Casca 35: Sword of the Brotherhood

by Tony Roberts

  Casca’s shield shook to the impact of one javelin, and then the clibanarii were past and bearing down on them came the lances of the cataphractoi. Up came the spears of the infantry and the deep gut-turning sound of flesh being hit by a heavy, solid object ran along the lines of the Imperial soldiers.

  One came at Casca, lance aimed straight at his chest. The line of attack had been from the left, so that the Persian cavalry were striking the shield side of most of the men. Casca thrust up his battered shield and the force of the blow spun Casca round. The shield was torn from his arm, the leather strap ripped off its moorings, and pain shot through his left arm from elbow to shoulder.

  He yelled and used the solid figure of Demetros to rebound off and wield his sword in time to meet the horse and rider. His blade struck the cataphract down the left hip and bit into the rippling armor, tearing the small pieces of metal off their wire mounts. He had hurt the man but he was now hauling his own sword out and preparing to hack down at Casca.

  Andronikus, to Casca’s left, sent his spear hard into the neck of the horse, sending it rearing up in pain and it screamed like a pig in a slaughterhouse. The Persian was sent flying off the saddle and landed hard on his back. Casca remained where he was, waiting for the horse to finish thrashing in its death throes. Those hooves would cause some real damage. The luckless Persian rider was knocked out by the beast’s thrashings, ending his interest in the battle – at least for the moment.

  Another horseman came crashing into the ranks, flailing down at the stubborn infantry, and he was pulled off his mount and one of the soldiers sent a spear plunging down into his eye socket. Then it was over and the Persian cavalry turned and fled, having beaten themselves senseless against the well-drilled infantry square. It was then that Theodore released his cavalry and they came thundering across the dusty plain in the wake of the retreating Persians and struck them from behind.

  “Advance!” the call went up, and the infantry dropped their spears, drew out their swords, and for the third time stamped across the dry, stony soil towards the enemy lines. Casca sucked in a couple of lungfuls of air and gritted his teeth. Now was the moment. It was just the infantry left to slug it out. He hastily grabbed a discarded shield and slipped his left arm into the straps. He crashed his shield into the front of one man and scythed his sword blade down from high at a second who raised his blade to block. The force of the blow jarred Casca’s arm and he pulled back for a second blow.

  Men to left and right crashed into each other and the killing resumed in earnest. It was getting late in the day and everyone was getting tired. Casca slashed down hard again. The Persian facing him looked desperate, trying to block the heavy downward strikes, but he was being battered down by the force of the blows. Another had a go at Casca from the left but his shield protected him, and Casca rammed it into the Persian’s face, knocking him back for a moment.

  Taking advantage of the opportunity, the Eternal Mercenary waded forward over a corpse and slid his blade up from a low position beneath his waist. It sank into the desperate looking man’s gut and he grimaced and twisted aside, falling against a colleague who was knocked off balance.

  Casca couldn’t strike at him as the man to his shield side now came at him again, smashing the edge of his shield to splinters frantically. But in his madness he left himself unguarded and it was easy for Casca to slide his blade into the Persian’s guts, and he too fell to the churned up ground, adding his blood to the mud and blood paste beginning to form under foot.

  “Casca!” Demetros shouted.

  Casca whirled and saw his friend lying helplessly at the foot of a Persian officer, dressed in a mail coat of scale armor and wearing a green-edged conical helm. As the officer’s sword rose up to deliver the killing blow, Casca lunged sideways and stabbed him in the side, angling the blade up into the ribs. The Persian screamed and folded over, sinking to his knees.

  Hauling the blade out, Casca turned quickly to see where danger lurked. One Persian came at him, a man with light blue padded armor and a short sword. He held an oblong wicker shield covered in hide. He slashed at Casca’s head but the Eternal Mercenary warded it off with an aggressive move with his splintered shield and swept his own sword up in an arc and cut through the enemy’s chest, opening up his torso in a splash of blood. The Persian fell back, his face twisted in a grimace, and suddenly the Persian front line was caving in.

  The Imperial cavalry had seen off their opposite numbers and were now sweeping round to hit the Persian infantry from behind. It was a disaster for them. Without cavalry support, they were open to a slaughter. The missile skirmishers scattered in every direction but were hunted down mercilessly.

  Casca carved his sword left and right, sending the opposition out of his path as they avoided his blows, widening the gap. The better armed soldiers had fallen and what were left were the rabble who had been pressed into service by the Shah’s aggressive army recruiters. With no help from behind or in front, they lost heart and broke.

  Casca halted, too tired to follow, and left the butchery to the cavalry. He threw down his ruined shield, and it lay there, face up, and he marveled at how much punishment it had taken. It was a wonder it was still in one piece. Great chunks had been gouged out of it and the broken off pieces of missiles still stuck out of it in three places.

  He groaned and sat down on a pile of bodies and leaned on his knees, looking around at the field. Men were standing in relief they had survived, while others were already seeking fallen friends and brothers. Some were even starting to loot.

  The enemy army had been broken apart and what few survivors there were, were being chased into the distance by the cavalry. The butcher’s bill would be a high one.

  Casca sighed and sank his sword into the ground so that it stood upright next to him, and put his head in his hands and allowed the fatigue to wash over him. It was a complete victory; Shahin’s army had ceased to exist.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The Brotherhood had returned to Jerusalem. In their once spotless temple the detritus of the years and the evidence of the bitter fight to deny the Persians entry into their domain had been evident, and a lot of hard work had gone into restoring it. The entrance was broken beyond repair and the Elder sent out acolytes to wander the streets, both to spot potential new recruits and to find possible new venues to move their headquarters. Their quarters would only be temporary until the new place was ready and had been made secure.

  Ayesha had listened to the words of her teacher so that she was able to now understand the Aramaic of the Book of Izram, and wondered at the words the Elder spoke at times of prayer. That her man Casca Longinus should be so closely involved with these people was undeniable; his own reaction to them had been clear to her.

  But she was different now. Something had awoken inside her; the Brotherhood has done that, and it wasn’t spiritual, or in her head. It was physical. She fought hard against it but her body craved sexual satisfaction. Before, when she’d known men, or even Casca – or Longinus, as she was repeatedly told to say – they had pleasured her but not to the extent she now felt at her ‘cleansing’ times. She looked forward to them, something she partly felt ashamed of, but partly she delighted in. Nothing had made her feel this way so deeply before the Brotherhood.

  The Elder had repeatedly told her that the experience of holding the Spear would heighten the feeling, and it was something she wanted more than anything now. Longinus would have to retrieve the Spear at any cost. She no longer needed his touch, or the clumsy attempts of any man to pleasure her. Now that she had experienced the depths of the climaxes here, there would be no going back.

  So, when the Elder called her to prayer that morning, she felt a thrill run through her. It always ended with the flagellation, and nobody needed to touch her any more for her to ride the delicious heights of her body’s needs. The pain of the whip did that now. Her nipples showed through the fabric of her robe, and she no longer tried to hide it. The rough wool rubbed them
harder as she walked, and she felt a warm glow down below, and the wetness begin. It wouldn’t take much for her to reach heaven that morning.

  “Brothers, and sister,” the Elder greeted them, “it is time to mark Sister Ayesha as one of us. She has embraced the word of Izram and come to believe in the Blessed Lamb as we do. Sister Ayesha, are you ready to receive the Mark of the Lamb?”

  She knew full well what this was. Each member had tattooed on them a small symbol of a fish, the stylized symbol of the Brotherhood, the same symbol that the early Christians had used during the years of persecution at the hands of the Roman Empire. It was something she was not looking forward to, but once it was done it was done. And she would feel more welcome. “I am.”

  “Sister Ayesha, choose where to receive the Mark of the Lamb, a mark to denote your faith and devotion.”

  Ayesha slid her robes off and stood there naked. She raised one leg and placed a hand on the inside of her thigh, high up.

  “Very well. Brother Mathu, if you please.” Mathu, the Nubian, knew the skill of putting tattoos on people, and brought forward a bowl, a bottle and a cloth that wrapped a set of sharp needle-like thorns that were found in his native land. He motioned for Ayesha to lie down and spread her legs. She would never have done this before to someone she had no feelings for, but now she did so immediately. She knew Mathu had no desire for her. His coldness towards her was no different than his general attitude to anyone else, except Pallos. She noted how much more relaxed he was when the Sword of God officer was present.

  The Elder clapped his hands. The rest of the meeting formed a circle around them and began chanting in a low voice. The Elder looked at Ayesha. “The pain you will feel will be nothing; no sacrifice is too great in the pursuit of the glory of the Blessed Lamb. Delight in your pain. You are giving it freely to the Glory of God!”

  Ayesha smiled wanly, then leaned back and closed her eyes. She did not see Mathu open the bottle, pour a dark plant dye into the bowl, or soak the hollow thorn in it. But she felt his hands on her and the scratching of the thorn begin. Her cries echoed throughout the chamber, but she steadfastly refused to move or to open her eyes. It was something she would never have endured even a year ago, but now she was different.

  Now she was…she was Sister Ayesha of the Brotherhood of the Lamb.

  * * *

  The destruction of Shahin’s army had opened out the heartland of the Shah’s domain to invasion. The Persian general had taken his own life shortly after his defeat, so the saying went round camp, and his body had been packed in salt and sent to the Shah on the Shah’s own command, and when the body arrived, in his rage, the Shah had whipped Shahin for losing the battle. Word had gotten out of that even to the Imperial forces.

  “I think the Shah’s lost his reason,” Demetros said, warming a leg of Casca’s chicken one evening soon after the victory. The chicken had been too much of a nuisance and everyone agreed it ought to be eaten as a toast to victory. Casca agreed and so here they were, he and his small group of colleagues, eating the unfortunate fowl. They all agreed it tasted wonderful.

  “Not surprised,” Andronikus replied, “seeing how his armies have been defeated time and time again.”

  “So why haven’t we gone on to attack their cities?” Gidritus, the dark haired man with flatulence asked. “People say there’s nothing left now between us and their capital!”

  Casca passed the wineskin to Demetros. “There’s still Sarbaros’ army near Constantinople way to our rear, and the Persian army up in the mountains close to the Armenian frontier. If we move forward, they could cut off our supply lines and we die.”

  The others grunted. They wanted an end to the war. Even though they had been continually victorious, they tired of the campaigning and wanted to return to their homes and spend times with their families and spend their hard earned money.

  Casca looked out into the night air. “I think there needs to be a lot of maneuvering to be done. The Emperor is busy bribing the tribes north of the Caucasus, so I hear, and he’s keen to end this war by negotiation rather than by using us to smash our way to victory. He’s also mindful if we lose a battle heavily there’d be no army left to stop the Shah’s ambitions. And as you’ve already pointed out, Demetros, he’s not right in the head.”

  “Heh,” Andronikus smirked, “since you’ve replaced old Kalatios as Sarge, you’ve picked up a lot of camp gossip!”

  Casca shrugged. He always kept an ear to the ground. He’d learned long ago it was to his advantage if he knew more of what was going on. It had been a foregone conclusion that Casca would be promoted to command the squad after the body of Kalatios had been taken from the battlefield; his own Ekatontarch had recommended him.

  “So,” Gidritus lifted his leg and broke wind, getting everyone’s attention, “you think we’ll retreat back into Armenia at the end of this campaigning season?”

  “Don’t be surprised,” Casca said, bringing forth groans from the rest.

  Over the next few weeks the army remained where they were, poised at the junction of the plains and mountains, and in easy marching distance of the roads to Armenia, Anatolia and the Tigris. They could move in any direction at any time, keeping the Persians guessing.

  The Greeks were sent out in squads to forage and gather intelligence. Casca was given orders to take a group of ten men down into the valley and to learn if the remains of the Persian army were anywhere near. His ability to speak the local dialect had put him high up in the eyes of his commander.

  The group filed down the slopes of the hills surrounding a small village of flat topped mud brick buildings, Casca having sent out one of their number well ahead to scout. He didn’t want them to be ambushed by some opportunistic brigand. There were plenty of those around these parts, he knew all too well.

  The houses had rudimentary wooden fences at the back to keep goats or sheep, or even chickens, and the biggest building in the center looked as if it had been damaged at some time in the past. It was also the only building with a sloped roof. As they neared Casca could see it was a church, but the cross had been cast down and was no longer there.

  The villagers watched warily as the eleven soldiers came towards them. The war had washed over their poor settlement more than once, and they had come to fear the military from either side. Casca waved a couple of men out to the sides to keep an eye on things so that nobody could sneak up on them while he was speaking to the inhabitants.

  He hailed the people standing there watching him. He got little reaction, save for the mothers picking up their children and taking them indoors. Casca walked on, seeing the fear on their faces. “We are the Emperor’s soldiers,” he said. “We have defeated the Sassanid Persians and driven them from this region. You are once more subjects of the Emperor. Your church can be used again for worship,” he pointed at the damaged building.

  “We have no priest,” one of the older men said. “The Persians took him away when they came here first. They took the younger men of the village to fight in their army. We are all that’s left.”

  “The Persians have been defeated,” Casca repeated slowly and clearly. “You have nothing left to fear. They are retreating into their homelands.”

  “We do not worry about them,” the old man said. “But we are in fear of the bandits that come down from the hills every year to take our harvest and young women.”

  “What?” Casca said, standing in front of the man. “Who are these bandits and where are they?”

  “I don’t know who they are, except they are bandits. Deserters from the armies maybe. But for the past three years they have come here in the harvest season and taken most of the produce, leaving us with just enough to live on. They have also taken the young women who have reached adulthood. Now we have few left, and these are the ones with young children. We fear they will take even these this time, and if they do our village will die.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Casca said. He asked the man further about the details,
and from the information he and a few others gave it was clear the bandits came down from the hills to the north about this time of year and took what they wanted. There were always about twenty with more in the background, outside the village.

  Casca called his men in. “Right, here’s the situation. This village is being picked on by brigands in the hills, so we’re going to take them out. First I’ve got to find out where their base is, then we’re going to lure them in here and take them out.”

  Andronikus snorted. “But we’ll be outnumbered.”

  “True, but we’re soldiers and they’re not. And we’ll have surprise and a plan on our side. And you want these people victimized by those scum anymore? How would you feel if it were your own parents and family in these people’s place?”

  Andronikus bowed his head and said nothing. Casca nodded, almost to himself. “I’ve been given a good indication where they are, and they’ll be watching the routes up from the village now. I’m willing to bet they’re planning their raid any time now. I wouldn’t be surprised if they picked on other villages in the area too. What with the younger men being forced into the Persian armies and the effects of the war here, there aren’t the people to fight them off, nor the local organization to make sure it stays peaceful. It’s up to us to make the difference.”

  Casca stared any argument down. He had a good feeling about this; for once he would be doing something the Brotherhood hadn’t forced him into, and it would be helping the defenseless people of the region.

  He put the others in the various houses of the village, and the villagers, once they realized what they were doing here, readily accepted them into their homes and fed them the rough bread they made and goat cheese. It was a simple village and poor, but these were hardy people and lived tough lives and were used to adversity.