Casca 35: Sword of the Brotherhood

by Tony Roberts

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The army moved on after a two week stay outside Martyropolis to resupply and to send out scouts to gather intelligence about the region. The Persian administration had fled Amida as well, and the emperor led the army south-west to the former provincial capital and left a small garrison there to oversee its reversion to Imperial rule.

  Casca was glad to be on the move; he had gotten fed up with latrine duty and wanted away from a place he’d been imprisoned for so long. He also wanted to work off the frustration after his encounter with Pallos. The word amongst the soldiers was that they were going after the Persian army under a general called Sarbaros, the same general they’d defeated three years ago.

  The snows of winter were gone from the lowlands but the peaks of the mountains were still covered, and off to the right the high ground was white. The land off to the south was flatter and led to the deserts of northern Mesopotamia, a place Casca knew all too well from personal experience, and he averted his eyes from that direction.

  The next town was Samosata, straddling the Euphrates. It was an important strategic place, and holding the town and bridges would block any route into southern Anatolia from Mesopotamia. Incredibly the Persians had left it free and the army crossed. Once again Heraclius left a small garrison. Now their rear was secure and he led his army onwards.

  Casca recognized the Taurus Mountains ahead, and realized they had come full circle since setting out three years ago. “We’re back to where we started, boys,” he announced, nodding at the tall, dazzling white peaks in front of them. The men grumbled and scowled, their dismay clear to all.

  Kalatios turned round. “Stop your complaining! We’re hard on the heels of the enemy and we’ll catch them up before long. Longinus, shut your mouth!”

  “Yes, Sarge,” Casca said cheerfully. The others around him grinned. They were used to the antagonism between the two.

  The populace greeted them and sympathizers informed them of the Persian army’s progress ahead of them. They weren’t that far ahead, and in their path was the River Saros which would slow them down, and with luck they would be caught at that point.

  So it turned out. As they came down from a ridge, the river could be seen below, tumbling and twisting through the mountain gorges. Along both banks the land was flatter, allowing space for cultivation. Crossing the stone bridge spanning the white waters below them, were the Persians.

  They camped on the flat ground that evening, all preparing themselves for battle. This was what Casca liked best of all. It took away the gnawing feelings that Ayesha was dead, or that she was still at the mercy of those Brotherhood freaks, and it replaced the bitterness that he was there because of the demands of the Brotherhood.

  The mood of the soldiers was confident. They had won every battle in this campaign and had changed from the nervous, raw recruits Casca had seen three years ago to hardened veterans. Even Demetros looked sure of himself, going over the routine of checking his belts, pouches and weapons.

  The men joked and were in high spirits. Not only did they believe they were better soldiers, they also believed their God was mightier than the false one the Persians worshipped, and that gave them an unshakable belief that they were going to win on the morrow. Perhaps, Casca thought to himself, they were a little overconfident which was a dangerous thing.

  The morning brought a chill, damp air, as they lined up in their tagmatas with their spears ready. Casca was in the front line, as he was one of the biggest and most fearsome fighters. Even Kalatios recognized it and always chose Casca first to go in front. Perhaps he also did it hoping someone would cut his head off, thus saving him from the insubordinate infantryman.

  Casca’s and nine other tagmatas were grouped under Theodore, into one of the three meros that made up the heavy infantry in the army of Heraclius. In front walked the lightly armored archers and javelin throwers, the light infantry, and grouped towards the rear the heavy cavalry, the armored cataphractoi.

  The Persians taunted the Imperial army from across the river. Their archers were stringing their bows but the damp air would affect their accuracy and range. Like the army of Heraclius, they also had heavily armored cavalry, and it was this part of the Sassanid force that needed to be beaten to gain a victory. Most of their infantry were spearmen, lightly armored. But they had plenty of slingers and bowmen, and also, so Casca could see, javelin men of their own. It seemed they would be subjected to a hail of missiles.

  The Greek army began thumping their spears on the ground and chanting back at the Persians. Heraclius rode up and down the front rank, exhorting his men to great deeds of valor. Casca ignored him; he had fought too many times to be told how to conduct himself in battle. The Persian army then turned to the right and began moving upstream, away from the bridge.

  “Look!” Demetros pointed excitedly. “They’re giving us an opening!”

  “Hold on, lad,” Casca put a hand on his arm. He raised his voice so the others close by could hear. “Could be a trap; our own Emperor has used the feigned retreat ruse before. They could have learned that trick.”

  The men growled; the opportunity was inviting, and they were supremely confident of getting across the river and giving the Persians yet another hiding. But the opening was too much for another of the meros. With a roar the entire regiment sprang forward and ran for the bridge. The Emperor rode hard across towards them to call them back but they were too far gone to be withdrawn and the noise of their charge drowned out his shouts.

  Theodore, his cloak billowing colorfully behind him, came charging along the front of Casca’s meros. “Stay your charge!” he shouted, alarm in his face. He was determined that his own unit would not shame his brother, the Emperor, by breaking ranks.

  Charging across the bridge, their lines were compressed and the charge slowed, so that only small groups got across in one go. About half of them had managed to gain the other bank when the Persian general Sarbaros sounded the attack, and what Casca had feared happened.

  With only part of the army committed and halfway through crossing a bridge, they were hit by the main Persian army. Arrows, sling stones and javelins rained down on the exposed infantrymen and bodies toppled before the onslaught. The Greek soldiers who had kept their discipline could only watch in dread as their fellows were butchered where they stood. They gamely put up a fight but were driven back from the bridge and cut off from an escape route. Those who still hadn’t crossed came running back, crying out in dismay and shame.

  Their officers cuffed them around the heads for being idiots. Heraclius rode up to Theodore and spoke with him quickly. Theodore nodded and waved at his regiment.

  Casca felt a knot in his stomach form. “Oh. I think we’ve been selected as the group to get the Emperor’s army out of a fix. Get ready, guys.”

  The men stood up straighter as the two brothers came riding over to them. The Emperor stood up in his saddle and filled his lungs. “Men of the Empire, men of God. Your enemy has by trickery slain your comrades!” He pointed over the river where the last of the Imperial soldiers were still putting up a desperate stand but were being driven further and further away, their route littered with the fallen. “But with me leading you we can yet prevail! I shall lead the attack across the bridge into the jaws of hell. Which of you will fight alongside your Emperor?”

  Three thousand men raised their spears and roared. Casca gritted his teeth. This would be a meat grinder of a battle. Just how he liked them. No room for cavalry, this was a straight slog between two groups of foot soldiers.

  Theodore signaled to the light infantry and they rushed to the river’s edge and readied their bows. Heraclius dismounted and drew his sword. “For God, the Empire, and victory!”

  “The Empire and Victory!” Casca yelled. He couldn’t give a damn about the religious side of it.

  The others repeated the full battle cry, and they followed Heraclius across the stony soil towards the bridge where on the other side the Persian army waited. Cas
ca led his comrades in the wake of the Emperor, and converging towards the bridge were the other infantry regiments. It was going to be a squeeze.

  Missiles flew over the river from both banks and the Persian missile troops were too busy looking out for themselves to concentrate on the Greek infantry rushing the bridge. It was clear to Casca that a space had to be cleared in front of the bridge to allow the rest of the soldiers to get over and then deploy in order to face the enemy. So he ran as hard as he could, hard on the heels of Heraclius, onto the bridge, up the curved span and down the other side.

  A big bearded Persian tried to block Heraclius but the Emperor swung his sword in one almighty arc and the Persian toppled over the edge to vanish into the waters of the Saros, his head nearly separated from his neck.

  Casca went to Heraclius’ left; since the Emperor had no shield, and Casca decided he would act as a shield to his non-sword side. Casca saw three Persians closing in and decided to take the middle one out with his spear. He was still running and in mid-stride released his spear and it arced perfectly to take out the infantryman through the chest.

  The other two grimaced but still came on. Casca now stood waiting for them and drew out his sword, shield forward and his left leg planted ahead of his body. The first, a white garbed stern looking spearman, wielding a long spear and a huge oblong leather covered shield, came at Casca jabbing for his chest. The other, a squat long-haired swordsman dressed in a simple faded blue linen jacket and white long leggings, had a short sword and small rudimentary wooden circular shield. He went for Casca’s head and throat, raising his sword high to deliver his blow.

  Casca smiled a death’s head leer and slammed his shield at the spear, knocking it up over his head while he met the short sword’s downward cut with his own blade held high. Without a pause, he swung his shield. It smashed into the face of the swordsman. The Persian staggered sideways. Before he could recover, Casca’s sword swung again. The keen blade opened up his throat, sending the luckless man sinking to the ground, his lifeblood staining his jacket and the ground beneath him.

  The spearman gritted his teeth in fear. He’d had two companions moments before, now he was alone facing this big Greek. Casca didn’t have to think. His centuries of martial experience kicked in. He rammed his shield at the face of the spearman, then cut at him with his sword. Bash, cut. The spearman fell back in confusion. His poor shield was splintering. Like many of the peasant infantry in the Sassanian army, he was badly equipped.

  Casca was dimly aware that others were fanning out to left and right behind him, and that more Persians were rushing to try to block the crossing, but too many had gone over to defeat the last of the Imperial vanguard who had sold their lives through impetuosity. The spearman lunged low, hoping to impale Casca in the gut. The Eternal Mercenary used his shield, knocking the blow aside, then came at the Persian, his sword coming down from high, cutting across the neck and right shoulder. He missed the neck; the Persian had twisted violently, screaming in terror, but Casca’s blade sliced through the shoulder, ripping apart the poor padded protection he had and cutting in deep. The Persian dropped his spear and shield and fell to the ground, groaning in pain, clutching his wound.

  Casca glanced quickly to his right. The Emperor was flailing left and right, carving open gaps in the ragged enemy lines. To be fair, Casca realized, most of them were in awe and fear of him, simply because he was who he was.

  Trumpets sounded. That would be Sarbaros calling the army back to meet the new threat. Too late. Another Sassanid came at him. This one was better armed and equipped. He had a longer sword and a round shield. Probably Armenian. No matter, he’s going to be a dead Armenian soon. They met shield on shield and blades together above their heads. The Armenian was all beard and teeth. Casca used his bulk to bash him backwards, then struck twice, rapidly. The first blow was parried desperately. The second swept up under the blindly thrust out shield and took off his sword arm at the elbow.

  The Armenian stood looking stupidly at the pumping blood, then his eyes rolled up into his head and he collapsed.

  A deep drumming noise alerted Casca. Cataphracts! “Spears!” he yelled. The elite arm of the Persian army was coming to the party. He saw above the bobbing heads of the combating infantry the figures of the heavy cavalry, attired head to foot in armor, so that only their eyes were uncovered. Their horses, too, were covered in scale armor save for the eyes. And each cataphract carried a long heavy lance. They were bearing down on the armed struggle, not caring who was whom. To them, the infantry were peasants who were nothing.

  He stuck his sword into his belt and grabbed a fallen spear, taking a few quick steps backwards. Newly arrived Imperial troops still had their spears and Casca screamed at them to set them in the ground and be ready for a charge. He stepped over and grabbed Heraclius’ shoulder, not giving a damn he risked execution for such an action. One simply did not touch God’s chosen vice-regent on earth!

  “Your Majesty! Cataphracts!” he screamed above the din of battle.

  Heraclius looked at Casca in fury, then reason kicked in. He followed Casca into the hastily arranged phalanx of spearmen and the ranks closed as they got to safety. Just in time.

  The huge horses rode over their own luckless infantry, pounding them into chunks of meat mixed into the dark earth, and rode at the hated enemy. Heraclius screamed encouragement to his quailing troops, more than one wetting themselves at the horror coming at them. The front two ranks shut their eyes, half turned their heads and put their faith in God and a stout spear as the cataphracts smashed into them.

  The sound was indescribable. Splintering wood, screeching metal, screaming and neighing horses, deep cries of pain, or anger, or fear. Then came the sound of heavy bodies striking the ground or men. One armored figure came flying off his impaled horse and landed in an untidy heap at Casca’s feet.

  The Eternal Mercenary stamped on his head. Before the cataphract could recover Casca had rammed the point of his spear into his eye, driving it down deep into his brain. The Persian shook violently in his death throes, then went limp. A spear came brushing narrowly past Casca’s left shoulder. He looked up. A Persian on horseback was at the edge of the phalanx and was jabbing at the Greeks, hoping to open a gap so his steed could enter and cause mayhem.

  “Bastard!” Casca breathed and pulled out his spear from its gory hold and lifted it, aiming at the man. Heraclius looked sharply at him, torn between rebuking him for his language and watching in fascination as the warrior went about his business.

  With a violent exhalation, he sent the spear through the air at the cataphract. It struck him in the chest but was deflected off. It had left a dent in the armor, though, and the Persian was knocked backwards by the force of the impact. Another soldier hacked the lance into two and the Persian was momentarily disarmed. Someone reached out, grabbed him and hauled him to the ground. A collection of swords and axes smashed at him and one got through, sending a fountain of blood up into the air.

  Two horsemen were plowing through the ranks, scattering the infantry. They were close to breaking the line. Heraclius saw it and turned to Casca. “Come on, soldier, work for us to do!”

  Casca grinned and followed the Emperor across to where the Eastern Roman lines were buckling. Leaving Heraclius to take on one, Casca reached up and took hold of the second, a man dressed in a lamellar armor hauberk over a chain mail jacket. His legs were encased in bronze banded armor which must have cost a fortune to make. He couldn’t see his face either. It was encased in an iron mask and on top sat a conical helm with a top ridge.

  Grabbing him by the left arm he pulled him off his scale armor clad horse and threw him to the ground. The man hit it hard and his breath came out in an explosive ‘oof!’. Casca stepped back. He wanted to fight this man. “Get up you goat molester,” he said in Farsi.

  The Persian lay there for a moment, then slowly got to his feet, clutching his sword, a straight edged weapon of similar length to Casca’s. “You insult m
e, you peasant? For that you shall die.”

  “Big deal, shit-for-brains. Now let’s see how good you really are.” He struck at the cataphract’s head. The Persian blocked and swept in a riposte at Casca’s gut. He used his shield to stop it from getting through. The Persian came at him again, sword high. It arced for his neck. Casca met it in front of his face, then stepped forward, using his shield as a ram. It hit the Persian in the shoulder, making little impact except for restricting the space he could use to wield his sword.

  Casca saw his chance. He planted his right foot hard in the ground and rammed his sword up from waist level into the narrow gap in between the chest armor and the throat gorget, the point sinking up into the chin and through the mouth. Blood dribbled through the mouth hole of the mask, and the Persian clutched the sword blade, standing rigid in agony before him, then Casca jerked the sword free and allowed the cataphract to fall backwards to lie still on top of a man he’d slain a few moments earlier.

  “Fine work, soldier!” Heraclius said. He’d taken care of the other. The Imperial infantry had repelled the cavalry charge, and now the emperor called on his men to get up and chase the vile Persians from the field of battle.

  With a roar the Greeks rose up from their kneeling or crouching positions, threw their spears aside and drew their swords or axes, and sprang at the Persian force. They were met head on. Neither side was prepared to give ground. They struggled for a while longer, then almost simultaneously, drew back, breathing hard and stared at each other across a space filled with the dead and dying.

  Casca was exhausted. He was covered in blood and gore and wiped sweat from his soaking face. He saw Demetros standing pale-faced by a particularly large pile of dead, his right arm bright red and dripping. He smiled wanly at Casca and leaned on his sword, panting heavily. Casca waved weakly and turned full circle, looking at the aftermath of the fight.