by Barry Sadler
Casca slept deeply, his body pleased to be free of the weight of the chains that had held them down for so many months. It was good to sleep as a free man again. Or was he? Something in his mind said that he might have forged new chains with the young Mongol this night. Chains stronger than those of Zhoutai, for these were of his own making and might be much harder to free himself from.
It was late in the afternoon when the sun had passed over the mountain range, casting the valleys below into deep blue shadows, that Temujin returned. He had been back down the mountain to the river plains. The crunching of his feet on small stones jerked Casca's head around, his hand going to the long dagger in his belt as Temujin entered the mouth of the cave.
"It is good to see you are awake, Old Young One. Yes, very good. Now we must travel, for there is much to do, and the way is long to the lands of the Buryat. You shall teach me as we ride. But first I think we should change our clothes for others more fitting."
"Change?" Casca queried him. What had been going on while he'd slept?
"Yes, Old Young One. This night we ride well dressed. I returned to Qura-Qurom and took from there something we forgot last night. Zhoutai's underlings were so busy celebrating his death and their good fortune that they took too much of the kumass. It was easy, for no one would think that we would return so soon. Come and see what I have brought for us, for now we are men of property."
His joints creaking, he followed Temujin outside the cave and back down the trail a way to where he saw three horses tied to a clump of greasebrush. Zhoutai's horse was among them. All were loaded with the belongings of the Tatar. In the packs were weapons, food, clothing, and even a few poor pieces of armor from Syria. Nothing grand, but better than nothing.
Touching Temujin for the first time on the shoulder, he laughed. "Well, if you do not have the makings of a great general, you certainly are a first-class horse thief."
Temujin did not smile, though to be called a good horse thief was certainly not an insult. "Trust in me, Old Young One. I have the makings of much more than just another general or horse thief. This you shall see. I promise you this, and my promises are always kept. To the death they are always kept."
A chill ran over Casca's back. To the death. He wondered whose and how many? He knew that Temujin would make others pay the same price he would if a promise was not kept or dishonor shown. To the death, that was it.
Temujin leapt to the back of what was once Zhoutai's horse and turned to Casca with a puzzled expression on his face, making it for the first time the face of a boy.
"Old Young One, I have something I have to ask you, for it was not made clear in the prophecies."
Moving up close to the horse's head to where he could better look Temujin in the eyes, Casca could smell the sour odor of horse sweat. The animals had been ridden hard. "What is that, Temujin?"
"Old Young One, I know that I am destined for great things, but for now, are you to serve me or am I to follow you?"
Casca laughed for the first time since Zhoutai had taken him. "Let us just say, young warrior and future king, that we shall serve each other. But you are the one with ambitions, for I have none. Therefore to all other eyes I shall be your loyal vassal, and I will serve you until I wish to do so no more."
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was with pleasure that Casca changed his rags for those in the packs of Zhoutai: a pair of fine trousers of gray wool and an undervest of the same material; over that, a leather jacket of sheepskin with the hide to the outside, to protect him from the ice-cutting winds that blew in the mountains; a turban of dark green cotton with the long tail to wrap around his face when needed; and a pair of soft boots to cover his callused and horny feet. He was feeling almost presentable.
Temujin, as it appeared was going to be his manner, took nothing but the best. Boots of red leather of Samarkand. Trousers of deep blue wool. A long white cotton undershirt with the tail hanging below the waist, and over this a surcoat of the fine cloth of Chin made from the spinning of worms embroidered with three toed dragons of gold. On his head he chose to wear a spike-tipped helmet of the Syrian style, with a red cotton band around the brim and the tail of it hanging to his shoulders. He almost looked the part of an Oriental warrior-prince.
Casca was fully lost by midday, but Temujin kept moving through the maze of valleys and canyons, sometimes dropping two or three thousand feet only to climb four or five. Temujin was in the front, Casca behind. Somehow Casca felt this was the way it would be for all who came into close contact with the young Mongol. He would always lead. It was his nature and it would be hard to keep up with him.
He saw how Temujin's mind had absorbed all that he had given him, and cataloged it neatly for recall. He knew also that it was just the beginning. This boy was a sponge who would suck him dry of all he knew. He and a hundred like him would not be enough to satisfy the youth's craving to learn.
Courage he had. It was obvious. A sense of honor of sorts, too, was demonstrated by his intensity about keeping his word. Here was the raw, unrefined material of one of the Great Ones, that is, if he wasn't killed first. Even an elephant can be brought down by a pack of jackals if there are enough of them. From the sun and the stars he knew they were moving to the north, always to the north. On the ride Temujin asked few questions. Casca felt that Temujin wanted to wait till they rested, when he could devote his complete attention to his questions and to the answers he was given.
For now, this first day of his new freedom, he enjoyed the clear skies and ragged ice-capped ranges that rose and fell around them. The air was crisp but not freezing. The great cold would come later, when all this land would be impassable save for a few herds of wild yaks who paid little attention to man or nature.
Death of a thousand sorts had ridden through these wild passes, and of their sign there was little remaining: a patch of white where the rib cage of an animal or human glistened cleanly in the high, cold sun; a patch of fur beneath the cleft of some rocks where some unfortunate had sought shelter and died. Some signs but not many. For time, the elements, and the animals had kept these mountains pristine and free of the trash of humankind or its passing.
Temujin rode as what he was: one born to the saddle. His back was straight; the war bow unstrung and in its sheath to protect it and its strings from the elements; his sword flapping comfortably by his side; strands of wild, unclipped hair peeking out from under his helmet to play with the wind. The boy was happy. Everything in his manner showed that. He had a goal and he was going to achieve it. Casca felt that even Temujin had no idea of his limits, if he had any.
By the forces or gods or whatever elements ruled over the universe, it was good. His mother had been right. All of that would come to pass. He had found the Old Young One and bound him to him.
It was amazing, though. This scarred man from legendary Rome talked of the past as if he had been there, not like the storytellers of his tribe, who kept the memories of the past alive for the young.
This one spoke as if all had just recently happened in his memory. And he knew much. But Temujin knew that he was going to have to pull all of it out of him. The Old Young One didn't know how much he knew. He thinks he has forgotten much. But I shall make him recall everything and give it to me. He is bringing me the gift of knowledge from centuries past, and I will know how and when to use his gift.
At midday Temujin called a rest, more for their horses than for them. He could have ridden for six days, even easing his bowels from the saddle if need be. But the horses had to rest, and they were far too valuable to abuse. Without them they would have to walk again, like moles on the ground. He shuddered at the thought.
He picked for their resting place, a rise where long valleys stretched to the north and south between peaks that touched the skies. He squatted, content beside the trail, waiting for Casca to come up with the packhorse and join him.
When Casca reached him to do likewise and dismount, it was with relief. He had never been much of a cavalr
yman, and this first day on the back of the horse had spread his thighs almost to the breaking point. For him it was a pleasure to sit down on his rump and stretch his legs out, feeling the joints crack and stretch. It felt good, and he sighed in the pure pleasure of it. Temujin looked at him with just a touch of the contempt all horsemen felt toward those who preferred to travel on their own two feet.
Casca caught the look and didn't let it pass. "Temujin, if you want to get along with me, wait until you have done something of note before passing judgment on others. I have ridden more miles than you will ever see. I have had more women than you have days in your life. I have slain more men and generally kicked more ass than you will ever do by yourself. And one thing more." He whispered so softly, it was almost lost on the winds. "I shall be here long after you and all you have known, loved, hated, and done has turned to dust."
Temujin shivered, not from the winds but from his words. There was truth in the Old Young One's words. The braggadocio about women and killing didn't bother him; he had heard such a thousand times before around the campfires of the Buryat. But the part about him being here long after he, Temujin, had turned to dust – that, and the way it was said, had truly bothered him. It was not a boast, it was not a threat. It was a statement from one who knew it to be true. "You are right, Old Young One. I apologize. It is my failing to have little tolerance for others and their customs. I will try to control my words. I know you are sent to help me. Perhaps humility is a subject we should soon touch upon, for I feel I have great need of it."
Somewhat mollified, Casca grunted his acceptance of the apology. Natural-born leader or not, he was not going to put up with any lip from a wet-nosed kid – even if the kid had killed four or five men in the last couple of days.
Temujin pointed to the east. "I know that there is the empire of the Tang. Beyond the Great Wall and to the north of my tribe, there are only frozen lands and great dark forests. To the west are the Rus, and south and west of us there is the khanate of the Khitan. Beyond this I do not know very much. Tell me of the other lands you have traveled through. Who rules them and how are they ruled? I would know of their religions and leaders."
Casca thought for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts and let his flashing moment of temper pass. "Very well. As you said, to the south and west there is the Black Khitan. They are between you and the Ghuzz. Next in line, running from the Caspian Sea north of the Ghuzz, are the Cumans. On the other side of the Caspian are what remains of the Alans, then the Kingdom of Georgia. South of that are a number of smaller emirates and sultanates, like that of the Seljuk Sultan of Hahamadan in what was once Persia. Another Seljuk rules in Iconium at the borders of the Byzantine Empire, which is all that is truly left of the Old Roman Empire, and I feel that its days are truly numbered.
"Beyond that is Europe, which is in disarray, and the largest and most powerful state at this time is the German Empire."
Sitting on the side of a trail, Casca wanted to explain the tactics of all the participants he had mentioned but was not able to do this very well. Most of the followers of Muhammad were in essence light cavalry, with some auxiliaries trained as infantry and for sieges. They had excellent infantry, but their light cavalry was their sword and their shield. The Alans, too, were in the same category, as were the Seljuks.
The Byzantines and the Germans, as was true of all Europeans, depended on heavy cavalry and large numbers of infantry. It was then that Casca tried to explain to Temujin that the types of troops a nation needed depended on their application, and if one planned to fight in another land, he had to learn what kind of terrain and troops he would encounter there. In the high steppes and plains of the deserts, light, fast forces were in favor because of the distances that had to be traveled, and the need for mobility to maneuver. In much of Europe and the Caucasus, there were great mountains and valleys and forests where the use of cavalry was limited and strong ground forces were more in favor. In a set piece battle between different types of cavalry where there was no room to maneuver, the heavier armored cavalry and foot soldiers of the German and Franks would crush the lighter cavalry and infantry of the Tatars, as all peoples north of the Ghuzz were called. Therefore, he explained, to fight heavy cavalry or heavy infantry, one needed to use maneuvers to place the troops in the site of choice for an engagement.
Temujin broke in. "But what of the Attila? He and the Huns were much as we are. As you say, light cavalry. But did he not march to the gates of Rome and into the mountains of the Poles and the Germans?"
Casca nodded his agreement. "Yes, that he did. But as he progressed from one land to another, he made them provide him levies to supply him with the troops he would need later. He gathered to him men of science and wisdom from many lands, and when he conquered a city, he would take from it their engineers and technicians who knew the use of siege machines. From the conquered he gained his auxiliaries, which he used to open the doors to the Roman Empire. Without them he would not have gone very much farther than the plains. Also, Attila was educated in Rome and in Roman tactics and strategy. He knew he would need these kinds of troops if he was to prevail. He planned ahead and was no simple savage leading an ignorant horde of horsemen. He planned, and planned greatly, and almost succeeded. But even he forgot some of the rules of warfare and thought he was above them, and for this he failed, as many others have failed before him, and his empire and glory were of short memory."
Temujin was silent for a moment, laying his head back against his arms and watching the high clouds race past overhead. "What, then, were his mistakes, and why did the Empire of Rome endure for so many years? They, too, had occupied many nations with different peoples and cultures. But they survived. How and what do you think destroyed them?"
Casca picked up a stone and tossed it over the edge of the trail to bounce and roll down into a canyon and disappear. "That's a good question and a hard one, for there is no one single thing that you could say went wrong. It is usually a compilation of things. None by themselves of any great import but, when put together, have great effect. Like that stone. It was not large or dangerous to anyone below. But if it had dislodged enough other stones, each of no greater size than itself, they could destroy a village or a caravan with ease. That is what happens with empires as they rise, so they fall by many little things.
"As for Rome and Attila, I think I shall save that for another day and give both you and me a chance to think more upon it. Just remember, warfare in the field is not the same as managing a government or an empire. Just because one may be a great soldier does not mean that he is qualified to lead a nation in non-warlike matters and in the intrigues of power. The treachery and jealousies of enemies and family have brought more than one so-called great man into the dust and out of memory. Especially beware members of your own family. If you have them, you must find a way to bind them to you so that there is no envy or lusting after your power. If you cannot do this, then it is best to kill them all immediately and never have any sons of your own. And while you're at it, kill all your friends too. For it is certain that one day one of them will turn on you."
Temujin eyed Casca suspiciously at the last remark. Casca laughed pleasantly. "Good, you're learning. But I don't think I will count as one of your regular friends. I'll tell you this now. I will accept no great rank or power from you, if by chance you do become one of the Great Ones. I will ask for no reward, and when I am ready or you ask it, I shall go. Recall this for the future in all things between us. I said ask, not order, and I shall go on my way. For to be sure, the rising or falling of empires means less to me than the rising and falling of the tides of the seas."
Temujin looked at him cautiously. "Do you mean to say that the seas actually rise and fall?"
Casca recalled with humor that young Temujin had never seen a sea, or any body of water larger than the lake near which he had been born. "Yes, the seas rise and fall. There may still be a thing or two you have to learn, young master. By the way, can you read?"
"Very good, Temujin. Very good. But you will need to learn much more. As soon as possible, we must find you one to teach the script of Chin, for they have knowledge in books and scrolls that go back to even before I was born. I am, as you keep calling me, a very Old Young One."
Climbing back into the saddle, Temujin went on ahead, leaving Casca still sitting on the trail laughing to himself.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The mountain passes were mostly barren here, and the winds that brought the rains were few and far between. Everything had to fight for survival: the scrubby conifers from whose seeds the Mongols made bread, to the gray-leafed brush that had roots longer than its branches as it sought moisture between the cracks in rocks.
Once every few days or so, the travelers would crest a ridge, and below would be a valley, lush and green with tall trees and fields in which animals grazed peacefully. The smoke from their huts would spiral up for a distance, then be whisked away by the stronger winds that raced over these few small sanctuaries.
They had been in the mountains for nine days, and only in the valleys did they see signs of human life. So far Temujin had chosen to bypass these oases. Casca figured that he didn't want to give their presence away in case there was to be any pursuit, which Casca didn't think was likely at this point. They were well out of the lands near Qura-Qurom, and who was master here was open to conjecture.