by Tony Roberts
“Right,” the squad leader said to the others, “over there on the dais by those basket makers,” he waved a careless hand in their direction, “I’ll stand on the top step, you lot stand to either side at the bottom and look impressive. Smile! Being in Heraclius’ army is an honor and an enjoyable experience.”
The others, save Demetros, glanced at one another and rolled their eyes. Demetros though nodded and fixed a beam on his face. Casca groaned under his breath and shook his head minutely before following in their wake and took up his spot at the bottom of the three wide platform steps that led to the top of the market dais. A waft of olive oil and spices struck Casca’s senses as he placed his spear butt down on the stone flagged surface of the market square, and the nearest trader certainly needed a wash. Casca wrinkled his nose but remained stoically where he was.
“Citizens of Tarsus!” Kalatios boomed out suddenly, startling a flock of finches off a nearby fig tree next to a water fountain. Their chattering filled the air for a moment before they found new perches on the rooftops surrounding the square, but they continued berating the squad leader for disturbing their afternoon slumber. “The Emperor Heraclius is camped nearby with an army of your compatriots ready to do battle with the heretics of Persia!”
A few passers-by stopped to listen. One or two of the younger ones looked with interest at the clean uniforms of the men standing below the speaker, although the scarred thick-set one on the end seemed a little dusty for some reason.
Kalatios went on. He shouted out how the Emperor was God’s chosen on Earth and His representative, and that for God’s glory he was undertaking the campaign to clear the invaders out of the lands of the Christians. “How many of you will stand by and do nothing while your brothers fight for the One True Faith? Do you not wish to receive the blessing of God for fighting for Him against the infidels? Join us today and enjoy God’s blessing in what we are about to do!”
There were a few cheers and some of the younger ones rushed forward eagerly waving their hands, wanting to take part in the glorious fight against the enemies of God. Kalatios had a sack with him and began dishing out ill-fitting white tunics to the recruits. Casca nudged Demetros and the two stepped away from the crowd of pushing men. “So what’s so special about Tarsus?” Casca asked. “Kalatios was saying something about this place being particularly blessed?”
“You do not know, Casca? I am surprised! Why, St. Paul himself came from Tarsus.”
Casca made a movement with his head, expressing surprise. Demetros pointed at a white domed building off to one side of the square, just visible. “There is the Church of St. Paul. He is patron saint of Tarsus.”
“Oh.” Casca wasn’t interested in the slightest. To him, this St. Paul was just another religious member of a religion that revered at its head the figure who’d cursed him to immortality. “All I know Tarsus for is its textiles.”
Demetros sighed. “You and I, Casca, obviously are here for different reasons. To me, this war is a war of faith; I want the heretic Persians expelled from the lands of Christ. So why are you here?”
Casca shrugged. “I’m a fighting man; war is my profession. But like you I have no love of the Persians, if for different reasons.” Casca wasn’t going to say he’d fought for both in his time as Demetros would probably want details; details Casca wasn’t going to give him. “What I want to know is why the devil have you attached yourself to me? I’m hardly the religious type, so we haven’t got much in common.”
Demetros looked over Casca’s shoulder for a moment, then, satisfied nobody was in earshot, he leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “I have never fought before and I realized I needed a warrior figure to learn from and hopefully to be my shield partner in this holy war. The moment I saw you I thought you to be the man, and you’re not the nasty selfish type like Philatelis. I’d only been in his group as I thought he’d teach me how to be a soldier, but I was mistaken; he’s a bully and nasty to everyone.”
Casca leaned on his spear. “Don’t expect me to pray or be saintly on our campaign, lad. I blaspheme, swear, curse, kill, shout, and if I didn’t have a woman waiting for me back home I’d whore as well.”
Demetros was too busy digesting these words to see the shadow that briefly crossed Casca’s face.
They arrived back in camp as darkness fell and Casca lay there for a while in his tent, wondering if Ayesha were still in one piece.
CHAPTER FIVE
The torches flickered, casting long shadows along the smooth stone walls of the Brotherhood headquarters, and the Elder sat behind his simple desk watching as Ayesha fed herself aggressively. She’d been denied food for two days and only given water, so now when she had been brought to him and a bowl of olives and goats cheese put in front of her, she’d attacked it with relish.
Waiting for her to finish, the Elder leaned forward and steeped his fingers. “Where are you from, Ayesha?”
The woman replied without looking up. “Thebes.” Her mouth was full of food but the name was understood even though it came through a number of half eaten olives.
“Ah, Thebes.” The Elder slowly repeated the word, as though it meant a great deal to him.
Ayesha stopped chewing, swallowed, wiped her mouth against the back of her hand and looked at him. “You know it?”
“I know of it. The city of Amon. The place of heretical beliefs and paganism. I thought the city had been destroyed centuries ago.”
“It was,” Ayesha said. “There are just a few inhabited places around it now.”
“A just fate for a place that idolizes false gods,” the Elder intoned pompously.
“We have churches,” Ayesha said defiantly, holding his gaze. “We worship God, not the old gods from our past.”
“Is that so?” the Elder said, a smile spreading across his face. “Then perhaps you may pray to God with us.”
Ayesha looked at the Elder with distaste. “I’d sooner starve.”
“That can be arranged,” the Elder replied softly but with menace. “We are very devout in our worship and pray many times a day. You will be brought along tomorrow evening to our prayers at that time. You will not be permitted any food from now until after the session.” He made a signal with one hand and one of the guards present in the room picked up Ayesha’s plate and took it from her, even though her meal was but half finished.
“Hey!” the woman protested, then slumped in her chair, distraught.
“Being disrespectful is not permitted, nor is disobedience. You shall shortly see the consequence of this. But until then you may return to your cell and prepare yourself for prayer.”
“What – all day?” Ayesha was taken aback.
“What else? Speaking to God is the ultimate communion any mortal can expect on Earth. It therefore stands to reason you should prepare yourself properly. Go.”
Ayesha went to protest but two men hauled her up out of her chair and marched her out of the room. The Elder remained seated, but a deep chuckle broke through his lips.
* * *
The summer was well past its peak, and Heraclius had at last decided the army was ready to move from its camp close to the sea and move inland to confront the Persian forces that controlled the interior of Anatolia. Casca acknowledged the sense of this; Anatolia had for a long time been the prime recruiting region for the Empire, and if Heraclius were to keep on getting new recruits, then it was essential to retake this region as soon as possible.
The land rose steadily as they tramped along the dry, stony tracks that led north towards the harsh angular mountains of the Taurus in front of them. Bees buzzed to left and right, taking nectar from the flowers in the fields and an arrow shot to the right flowed the Saurus River, the main water supply of the area. The sound of thousands of men marching filled the air, with jingling metal buckles, squeaking belts, spear shafts knocking on wooden shields, steel shod leather boots tramping on the dusty ground, and hundreds of men coughing, spitting, breaking wind or discussing with their c
omrades any one of dozens of subjects. Sweat and leather came to Casca’s nostrils and he breathed in deeply, almost smiling with the familiarity of it all. Soldiering, that was his calling. He loved being part of an army and the comfort it gave him. It was like putting on old comfortable shoes. They fitted nicely.
“How far do you think we’re going to go?” Demetros asked, sweat running down his forehead. He had to keep on wiping it with the back of his hand.
“Today?”
“No, I mean on this march. I’ve never been this deep into Cilicia.”
Casca shrugged. Cilicia was the narrow coastal strip Tarsus sat in. “Beyond the mountains, that’s for sure. The Emperor is after the nearest Persian army, and they’re supposed to be somewhere on the other side of that range. After that, who knows? Depends on whether we win or not.”
“You think we’ll win?” the man behind Demetros, a wide shouldered man called Michael Pallos, asked. He had been one of the new recruits from Tarsus and had gravitated towards the tough looking scarred warrior like Demetros had. It also meant protection from the bullies of the unit. One of the recruits had been too slow to get ‘protection’ and had made the mistake of refusing to hand over a precious family heirloom. The following morning his badly beaten body had been found in a ditch outside camp with no belongings on him. Nobody had seen anything but everyone knew who had done it.
Casca had done nothing at the time but knew he would have to do something pretty soon to stop any further stupidity. He marked Philatelis down for death. It was just a matter of time and opportunity. “Win? I don’t know. The army has been fairly poor recently, hasn’t it? The Persians kicked your butts all over Anatolia a few years back.”
“Yes but the Emperor has taken the army and retrained it,” Pallos’ comrade, a dark skinned fellow called Mathu commented. Mathu’s origins were vague, but he had told everyone he had been born in Egypt. Casca reckoned he had Sudanese blood in him. Mathu was big, black and had a huge nose and mouth. He’d been reminded somewhat of Jubala, but Mathu wasn’t like him once Casca got to know the man. Mathu had been educated in Egypt and had none of the resentment Jubala had against the human race in general.
“So what? Training means nothing if you run away the moment you come face to face with the enemy,” Casca replied. “Stand and fight, have better tactics and courage, and then we’ll have a good chance.”
The others nodded and fell silent, wondering how they’d react when they did come face to face with the enemy. Casca tried not to fall into the black mood that lurked in the background. He was doubly pissed with the Ayesha situation and the fact he had to jump to the Brotherhood’s commands. Somehow somewhere he’d pay them back big time.
They came to a halt towards evening, in the foothills of the mountains. The river ran close by and the soldiers filled their water skins gratefully, unit by unit. Scouts had been sent out to make sure nobody was nearby who wanted harm to come their way, and the commanders shouted orders to prepare camp. Casca fell in with the others to dig the ditch that surrounded the army, much like he’d done in his time in the Tenth Legion, and it made him feel nostalgic.
To his surprise the man next to him was the bully Philatelis. The Greek scowled at Casca and dug furiously, two of his minions and givers of pain next to him. Philatelis even had one of these men swap with him to be away from Casca. “Frightened to be next to me, you coward?” Casca challenged the Greek.
Philatelis shot Casca a look that could have shriveled him on the spot. “You keep your mouth shut.”
“Or what? Think I’m one of those kids you and your boyfriends can beat to death? Want to try me?”
Philatelis went red. “You’ll be sorry you said that, Scarface! I’ll put more than just that one on you by the time I’ve finished!”
Casca dug a deep shovelful of stones and dirt and flung it at Philatelis, showering him. The Greek roared in outrage and came at Casca, his spade raised high. Casca saw the Greek’s comrade move to knock him over and was ready for it, and he swung his spade, slapping the man across the face with the flat of his blade. The Greek staggered back, clutching his face, but Philatelis had closed and was swinging his blade, its edge towards Casca’s chest. The Eternal Mercenary jumped sideways and the blow cut through thin air.
The other soldiers gathered in a circle, eager to see the showdown, and Philatelis circled, shovel in both hands, waiting to use it. Casca shadowed his movements, eyes wary, spade firmly gripped.
“You lot, break it up, get back to work!” Kalatios’ voice shrieked from the other side of the circle.
Casca faced the red-faced Philatelis for a moment, then sneered and stepped back, still watching the Greek. The surrounding men parted and Kalatios barged through, a small whip in his hand. Casca hadn’t seen him with that before and assumed it was some kind of disciplinary tool. “Break it up! Get back to work, all of you!” The bawling squad leader stepped up to the two men and glared at them. “What’s all this about? You’d better have some explanation!”
“Casca there attacked Philatelis without warning,” one of the Greek’s toadies accused Casca, pointing at him in a dramatic manner.
“Is that true?” Kalatios demanded, his eyes boring into Casca’s.
“No,” Casca said softly, holding the squad leader’s gaze. “He thinks he can bully the rest of the unit and get away with it. I’m not someone anyone can push around.”
Kalatios snorted but broke eye contact, feeling uncomfortable. There was steel behind those eyes, and if Longinus said he wasn’t to be pushed around, then that was very believable. He turned and faced Philatelis. “It’s not the first time you’ve pushed your luck,” he said. “Whenever there’s trouble here you’re not far away. I’m becoming tired of it all. We’ve got a war to fight, and more importantly a ditch to dig. Now get to it!”
The men bent sullenly and resumed their work. Kalatios stood there watching for a moment, then made some unidentifiable noise and tramped off to inspect another section of the ditch.
“You’ll be sorry….” the man next to Casca began, but Casca didn’t allow him to finish. A hard fist crashed into his guts and the man doubled up, gasping in pain. The victim’s associate, Philatelis, raised his spade once more but Casca bent and dug into the dry soil, daring the bully to try anything. Philatelis’ face was dark with anger and he looked round quickly. Kalatios wasn’t very far away and would turn round if anything happened. Casca knew it and smiled evilly at the man. Without looking down Casca pushed his foot against the helpless man he’d hit and shoved him into the ditch, showering him with dirt from his spade.
The man groaned and rolled over, trying to get out of the three foot deep hole. “Don’t try to get me into trouble again, you turd,” Casca said from above him. “Else you’ll find yourself in deeper trouble than you are now. Forget Kalatios; I’m the one you’ve got to worry about.”
Michael Pallos and Mathu grinned and went back to their ditch digging, but Demetros tutted and shook his head. “You’ll only make trouble for yourself, Casca.”
Casca shook his head. “They’ll be sorry, not me. Get back to digging. Leave these heroes to me to sort out.”
“I’m going to kill you,” Philatelis promised, helping his crony out of the ditch. “You’ll not be able to sleep at night from now on, worrying when I’ll pay you back.”
“Go ahead,” Casca retorted. “I don’t give a damn about you and your worthless threats. Your time on this earth is just about done. You’ll not push anyone around ever again.”
Philatelis stared at Casca for a moment, then scowled and resumed his digging. Casca kept glancing to his right but the bullies kept their distance and the ditch was dug without further incident. The night was beginning to fall as they pitched the tents and fell gratefully into them.
Casca though didn’t close his eyes. He kept awake, staring up at the canvas of his tent, waiting. The night had come and those on sentry duty were sent to the camp perimeter to make sure nobody approached, or desert
ed. Fires were lit and men gathered around them, cooking. Casca rolled out of his tent and slid away from the fires and the groups of men and made his way to Philatelis’ tent. Now was the time.
His tent was shared with three others, all of them part of ‘his’ clique. Casca knew from experience that these followers would melt away once the bully was taken care of. They enjoyed the mutual protection all gave one another, but take away the binding force they soon disintegrated as a group. He fully expected the others to desert once Philatelis had been taken care of.
The Eternal Mercenary took a long look around, turning a full circle. The night was fully upon them, and the glow of the dying day had gone from the jagged edges of the Taurus to the west. The proximity to the mountains made the sky darker for they dominated the western and northern directions; and off to the east there were clouds that concealed the stars. Only to the south were there stars, and their light was faint at the best of times.
Camp fires gave off most of the light and one was flickering right in front of the tent he was heading for. He smiled grimly to himself. Time to have a little sport and enjoyment. Some unlucky soul was overdue for it anyway and he was ready to give back the grief he’d felt for the last few months with interest.
“Philatelis, you ugly goat screwer,” he announced his arrival, “I’ve had enough of your evil presence amongst us. Want to settle our differences the proper way like men, or do I butcher you here right now?”
Philatelis shot up onto his feet, enraged. The other three scrambled to their feet too. “You talk big,” the Greek sneered. “Let’s see how well you beg for your life. I may be lenient and allow you to live, provided I cut your dick off first!”
The others laughed unpleasantly. Casca snorted with derision. “Over there in the darkness away from the camp,” he jerked his head off to one side. There were no guards patrolling that area at that moment.