by Tony Roberts
He had gone perhaps three hours when he caught sight of a small caravan of camels and riders up ahead, travelling in the same direction as he. “Well,” he muttered, “I could see where they’re going. Perhaps we share a common destination.” Thinking safety in numbers was a better option, he jabbed his heels into the pony’s flanks. The beast snorted, then picked up speed and made for the distant caravan. Watching carefully for any sign of hostility, he closed in on the small caravan, then slowed as the rearguard turned to see who was approaching them.
Three mounted men, two armed with bows and the third a curved sword, blocked the track and waited for him to reach them.
“Stop” the one with the sword commanded once he had come within hearing range. “What is your business here?”
“I am a messenger headed for Berke-Sarai. I have a letter to be delivered to the Khan.” Casca replied in the speaker’s tongue, a dialect of Turkic.
The sword carrier looked all around but could see nothing. Still, he was wary lest it be a trap. “From whom is the message?”
Casca told him. He then asked who he was and where was he bound.
Satisfied with the reply, the officer spoke again. “I am Jalagi, captain of the guard to the merchant Khasir ibn Faud, bound for Berke-Sarai with a trade consignment of wine, wheat and rugs. You may travel with us if you like, but only if my master agrees.”
Casca thought this reasonable and nodded. The two archers relaxed their strings and escorted the mercenary along the line of animals to a splendidly decorated sedan, carried by six sweating slaves and adorned with rich red curtains so that the occupant was hidden from view. Jalagi rode up alongside and spoke quietly against the curtain for a moment, then nodded and turned about and made his way over to the waiting Casca.
“My master says you may ride with us provided you stay away from the camels and do not ask for anything. He is a cautious man.”
The mercenary grinned. “I accept and thank your master for his kind hospitality. I shall convey this kind deed to the Khan when I deliver my message.” When with nomadic horsemen of the Steppes it was always best to be polite lest one tried to lop off your head. This part of the world was beset with alliances and favors and one could achieve much with having favors owed to you by the right people.
Jalagi bowed. “I shall inform my master of your intentions. In the meantime, my men will show you where it would be best to ride.”
Casca allowed himself to be led off to one side so that he was riding with, but apart from, the rest of the escort. Kept away like a leper he mused. Still, it suited him for none of the nomads would be able to creep up on him and relieve him of his bag of gold. He rode on the right flank, acting almost as a scout, attracting curious glances from time to time from the other riders.
Towards late afternoon they came upon a tributary of the Don, nestled in a small valley running across their route. A small wooden bridge lay across this river where the trade route crossed it, but standing across this in a loose knot were about twenty horsemen dressed in loose fur lined jackets and pointed fur caps.
Casca heard a muttered oath from the caravan drivers at the front and the whole train came to a halt. Casca came trotting up to Jalagi who was looked worriedly at the horsemen. “What is it?” the mercenary asked.
“Kipchaks” Jalagi growled. “They must have killed our vanguard.”
“I thought Kipchaks were the Khan’s soldiers,” Casca said in surprise.
Jalagi snorted. “Yes but which one? There are three Khans of the Golden Horde, each hostile to the other. If these are not of the Khan in Berke-Sarai, then they will attack and rob us of our goods.”
Casca puffed out his cheeks. This made things well-nigh impossible for him. One Khan ruling the Golden Horde was one thing, but a three-way struggle certainly ended any faint hopes he had of persuading them to attack the Ottomans. He stared down at the milling horsemen, then caught sight of a man tied to one of the wooden supports that ran across the bridge. It was one of the scouts, and he had been tortured with a whip and a sword, the marks were unmistakable, especially to someone like Casca who had seen such marks many times before.
“Look” he pointed to the now dead scout.
Jalagi’s mouth turned down. “They will have learned from him where we are bound. Prepare yourself.”
The next moment the Kipchaks screamed a shrill war cry and drew their swords, before galloping across the bridge up towards them. There was no doubt that they were going to attack. In one swift movement Casca drew out his sword and prepared for battle. This was going to be a difficult journey!
CHAPTER FIVE
As far as battles went, and Casca had been in more than he could remember, it wasn’t very big or lasted all that long, but it was just as vicious as any he had known. There were an equal number of guards and Kipchaks but the attackers had the edge for they could ride where they wished while the guards had to stay by their train. The Kipchaks in addition were more versed in killing, and they sensed an easy victory as they bore down on the waiting guards.
Casca watched as they split into two and wheeled left and right. “Watch it” he advised the caravan commander, a burly man dressed in a long green tunic over a longer red robe and high brown boots, “they’re trying to split you and then pin each side against the camels. If you let them do that then you’re finished.”
Even as he spoke he saw a number of the Kipchaks pull their bows from their sheaths that were hanging from their sides and put arrows to them. Without thinking he did the same, knowing that he was a tyro when compared to these wild steppe horsemen, but his years as a Mongol and amongst the Welsh had given him enough skills with the bow to better many men.
Arrows flew from the attackers, cutting down some of the guards, and screams of men and horses filled the air. Casca picked his target and let fly, pinning the unfortunate through the chest. The Kipchak leader spotted the lone archer and commanded two of his men to pick him off. Casca quickly slid his bow back into its wide sheath and raised his sword in defiance.
The Kipchaks charged down on him, one to each side and Casca rode across their line so that only one could get at him. Their swords clashed as they passed, and they wheeled sharply to close in with him.
The mercenary hacked and thrust at the nearest while his colleague tried to close in on the other side; but Casca wasn’t going to have any of that and kept on wheeling to confuse the two. Casca’ superior strength told and he cut through the Kipchak’s guard and sent him toppling off his mount. Now he twisted and parried the attack of the other and countered by thrusting the blade of his weapon into the nomad’s chest, piercing the heart. The attacker grunted before sliding off his horse to fall in an untidy heap on the ground.
Casca looked round to see that the Kipchaks had the better of the battle, forcing their way through the few guards that were left towards the sedan chair. Swiftly he reached for his bow and grabbed an arrow. Spotting the enemy leader he took aim, then loosed, skewering him through the throat. At that range he was hardly able to miss.
The death of their leader threw the Kipchaks into confusion for a moment and this was what he was waiting for. Screaming madly he rode at the milling Kipchaks, hacking left and right, breaking through to the guards, leaving three of the horsemen dead in his wake. The rest, seeing that the easy target was tougher than they had bargained for, took flight and vanished over the rise that led back to the bridge, jeers from the surviving guards following them.
Casca looked around. The Kipchaks had lost nine while eight guards lay about, their lifeblood draining into the earth. Jalagi came up, blood oozing from a cut in his forehead. “You fought well, Cuman. You have saved the lives of my master and of us all. I thank you.”
“Those jackals deserved nothing except a kiss of cold steel.”
Jalagi grunted and moved off to check on the surviving men. One of the fallen was the commander, his lifeless eyes staring up at the open sky. Died without knowing the man who killed him. Such was the
lot of most warriors. Casca sighed. He would never die, not until the Second Coming. He’d been fighting thirteen centuries now and should have died many times over.
Jalagi called him over to the sedan. Dismounting, he loped over to where the turbaned soldier stood. “My master wishes to thank you personally, Cuman.”
Casca raised an eyebrow, then peered beyond the plush curtain as it was pulled aside. Resting on a pile of cushions were two people, a portly double-chinned man and a young and beautiful woman. The man was rich, dressed in the style of a Turkic merchant while the woman, he could see, was dressed in a slave’s attire. He looked surprised for a moment then turned his attention to the merchant.
“I am told you saved us all from death,” the fat man said in a high pitched nasally voice. “I wish to thank you, Cuman. What is your name?”
“Casca,” he replied. “From Constantinople.”
“Indeed? Then you must be one of the Emperor’s Cuman mercenaries.”
Casca nodded. Better leave it at that.
The merchant folded his hands across his generous paunch. “Let it not be said I am not a generous and grateful man. I will grant you one thing as a reward. What is it that you desire?”
Casca’ eyes switched to the woman. She was black of hair, slim but well proportioned. Coal-black irises showed from wide eyes and her dusky skin told of Arabic blood. Perhaps she was from lands east of the Ottomans. The merchant followed his look.
“Oh, ho! You desire this wench? She is a slave from Khorasan, captured in a raiding party and brought north-west to my markets. I bought her for the price of two camels. She was to be sold in the markets of Berke-Sarai but if you wish you may have her. But be warned, she may give you more trouble than you bargained for.”
Casca wasn’t sure why she appealed to him. Perhaps it was because he hated the thought of her being confined with such a fat ugly toad, or maybe it was the way her eyes pleaded silently with him. Then again maybe he felt he needed a woman. He nodded.
“Very well” the merchant sighed, “as a reward for your bravery you may take her.” He clicked his fingers and one of the slaves appeared with a parchment. “I will annotate it as such” he declared, writing on one of the sheets. He then grabbed the woman by the arm and propelled her towards Casca. “Go, woman! And be grateful to him. He saved you from a repeated rape at the hands of the Kipchaks.” He chuckled with laughter. “Perhaps being made love to by a Cuman is worse!” he roared in Turkish, his mother tongue.
Casca, a master of languages, grinned as he caught hold of the stumbling woman. “I will last longer” he said, also in Turkish. The merchant opened his mouth in surprise.
Jalagi smothered a smile and turned to give a full report to the merchant as Casca led his new property away. He leaned down and untied the ropes binding her ankles. The woman looked at him and then rubbed her feet.
“If you are thinking of escaping” Casca said dryly, “you are free to try. This is the land of the Kipchaks and I won’t need to tell you what will happen to you if you fall into their hands. On the other hand you can remain with me and ride on horseback. What is your choice?”
“To remain with you, ugly one” she snapped. “I am not foolish!”
She spoke like a woman used to authority which intrigued him. “So, slave,” he said with emphasis, “what is your name and where are you from?”
“I am Adil Agha of the Barlas tribe from Bukhara,” she said proudly, pulling herself fully to her height which came up to the mercenary’s shoulder. The name of the city was familiar to him, being one of the fabled cities of High Asia, cities that the Mongols had attacked and destroyed over a hundred years before; Balkh, Samarkand, Bukhara. Although he’d twice been with conquering Mongol armies he’d never been involved with the looting of these places and wanted to see them for himself.
“Bukhara, hey? Perhaps I ought to visit there.” Adil’s eyes opened in surprise, then pleasure. Casca grinned. “Maybe I should show your people how easy it is to enslave them!”
Adil gasped in outrage and beat her fists futilely against the chuckling man’s back. “You pig! You camel’s filth.... you... you....”
The mercenary caught her and swung the woman across his saddle, her rear end up. Smacking it hard once he commanded her to be quiet. “Slaves know when to keep their mouths shut. Learn quickly, slave.”
Adil shrieked and struggled, all to no avail. A few more hearty blows on her behind soon stopped her attempts and she remained still, sobbing in anger and frustration. “That’s better. You’ll learn your place faster if you listen well. Now you will ride behind me, but be warned, any silly stuff and you’ll be back in this position faster than you can spit.”
The woman allowed herself to be lifted back behind her owner, and she sat sullenly, her face puffy from crying, hating the man for humiliating her. Even so, when he started riding off, she put her hands around his waist to stop her from falling to the ground. Her face was pressed into his back and the odors of horse and man, of leather, linen and silk, found their way to her nostrils. Despite herself, her grip tightened.
She would have been furious had she seen the resulting smile from the man in front of her.
____
The route to the city took two more weeks. Those days were spent in the saddle by day and sat around camp fires at night, recovering from saddle sores and other aches and pains one got whilst riding long journeys. The caravan kept to the well-marked trade route and passed other merchants and travelers with increasing regularity. Raiding groups of bandits and Kipchaks from rival Khans kept away and the closer they got to the city that had been created by the son of Batu, the more evident were soldiers loyal to that seat of government.
Adil regretted being sold by the Turkish merchant. At least she had been comfortable in the carriage and her captor had been civilized and behaved in a gentlemanly manner. She had feared being raped repeatedly but found instead she had been treated well and had at least been in comfort. This one treated her rudely, forced her to ride on horseback and made her sit by the fires on a hard, stony ground. He ignored her pleas to sit on a cushion and even had her wash herself in the river they rode alongside. How different this was to the life of a noble-woman from Bukhara!
Casca listened to her suffering with indifference. To him, she was a spoiled child used to a life of luxury. He surmised that her capture had been recent and she was one of the special slaves the Arabic and Turkic world had that was reserved for the privileged few. A slave of high birth, brought up in the ways of the ruling classes, would be easier to train as a slave of a ruler’s household. She probably had been treated carefully till the time she had been sold to the Turk, probably in Baghdad, and had been shipped across to the north coast of the Black Sea in comfort.
Now she would receive a taste of the real world from one who knew all about being a slave. He stood close to the rear of the camp, eyeing her carefully. She was given a wide berth by the others, as she was now his property and he had made the others aware of his martial ability. Nobody wanted to risk his wrath, particularly over one slave. Jalagi also had warned them off, not wanting any more trouble. Now that he was the caravan commander he needed grief like a hole in the head.
Casca nodded to himself. She was a fine woman, proud, educated, intelligent. She lacked wisdom and humility, but both could come with experience. He would have to ensure she got both. He found he longed once more for a woman’s companionship, and recalled the times he’d had slaves such as Adil and had enjoyed their company, treating them not so much as slaves but as companions. He stepped towards her, his feet scuffing the ground.
“Woman,” he growled, “I hunger.”
Adil whirled, furious at being spoken to in such a manner. Her eyes were at the level of his knees and he towered above her, glaring down with a stern face.
“Where is my food?”
“Get it yourself,” she snarled, standing up. Casca grabbed her arm and forced her to her knees.
“A slave
obeys the master. You are mine by right. You will obey me, woman, or I will sell you to the most perverted offspring of a diseased camel that Berke-Sarai has to offer. I might even pay him to take you! If you are lucky he will get you to slop out his animals.”
Adil’s heart beat wildly. This barbaric pig of a Cuman might well do that. She was too scared of that threat to do anything else. “Yes, master, I am sorry! Your food, I will get it. Please, let me go, you’re hurting me!”
The mercenary released her, albeit with a snarl. He watched her run over to the spit where a succulent chicken was being roasted, and pull it off, burning her fingers. She brought it to him and he ate silently, glaring at her from time to time. Eventually he handed her a piece and, as hungry as she had ever been, she accepted it and tore into it.
“Here, let me see your fingers” he said gently as she finished.
Hesitatingly, she held out her hand. Fascinated she watched as he spread some sort of fat over the blistering burns. “You must learn not to grab for something being cooked with your bare hands. Use a cloth or part of your clothing.”
His gentle tone contrasted sharply with his earlier scorn and she felt confused, particularly the way he held her hand and applied the fat. She sat back as he lay down and smiled haltingly. He stared for a moment, then grinned back. “The night will be cold, and you have not the dress for such a night. Come, share my blanket.”
Adil came over, half expecting a pair of rough hands violating her body, but instead he held her close and covered her with half the roughly woven blanket. She lay with her back to him, tucked into his chest. Shortly after she felt his breathing relax and sleep took him. Oddly, she felt comforted by this and soon she, too, fell asleep, completely at ease.
____
Two weeks of this had mellowed her attitude and it was with interest she followed Casca’s pointing finger as he indicated the city of the Khan, nestled in the valley formed by a great river that flowed gently to the south east, wide and serene. The city was neat, walled and punctuated by the minarets of mosques, domes of temples and palaces, and towers of all shapes and sizes. In the afternoon sun it seemed as though it glittered with gold and drew the watcher’s breath away.