by Tony Roberts
“I-I was approached by the officer – he is a native of Shiraz. He has served the previous governors well, so I was told. The man sent to Samarkand…. he was one of the officer’s spies. I swear to Allah!”
“Okay, go pack your stuff, harem and so on. Tomorrow we leave, but first I want that guard captain. Send him to me wherever I’m to be quartered.”
Amarinshah stared at Casca from his undignified position. “I am not to be punished now?”
Casca looked at Timur’s son long and hard. “No. Your father will decide what form of punishment you’ll suffer; and please don’t be stupid enough to deny anything; we all know what you have been trying to do. Be a good boy and suck up to daddy.”
Casca left the chamber and collared the courtier who had been waiting outside. Shaburdar was waiting there also. “Our chambers please, and only the best for my men and me.”
The courtier bowed and led them along a long corridor to the right and up a few stairs. Casca thought awhile as they were taken to their chambers. Amarinshah had been worried about what the prisoner had revealed, that was certain, but he was ignorant of the fact he had been in the Brotherhood. Casca’s lie about the prisoner revealing all before he had died had clearly concerned the governor, but what he had planned had died with his man, and he certainly couldn’t extract a confession from him as Timur expressly forbade any harm coming to his son.
____
Later in the chamber set aside for him, Casca lay on the deep comfortable bed and relaxed. It had been a hard ride from Samarkand and he had taken with him everything he needed for the future and had left behind anything he didn’t require. He was not returning and once Timur and the Ottoman sultan, Bayezid, had clashed, then his plan had run its course. If Timur succeeded in defeating the Ottomans then he had achieved what he had set out to do nearly forty years previously. Whether it would save the Byzantines he had no idea, but as long as Constantinople stood then the Empire had a chance.
If however Bayezid defeated Timur, then equally the mission was completed as Casca couldn’t see who else could possibly stop the Ottomans. In the last few years he’d learned that they had destroyed the Serbians and Bulgars and had conquered both, and a crusade sent down the Danube had come to grief at Nicopolis. The west would do nothing more; the east lay impotent except for Timur.
Casca lay back and sighed deeply, unwinding his knotted muscles. He really needed a deep bath and wondered if that was laid on as part of room service. Tomorrow he’d set out for Shiraz and travel north to join the army on the last campaign he’d be part of. He wondered where fate would take him afterwards.
A knock on the door and a minor palace flunky appeared. “Emir, the guard captain you requested to come to you, h-he has vanished.”
Casca groaned. “Jupiter’s brass balls” he muttered, a favorite phrase from long ago, “the bastard’s run.”
“We know not where he has gone, Excellency.”
Casca flapped an arm weakly. “It doesn’t matter. You’ll not find him now. But I do need a bath; can you arrange that?”
The flunky bowed. “I shall send for two of the finest maid servants in the palace to attend your needs.”
Casca smiled and nodded. That would do; he needed something to cheer him up after the failure to catch the Brotherhood’s minion. Not that it mattered, one dead agent of that sick society meant nothing to them, and besides there may be others watching him at that moment. A pox on them all. Let the Brotherhood’s agent run, he had more important things to do. Like move west on the Ottomans.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The hot sun beat down mercilessly across the plain, sending shimmering waves of heat up to distort the air. To east and west the land rose to plateau over three thousand feet in height; wild, rugged territory, and not ground for fighting on. But here in the wide valley, blessed by a meandering stream and dotted with a few villages, there was land and terrain suitable for an army to move and fight.
Ahead in the distance, out of sight through the heat haze and dust of the valley, was Ankara, a city in the middle of the Ottoman domains, a city that had been plundered already by Timur and his army, but the citadel had held out and with the main Turkish army arriving from the west, Timur had not wanted to get trapped within the walls. So to here he had retreated and was now lined up facing south across the valley, inspecting his troops.
Behind them stood the village of Cubuk, an unremarkable place but suitable for a headquarters and provisioning of supplies. Casca stood looking south but the enemy was not yet in sight, and he guessed that they would wait now until the morrow as it was already mid-afternoon. Too late to march up and then expect to fight before it got dark. The hot July sun baked him and he took a pull on his water skin before replacing the stopper and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Belching, he turned about and surveyed the array of men in the near distance, standing silently while Timur rode slowly along their lines, critically examining them. Some had been through this before and stood stolidly, their faces blank, but many others had not, those from India and Persia who had been pressed into service. Casca thought they’d be alright but he switched his attention to the elephant corps, off to the right, and pondered on how they would do. Timur had been impressed with the elephants, despite their propensity to stampede, and had purloined some from the now subject Sultan of Delhi.
Voices came to him more strongly with the fluctuating wind, sometimes fading away, sometimes reaching his ears stronger, but he couldn’t make out what was being said as the distance was too great.
Much closer stood Casca’s personal guard detail, waiting for him to mount up and rejoin the main army. Casca was in no hurry, as he hated being in the saddle, much preferring to be on foot, and he’d had enough of Timur’s damned two-day army reviews. So here he was, studying the lie of the land, assessing where it would be best to fight. Most of Timur’s army were mounted archers from Turkestan and Transoxiana so they would need plenty of space to maneuver.
He kicked a stone idly across the ground, watching as it kicked up clouds of dust, and his memories floated back over the past few years after he had left Shiraz. The Brotherhood of the Lamb’s agents had vanished but he knew they were not far, and it was a sure bet one or more of them were in Timur’s army keeping an eye on him. Amarinshah had not been punished by Timur but the old goat had kept his son with him on the campaign. Probably so that the young snake couldn’t stir up any more trouble. Casca grunted in dissatisfaction. He’d have disgraced him and broken him down to latrine cleaner, second class, and put him to work yesterday if he’d had his way.
Timur had then rampaged through Georgia, Syria and Mesopotamia, sacking Aleppo, Damascus and Baghdad. In two places Timur had lost his cool and massacred the defenders much to Casca’s disgust; at Sivas the garrison was burned alive in the moat and at Van the survivors of the citadel had been flung off the ramparts into the deep chasm below. Casca shuddered, remembering his fall from the battlements of Castle Alamut when he had been with the assassins.
He was sick of Timur’s bloodthirsty campaign, and was more than ready to quit. Since Adil’s death he had been ready to go but he had to see the showdown between Timur and the Ottomans, and this would be it. To that end Casca had collected over the past few months clothing and uniform suited to a common soldier. His general’s outfit would be discarded prior to the battle and he’d join in the fight as a foot soldier. His scroll from the Byzantine emperor was still in his pack and he’d keep it until he returned to Constantinople. From what he’d heard the current emperor, a man called Manuel, was off doing a tour in Europe trying to drum up support but Europe didn’t care a damn. Besides, the Ottomans had wiped out any army that had showed its head anywhere near them.
Timur had been too busy in his campaign to notice Casca contributing less and less to the staff meetings, and Timur was relying on his close relatives to lead the wings on this campaign. Pir Mohammed was one and Casca knew Pir would lead one wing against the Turks. No matter
, Casca was more than pleased as it would make his slipping away that much easier, and perhaps throw off the Brotherhood spies.
The sun hammered down and Casca wiped his brow and surveyed the plains again. The single watercourse meandered its way south towards where the Turks would approach, and Casca sucked in his lower lip, an idea forming in his mind. Suddenly, making a decision, he made his way back to his horse and mounted up, his escort forming up around him and together they returned to the assembled horde waiting for the warlord Timur, Scourge of Asia, to inspect them.
Casca trotted over to where Pir Mohammed sat, studying the elephant corps that had come from India, huge masses of flesh waiting to smash into enemy formations. “I’ve an idea,” Casca said.
Pir turned idly and raised an eyebrow in inquiry. “Which is what, general?”
Pir always referred to Casca by his rank, probably trying to put him in what he thought was his place. Well, stuff Pir; he wouldn’t have to put up with the upstart for much longer. “The stream coming from Cubuk, it flows south from the village.”
“It does” Pir grinned, somewhat sarcastically.
Casca resisted the impulse to knock the gleaming teeth down his throat. “We have the water, why not dam the stream and deny the enemy any water? The plain is large and hot and without water they’ll be forced to come to us.” Casca remembered the awful battle where the crusaders had been denied water by Saladin and, dying of thirst, had collapsed in defeat. Lucky he’d been with Saladin that day.
Pir looked thoughtfully at Casca, then smiled again. “I shall suggest that to Timur, an excellent plan! The fools will have no water and we will have it all.”
Casca grunted, and wheeled about. He knew Pir would make it sound like his own plan but Casca cared not, maybe it would be best coming from Pir rather than Casca, or Timur might remember to ask where Casca was!
Timur listened to his grandson and clapped his hands together in delight. Yes, of course that would help in demoralizing further the Ottomans, and Timur himself had made plans to undermine Bayezid’s army by treachery, approaching the Tatar auxiliaries serving with the Ottoman Sultan and promising them rewards to desert him, for were they not kinsmen of much of Timur’s army? Money and further promises had made ears receptive and now much of the Turkish army was suspect. Lack of water would make their loyalty to the Ottomans even more fragile.
Casca went to his tent as the sun began to sink and threw off his general’s outfit, leaving it scattered on the ground. He had no more use for it, and early the following morning he’d don his soldier’s outfit and join the ranks of the infantry. To the ranks of the officers it would be as if he had vanished.
For tomorrow the final battle would take place.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The huge drums boomed out across the plains as the mass of soldiers moved towards the waiting ranks of Timur’s army. The Ottomans found, to their horror, that the stream had dried up overnight and now no water could be found anywhere. Ahead stood the Timurid army, with their right flank lying across the empty stream bed, and in the center Timur had divided his men into two groups instead of the normal one.
Casca stood in the center, spear in hand, sword in his belt sheath. He had sneaked off while it was still dark and in the confusion of the waking army had easily attached himself to one of the large battle formations Timur had arranged in the center. He looked to left and right and saw nervous faces awaiting the battle’s start, and memories of countless battles filled his mind. Even now, things were little different than the days of the Roman legions, perhaps more horses were used but they still needed massed infantry blocks to fight the dirty fight that decided it.
The drums booming filled the air and ahead, pulling a vast dust cloud, came the immense horde of the Ottoman cavalry. The stream behind the Mongol army had been dammed and although water was brought to the soldiers, nothing was allowed to flow past and the Turks were getting thirsty. In the heat of the new day they would find it terrible to fight, tongues swelling in mouths and minds begging for water. It had often dissolved an army’s discipline in the past, and it was likely the same would occur here.
Bayezid’s army poured forward en masse, running madly for the hoarded water they knew to be behind Timur’s lines. Casca gripped his spear tightly and watched as the thundering mass neared, horses wild-eyed, their riders coated in dust and grimly fixed on their intentions. Suddenly, there came a whoosh! and the sky darkened, causing all the infantry, Casca included, to jerk their heads up to see a mass of arrows flying from behind them to fall amongst the Turkish army. The front line of the charging mass crumpled and became a chaotic mess, horses tumbling their riders into the dust and earth, the animals themselves falling to lie there screaming like stuck pigs. The riders behind tried to vault the bodies littered on the ground but it was impossible and the charge broke up thirty yards short of the waiting infantry. Dust blew across from right to left and for a moment the battlefield was obscured, then a trumpeting and deep roar broke through from behind and suddenly the elephant corps was charging out, accompanied by many Turkoman archers of Timur.
The entire right wing of the Mongol army was swinging out, under Pir Mohammed, and crashed into the left of the Turkish prince Celebi. It seemed to crumble under the assault and suddenly they were fleeing in wild disorder. Dust obscured much of what was happening but Casca judged the Turkish left wing was getting its ass out of there yesterday. Sweat ran from his scalp down across his eyebrows and nose, dripping down onto his chest. He felt hot and uncomfortable but amongst the other spearmen, he also felt safe and as though he belonged, as if this was what he really was. I may be a general at times or even a god, but heck, this is what I am, a soldier, and as He said on that damned cross, this is what I shall be until we meet again.
The order came from the unit captain and they changed grip on their spears and set them pointing up but ahead, and advanced, drums booming out the beat as they walked steadily ahead towards the dust clouds drifting across the field, one minute obscuring their view, then the next clearing so they could see hundreds of yards. Screams came from ahead to left and right but Casca cared not for that, he was concentrated on what lay ahead, a mass of waiting Ottoman infantry. The janissaries! The elite Turkish soldiers, taken from childhood to serve as the Sultan’s personal slaves and fanatical in their obedience. Only death would end their resistance.
The throats of thousands of men began to chant as they neared the janissaries and Casca joined in, as one with the giant organism of the foot soldiers and he felt himself being caught up in the thrill of it all. Blood raced through his system and his head buzzed as he neared the enemy. At twenty yards they dipped their spears and pointed them directly at the janissaries, who waited grimly as the Timurid army neared them. They were protecting their Sultan and no filthy Steppe nomad army would take him save over their dead bodies.
With a deep teeth-grating crunch, the two armies clashed, grunts of men and screeching of metal punctuating the air. Casca’s spear was deflected by a janissary shield and the man facing him struck back with his curved sword, but Casca’s shield blocked the blow. Dropping his spear which was uselessly jammed in the mass of men, he drew out his sword and slashed down, sparks flying off the Turk’s helm as he struck, the sheer force of the blow shattering the rim and driving the buckled edges into his face. The Turk screamed and clutched his bleeding face and sank to his knees but Casca knocked him aside with his shield and had to quickly deflect a spear thrust from the next rank. Chopping off the spear shaft with his sword, he rammed his shield forward and stunned the next man before ending his life with a slashing blow across his neck.
Casca screamed, in rage and exhilaration. He was invincible; a god of the battlefield, and no Ottoman would stop him! He drove into the third rank, cleaving left and right, clearing a gap around him. One janissary officer, resplendent in his white-plumed cap and wielding a sword with a bejeweled hilt, stepped forward to stop this crazy dervish before he split the unit in two,
but Casca screamed in defiance and came at him, his sword arm soaked in blood. The officer stepped back in fear but couldn’t escape, so tightly packed were the soldiers behind him. He desperately blocked the first blow but failed to prevent the second from slicing into his ribs and he folded over with a gurgling moan, his lifeblood seeping into the ground.
By now Casca’s comrades had carved a way through to the fourth rank and the janissary unit was splintering, but then a great cheer came up and more Turks hit them from the left. Casca was pushed back by sheer weight of numbers, many of his comrades falling at his feet, and the battle became concentrated into the few feet to front, left or right of him. What was going on round him mattered little. He didn’t know that many of Bayezid’s Turkoman allies had deserted to Timur’s side, nor that the entire left wing had collapsed and fled, or even that Timur’s elephants had trampled deep into the Turkish ranks and caused mayhem.
The struggle for the center was all that remained now and Casca lost count of the enemies he slew, or the cuts he received back. All healed quickly, of course, and those of his allies around him never told of the strange healing powers he had for all died within a few moments, such was the carnage. Casca was strong but even his energy reserves had a limit, and eventually he reached the end of his, just as he cut down a red-robed opponent, the tall white cloth cap tumbling to the ground followed in short order by its former wearer, lifeless eyes staring up at the sky.
Casca moaned and leaned on his sword, utterly spent, and looked round at the scene of devastation. A scene all too familiar to him, the battle rage had left him leaving him drained and sick as it normally did. He sat down on the lifeless flanks of a horse and surveyed the scene. No other stood within forty yards of him, the battle had moved on as it does in its mindless way, surging and ebbing across the ground. Only the wounded moved near him, faintly flapping an arm or jerking a leg. “Die quietly” Casca growled, foul of temper, “at least you have that luxury, I am denied that!”