple of times, but restrained himself.

  This suddenly changed, however, when the auctioneer brought his next offering on the block. Casca liked what he saw, even though the female slave was filthy and her hair was hanging in greasy, jangled tendrils. She was almost naked, her back showing the evidence of recent lashings, though none appeared to have been delivered with intent to permanently scar and would fade in a few days. She stood as a caged animal might, twisting and twitching in barely controlled rage. Her head would have scarcely reached Casca's shoulder and her breasts were small, though exceedingly well formed and ripe. The auctioneer made an effort to get her to move around the block so as to show off more of her charms, but every movement she made was of pure hate and resentment, and the buyers could tell, so bidding had not started.

  The auctioneer tried to prod the bidding by claiming that she'd just recently been brought in and hadn't been in care long enough to be properly trained. He pointed with his rod to her, legs and breasts, crying out to the noble lords to see how strong the limbs were, and how the high set of her breasts would surely delight any man of sensibility. Holding her face in his hand, he pried her mouth open with his rod, showing that her teeth were not as rotten as her disposition. He nearly lost a finger in the doing.

  She stared at the
would-be buyers with such open loathing that it was scaring them off. They wanted a good worker or a willing bed warmer, not some bitch who would stick a knife in them the first time they closed their eyes. And, there was little doubt in their minds that this would be the fate of the unfortunate sucker who could be conned into purchasing her.

  Casca bid one silver coin of Darius. The auctioneer tried to raise the ante, crying for another bid. There was silence and Casca thought he'd bought her for the low price, but suddenly from the rear came another bid of two small gold coins. It was an Arab merchant in a turban and burnoose. The bidding between the two men became a contest, the woman was secondary now. When Casca and the Arab locked eyes there was instant dislike and each knew that the other would go the limit of his wealth, if for no other reason than sheer pigheadedness. The woman was no longer as important as the winning. Arabs were known to be great gamblers and losing at anything ate at their craws. The bidding continued to rise until Casca finally removed his purse and walked directly up to the block. Inside it, there were the last of the gemstones given him by Tzin. He poured them all into the palm of the auctioneer, a rainbow of colors, enough to make the auctioneer a wealthy man for the rest of his life yet Casca was hoping that the greasy bastard would die before sundown.

  The Arab gave up. To go against such a bid, that was even now being tallied by gem experts, would have broken him completely. He left the scene, his robes whipping about him angrily as Casca was handed the title to his new acquisition.

  Casca asked the she savage's name and whence she had come. He learned that she was Anobia and had been picked up on a slaving raid in the mountains of Armenia. That was all they knew of her and the auctioneer wished the foreign lord good luck with his purchase of the she-wolf. He was surely to need it. He asked Casca if he had a specific mark that he would like her branded with, so as to be more readily found if she should escape. Casca told him no, he wanted no more marks on her skin. Anobia said nothing, watching her new owner with contempt.