by Tony Roberts
The Elder was in his room when the most senior of his followers knocked and entered. “Continue the punishments until I’m satisfied she is ready,” he ordered to the brother.
The brother bowed. “When will she be ready, Elder?”
“When she welcomes it.” The Elder smiled. “It won’t be long.”
The senior brother bowed again. “Elder, what of our agent and Longinus? There has been no news for some time.”
The Elder frowned. It was true. By now news should have reached him of the location of the Spear. But as was the case, any number of things could have gone wrong. Longinus may have reneged on the deal; the infidel Zoroastrian general may not have known the Spear’s location after all; the agent may have been caught. The Persians may have discovered everything and that would have ruined the plan.
There was only one thing to do. Pallos would have to once again travel into the war zone and find out what had happened. The Elder knew that the brethren were eager to regain the Spear, as was he, but they must use patience. Patience was the only way.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Casca was also patient. He had learned the hard way that often it was the only thing he could fall back on. Being confined in a Persian cell and left to rot would have sent many men crazy. But Casca knew in time somebody would happen along. The guards in recent days had left and only the jailer had remained. Any attempt at starting a conversation had been a waste of time and it only elicited abuse and spittle.
Even the jailer vanished one morning. It was eerie, the whole place silent and dark – nobody had bothered to relight the torches. Even the other prisoners were quiet. Casca wondered if they had all died or been taken away. It had been so long and he had slept much of the time that it was possible such things had happened.
The sound of the door to the surface being opened came to him and he tensed. It must have been days since anyone had come that way. Or was it only hours? The total darkness had disorientated him and he was sure he had been hallucinating for he had a memory of having a conversation with Glam just a few moments ago.
Voices came to him. They were speaking Greek! He stood up, a little shaky, and grabbed the bars on the door and tried to peer out. Torchlight flickered down the passageway towards the way out and he heard distinctly a Greek talk. “Better check to see if any poor souls are down here, I suppose. The place stinks!”
“Hey!” Casca tried to shout. It came out as a faint croak. He’d not used his voice for a while properly, save in the one-sided conversations he’d had with himself, and the lack of a drink over the past few days had left him with a husk of a tongue. Cursing he picked up his overflowing piss bucket and threw it against the door, sending his urine all over the door and even through the bars onto the passage outside.
“Good heaven above!” came the voice outside. “Alright, alright! Hold on!”
There appeared two men, wrinkling their noses. “Ugh! Do you happen to know where the keys are?”
Casca shook his head. “Jailer,” he croaked.
“Oh, that’s not good,” the nearest man replied. “Everyone’s fled. Everyone in the Persian garrison, that is. Alright, we’ll get this door broken down. Wait there.”
Casca began chuckling. “Alright, I’ll not sneak out.”
He thought he heard one of them say ‘smart ass’ and the two went back up the stairs. Soon afterwards more men came down and there was an almighty commotion on the other side of the door. Then someone shouted out to Casca to stand back from the door. He did, and the door shook to a heavy blow, then another and another. Finally after a minute or two, the lock broke and the door swung open. Casca stood there blinking in the light and could only see silhouettes by the doorway.
“Steady,” someone said calmly, “the Persians have gone. We’re back in charge now.”
“That’s a relief,” Casca said, one arm across his eyes. “I’m one of yours. I was a scutati in Theodore’s wing.”
“Were you? By the Virgin Mary, you wouldn’t think so, looking at you!”
Casca slowly walked out, stiffly. He was led up out into the main part of the building and shown a chair. He sat down and looked on as a multitude of people came to and fro, some carrying scrolls, others items of furniture. Two men planted chairs in front of him and sat down, smiling reassuringly. One was an officer in the army, the other some kind of clerk or scribe. Thankfully there was a small mug of cold water there which Casca threw down his throat gratefully.
“Name?” the officer began.
Casca told them his name, unit and how he came to be in Martyropolis. He left out all references to the Brotherhood and General Murtzak, but gave them the rest. “How long have I been here?”
“Must be a year and a season,” the officer said. “You need to clean up and have a haircut. You look like one of the crazier kinds of hermits we get every so often. We’re fetching one of your unit’s officers to take you back to camp. I bet they thought you were dead!”
Casca nodded, his hair falling over his face. The scribe finished scribbling on his papyrus. “What’s happened since the campaign in Armenia? I heard you beat two Persian armies!”
The officer chuckled. “We sure did, son. Whipped them good and proper. Now we’ve got the damned heathens on the run. Trouble is they spring up more armies the moment our backs are turned. They can have up to three in the field at any one time while we’ve got just the one. But they’re full of novices and kids and our army is tough as my wife’s cooking.” He roared with mirth at his joke. The scribe smiled thinly, and stood up.
The officer did likewise and shrugged. “Must be going; there’s a hundred and one things to do here before we march on Amida. If you get cleaned up and brought back up to strength fast enough you’ll march with us to that city, and then beyond. There’s a damned heathen army that’s got behind our backs and the Emperor is shitting goats to get at them before they cut our supply lines. Good to have you out of those cells and back with the army. God be with you!” and he was virtually dragged off by the scribe to their next appointment, whatever it was.
“’Shitting goats’,” Casca muttered. “Never heard of that one before.”
A youthful slim man came up to him and beckoned to him; he looked like a commander’s personal servant. Casca was led out of the building into the street beyond. There was a mish-mash of people and animals, all being rather unsuccessfully directed by military personnel in an effort to keep the street clear.
Casca stumbled in the wake of the youth through the madness of the street. A donkey rammed its butt into Casca’s side and almost sent him off his feet. In an effort to avoid the smelly beast Casca trod on the foot of a long bearded man with a staff. The man yelped and glared at Casca. “What denomination are you?” he demanded, trying to work out his hair style and attire.
“Orthodox furious!” Casca screamed and stumbled on, leaving the hermit open-mouthed.
They walked through the gatehouse and along the rutted road to where an army camp had been set up off to one side. Casca was led through a sea of tents, past curious faces and pointing fingers. Some thought a religious figure had been brought to bless them before they set off once more on their march south-west. Casca was brought to a large tent and told to wait by two guards who looked down their noses at him. Casca glared at them, then made a show of scratching his crotch. The guards looked away in disgust.
“Longinus, you say? Casca Longinus?” and the commander – called a Vicarius – of Casca’s 300 strong tagma, popped his head out from the tent. “Christ in Heaven, man! Have you found a column to stand on?”
Casca winced. Some of the crazier hermits liked to spend their lives up on the top of pillars or columns, although that practice was thankfully becoming rarer these days. “Persians don’t look after their prisoners, sir,” he replied.
“So I see. Right, get yourself looking like a soldier and then get a report of what happened down with your NCO – what’s his name?”
“Kalatios, sir. If h
e’s still alive.”
The Vicarius nodded. “Oh yes, he is. I want to read it before I turn in for the night. Get to it.”
“Sir,” Casca saluted, a fist to his chest, and orientated himself with the camp. Like Roman camps, the Eastern Empire built theirs the same way every time. There was a military manual doing the rounds currently, called the Strategikon, and it was compulsory reading for all officers. Like all the rank and file, Casca had gotten tired of hearing officers using that title to drum into the poor soldiers how to do this, that and the other. So, from the Vicarius’ tent his Dekarchia, what the Greeks called the smallest sub-unit of the army, should be sited along the main pathway and then along the first left pathway off that.
Sure enough there it was. The first person he saw was Demetros, washing a tunic in a bucket of cold water. Casca went up to him, and stood there unnoticed. The young soldier was busy scrubbing his tunic. “Hey,” Casca said.
Demetros looked up in alarm and saw this incredibly filthy and hairy creature.
“Boo!” Casca shouted.
Demetros screamed and fell over, upsetting the bucket of water over himself. Casca roared in laughter and after a moment of incredulity, the others of the section joined in. Kalatios came out of his tent and stared in disbelief at the apparition in front of him. “What in the Name of God are you doing here?” he demanded.
“Sarge,” Casca controlled his laughter. He decided looking away from a red-faced Demetros was the best way to do that. “Scutati Longinus reporting back for duty after a period of being held prisoner by the perfidious enemy.”
“Sweet Jesus,” Kalatios said, walking up to the Eternal Mercenary. “You look like one of those madmen who live in caves; and you smell like a latrine!”
“Makes you feel homesick, Sarge?”
“Don’t be so fucking insubordinate, Longinus! Get cleaned up and into a new uniform! Lucky for you we’ve captured the arsenal here intact. Those hopeless goatherds the Sassanids use for soldiers ran for their useless lives the moment we appeared on the horizon. Grab yourself a new spear, armor, sword and a shield.”
The Vicarius wants a report as well, Sarge.”
“He can kiss my ass while he’s at it. You look as if you’re too thin to carry armor around. Get a bowl of stew down your neck and build yourself up. Demetros here could probably whip you with one hand behind his back!”
Casca helped up an un-amused Demetros and apologized to him. After a moment’s hesitation, the young Greek smiled ruefully, then embraced him. “I thought you dead! We found your weapons and equipment on the ground the day after you vanished, and somebody was spreading a rumor you’d been taken by the Persians. We searched for you but of course found no trace. How are you, anyway? You look terrible!”
“I feel fine, believe it or not! After being locked away all that time, being out in the open air is wonderful! All I need now is to get into clean clothing and have my hair seen to.”
They soon roused the camp barber, a mincing effeminate man with curled and oiled hair and beautifully manicured hands. Philomenos, a notorious man, shrieked when he saw Casca. “Oh, what I can do with you, darling! A curled beard, Persian style! And long beautifully waved hair! Oh please let me style it like that!”
Casca rolled his eyes. “No way, Phil, clean shave and cut my hair army style. Nice and short. Practice on Eletheros. He likes you anyway, know what I mean?”
Philomenos clasped his hands together. “You serious? Does he? You’re not playing a trick on him are you? Some rotten people do that, you know.”
Casca sat down on the battered chair Philomenos used for his clients. “No, Phil, Eletheros prefers guys like you do. He’s still with us, isn’t he, Demetros?”
Demetros nodded, his face confused.
Casca grunted. “There you go. Next time he comes over for a cut, chat him up. Now, enough of me acting as Cupid, get rid of this damned fuzz off my face.”
Philomenos clapped his hands together. “Oh, if only you’d let me curl and shape your beard and hair. It’s so long and luxurious!”
“Phil!” Casca snapped. “I don’t like it – people think I’m some sort of mad hermit. Off!”
“Oh, all right,” Philomenos sighed regretfully with an exaggerated wave of his hands.
Casca grinned and looked at Demetros who clearly was having difficulty in understanding what was going on. Casca decided he’d have to explain it to the naïve young Greek later.
After his beard had been removed, leaving his face and chin feeling smooth and only slightly tender – Philomenos was a first class barber – his hair was cut in the current short style favored by the Imperial army; cut so that his ears were uncovered with the hair nape-length at the back. It was reasonably thick on the crown, but Casca declined the neat beard that was the vogue with the army.
Demetros paid for the barber’s service and Casca promised to pay him back as soon as he got his back pay. The Eastern Roman army usually got their pay in winter, before the coming campaign, so Casca had just missed out. He made a note to visit the paymaster as soon as possible.
Casca in fact went there next since he’d need some coins to pay for the equipment he wanted from the local arsenal. There was a brief argument, but Casca leaned across the counter and pulled the clerk over so that their faces were literally inches apart. Casca then vowed to cut out the clerk’s innards and display them above the gatehouse of Martyropolis unless he got his due.
Too scared to argue, the clerk gave Casca half of what he was due. He said the rest would be forthcoming once Casca’s position was confirmed by his unit commander. Not that there was any doubt, the clerk had hastily added, seeing Casca’s eyes widen in fury, but he had to ensure every nomisa went to the correct unit for accountancy purposes.
Mollified, Casca set off to the commissariat with full pockets. Demetros trotted behind him. “You’ll get into trouble, Casca! Nobody threatens the pay clerks; the Emperor himself passed that rule the other week. We were getting people trying to draw double wages and a couple were caught and executed.”
“So they can string me up and hang me. You and I know I’m due that money.”
Demetros tutted and followed dutifully, bringing Casca up to date on events. The twin victories on the same day he’d heard before, but camp talk was of the Persian armies regrouping and preparing for some new offensive somewhere. They had evacuated Egypt and Syria as they hadn’t the men to garrison those two provinces as well as raise armies on the Armenian and Mesopotamian fronts.
Casca wondered about that. It meant the Brotherhood no longer had to worry about the Persians any more. It would make things easier for them to move about. They got to the supply depot and Casca made his order, showing the sutler a few coins. It was getting close to dark by the time Casca had found a mail hauberk big enough for him, a decent helmet with a red horsehair plume, a padded leather jerkin to wear underneath the hauberk to stop it chafing his skin, and to replace his soiled and frankly rotting clothes, a new white shirt and leggings with dark red edging.
He got new leather boots as well, and to arm himself he had a round shield with a center iron boss, a stout ash spear and a double edged long sword. His belt and sheath were of brown leather and after he fitted them and put the lot on felt much better.
“Now Demetros, where’s the local brothel?”
“No time for fooling around, Casca! You have to report to Kalatios. Do you want to be disciplined?”
Grumbling, Casca followed the youth back to their unit and bumped into an irritable Kalatios. “Where in the Name of God have you been? I’ve got the Vicarius on my back wanting your report!”
“Did you kiss his ass, Sarge?”
“Right, you disrespectful swine, for that you can do the mucking out duty for the next fortnight.”
Casca cursed his big mouth; served him right for being mouthy, but he was too punchy after being released after his long imprisonment. Then to make the perfect evening, after his report had been made, and he had
taken a detour to the latrine, and making a note to himself that he’d be there for a little while yet cleaning it out, he saw a figure lounging by a tent pole on his route back, blocking the path.
He was a little too familiar and with dismay he recognized Michael Pallos. “Oh no, what are you doing here you dog?”
Pallos smirked, his arms folded. “Now now, Spawn of Satan, that’s no way to greet an old comrade in arms.”
“Why don’t you fuck off and leave the fighting to the real soldiers, not to fakes like you?”
Pallos sighed. “You really ought to learn manners, but I suppose that’s too late for a brute like you. No, what I’m doing here is to make sure you’re still around and to ask what happened to the plan to get the information from the Persian general? Also, our brother Bakhtiar is missing. Did you have anything to do with that?”
“Bakhtiar died fighting Persians. I got the info out of that general, but I’m sure as hell not telling you or any of your lot. The minute I do that you’ll go get it and renege on the deal.”
Pallos looked about to make sure nobody was in earshot. He leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “You’d better tell us. Aren’t you forgetting the woman?”
“And aren’t you forgetting it’s been three years now? For all I know she’s dead. You gave me a load of her hair last year but I’ve no proof of her being alive. I get any inclination she’s dead then I’m off and you can waste your time looking for the Spear.”
Pallos scowled. “We will find it, given time.”
“Well, start looking for it and stop wasting time playing with yourself. Go on, piss off.”
Pallos pushed himself away from the pole. “You’re not being co-operative, Longinus, but I suppose that was to be expected.”
“Go tell your boss unless I get proof she’s still alive, the deal’s off. Now get lost.” He pushed past Pallos, shoulder barging him aside. The Brotherhood member staggered, then regained his balance and glared in the direction of Casca’s back. He would have to report the new developments back to the Elder. This wasn’t what they had planned.