by Tony Roberts
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The wind had died and clouds of dust billowed up from the flat plain, obscuring much of the field where soon men and horses would die. Casca looked once again to his right and saw the gently meandering river in the near distance, a negligible dip in the land. The June sun blazed in the sky and Casca took a pull of his water bottle, taking off his plumed helm and wiped a sweaty brow. From his position on horseback he could see over the heads of his massed infantry and their spears to where the smaller array of his vanguard stood nervously. He then twisted in the saddle and looked over his left shoulder to the mass of the center where Timur commanded, the bright flags and pennants hanging limply. The sun was behind him still but would soon rise high above them all. At least at present it was shining into the eyes of the enemy which put them at a disadvantage.
For this reason they were not moving.
Timur, impatient to get the killing started, sat fuming in his saddle. Casca smiled to himself thinking at the language coming out from the old bastard. The review had gone off without a hitch and now they were all eager to get to grips with the treacherous Tokhtamish. Tokhtamish had proven himself an expert at withdrawal, but now what would he do against the unbeaten army of Timur?
Casca felt the heat hammering into the ground and rising up, warming his booted feet. How long would they wait here? If they waited too long the sun would begin to cross to the west and shine in their faces, and it would be then that Tokhtamish would act. It was up to Timur to start things.
Sure enough the old warrior decided enough was enough. With a curt command he indicated to the entire army to begin advancing, which would of course constrict the Golden Horde’s room to maneuver even further which they wouldn’t want or they’d be pinned helplessly against the loop in the river that was to their left and rear. Then it’d be like bashing rats in a barrel.
The seven units of Timur’s force began to advance, the vast majority infantry, sending up more dust as they tramped across the flat brown grassy land, towards the glittering mass of the enemy a short distance away. Tokhtamish, his hand forced, now snapped out commands of his own and his army surged forward, screaming and uttering shrill whistles, the sun reflecting off thousands of spear points, helmets and breastplates. The Golden Horde had more cavalry but they would be skewered on the spear points of the Timurid army unless they were controlled firmly.
The three vanguard units stopped and braced themselves, spears forward. Behind them the main army halted and waited; the soldiers sweating and nervously peering around the heads and shoulders of their comrades in front of them to see what was happening. Casca turned round and gazed into the sun hoping to see what Amarinshah was up to, but the sun and dust obscured too much. Besides, Timur wasn’t moving so he assumed all was well.
With a dreadful deep splintering crash the army of Tokhtamish hit the vanguards and sent them staggering back under the sheer force of the shock. Casca clenched his fists and peered forward anxiously, hoping his men held. They did, as did the center.
The left didn’t and split apart like an old rag, scattering the men like chaff in the wind. Immediately Tokhtamish sent his heavy cavalry in to smash the left totally, and Cheku was facing trouble. The fresh men of the Golden Horde reached Cheku’s main body and the fighting grew in intensity and confusion.
Too much dust was being raised for Casca to make out what was going on but the shouts and screams were growing, and now his vanguard was giving ground, no surprise really. “Okay, let’s go support them!” he snapped, pointing firmly ahead. His men surged forward with a great roar, “SURUUUUNNN!!” The Turkish war cry of “charge” helping them to cover the ground faster, their screams adding to the dreadful appearance of a mass of charging men armed to the teeth and intent on slaughter. The shuddering crash of two huge units meeting filled the air and helmets flew up as they were knocked off, and swords flashed in the sun as they were raised ready to inflict pain and death. Casca wheeled his horse back and forth, urging his men to keep in a line, holding the enemy from breaking through. The enemy fought like madmen, fighting for their lives to try to escape from the trap they had retreated into. The strain on his men’s faces told the tale of the effort they were making, gritted teeth, wild staring eyes, legs planted firmly one behind the other, trying to keep the Golden Horde trapped.
Timur in the center saw the disintegration of Cheku’s wing and immediately sent an order to Amarinshah to hold the left with his reserve at all costs, even if it cost him his life, and then concentrated on pushing back the enemy center. Here would be where the battle was decided.
Casca was unaware of the developments elsewhere but he did detail one of his staff officers to keep an eye on what was happening to the left and rear just in case the rest of the army collapsed. He didn’t want to be trapped here. The line of soldiers in front of him began to fall back, one step, two, three. “No!” he yelled, “stand firm!” He jabbed his heels into the flanks of his horse and galloped forward, his curved sword flashing, descending on the exposed neck of an enemy soldier who was pushing through. He went down in a heap of blood and smashed mail armor, and Casca was wedged firmly in the heaving mass. Using his height he hacked left and right at opponents who backed away from this terrible man on his horse until his men began to move forward. “Yes! YES!! On, on!!”
His men, morale high now the enemy was giving ground, yelled and advanced, slowly at first, then with more and more momentum as the left wing of the Golden Horde collapsed. Wheeling his horse round and out of the tide of men, he galloped across towards the center and saw that they, too, were advancing. The enemy had lost. All that remained now was to mop up. Casca stopped and puffed out his cheeks, allowing his men to run after the fleeing enemy. The river was ahead and it wouldn’t be pretty. He’d seen that sort of thing before and that was where the slaughter would be at its greatest and he really hadn’t the stomach for that. The battle was won and that was job done as far as he was concerned.
The mass of men passed from view to the west down towards the river and as the shouts diminished he took stock and looked round at the field, full of huddled figures of the dead and the writhing figures of those dying and wounded. Here and there spears or other pole-arms stood upright like spindly trees in a field of death, some stuck in the ground, others in the bodies of those lying there. Casca rode slowly amongst them and crossed to the center where Timur was sitting, a look of grim satisfaction on his face. He tuned to see his general approach. “Ho, Casca, another victory!”
Casca nodded, looking beyond to where more bodies were piled in the distance, and the figure of Amarinshah riding around barking orders. “Cheku?”
Timur grimaced. “Destroyed. He might be lying amongst that lot” he waved a gauntleted hand in the direction of the corpses. “If not then I’ll want to know why not!”
Cheku was found lying under his horse later that day, his sword in the ribs of an enemy soldier, at least three wounds on him that would have killed him eventually. He had died like a man, trying to stem the collapse. Casca sighed and bent his head low for a moment, sad at the death of a friend but also envious of his release. In a maudlin mood, Casca rode his horse off to a quiet spot alone and looked up to the sky. “When will I get my release? When will I know peace?”
Whispering over the steppes came the answer, barely discernible. When we meet again…
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Tokhtamish was dragged before Timur the day following the battle and forced to submit to his Lord and Master and made to swear an oath of fealty. To a horrified prisoner Timur informed him that the victors would continue to rampage over his domain until sated as a punishment, and warned that worse would come if he failed Timur again.
After that the army plundered and razed Old Sarai and Astrakhan. Casca remained in his camp and refused to partake in what he saw as senseless destruction. Adil remained with him and they enjoyed each other’s company, talking and sharing walks and memories.
“Do you think
you can persuade him to keep on going west?” Adil asked him one evening as they sat around a fire, cooking a haunch of goat.
“I don’t know” Casca sighed, “I hoped he would have moved west before now but no sooner he looks west then some treacherous swine to the east turns on him. I don’t know how he keeps on fighting; I’m exhausted by it all. What’s certain is that there’s not much left now between him and the Ottomans. Maybe the Georgians and the Persians, but I really can’t see them stopping him, and once they’re cowed the road’s open to Anatolia. Still, he needs to make sure his rear is secure.”
“How did Genghis Khan do it?” Adil asked softly, her eyes bright in the fire light.
Casca leaned back and gazed deep into the flames. He thought back to the days he rode with the greatest Mongol of them all on his road of conquest. “Much better than Timur but then he didn’t have the petty rulers to face. Once a ruler and his army were beaten that was it, he installed his own men at the top and let them carry on as before but they paid taxes to him instead.”
“You think allowing Tokhtamish to carry on is a mistake?”
Casca nodded. “Once a betrayer always a betrayer. And I have reasons to doubt Amarinshah’s loyalty. He doesn’t like his father’s iron grip, that’s for sure!”
Adil snorted. “Men! Always their little power games.”
“Ha! Women are just as treacherous, I’ve met a fair number.”
Adil slapped at him and Casca grinned, then put her over his knee and began spanking her. Adil squealed and protested, so he picked her up and, holding a kicking Adil over one shoulder, began to make his way to their tent. She made such a noise that he slapped her bottom again and warned her. “If you carry on I won’t ravage you.”
Adil went silent.
Roaring with laughter, he took her into his tent, Adil giggling, her legs still kicking.
____
The army slowly made its way back towards their homeland before winter set in. The harsh steppe winter was no place for an occupying force and besides, Tokhtamish’s army had been shattered and two of his cities destroyed. His power was much reduced and he posed no threat to Timur, at least for the foreseeable future. It was with some relief that they entered Samarkand through the Citadel Gate in the western wall just as the first icy claws of winter were closing in.
Adil went through their house like a wind of devastation, berating the steward for allowing the place to become dusty and musty. The steward stood in the main hallway, head lowered, accepting the entire tirade without a murmur. Casca was upstairs putting his campaign clothing in a heap ready for the slaves to wash, grinning at the voice floating up to his ears. He would no doubt be summoned to Timur’s post-campaign celebration within the next few days where all the dignitaries would get blind staggering drunk, something he found at variance with the Koran’s teachings. If Timur was serious about being a Muslim then surely he’d desist, but Casca had found throughout his time in the company of self-proclaimed devout adherents to the great religions that they rarely practiced what they taught, or even imposed upon their subjects and social lessers.
Casca threw open the shutters and looked out over Samarkand and breathed in deeply. Sounds of people passing in the street below reached his ears and the fluttering of birds resting on the roof came to him too. He looked to the west where the great citadel stood, a stone monster brooding and protective. In the middle of the city he could see the market place but he was too far from it to make out any details. Their house was in the western quarter, close to the waterway that formed part of the moat of the citadel. Not far stood one of the main mosques of the city but Casca paid no attention to the call of the muezzin and his nasally cries to the faithful. He wasn’t a religious man by nature and he’d grown tired of the hypocrites that riddled the hierarchy within the Christian faith. Besides, he had no love for religion whose prophet had damned him to live forever, even though he had fought for the Crusades at one time.
He’d also fought for Islam, but mostly at the beginning when it was uncorrupted, and he’d only gone to see Mohammed because he had thought maybe he had been Jesus at the Second Coming, but had been disappointed to find he was yet another ordinary man touched by religious fervor. But he had liked the man and readily joined him in his Jihad against the corrupt Christian faith and the Brotherhood who had taken such a grip in the Syrian and Palestinian regions. It was when he’d discovered the Brotherhood taking root within Islam at his time in Spain that he turned his back and decided he’d fight if pushed only on the side he thought was in the right.
He sighed. Byzantium was the last ideal he believed in, and only then because it was the last link with his origins. Byzantium, that dying empire, was the successor to Rome and still called itself Roman. He had no love for the decadent ways of Byzantium and many of its people were terribly corrupt, but it was a touchstone to his past and as long as it survived he’d feel as though he was connected to his mortal past life. That was why, he realized, he’d stayed so long on this task, trying to get Timur to destroy the Ottomans. Timur was certainly strong enough now, but would he take action or look elsewhere? Casca had to convince him to move west once more in the spring, this time to eliminate the last buffer states between Timur’s homeland and Anatolia.
When a call did come a day or so later, he assumed it was from Timur to discuss plans for the next year, but instead he was taken to a palace in the northern part of the city and shown into a cool room with an ornate bronze fountain in the center and all around stood arabesque screens and couches with plump pillows upon them. A room for a rich man. Silks and damask drapes hung from the lofty ceiling, Casca wondered at each one’s possible cost, but he gave up after a moment. The air was hushed and smells of incense came to him, wafted on the air by servants standing unobtrusively behind pillars, holding large fans of feathers.
The rich man entered and Casca felt his heart sink. No good was going to come of this meeting, for it was Amarinshah.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Amarinshah was dressed in rich silken clothes, white undershirt topped by a deep blue waistcoat decorated by golden thread in curves and circles. His buttons were in the form of golden stars and around his waist was a twisted silken blue sash. On his head he wore a white turban with a light blue plume, and he wore dark blue felt boots with long toes. Amarinshah sported a dark moustache and goatee beard and his dark eyes regarded Casca carefully.
“Casca-Badahur, I thank you for coming to my humble abode,” he smiled in the way some people do, sincere in its insincerity. Casca didn’t trust the little swine one bit. “I have invited you to my home to discuss the future.”
Casca remained silent, standing in the center of the room, watching Amarinshah carefully.
The young prince smiled briefly again. “You and I know my father is growing old and it is certain he does not have many years left, yet he has not determined upon who will succeed him, nor has he made permanent his conquests beyond his homeland. Many voices are heard in dark places plotting to throw off his rule once his back is turned. It needs a strong man to complete the conquest, one who shall make all bow in submission even when his back is turned.”
“Such as yourself?” Casca asked softly.
“Indeed,” Amarinshah inclined his head. “I am glad you see the wisdom in my words.”
Casca said nothing more; he wanted to hear what the prince had to say.
“My father is old and weak, his foolish behavior is an embarrassment to the court, and it needs a man of good taste and court etiquette to gain approval to rule over his people, not to behave like a drunken rutting pig.”
Casca raised an eyebrow. Amarinshah was giving himself away to Casca as to the sort of ruler he would make if he succeeded Timur. Not someone who’d last long.
Amarinshah gestured to the open window across the rooftops of Samarkand. “This city can be the most beautiful in the world, but only a man of refined tastes can make it so. My father is not such a refined man. I am merely as
king if you do not agree.”
Casca waved a non-committal hand. “Riches do not interest me, Amarinshah, as you may well appreciate. What good are riches to one such as me?”
Amarinshah nodded. “Just so. But would you like to see Samarkand become a city worthy to be the capital of an empire?”
“There’s more to making an empire than pretty cities, young prince.”
Amarinshah looked thoughtfully at the general. “Do you share my father’s lust for endless wars? Are you not tired of fighting? Do you not long to share time with your woman in the comfort of rich surroundings?”
Casca grunted and moved, fed up with the young man’s attitude. “Firstly no-one is more fed up with fighting than I. I have endured centuries of it, and there is no end of fools wishing themselves killed all in the name of some god, ideal or kingdom. You have no idea how much I long for rest, the endless rest of the dead; but this is denied me. Strike me down with your sword and I shall rise again to fight you all over again. You can never feel the way I feel about endless fighting. I never wish it, but there’s always some stupid man somewhere who does and I’m always dragged into the argument, because it is what I do best, fighting.”
Amarinshah sat down on a couch and reclined comfortably, gazing at the pacing man. “And my father?”
“What about him? He’s tried to unite the peoples into one but they don’t want to know. There’s too many petty leaders wanting to be top dog in their little world always stirring it up. When he’s gone it’ll all go to shit and you won’t be able to bind it like he does. You’re not even half the man he is.”