by Tony Roberts
The entire Imperial army had crossed the bridge and was firmly established on the other bank. There was a constant stream of wounded being taken back to the other side and cared for by the support units out of bow range. The bridge had been cleared of bodies. The Persians stood to left and right, gathering their strength, checking their losses.
Kalatios came around, checking to see which of his men were left standing. He bowed low to the emperor who was standing close to Casca, also tired but pleased at the day’s work. Heraclius had been hurt in a couple of places but he was still able to stand and speak to the commanders of the various units who were now making their way over to him.
As Kalatios beckoned Casca to follow him back to where the remnants of the Dekarchia – their platoon – waited, the emperor turned from discussing the state of the army with his subordinates. “A moment. Before you go, soldier, may I inquire as to your name?”
“Casca Longinus, Caesar!” Casca bowed, using the old Imperial title.
Heraclius smiled tiredly. It had been a long time since anyone had addressed him thus.
“Scutati Longinus, you have performed admirably well this day. I shall reward you once we get to our next destination. I thank you for your service today!”
Casca bowed again, as did Kalatios. Then the emperor turned and resumed his tactical talk, and Kalatios led Casca away towards the bridge, the two stepping over or around the slain and their spears that stuck up from the ground.
“Don’t get carried away, lad,” Kalatios admonished a grinning Casca. “There’s plenty of work still to do.”
“Sure, Sarge,” Casca nodded. They got to the sorry looking unit and it was clear they’d been badly hit. Less than half remained. Demetros arrived a few moments later and threw himself to the ground with a groan.
Casca lay back and looked at the darkening sky. Night was coming. It had been a long hard fight, and neither side was prepared to admit defeat. But at least they had averted a catastrophe.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The entry of Michael Pallos into the Elder’s small office gave the Elder a welcome excuse from writing up the daily diary, an important record for the Brotherhood. Ever since the perfidious Persians had attacked and scattered the Brotherhood in Jerusalem just over ten years previously, many of the records had been lost. The Elder determined that more than one copy would be made and the duplicates sent elsewhere in order for such an occurrence to never happen again. But it was a tedious business.
So he leaned back when the tall reassuring figure of Pallos appeared before him, dusty, tired but exuding that air of competence he always did. If only he’d been there when the Persians had unexpectedly appeared……
“Pallos, you are a welcome sight,” the Elder began, interlocking his fingers and placing them on his simple desk. “What news from Longinus?”
“Good, and bad.” Pallos leaned against the door frame. The small room wasn’t big enough to accommodate two men and the simple furnishings that stood within. The current quarters were not big enough for the growing organization now it had recovered from the setback and was recruiting again. “Longinus has the information, but he’s not going to divulge it unless he has proof that the woman still lives.”
“Does he indeed?” the Elder raised an eyebrow. “Then we shall ask her to write to him.”
“Will she do that?”
The Elder smiled smugly. “Oh yes. We’ve changed her mind about certain things. She now willingly partakes in our prayers and other activities.”
Pallos looked surprised. “And will she assist us against Longinus?”
“To a point, yes. She will help in getting the Spear recovered. I have managed to persuade her that the Spear has the ability to give her such feelings of pleasure that she is impatient for it to be handed back to us.”
“This I would like to see,” Pallos smiled.
“So you shall. Come with me.” The two walked along a neat and well lit passageway. As they went Pallos brought the Elder up to date with events. “I saw no Persian soldiers at all in my journey through Syria and Egypt. They have withdrawn their troops back to Persia. It is safe once more to travel.”
“In which case we must return to Jerusalem. There are bigger premises there than this humble place.”
Pallos looked sharply at the Elder. “All of us?”
“No, my son. We must once more spread out. It is time to establish sub-centers rather than place all of our efforts into one. You saw the results of doing that! We will leave a small number here, and they will continue to recruit in Egypt. We will go to Jerusalem and begin to spread the Word of the Lamb in Palestine and Syria.”
“As you say, Keeper of the Holy Word,” Pallos bowed in deference to the Elder. They had arrived at the prayer chamber and Ayesha was there, head bowed, praying. The Elder motioned to Pallos to pick up one of the whips hanging from the wall brackets.
“Ayesha, stand up,” the Elder commanded.
She looked up and stood.
The Elder gazed upon her. Such a beautiful child, and a simple one too. So easy to mold and re-shape. Not all those who had been misled by the false Christians were as easy to convert to the True Faith, but she had accepted that the blessed Lamb was the one and only way to salvation and everlasting life. “Remove your robe.”
She shrugged off her robe and stood there, naked. Pallos had to admire her figure, but had long since rejected feelings of longing for the female body. His work for the Brotherhood and the discipline necessary in becoming a Sword of God, the military branch of the Brotherhood, had ensured that.
“Present your back to Brother Pallos, my child.” The Elder spoke gently to her. Ayesha obediently turned round, her nipples hardening. Her breathing began to increase and she started trembling. Pallos looked at the Elder. The Elder nodded. “She receives pleasure through pain. You know of the feeling of becoming closer to the Lamb on occasions, Pallos.”
The Brotherhood warrior nodded. Ecstasy could be attained through flagellation, and on one occasion when he had been inducted, by kissing the Spear, but for him it was only during times of mass prayer and when the Elder had whipped up such feelings inside him. Others, he knew, found it easier to gain such heights of feelings, and he presumed Ayesha was one of those. He saw whip marks down her back, and realized she’s received plenty in the recent past.
“Ayesha, Brother Pallos is going to whip you. You may prepare yourself.”
Ayesha half moaned and stepped up to a pillar, bent at the waist, placed her hands against the pillar and parted her legs. Pallos stepped up to her and swung the whip experimentally. His eyes roved over her figure and he could see she was getting worked up already. He struck her across the back, and she squealed. He struck a second time, and she threw her head back and cried out.
He knew just how much force to put into the blows; not too much. She wasn’t being punished or tortured. It was meant to heighten her senses. But he could see it triggered off a sexually stimulated reaction in her. How this had come about he could only guess. She was writhing to and fro and it took all his training not to stare in fascination at her. Truly she was getting off on it.
And all the time the Elder was speaking to her, telling her of the glory of the blessed Lamb and the glory of the Spear, the holiest relic of the Order and what feelings it could bestow upon her. Ayesha was crying out continuously now. The Elder exhorted her to praise the Lamb as she approached her climax. Ayesha did so, screaming out her devotion to Jesus as she came.
The two men watched as she slumped to her knees and sobbed as she came down off her high. Pallos threw the whip down at her side. It would need cleaning. The woman would do that.
“Go and clean yourself up, child, and the whip. Then come to me for further teaching of the Word.”
“Yes, Elder,” she said in a small voice, still trying to cope with coming down off her high.
“You will receive no more of these until we are in our new quarters. You will come with us to Jerusalem.”
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br /> “Yes, Elder,” she said, dismay and obedience competing in her voice.
Pallos followed the Elder out of the chamber. “She is responding well to your commands,” he said.
“Yes. We do not have many women in the Brotherhood, but I have a feeling she will become one of our most valuable members. You will take her letter to Longinus after she had written it. You will rest here this night, then go once more into the war zone. I will tell you where we will move to shortly. Then perhaps we can finally achieve our aims and finish this matter. It has gone on long enough. The woman is nearly ready to join us. Then we will not have to worry about her further. Only Longinus remains to be dealt with.”
“What are your plans for him, Keeper of the Holy Word?”
“He is still important to us in regaining the Spear. I do not think his presence amongst us is desirable; we do not have the holding cells or the numbers to cope with keeping him here at present. We will have to be content in remaining in his background, watching him. We must not let him out of our sight, Brother Pallos.”
“Then how are we to get the Spear off him, for he will have to lead me to it.”
The Elder nodded. “Then do what you must to stop him following you to our new headquarters. Incapacitate him. This is another reason why we must leave this place; Longinus knows of it. Once he has been double-crossed he will come for us here full of vengeance. You know of his wrath from tales of old. I must find another place here in Alexandria for our Egyptian brothers when we leave.”
And they returned to the Elder’s room, planning for the Brotherhood’s future.
* * *
The Persians withdrew after dark. Sarbaros saw no advantage in each army fighting themselves to destruction. Besides, he had his orders for greater things and so by morning, the Eastern Roman army saw that they were alone.
The officers hailed it as a great victory, but Casca and the other common soldiers knew it had been a close call, and the piles of dead were evidence of that. Burying them took the best part of the day and so by evening they were too tired to do anything other than eat their supper and fall asleep, exhausted.
It was the following day that they set off once more, traveling northwards into Cappadocia, the recruiting heartland of the Empire. Heraclius wanted to show the people here that his rule was restored, and also to find out what had happened to the Persian army. He was concerned it was still between him and Constantinople. There was no sign of it so the army marched towards the important grain supply center and arsenal at Sebastea, straddling the River Halys. It stood on the old Roman road that ran from Ancyra to Amida, so was an important supply post for any Imperial army that moved east against the Sassanids.
Sebastea was an old Roman city and its neat, white buildings came into view one afternoon, set on the north bank of the Halys, nestled in a wide, gentle valley. The Roman road ran across the river via an old but still strong looking stone bridge wide enough to accommodate two wagons abreast, and they camped across the river from the city.
Casca was busy cleaning his sword blade when Kalatios turned up and stared down at the soldier. “Hey, you, Longinus, you’re wanted in Theodore’s pavilion.”
“Theodore? You mean the Emperor’s brother?”
“Who else?” Kalatios said testily. He was pissed off that Casca was being summoned with an audience with their commander. “Hurry up and try to look smart, and don’t shoot your mouth off as you usually do!”
“Should I wipe my ass before I go as well, Sarge?” The soldiers in ear shot guffawed.
“You shut up!” Kalatios bellowed, red-faced. “Get out of my sight, you disgrace to the army!”
Casca put down his sword and made his way to the large pavilion that was used by Theodore. Two stern looking mercenary guards stood at the open entrance, swords bared, barring entry from anyone. Casca stopped, his route blocked. “Now now,” one of the guards boomed, his beard bristling, “where do you think you’re going?” His accent was Bulgarian.
“I’ve been summoned to attend the Emperor’s brother. Name’s Casca Longinus.”
“Stay there,” the other guard barked. He turned round and called through the opening to an attendant. A few moments later a well-dressed and armored officer appeared in the entrance and nodded to the guards. “It’s fine to let him through. I’ll take him in.”
Casca was led into the deeper darkness of the pavilion and past groups of men examining maps, discussing supplies or waiting on superiors. Piles of equipment stood on small tables and the occasional stool rested on the grassy ground inside the pavilion. Screens of cloth hung from ropes tied to wooden posts, separating the tent into sections. Casca was led to a table deep in the rear section of the tent. The table was covered in fine woven cloth, purple and gold, and a gold crucifix was mounted upon it. Chairs with cushions stood about and guards could be seen in the corners, spears in their hands.
Standing by the table were not only Theodore, but also the Emperor. The two were chatting amiably and both turned as the officer with Casca announced his arrival. Heraclius smiled and held out his hand with the imperial ring upon it and Casca knelt, as did the officer, and both were allowed to kiss the ring.
Heraclius then commanded both to rise. Casca stood still, wondering what he would say. Emperors were a law unto themselves, and it was damned certain that in Constantinople Casca would never be permitted anywhere near the palace, let alone see the Emperor. But this was war, and a warrior leader was seen much easier by his soldiers. In fact, the better ones in Casca’s experience were those who got in where it hurts amongst their men and showed they could inspire them to victories.
“Theodore, this soldier here showed great courage and skill back at the Saros. When I led the army over the bridge, this man here was the first to follow and displayed great courage and valor at my side. He even saved me when the enemy cataphracts attacked.”
Theodore, tall, thin and sporting a shock of black curly hair, looked at Casca with interest. He asked as to Casca’s particular unit and was pleased to learn he was one of his men.
The Emperor faced Casca squarely. Casca could see that the years of campaigning had taken its toll on the man; where once he’d had dark thick hair, now it was graying and getting thin, and he was beginning to stoop. “You wear the scars of battle on your person. You are a warrior of some note. Is there some reward that I can bestow upon you?”
Casca thought for a moment. It would be dangerous to ask for something too outrageous. He remembered his pay. “Your majesty; I am owed half of last year’s pay, as I was a prisoner of the Persians in Martyropolis, and I have yet to receive the balance.”
Heraclius looked at Theodore. “A small recompense for such bravery in action. Can you arrange for his pay to be doubled in the time remaining for this campaign?”
“Consider it done,” Theodore nodded. “And double back pay too.”
“Excellent idea,” Heraclius beamed. “Now, Scutati Longinus. I’m sure you’ll be more than capable of spending the extra pay, so I hereby authorize a pass into the city for you,” and he waggled a finger at the officer alongside Casca who bowed, “for the duration of our stay while I restock our provisions. Four days.”
Casca smiled widely and bowed. He could get absolutely shit-faced.
It didn’t take long for him to get the bag of nomisae he was due from the paymaster, thanks to the officer who had gone with Casca to make sure the Emperor’s word was obeyed. So, armed with his bag of coins and a pass from Heraclius, suitably covered in seals and flowing script, courtesy of one of the attendant scribes, Casca sauntered out of the camp and crossed the Roman bridge and came to Sebastea. His colleagues back in camp would be envious but since they had not been given permission to go to the city, Casca could hardly invite them.
The streets were busy. Trade still flourished here despite the war, and the clearing of the occupying Persian forces had reopened the routes the merchants used. Pack animals, laden with goods, were passing out of the gate eastwa
rds as Casca entered. The smell of horse, donkey and grain wafted over him.
Casca was intent on one thing. Getting drunk.
A tavern hove into view and with a satisfied grunt Casca changed direction and barreled through the doorway muscled past a few of the locals straight to the bar. “A bottle of your finest wine,” he said, slamming one of his coins on the top. “In fact,” he dug out another, “make that two.”
Nursing the two bottles and a non-too-clean glass, he made his way over to the darkest corner where a small table stood. He kicked one of the two chairs standing by it out of the way. He wasn’t in the mood for company. The other patrons just avoided him, tutting at the boorish manners of the soldier. They’d endured the arrogance of the Persians for the brief period they’d been in the city, now it seemed their own military was little different.
Casca couldn’t give a damn about what they thought. He was content to spend his four days away from the camp. He’d spent far too long being a play thing of others and just wanted some time off by himself.
He’d nearly downed one bottle when a couple of figures came through the room and stood over him. Casca looked up and groaned. It seemed he was not even going to be given the luxury of getting drunk without interruption.
Mathu and Pallos stood there, Mathu with no expression but dislike clearly in his eyes, and Pallos with that irritating smug look about him. Gods, how he hated that guy!
“Greetings, Longinus,” Pallos began. “Care for some company?”
“Fuck off,” Casca said with feeling.
“Thought you’d be pleased to see us. Mathu, two chairs if you please.” The two Brotherhood men sat down, blocking any escape, and Pallos produced a flattened roll of papyrus. “Letter from your loved one,” he said, mockery in his voice.
Casca looked at Pallos, hoping some fantastic mythical beast would suddenly burst out of the floor behind him, swallow him on one gulp and return to the chasm of Hades. Then he reluctantly took the papyrus and broke the seal, noting it had the stylized fish symbol the Brotherhood used upon it.