The Persian c-6

by Barry Sadler

  Shirkin informed the junior officers that it would be stupid to rush into battle before several things were done. First, they didn't know the disposition and condition of their enemy. How many were at the walls? How many were in the camps? Where were the locations of the Khans of the tribe? Also, our own men needed rest before going into battle; tired soldiers were ineffective and they'd suffer more casualties without rest. Shirkin ordered them both to return to their commands and think of the many reasons why the enemy should not be engaged today. He further ordered each to make a report to him before they broke camp the following morning. Indemeer and Casca nodded with approval. Shirkin was doing just fine.

  This night, as was the case in the past five days, it was to be a cold camp. No fires on pain of death and Casca's wrath. Any sentry who fell asleep on duty would lose his head to the ax.

  It was a restless camp that night. The anticipation of the morrow's events bothered all.

  Some would die, others would live. Many would be maimed and crippled forever. But such is war and the ways of it. Man's ultimate insanity, one for which there is no cure.

  Throughout the night, the old-timers, warriors who'd seen much battle, passed on tricks and suggestions to the others who were going into battle for the first time. Giving them bits of advice that just might save their lives. The young ones listened carefully. Lucky charms and fetishes were brought out, amulets of all kinds. ThoughAhura-mazda was the supreme deity of Persia, several men made offers to different gods. It couldn't hurt, could it? Wine was spilled on the earth to honor Zeus. A crippled horse was slaughtered for food and dedicated to Ares. These gods were holdovers from centuries of Greek rule and people did not lightly rid themselves of their gods or fears. It was always best to play it safe and there was safety in numbers.

  Casca had no gods. He was not given even that small comfort. Though he still used their names in speech, from long practice, he didn't believe that Jupiter or Zeus were real any more thanAhura-mazda was, or the evil one of the Persian gods, Ahriram.

  About Jesus, he was unsure. The Jew had possessed powers, that was clear, but was he truly the Son of God? And if so, what God? Or, was Jesus some kind of evil spirit? Casca did believe that there was a force beyond his comprehension but exactly what it was he was sure he'd never know, even though he'd lived a dozen centuries or more. He did believe in the soul, the thing that lived on after the body was no more than an empty husk. Perhaps, as he'd heard from some devotees of different gods, the spirit lived on, waiting to be reborn again in a different body. Perhaps that was the way Jesus would return. He would have to keep his ears open. One day they would meet again, of that he had no doubt.

  He put these thoughts behind, trying to concentrate on the battle ahead. But it was no use planning now, he needed more intelligence. That, he would have in the morning when his scouts returned with the disposition of the Huns and their movements. Until then, he would do better to get what little sleep he could. Rolling himself up in his saddle blanket, he slept under the clear, open sky. There would be no tent for him tonight. They were too close now and events could change things in a matter of seconds.

  TEN

  Jugotai looked out over the ramparts at the circling Huns, riding beneath their standards of yak tails and human skulls. They hadn't been strong enough to break into the city or mount its thirty-foot walls. But neither had the Kushanite forces the strength to drive them off. The time was near when a decision would be made either way.

  He knew what the Huns were doing at all times. Reports of their activities came to him from his spies and scouts that slipped over the walls at night, returning the same way to inform him of their movements. A lot of them never returned from their nightly missions, but the Huns made it a practice to toss their heads back over the walls to let those inside know of their failure.

  But a few were successful and had brought news to him of their coming disaster. The Huns were rounding up every villager, man, woman, and child, that could be taken alive, and were herding them into pens to use later. From what Jugotai had learned, they now had over forty thousand of his people in those pens out of sight over the nearest hill. Out of sight, yes. But not out of sound. Hecould hear them. God, could he hear them. Starving people have a sound all their own and it can shrivel the heart of the strongest warrior when he hears it multiplied a thousand times.

  There was food enough in the walled city of Kushan to feed the people inside for another three weeks. Then, if relief did not come, either from their armies to the south, or from their Persian allies, he would have no choice but to go out and do battle and hope for the best. That hope, he knew, was slim, for they were outnumbered three to one. Even that was a lesser fear right now than the one the Huns had in store for them. They intended to drive the starving villagers to the walls of the city, give them ladders, and set them free to scale the walls.

  Jugotai's problem was simple. If he allowed them to enter, they, in their vast numbers, would consume the food and supplies on hand so fast that their end would come in three days instead of three weeks. His other choice was to kill them. He shook his graying head, looking older than his fifty-two years. It was hard to consider killing your own people when all they wanted was bread for their children and water for themselves. He was also aware that if he ordered them shot down, he'd run short of spears and arrows to do the job, and again deplete his supply needed so badly against the Huns later. The Huns would come, he knew, when the starving thousands were swarming up the walls. Surely they would use that time to mount an attack of their own. Jugotai could not spread his men out to where they could handle forty thousand starving people and still beat the Huns back. No, his was aproblem that had no answer. Perhaps it would be better to open the gates and have the entire city march out to die, at least it would be over with quickly.

  A hand at his shoulder brought him around quickly. The handsome face of his warrior son, Shuvar, the pride of his life, stood beside him, bow in hand. He knew what terrible thoughts were plaguing his father and it hurt him to know that he could only offer the touch of his hand in consolation. But his father knew that it was Shuvar's way of telling him he was ready to do whatever his father said, trusting that it was the best they could do, even if it meant killing their own people. Yes, command was a lonely thing, but he was glad his son was back.

  Shuvar had returned from Chin after an absence of two years. His mission to secure an alliance with the peoples behind the Great Wall had failed. His pleas had fallen on deaf ears. The nations of Chin were involved in a great struggle for power among themselves. One nation, one brother fighting another. They had no time, Shuvar had learned, for anything other than their own problems. Though they listened to him courteously, neither of the three kings would spare the men or equipment to mount a campaign to reduce the growing threat of the Huns. Each had told him to return when the wars were over and they would listen again.

  Shuvar hadn't thought at the time that he'd live to return to them, and even if he did, he thought it would most likely be too late to do any good. The Huns had added tens of thousands of their standards in the last few years. They'd absorbed onetribe after another, turning them into partners. He'd returned to Kushan, sadly telling his father that they'd refused to listen. Jugotai had anticipated it and consoled him, praising his efforts.

  Shuvar and his father, who still clung to the old style hair-dress of the warriors of his tribe, the Yueh-chih, the scalp lock reaching almost to mid-back, now gray with years, went silently down the stairs of stone that led to the streets of the city below. He knew they would, as was Jugotai's nightly custom, visit different quarters of the city. In every house, the inhabitants were doing what they could to aid the fighters on the ramparts. Arrows were being made. Bronze, copper, and iron were being gathered to take to the smelters to be turned into spear and arrow heads.

  Every able-bodied man and stripling in the city took their turn on the wall. But still, it was not enough. Normally there would have been about twent
y thousand living inside the walls of Kushan, now there were about thirty thousand. Refugees that had entered to escape the wrath of the Huns outside had swollen their numbers, but nearly all of these were women and children that would be of little use in battle. They only served to deplete their stock of food a little faster. There were not even dogs, cats, or rats to be seen on the streets; all had gone into the cooking pots.

  Jugotai had fought against the wishes of some of the other commanders to have the horses slaughtered. True, they would help to feed the city for a few more days, but would leave them without mounts if they had to go out and fight, or go to the assistance of their rescuers, if they ever came. No, the horses were not to be slain, but he'd ordered all sick, lame, and old animals to be given to the people. The fighting animals were to be well looked after.

  They passed the reclining figures of Buddha, the small smile on the lips of each patient, gentle effigy with all the time of stone on its side. Time to be patient with the follies of man.

  Jugotai's old body held a touch of rheumatism from the years he'd spent in the saddle riding from one war to another. But his back was straight and no flab dangled from beneath his upper arms, as was common of men his age. They were still strong arms of sinew that could draw back a bow to the ear, sending its deadly shaft through an iron helmet and into the brain of an enemy warrior.

  Jugotai was a warrior of a race of warriors, and he was determined to die as one. These problems of state and politics he wished he could leave to someone else, someone wiser than he. Jugotai was a man who enjoyed taking orders. Issue them and he would obey. But there were none here to rule. Kidara, the King, suffered from the dropping sickness, and his mind grew weaker and feebler by the day. His son, who should be making the decisions, was leading the armies to the south.

  Shuvar interrupted his thoughts.

  "Father, perhaps one of our messengers got through and relief is coming from Persia. Shapur is a tyrant, it's true, but he does need us to guard his eastern reaches. He cannot let us fall, Father. He has to send aid, or lose credibility with the other nations that have accepted him as overlord. Yes, Father, the Persians will come!"

  Jugotai nodded his head in agreement.

  "Yes, my son. But will they come in time? The hours of survival grow very small."

  They entered the palace, acknowledging the salute of the guards. Passing through the stone halls, they entered Jugotai's office. Once it had served as the office of a man from Chin that had advised the king, Kidara III-Tsun-tai, a wise and gentle man who had been kind to Jugotai when he'd rode into Kushan with the Roman soldier, Casca.

  Casca! He'd heard that Casca was serving the Great King in Persia now, but he must be very old. He had hoped to see the Roman again but it seemed that something was forever interfering with his going to him. Now it was not likely that they would ever meet again. He grinned, remembering that Shuvar had told him of meeting his old friend in the desert, and of him saving his life. But Shuvar had told him that the man looked not to be over thirty years of age. Impossible, but children think anyone over a certain age all look alike.

  He and his son would eat their one meal of the day now, here in his office, in silence, together. A thin soup, made from the cracked bones of some animal, he knew not what. He didn't like to think about what it might be. Already he had heard rumors that the flesh of humans could be bought in the market.

  Shuvar was worried about his father, but he was glad that the defense of the city was not his own, though he would have gladly taken the load from his father to himself if he could have.

  He drained his bowl of thin soup quickly, it wastasteless anyway. Well, he thought, if they were to die, then he could have no better sword companion by his side than Jugotai, Master of the Horse for the Kushanite Empire. Death will come when and where it will. The best they could do was to meet it as honorable men who'd done their duty and had been true to themselves and their oaths.

  He excused himself, leaving his father to his thoughts, and went to see about his own men. They were guarding the section of the wall by the gate that opened to the road leading to the Kabul River, and on to the great Tarim basin and beyond.

  Now, over the hill that Jugotai had been eyeing from the wall earlier, another warrior was taking his meal on horseback. It was Boguda, Touman of the clan of the White River. He was watching the captives his men had rounded up. There were women, children, and old men only. All men, and boys that were strong enough to pull a bow or swing a sword, had been slain. He would send no warriors to the wall, only the weak. Starving warriors might just turn around and fight.

  Boguda was tall for one of his race. Even with his twisted legs, he stood nearly six feet tall. His strength was the pride of his tribe, and he used it freely. His favorite method of executing prisoners was snapping their necks. He would grab their heads between his hands, raising them from the ground, then shaking them until the bones cracked. Then, he would laugh and twist their heads in half a circle until they faced the rear, while crying out loudly to the unhearing corpses, "You will never have to worry about what comes at you from the rear now." The joke never failed to elicit a properresponse of laughter from his warriors. Who ever said that Huns had no sense of humor?

  The women begged for food for their babies, exposing their breasts, hoping one of the Hun warriors would exchange a piece of cheese or a crust of bread for their bodies.

  But it was a futile gesture. The Huns took what they wanted and never paid for it. The women and young girls had been raped repeatedly. Any soldier who was not on duty was authorized by Boguda to have one at will.

  Boguda watched from his position for a few minutes longer and ordered ten of the prisoners killed for making too much noise. He wanted quiet so he could think. A man needed peace to use his gray cells.

  Tomorrow, he would send them to the walls. One way or another, the city would fall to him soon. If not tomorrow, then in a few more days at the most. He looked to the walls of the city. Soon, all that was inside would be his. He would have it all. There was enough wealth there to make him a major force that could buy the tribes that wavered and provide weapons made for them in the armories of Rome itself, when he got his hands on the gold inside the walls.

  The Toumans and Kakhans of the tribes thought him a fool for going against the walls of such a city. The Huns, they'd said, were horsemen and such a siege as this was not good for them. They had no machines to batter the gates and walls and, unless such a city fell rapidly, there would be nothing left to feed them or their horses.

  But Boguda had laid his plans for the siege of Kushan long before now. The city would fall, it would be his, and he would build a monument to himself inside it. A tower of the living bodies of those inside, then he'd cement them together inside it. A tower of victims!

  By all the spirits of the water and fire, there would never be such a monument again. That one act alone would make people fear him. People who'd never seen a Hun would shake at his name. His name would be used to frighten small children into their mother's arms or maybe even as a curse to ward off evil.

  His iron-seared face was flushed with the excitement of his own imagination. He would rally all the clans and ride over the face of the earth as a whirlwind of fire.

  Boguda of the White River!

  ELEVEN

  Shortly before dawn, a commotion awoke Casca from his restless slumber. Rising, he slung on his sword and belt and turned to see what was going on.

  A group of his infantrymen was approaching, their voices excited, their officers telling them to quiet down. Casca placed his hand on the hilt of his sword; a commander never knew what might be coming down.

  He could make out other figures with them now in the dark, small ones that hobbled along being kicked by his men and beaten with spear shafts and the flat of their swords.

  "Oho, what have we here? Some monkeys, or maybe apes?" The Hun prisoners were thrown down in front of him, to lie prostrate before him. He was informed by the senior off
icer present that four of them had been captured when they'd ridden into the camp area of the infantry unknowingly. They had immediately swarmed over the Huns, pulling them from their horses and tying them up. There had been six in all. The two others were now dead. His troops had lost two men in the short skirmish. One of the men had had his face eaten off byaHunnish war horse. Casca winced at the thought.

  Ordering the four prisoners to be dragged to their feet, he sent for Indemeer before interrogating them.

  His graying General made his approach to their area on stiff legs, the leftovers of an almost forgotten wound. It acted up now and then when he was tired or cold, both of which conditions applied this morning.

  He bowed to Casca. "I am here, Lord, what is the matter?"

  Casca pointed to the four twisted-legged, mustachioed captives. "These are the matter, old one. They stupidly stumbled into the camp of our infantry and were taken. Remind me to give the men a bonus when this is over. They did a damned fine job at keeping these alive for us to interrogate."

  Indemeer examined the semihumans with distaste. "Do you wish to have them put to torture first, Lord, so as to perhaps loosen their tongues a bit?"

  Casca well understood the need for strenuous interrogation and was not adverse to roughing up a prisoner if necessary. After all, they may have the information that could save the lives of his men. He would be derelict in his duty if he did not do all that he could to acquire it, even if it meant dismantling the captives a piece at a time. He knew that he and his men would suffer no less a fate in their hands. They had no civilized rules of warfare and would not respect good treatment from he and his men; they would more likely consider it evidence of their captors' weakness. But, he decided, before he turned them over to the anxious torturers, he would first try another method.

  He looked over his prisoners carefully, watching for something, anything that would set one apart from the others. He found it! The smallest of them had a cast on his left eye, a mark of cataract on the lens. That might do it! To these beasts, anything different was enough to make them taunt you. This one probably had had a hard time growing up in his tribe. To be different was to be an outcast, and, if they did permit you to live, you always caught all the shitty detail work in the tribe. Yes, he was the one!