by Tony Roberts
Finally a group of well-armed and richly dressed individuals appeared. The officer who had brought Casca to the city stood ramrod straight and screamed at the lounging peasants under his command to do likewise or lose their heads. They did so with such speed that one dropped his spear which clattered to the ground loudly.
“Son of a diseased whore!” his officer hissed, his eyes wide with fury, “you will be sorry when we get back to camp!”
Casca liked that one. Then he was pulled roughly up onto his feet and swung round to face the arriving dignitary, a barrel-chested man with scale armor and a tall head dress that denoted him as a high ranking soldier. This had to be General Murtzak.
CHAPTER TWELVE
General Murtzak halted a dozen paces from Casca and surveyed him slowly. With him were a number of aides and junior officers, and a smartly dressed unit of bodyguards. Casca stood there insolently. The whole ‘mission’ was for the benefit of the Brotherhood and he wasn’t going to co-operate with anyone unless it was necessary. Necessary to him, that was. A pox on the Brotherhood, the Sassanids and General damned Murtzak in particular.
“So this is the important Christian prisoner who knows all their plans?” Murtzak asked one of his aides, slapping a short rod of office into his palm.
“Yes, sir!” the officer who had brought him there answered. “My information was that he knows what Emperor Heraclius plans next.”
The General now examined the officer critically. “I find it strange that an officer not attached to my district should bring such an important prisoner to me, and not his own superior officer. Whose army do you belong to, young man?”
“Sir. I’m attached to the Army of the Tigris under General Shahin.”
“Indeed? And why did you not bring this man to General Shahin?”
The officer stared into a fixed point of infinity over Murtzak’s shoulder. “General Shahin retreated into the mountains north of Tabriz when the enemy invaded Armenia. I was out on a foraging mission with my men at this time and we became detached from the army. I do not know where they are, and I fear that if we should try to find them with this prisoner we would most likely run into the enemy army. So I decided a safer course of action was to bring him here, the nearest garrisoned town in our hands.”
Murtzak raised a dark eyebrow and looked at his aides. Casca just wanted them to get on with it rather than bore him with their interplay of words. He leaned back against the cool stone wall of the guardhouse and closed his eyes. He heard Murtzak speak again. “Your name, Captain?”
“Captain Bakhtiar, General!”
“Well, Captain Bakhtiar, you show uncommon sense. Quite unusual. Yes. Hmmm. You should assign yourself to this garrison until General Shahin reappears.”
“Sir! My men are soon to return to their farms; they live just down the valley. May I release them?”
“Granted,” Murtzak sighed. “They do not look useful to me in any case. They may return to their homes immediately. Then you take charge of escorting this man to the administration center. The interrogation cells are located below. Something we found when we took over this place at the start of the war.”
Casca sighed and opened his eyes. One of the guards glared at him. Casca ignored him. He could get screwed for all he cared. Bakhtiar dismissed the slovenly men who he’d commanded and they gleefully dispersed into the town, chattering excitedly. Then he jerked an impatient hand at the guards and Casca was hauled up. He tried to pull his arm free and got a cuff around the ear for his troubles.
That was enough. With no warning Casca swung a meaty fist and it slammed up under the guard’s jaw, lifting him up off his feet. The Persian struck the wall and collapsed into an inert heap. The second guard sprang into a defensive posture and leveled his spear, aiming at Casca’s gut. Bakhtiar drew his sword and prodded Casca in the back. “Don’t be foolish,” he said in Greek.
Casca turned in surprise and looked at the Captain. Bakhtiar looked at the groaning guard. “Pick him up,” he ordered to the second in Farsi. “I have the situation under control.” He then winked at Casca.
Casca rolled his eyes. No wonder the Persians were on hand to arrest him back in the mountains. The Eternal Mercenary mouthed a vile obscenity. Bakhtiar flashed a smug smile and stepped back as the groggy guard was helped to his feet.
“Very well. We shall now proceed.”
General Murtzak nodded in approval from the background. This young officer showed promise. He had brains, unlike the majority of the guards here. He may be a man to watch for the future. Persia needed men of quality. The war was turning against them.
They made their way through the town, passing sun baked mud brick homes and store houses. Some of the civilians watched sympathetically as Casca was prodded on his way. Ten years or so of occupation hadn’t changed their loyalties. Casca smiled at a group of solemn looking people. “Don’t worry; the Empire is winning the war!”
“Shut up!” Bakhtiar snapped, swinging round.
“What did he say?” Murtzak demanded. Bakhtiar repeated Casca’s words. The General strode slowly over to Casca and stared hard at him. “Something tells me you’re trouble, Greek. It will be a pleasure forcing the truth out of you.”
Casca feigned ignorance, shrugging his shoulders and turning to Bakhtiar helplessly. “I don’t speak his language.”
Bakhtiar snorted. “Fear not, Longinus, I’ll play along. You’ll have to be careful within the walls of the prison though; I expect there will be Greek speakers there.”
Casca nodded. He looked back at Murtzak and held his gaze. The Persian general cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable. There was something in the light blue eyes that unnerved him. He returned to his place at the head of the line and led them to a green oasis in the middle of town. A fountain spouted water into a pool where fish swam lazily amongst water lilies and weeds, and the ground around was covered in shrubs and grass.
They pushed Casca on and towards a long low stone building where armed guards stood at the entrance and patrolled on the roof battlements. The points of the spears had pricked his back enough times to get it itching and he knew blood had stained his tunic in a few places. He tried to keep away from the blades for if his back showed no sign of any wounds they may inflict on him, questions may well be asked.
Casca was marched along a cool marble corridor, through a door with bars and down a flight of wooden stairs to an underground world lit by flickering torches and full of dark corners and nooks and crannies. Funny how dungeons the world over look the same, he mused. The ground was of rammed earth and the scuttling of little feet betrayed the presence of the inevitable rodents.
Doors lay to one side of the passageway, all of thick wood with bars at head height set in a small square hole, so that the captors could see into each cell. One of these was wide open and Casca was shoved roughly into the cell beyond. Bakhtiar stood for a moment in the doorway, examining the room, then nodded to himself and stepped out of sight and the jailer, a scruffy long haired dirty looking individual with a gap-toothed smile and four days of stubble, slammed the door shut and locked it.
Casca took no time to check his environment; a low bed made out of wooden planks and a mattress of filthy straw, an earthen floor with even filthier straw scattered over it, stout stone walls and no window. Ten feet by six. One bucket, bent and rusting, for ablutions.
He gently eased himself down onto the bed and lay there, staring up at the half seen ceiling. He was still wondering over one thing. If Bakhtiar was the Brotherhood agent, how did the Brotherhood know of Murtzak’s identity and presence here already? Bakhtiar was obviously the Brotherhood’s means of getting Casca to Martyropolis, but it must mean there was another of their agents here already.
Whatever. He’d find out soon enough. Bakhtiar was clearly here to assist in isolating the Persian general from his guards and getting the information out of him. When the time came he’d know what to do, and if he could kill Bakhtiar as well so much the better. He desperate
ly wanted to waste a Brotherhood bastard; he’d had enough of them pushing him around.
He’d been there for maybe five hours, listening to the sounds of sobbing, pain and entreaties from the other prisoners with increasing irritation, when footsteps came to him outside the door and the keys jangled from the jailer. He got off his bed, sending the four-legged inhabitants of the cell scuttling for cover, and stood there as the door was shoved open and light spilled into the cell.
“Come on you,” Bakhtiar snapped curtly. “Out!”
Casca slowly came forward truculently. Hands grabbed him and propelled him out into the corridor. Three guards held him fast and Bakhtiar waved them to follow him. Ahead was an open chamber, lit by torches and oil lamps. Long stout benches lay in the center and around these were the modern implements of extracting confessions from those reluctant – or unable – to divulge information. Manacles, lit braziers with accompanying brands and whips, the latter hanging from wall brackets or from hooks screwed into the pillars that held up the ceiling.
Around the walls to left and right were more manacles and wrist bands. To the far side was a dark pool of water. Casca could only wonder what that would be used for.
Stood in this chamber were General Murtzak, another well-dressed officer with a haughty expression, a hugely muscled man wearing only leather leggings and wrist bands, and a grey haired man in a long white robe who had an uncomfortable air about him. Behind Casca and the guards trailed the jailer, grinning widely. Clearly he was the type who delighted in interrogation.
“Tie him down,” the general ordered curtly.
Casca tried to pull away from the guards but they had too tight a grip on him and not even he could overpower three strong men at once. He was dragged onto the nearest bench and manacled to it hand and foot. The others crowded round.
“You will tell me your name and what unit you belong to, then you will tell me what the plans are for the Emperor and the army for the next campaigning season.”
Casca looked at the general and frowned. Then the grey haired man translated. Clearly he was the official Greek speaker in the Persian administration. Casca shook his head. He wanted to see how far he could push it, and how tolerant Murtzak was. He soon found out.
“Persuade this pig,” Murtzak said to the muscled man. The interrogator, a bald headed man with a clipped black beard and a hooked nose, put on a pair of gauntlets and slid a branding iron from one of the blazing braziers nearby. The end was glowing red.
“Casca Longinus, scutati to the Comitenses of Theodore, brother to Emperor Heraclius.”
The translating took them by surprise. “What did he say?” Murtzak demanded, his eyes boring into Casca with hostility. “What in the name of Ahura-Mazda is a scutati?”
“Your Excellency,” the translator stammered nervously, “that is an ordinary infantryman in the Romanoi army.”
“So he says!” Murtzak snarled. “Show him he cannot lie to me!”
The interrogator’s teeth gleamed in delight and he lowered the now dull red end of the iron onto Casca’s forearm. There came a hissing noise and smoke billowed up from the burned arm. Casca screamed and writhed but couldn’t pull his injured limb away. After a second or two the brand was removed, leaving a vivid red mark across the arm.
“Ask him does he still wish to be an infantryman or will he suddenly gain promotion?”
The Persians laughed at their general’s humor. Only the translator and Bakhtiar remained unmoved. Murtzak folded his arms across his chest. “Well?”
“You bastard!” Casca breathed, tears in his eyes. It was agony. “Go to hell, you screwer of camels!”
The translator remained standing, his mouth open, too afraid to repeat the words to the fuming general. But he was pressed to do so, and he haltingly did, his face showing the fear he obviously felt.
Murtzak’s eyes bulged. “Very well,” he growled, “by the time we’ve finished with you, you won’t be recognizable as a man!”
The interrogator was looking at Casca’s arm and his face showed astonishment. Casca didn’t have to look at the arm to know what was happening. The burn would be healing. It was hurting like hell, but there was the familiar tingling to go with it that he knew was a sign of his phenomenal healing ability. The burn would already be starting to fade in color and probably the skin would be already trying to smooth itself out. Burns generally took longer to heal than bladed wounds, but even to an untrained eye the healing process would be visible. It would take a day or so before it was healed fully, but he knew it was already beginning.
“Your Excellency,” the interrogator pointed in disbelief at Casca’s arm. “Look!”
Murtzak looked at the interrogator, then followed his pointing finger and saw the burn mark on the arm. Even as he looked it seemed to slightly change and he leaned forward, his eyes widening. “What….?”
The others came crowding round. Murtzak waved them back irritably. “What is this trickery?”
“Let me see,” the jailer coughed. “We had an unusual prisoner a week ago with a unique condition.” He leaned over and squinted at the wound. “Hmmm, yes. I think I know what this is.” Casca felt a hard object come to rest on his chest and knew it was a sword. The jailer was still leaning over him and waving a filthy hand at the burned arm. While everyone’s attention was fixed on the arm, the jailer had slipped the bolt on Casca’s right wrist manacle.
He moved back and shuffled to the bottom of the bench, sliding free the ankle bands.
“What are you doing?” Murtzak demanded, confused. He saw that three of the four bands that held the prisoner down were open and the prisoner was even as he spoke unfastening the last one. Even more amazing was the sight of the sword, a short bladed weapon but a sword nonetheless, resting on his chest.
Casca now grabbed the sword, almost the same size as an old gladius, and sat up, a wicked smile on his face.
“Guards!” Murtzak snapped in alarm. The three Persian guards sprang to action. Bakhtiar did likewise, but instead of closing in on Casca swung his sword and cut through the back of the closest guard to him. The sound of the blow alerted the two other guards and they turned to take on the traitor.
Casca slid off the bench looking for revenge. The interrogator bared his teeth and swung the iron bar in his grip down on the jailer’s head, connecting with a sickening thud. The jailer fell like a stone and the interrogator drove the still hot brand down into the luckless man’s throat, burning as it went. The jailer, already stunned, couldn’t even raise a scream as his flesh burned and melted.
Casca wasn’t concerned about the interrogator for the moment. His attention was on the senior officer and Murtzak. Murtzak was unarmed but the senior officer had his sword out and was closing in on Casca. The Eternal Mercenary came round the bench and stood in the way of a quick escape from the pair. The interrogator was finishing off the jailer at the other end of the bench and Bakhtiar was battling the two others behind him.
“Kill him!” Murtzak hissed to his man, deciding whatever information Casca may have had was no longer important. His life was much more dear to him.
Blades met above their heads and the officer, a burly man, tried to beat Casca back through brute strength. Casca though was too experienced and strong himself to be daunted by that, and stepped to one side, turning the Persian. As the officer’s next blow came at him Casca slapped it aside and stepped forward quickly, stabbing up under the ribs and penetrating deep into the torso. The officer gritted his teeth and sank to his knees.
Casca stepped back and checked quickly to see how things were progressing. One of the two Persian guards was down, drooling blood and looking like he’d got a gut wound. Bakhtiar was locked in a deathly embrace with the other, and the interrogator was closing in on Casca, murder in his eyes. Murtzak was backing off, fear showing in his eyes, as was the Greek translator.
“Come on you slug,” Casca snapped to the interrogator.
The bald man whirled the bar in the air and brought
it down hard. Casca jumped aside as it smashed into the bench, splintering the edge, and whipped a backhand blow across the man’s chest, scoring a deep gash across it. The torturer cried out and staggered back, clutching his wound. Casca followed up and sliced down across the neck, and again one more time, cutting into the screaming man’s shoulder as he twisted and fell.
Murtzak tried to run but Casca sprang to his side and barged the general into the nearest pillar, ramming his free hand up into his guts. Murtzak doubled up, retching, and Casca turned to see Bakhtiar sliding down the wall, blood over his chest, the last guard standing over him.
“Hey, you!” Casca snapped.
The guard turned and came at him, his sword red with Bakhtiar’s blood. Casca swung at him, striking down for the head. The soldier parried and riposted but Casca had already moved backwards. The blade sliced through air and Casca stepped forward, stabbing hard. The blow took the Persian through the chest, slicing into his heart, and the guard fell heavily to the ground.
Casca turned full circle. Apart from the gibbering translator, he was the only one left on his feet. Murtzak was panting on all fours, so Casca stepped up to him and slammed the pommel of his sword into his neck, stunning him. Leaving the general lying on the dungeon floor, Casca examined the others. The interrogator was dead, as was the senior officer. The last guard had died fast, while the two Bakhtiar had hit were well on their way to death and were no danger to him. The jailer had been slaughtered by the interrogator, his throat a burned hole.
He stepped up to Bakhtiar and looked down at him. The Brotherhood agent looked up, a smile twisting his lips. “Well, Longinus,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “it’s just you left again. Get the information from the general and get it to my superiors. They will formulate a plan to retrieve the Spear.”