by Tony Roberts
Casca knew from past experience that Balkh lay just south of the Oxus, at the mouth of a valley that marked the westernmost edge of the rises that led to the Hindu Kush and the high mountains that lay between the lands of Delhi and China. It was also just inside the old boundary of the Chaghadai Khanate and capture of this city would show the Moghuls that the tribes of the Khanate did not take kindly to invaders ruling them.
As they approached Balkh they joined with Amir’s force which had crossed the Oxus close to Balkh and now was faced by Mengli’s army. Forces seemed closely matched in size, so whoever had the better strategy would probably win the day.
Timur commanded Casca to join him in his yurt in the council-of-war that evening. The mercenary walked the short distance, accompanied by his aide, a young Mongol called Olujey, and they entered through the flap upon command. They both prostrated themselves as they reached the inner area and waited until Timur called them to stand. Guards stood all around, stern faces watchful in case of any treachery, and flames flickered from lamps suspended from the poles that held up the huge yurt.
“So, Unchanging One” Timur greeted his officer solemnly, “we are on the eve of our first battle together.” He indicated a thickset man with a bushy moustache flecked with white. “Amir Hussayn of the Kara-Unas tribe.”
Amir looked surprised. “You called him the Unchanging One? Is this a mock title?”
“No, Amir. He claims to be the one. Surely you have heard the tale recently.”
“I did, but dismissed it as a good story passed around to raise morale.” He stepped closer and studied the mercenary. “You do not look remarkable in any way. You do know if you are a false teller of stories I will rip your tongue out and feed it to the vultures.”
Casca smiled. “Amir Hussayn of the Kara-Unas, it is my pleasure to fight with you. I do not tell false stories. Tomorrow you will win a great victory.”
Amir grunted and folded his arms. “What proof have you got of this man, Timur?”
The lame Emir limped closer. The wound he’d received whilst fighting in Sistan had left him with this painful legacy which didn’t help his temper. “Tomorrow I will get my proof. He will lead the first attack.”
Casca's heart skipped a beat. Alongside him Olujey drew in a sharp breath.
Timur nodded at their expressions. “Drive their force apart and we will have them. One half will be pinned against the Oxus. Once this is destroyed the other half will surrender. I will give you an entire Tumen to do this. Their commander has been informed. However, your Koshun will be in the lead. Win this for me and you will be well rewarded.”
Casca grimly knew what Timur was saying: such an attack was tantamount to suicide for the front men, but a man who was the Unchanging One would survive no matter what. Timur would learn on the morrow whether this man in front of him was truly what he said or a clever fraud.
He nodded slowly. “We will be pleased to lead a great victory. We will show the tribes how to fight.” Inside he felt sick. No matter how indestructible he was, he still felt the pain normal men did from wounds. As for his young aide, it seemed his life was to be cut short thanks to his condition, unless he could protect him somehow.
“Go prepare your men. I trust you know how Mongols attack.” Timur’s words were a challenge. He clearly still doubted in some part of his mind who this mercenary was.
“I invented some of their moves” Casca replied. “They will serve you well, Emir.”
“They will serve Allah well” Timur rebuked him.
Casca grunted in amusement. Islam was another movement he had served in the past, first with Mohammed in Arabia, then with Omar and the conquering forces in the early heroic years, before joining the Moors of Tarik when they seized Spain from the Visigoths. “I have served Allah before, Emir, long ago before the Mongols were even known to the people who brought it forth from the desert. As for your army, much of it is drawn from faiths other than Islam, so I will only exhort them to glory in your name.”
Timur raised his eyebrows. No other officer in his command dared correct him. Amir smiled in amusement. This insolent dog deserved to be whipped for such disrespect. He looked at the Barlas tribal leader but Timur suddenly burst into laughter, his white teeth flashing in the lamplight. “You had better succeed tomorrow, Unchanging One” he said between chuckles, “or I’ll personally see your eyes gouged out and your tongue cut out and fed to my hawks. Now go!”
Casca bowed low, as did a speechless Olujey. Once outside the younger man wiped his forehead nervously. “Did you have to aggravate our leader? He will have your organs for breakfast.”
Casca slapped the young man on the shoulder. “I’m too tough for his tastes. Come on, let’s give the good news to our men. That’ll make them sleep well!”
____
The morning sky was clear, allowing an excellent view across the valley to distant Balkh. The city was bathed in light as the sun appeared over the distant peaks behind it. The city was perched on a ridge and appeared as a long, low wall suspended over the dry valley below. Blocking the route to this was the army of Mengli, arrayed in neat formations across from north to south. Mounted warriors dominated the lines, but in the center stood the foot soldiers and archers. The combined forces of Timur and Amir waited some distance off, cavalry in front, infantry behind. Immediately behind the infantry were the field wagons, arranged in a defensive formation.
Many of the soldiers present were lightly armored, having perhaps just a shield, a helm or even a light chain corselet. The majority of the officers compensated for this by having colorful and elaborate armor, a sign of their wealth and position. Casca kept his silken undergarment next to his skin, followed by a chain mail hauberk, topped by a brightly colored cloth outer garment. His helm was circular with a pointed dome, on top of which rested a crest of feathers. He checked around his unit and was satisfied they were all ready, spears poised. The men knew they had drawn the short straw but they were prepared to die for their cause if that was their fate.
The plan was simple. Casca’s thousand were to drive a wedge into the center of the enemy formation, splitting them apart, then Amir’s men would ride down to the right and fend off the southern half of the enemy force while Timur and his men pinned the northern half against the river, thus smashing them. Casca’s men were to join in the fight against the northern half should they make it through.
Timur knew their task was difficult so he had devised a tactic to help them before they made contact.
As the sun glinted off the points of thousands of spears, Timur gave the nod and Casca drew in a deep breath before nodding to Olujey. “Let’s do it.”
The mass of men slowly rode forward towards the waiting host, Casca at the point of the wedge. As they trotted down the valley, a line of horsemen galloped past, sending up clouds of dust. As they reached to a point within three hundred yards they suddenly raised their bows, let fly a volley of arrows, then wheeled about and fled, leaving the field for the thousand.
The sudden volley of arrows and the cloud of dust confused the front ranks of the waiting men. Mengli realized that the attack was not a feint - something the Mongol armies frequently did - and screamed at his archers to shoot at the thundering wedge of riders that bore straight down on his center. Even as his men raised their bows, he saw it was too late, and besides, the rest of the army of Amir and Timur was now advancing in two blocks.
Casca rode through a billowing cloud of choking sand-colored dust and suddenly was through, heading straight for horror stricken men desperately raising their lances as he neared. Arrows from his flanking men speared into the first row, toppling soldiers left and right, but there were always more to replace them. He rode straight over a couple of corpses, felled by the first volley, and drove deep into the ranks of men, knocking them aside and adding to the confusion. He slashed and thrust with his blade, madly screaming at them to get out of his way, while behind and to left and right he was aware that his men were doing likewise.
>
All semblance of sanity vanished in a mad world of screams, horse heads, bloodied blades and dust. Casca did not know how far he had punched into the ranks but his arm was growing heavy and his blows not so decisive. The strikes on his shield were beginning to worry him and he had no idea if any of his unit had managed to keep up with him. Just then a low blow hamstrung his horse and he was sent toppling off into a knot of five enemy soldiers. The five Suldus tribesmen raised weapons and prepared to riddle him with cuts, but he kept on rolling, knocking two over and avoiding two more blows. The fifth however sank his blade deep into his side, slicing through bone, muscle and sinew. Casca yelled in pain and thrust up in reflex, driving his blade through the soldier’s throat, severing the spinal cord. As the man sank to his knees the mercenary pulled him over him as a shield and the dead man’s comrades stabbed their late colleague.
A horse crashed past, a quick blade slash cutting one of the four men down and he seized on this, getting to one knee. His shield deflected a blow and he smashed it into the enemy’s face while knocking aside a second man’s thrust with his sword. He quickly turned about and saw a man taking aim at his back with a bow. Diving aside he felt the breath of air as the missile missed him by inches and heard a strangled gasp as the arrow hit one of the three Suldus instead.
“Now you ugly whore’s offspring” one of the Suldus growled, raising his sword above the gasping mercenary, “I’ll send you to whatever hell you believe in.” Casca, not wanting to have inflicted on him another wound, kicked up sharply, crunching his boot into the man’s testicles. The Suldus screamed and sank to the ground, clutching his balls.
More horses galloped past, clearing the ground, some of them riderless. Casca got to his feet, clutching his side in agony, gasping for breath, sweat running down his face. Why the hell do I do this for a living? More shouts filled the air and other riders now appeared, recognizable as those belonging to Timur.
A shadow passed before him and he only had time to raise his sword in reflex as the remaining Suldus hacked at him. The blade deflected away from its intended target, his neck, and bit into his shoulder. The mercenary cried out and staggered back. The Suldus growled in triumph and advanced towards him. Hurt by two wounds and filled with the pain they gave, the Unchanging One fell back onto the dusty earth. The enemy came up to him and raised his sword. “Die, eater of filth” he growled.
A thundering horse crashed into the Suldus, sending him flying away out of sight, and Casca breathed again, closing his eyes and thanking the gods of war for yet another wound.
“Get up, lazy dog!” Timur’s voice cut through the pain, “or do I have to finish you here and now?”
He looked up into the cruel eyes of the Emir. Timur was astride his black stallion, sword bloodied. There was clear ground now around them, as the two halves of the Suldus army was slowly separated.
Groaning, the wounded man staggered to his feet. “If I were an ordinary man” he said through gritted teeth, “I would be a corpse by now.”
“But you’re not. You’re alive and ready for action. Go lead what’s left of your men. Grab that horse over there” Timur waved at an un-mounted horse whinnying in fear at the noise around it. “They are further along.”
Casca staggered over to the beast, clutching his side. Already it was clear the northern half of the Suldus Tumen was being driven back towards the waters of the Oxus, and when they reached it, they would either have to surrender or die. Casca mounted with a bitten off cry of pain, then rode gingerly eastwards across the line of struggling men to where what was left of his unit had punched through. He saw many of his men lying in the dust, mere bundles of rags and out-flung limbs.
He reached the end of the battle and found about a hundred and thirty of his riders, many sporting wounds. Olujey was there, blood running down his face and his once smart tunic ripped, torn and bloodied. His horse was nowhere to be seen and the mercenary surmised it had gone the way of his own.
“You’re still alive” Olujey greeted him with a smile. “I saw you fall and cut down one of the men running at you. I am sorry to say I was unable to stop.”
Casca knew what he meant. “You did your job well, but our losses were horrendous.”
Olujey nodded. “And most of who are left are wounded. Many may die of their wounds.”
The mercenary felt a pang. It was a death most warriors would wish for, to die in battle, and he wished fervently that he would be granted that fate, but he knew it was impossible, as long as the condition that mad prophet had given him lasted. “At least they have gained honor.”
Olujey nodded. “Paradise awaits those who die in battle.”
Casca thought the young man had things confused. Islam stated only those who die in battle against the infidel went straight to paradise, yet here was a battle where both sides had a fair number of Muslims in their army.
After reorganizing their meagre numbers, the two officers ordered their men to advance and join the fray. The battle, though, was now virtually over. With their backs to the river and being separated from Mengli, the northern half of the Suldus surrendered. Timur quickly rounded up all the officers and had them executed on the spot. He then demanded the tribesmen transfer their loyalty to him. Surrounded by archers and waiting cavalry, they had little choice.
The southern half, demoralized by the collapse of their comrades, threw down their arms and Amir meted out the same punishment to them; Mengli being handed over to another of the Suldus nobility who had sided with Timur and Amir. A quick flash of the blade and Mengli was no more.
____
Balkh was occupied by the victorious army and as a reward for his part in the win, Casca was given command of an entire Tumen and given the title Sardar, a kind of Persian title for general.
In Balkh the new general was fitted out with an appropriate uniform and examined himself in a silver edged mirror. He had calf-length boots of dyed red soft leather, ringed with fur at the top. He had a white undergarment of silk and on top of this breeches of yellow laced with an intricate pattern of blue. His tunic was also of yellow and a high collar of blue with white stars patterned upon it protected his neck.
His money had enabled him to buy a new outfit of armor and he glanced at it in the corner of his room where it stood resting on a stand designed for such a purpose. Knee-length coat of chain mail, armored arm and leg greaves and a conical helm which had a lamellar neck guard. “Good, damned good.”
He nodded at his servants, people who came with the quarters and title, and they left. Olujey remained, having been promoted to Ming-bashi and made commander of a thousand men. “We have been summoned to appear before the Emir” the young officer said. “He is impatient to get on with the campaign, so I understand.”
Casca half turned, looking at his reflection. “Yes, it would be good sense to get at the Moghuls so soon after capturing this city. Any news of Samarkand?”
The city of Samarkand, located two hundred miles to the north, was the other key to unlocking the road eastwards into the domain of the Moghuls. It was also the center of trade in the area and therefore vital to Amir and Timur’s campaign. Olujey shook his head. “Not yet, but news of our victory may be slow in getting through.”
Casca sighed. Delay may prove fatal. He searched for and found his sword, a long slim bladed item with a curved hilt of silver and a golden guard. He fitted it to his belt and followed his lieutenant out of his quarters and down a long corridor of marble, attended by the occasional guard.
Sunlight filtered through high windows and their walk was pleasant as they crossed into a courtyard, surrounded by columnar walkways. Courtiers acknowledged their presence and the two military men entered another building, one where Timur had his court. The Emir, still a nomad at heart, had expressed his dissatisfaction in staying in a brick building and had said that after his business in Balkh was done he’d return outside to his yurt.
The two were shown into Timur’s immense palatial chamber. Braziers next to pil
lars wafted incense through the room and slaves stood at the ready, waving huge feathers in an attempt to cool those present. The flames illuminated an otherwise dark setting, casting strange colors and shadows across the faces of those present. The sides of the yurt allowed some light through but the very size of the interior meant that what daylight that did get through didn’t reach the center.
A pair of guards stopped the two new arrivals and only allowed them to pass upon Timur’s barked command. Once more the two performed kowtow, pressing their foreheads against the cool marble of the floor.
“Rise” the order snapped at them.
Casca approached, Olujey remaining behind. Timur stood on the other side of a large table, upon which rested a map weighted down with heavy objects. With Timur were the other high ranking officers of his army and the other tribal leaders who had thrown their lot in with the victorious Emir. The mercenary knew that many would desert the moment Timur lost a battle; but then, so did Timur. At the moment, they had a common enemy and had agreed to unite to get rid of the unwelcome invaders.
“So, we are all here” Timur said curtly. “This” he nodded at Casca, “is my newest general, a renegade Greek who has brought the expertise of Byzantium to me. This is why I have summoned him here to be with me.” Casca did not ask why he had not called him the Unchanging One. No doubt he would reveal his reasons later. “Here” Timur jabbed the map, “are we. To the north, Amir is making his way to Samarkand to secure this city. We will begin marching towards Moghulistan the day after tomorrow, and Amir’s army will leave Samarkand and make their way towards the first Moghul city along the trade route, that of Khokand. They will be the only army the enemy will suspect, for we will cross over the range of mountains to the south of the city and descend onto the plains of Khokand behind their defenses. As we have the furthest to go, we must set out no later than in two days’ hence.”
“What about supplies?” one of the tribesmen asked. “We will have to skirt the western edge of the T’ien Shan Mountains, and they’re bad lands.”