Casca 35: Sword of the Brotherhood

by Tony Roberts

  Time to get back to the army and get this damned war over with.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The war, though, went on. It looked like a stand-off as long as Sarbaros’ army was behind Heraclius at Constantinople. Everyone was getting fed up with it, not just the soldiers but the generals too. In the end the siege of Constantinople went the same way as every other one had in the past. The walls were too strong and the Persians’ allies, the Avars, packed up and went home before winter closed the mountain passes and cut them off from their homeland.

  That left Sarbaros in western Anatolia. He looked as though he was preparing to winter there which caused Heraclius a headache. Casca hoped somebody somewhere would make a decision. In the end the solution came from an unexpected quarter.

  The Imperial army was wintering once more in Armenia and the local towns were used to the situation by now. Supplies came to them from the Caucasus, from Trebizond on the Black Sea coast and from Sebastea and the inland road that ran to the Aegean Sea. The locals had set up businesses to supply the army and the soldiers with everything they could possibly afford, and the pay just before the winter was welcomed by both soldiers and merchants. And of course, the whores.

  Casca was in the local town one cold October day, off duty for a change. He was looking for a place to buy a cheap bottle of wine, but prices had gone up recently, mainly due to demand. He spied a little-loved figure leaning against a street corner, smirking in that infuriating way only Pallos could achieve. Casca so dearly wanted to smash his teeth in. Pallos beckoned Casca to come across the street to him.

  Dodging around a bullock and cart carrying a huge pile of straw and other stuff, Casca went up to him and spied Mathu sharpening his sword a few yards away. “What do you want?” he asked Pallos.

  “The Brotherhood is getting impatient. We want the Spear back. It’s been too long. If things don’t change in the spring, then you and I are going to have to go to Ctesiphon and get it back, no matter how many Persians are there. So, unless you have some wonderful strategic idea you can give to your emperor, get ready to come with us.”

  “What’s the matter, Pallos? Where’s this patience thing you lot are always blabbing about?” Casca snapped irritably. “Losing your grip? Losing your mindless followers because you’ve no Spear to humiliate yourselves to?”

  “I ought to be offended,” Pallos replied, his smile still infuriatingly there, “but frankly your comments are beneath my contempt. Actually we’re getting new followers every week. Things are looking up. We do need our relic back though; we need to show our new followers what the true faith is all about.”

  “True faith?” Casca sneered. “All you sects say that, as if what you believe is fact and every other is false.”

  “They are false,” Pallos said mildly but with conviction. “You are proof of that; we merely follow the words spoken to you by Him on the cross all those centuries ago. We don’t believe in the falsehoods of other branches of Christianity. We have our origin in a feat of fact, not in theory or vague promises based on nothing. You in fact are our chief recruiter, like it or not. But, we need the Spear back. Else we just become believers in a memory, and memories can become fuddled over time. No, a solid, tangible object to revere is what we need. So, the Elder tasks me with getting you to plan our journey to Ctesiphon.”

  “Pah. Not with the damned Persian army in the way. Heraclius needs to bring the army down onto the Tigris plain and knock what’s left down there out of the way. Then the route to Ctesiphon will be clear and we could walk there with the whole damned church behind us singing psalms and ringing bells and nobody could do anything about it.”

  “So how do you propose to achieve this?” Pallos examined his fingernails idly.

  Casca fumed. He so badly wanted to reduce Pallos to a boneless jelly at his feet. “Get Sarbaros out of the way. Either waste his army or get him to leave.”

  Pallos grinned and looked up at Casca. “There’s a third way that has occurred to me. It’s well known that the Shah is losing his mind and the Persian armies are concerned as to what insane command will be coming their way next. The generals are jumpy too, especially after what happened to Shahin. They don’t want to be next.”

  “So?” Casca demanded. “Out with it, man!”

  Pallos chuckled. “A letter from the Shah altered in some way to make it appear Sarbaros is to be next for execution. I’m sure letters from the Shah are intercepted frequently. All it needs is a little, ah, intrigue.”

  “You’re a slimy, sneaky bastard, Pallos.” But Casca could see the validity of it.

  Pallos chuckled. “Go to your Ekatontarch and suggest such a thing. Who knows, you may even get promoted! You must thank the Brotherhood if you do, however.”

  “Piss yourself, Pallos,” Casca growled.

  Pallos smiled thinly. He’d delivered his message to the vile creature Longinus, now he didn’t need to be in his presence any longer. How he wished he could chop this being into pieces! “We will be watching. If this does not work then you’ll have to plan a route to Ctesiphon with the Persian army in the way. If not……we still hold your woman, remember.”

  “As if I could forget, you slime. Alright, I’ll put it to my commander. I’ll be as relieved to get this damned job finished as any of you lot. And don’t even think of crossing me or you’ll be the first to suffer, but definitely not the last!”

  As Casca recrossed the busy street, Pallos looked at Mathu. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your chance to use your blade on him. Patience.”

  Mathu smiled, a rare show of emotion from him.

  * * *

  Ayesha was pleased to be informed that a new recruit was to be tested by her. It seemed the Elder had found a use for her in training the acolytes. Discipline and self-control were two of the most important attributes a member of the Brotherhood could possess, and a dedicated approach to the sect was demanded. Nothing else was important.

  The Elder promoted a dedication that transcended everything the world could offer, from material possessions to emotional wants and needs. The mind had to be purged of any worldly desires, including sexual ones, and the sensual Ayesha was a good way of judging if an acolyte had put his control over the body’s weaknesses. In time, the Elder had decided, Ayesha herself would have to be purged of her sexual desires, but at the moment it was useful to play on them, both as a means to bind her to the Brotherhood, and as a means of unleashing her on the acolytes.

  The room used was a small cell deep in the bowels of the crypt under the church they were using. The young recruit, a former street beggar, had been all too pleased to enter the sect, as it guaranteed a roof, food and shelter from the vermin of the streets who preyed on people like himself. Of course, the rigid extreme doctrines of the sect had taken him by surprise at first, but their promises and observations of the outside world had hit home with him and he had come to believe like the rest of them had.

  But he had been told that he was to be tested that evening. He had to meditate and to reject all worldly desires from his mind. It had been a long and hard few weeks but he had declared he had done it. But now a test. He was nervous. Had he really done as he had said? He really didn’t know.

  Ayesha had been given the run down on what her role was to be, and she smiled in pleasure. Another emotion she needed to control, the Elder noted. Being in the Brotherhood was not a matter of suiting oneself; it was a matter of suiting Jesus, the Blessed Lamb.

  Ayesha entered the cell and stood in front of the acolyte who stood up from the wooden bench in surprise. He’d seen the woman around but not to talk to before, and wondered why a woman was here, and what her role and rank was. The Elder stood by the doorway along with two other brothers, and watched silently.

  Ayesha shrugged off her robes and slowly advanced on the acolyte, totally naked. “Take off your garments,” she ordered softly, staring him in the eye.

  Surprised, the acolyte hesitated for a moment, then, sensing the disapproval from the Eld
er and the two others, did as bidden with haste. He stood awkwardly, wondering what on earth was going to happen next.

  Ayesha rubbed herself up against him, particularly his genitals. She began groaning her desire to him, crudely wording her wish to be screwed by the man, how he was desirable and her body needed him inside her. In fact, she was getting worked up and began rubbing her hot, wet loins against his, and to her delight – and to his dismay – he began to grow aroused. She cooed at him and put both arms around him, gyrating her hips against him. He was rigid now and she suddenly wrapped a leg around him, thrust forward and impaled herself on him, throwing her head back, a huge smile across her face. He cried out and looked at the Elder in shame.

  “Enough,” the Elder commanded sharply. He’d seen enough. “Sister Ayesha, back away now.”

  Ayesha pouted but obeyed. It didn’t matter; she would achieve satisfaction shortly, using the whip. She observed his hardness, now glistening in the torchlight. She swung round to face the Elder. “He failed the test.”

  “Obviously,” the Elder said dryly. He looked at the acolyte. “You will learn to control yourself in time.” He waved at the two men with him forward. “Cold plunge, then punish him.”

  The shamed acolyte was led away and the Elder waited until Ayesha had redressed, noting she was still sexually turned on. Had he created a monster himself? “Sister Ayesha, do not exceed your position. Now go pray. You need to be calm and composed at supper.”

  “Yes, Elder.” She walked past him, her heart beating. She could hardly wait to get to the prayer chamber, a long room with two exits. She grabbed one of the small whips hanging on the wall and knelt in front of the lectern and began reciting the words of the Book of the Beast, but as she did so she slid the grip of the whip under her robes and up against her loins, rubbing it back and forth, massaging herself into a state approaching a climax. As she got close she inserted it into herself and shook in pleasure and silently reached orgasm.

  She would never leave the Brotherhood. She had found her place in life.

  * * *

  Casca stood before his commanding officer, flanked by members of the Scholae, the palace guard. They had been an unexpected presence there, and then he realized that none other than Heraclius himself was there, standing alongside the Ekatontarch. He must have been on his tour of the camp, checking on his officers and the state of the army. One thing the men could say about the Emperor, he was no palace dweller. He lived amongst his soldiers, and that was something they admired and loved him for.

  “Well, Scutati Longinus?” his commanding officer asked, no less intimidated by the Emperor’s presence himself. “I’m informed you have a plan to help end this war?”

  “Sir.” Casca ignored the half smiling imperial presence and concentrated on the report. He delivered the plan Pallos had given him, and saw that his commander looked at the Emperor in surprise, who looked interested himself.

  Heraclius leaned forward. “If I may, Ekatontarch?” The commander stepped backwards, to allow Casca to speak to the Emperor directly. “This plan has merit, Scutati. You surprise me again. I think you could have a career in the hierarchy of the army; I need men like yourself, men who can fight but also use their minds. The Empire cannot afford too many wars like this; the treasury is not infinite and we cannot afford to lose men. Our boundaries are vast but our manpower isn’t. Therefore soldiers who think are resources I desperately need.”

  Casca smiled. Maybe Heraclius needed to read Sun Tzu. Perhaps he had. The libraries in Constantinople had many works, but since the advent of Christianity many so-called ‘pagan’ works of art and books had been destroyed by over-zealous men, particularly Theodosius. A shame, since the knowledge lost was irreplaceable. However, he knew he was going to move on once his task was achieved. His aim was simple. Get the Spear back to the Brotherhood and get Ayesha back; then get the hell out of there and go somewhere away from those maniacs.

  Simple plan, but complicated to achieve.

  Heraclius turned his head to one of his aides. “We have letters from the Shah?”

  “Yes, your Excellency,” the aide bowed. “Exhortations from him to Sarbaros to continue the fight.”

  “Then we can change the wording. Get your skilled scribes to duplicate his writing and phraseology and turn it into a letter ordering his arrest. Add any names of talented Persian officers your offices have learned of, then arrange for the letter to be ‘intercepted’ by one of Sarbaros’ men. That should ensure his defection! Once that is done, I can plan the final attack and end this war once and for all!”

  The soldiers nodded and smiled. It was good. Heraclius turned once more to Casca. “My thanks. Once this is done I shall summon you to Constantinople and bestow upon yourself an appropriate reward. But first, God willing, events shall take the course we pray for. Thank you.”

  He stepped back and the commander came forward again. He congratulated Casca and made notes on a scroll, no doubt a record of his military service. Casca worried about that; the records in Constantinople were fairly accurate and his identity would then be a matter of posterity. The only advantage to that was that the name Longinus was reasonably common and so his wasn’t a unique name. There again, there was his ‘family’ in Italy, serving in the imperial apparatus. He had no idea what had become of them since he’d left Ravenna, but he trusted they were still flourishing. Delia and her husband would be dead now, unless they were incredibly long lived, but their descendants would be around, and hopefully they would have been told of Casca and the reason why their family name was Longinus.

  Maybe he would have to start changing his identity, not only to conceal himself from imperial record keepers, but also the Brotherhood. His mind whirled with that problem as he made his way back to the camp. His name was essentially Latin, but the Latin influence in the Empire was almost gone now; it was now Greek. Therefore his name would stand out hereafter.

  Even in the Latin parts of Europe, the language was changing. Names were changing. He would have to learn how to subtly alter his name to suit the place and time he was in. Another headache for him.

  So he was left facing another long wait for a plan to unfold – or not, as the case may be – while winter set in, blocking the mountain passes and isolating them from the rest of the empire. The only good thing was that it also did the same to the Persians. They may be able to move around the Tigris and Euphrates valleys, but they couldn’t get far invading their western neighbor as it meant going through mountain passes, which were all blocked with snow and ice.

  Boredom was the enemy now, not only for him, but for the men too. He had to find something for them to do to stop fights breaking out or men trying to desert. In the end he resorted to getting a group of them to go with him to the only town they could get to, Yerevan, and to try to negotiate the purchase of alcohol.

  The problem was that it was Armenian and they weren’t overly keen on the Greek army. Their money was fine, as long as the soldiers kept away from their town. Casca reasoned that if they took their money, then they would have to put up with their payers. He left Demetros in camp, fixing it so the young soldier was on sentry duty. He doubted the serious Demetros would approve of the mission of mercy. He hadn’t even seen him take alcohol in the few years he’d known him. He looked as if he needed to get drunk and laid big time. That may relax him.

  Ah well, each to their own. Casca led his five men, all picked for their social manners and pleasant disposition. Casca grinned at his ironic description of them. They were the biggest scoundrels and ugliest looking sons-of-bitches in his unit. In a fight they looked as if they could take care of themselves. In fact, they probably would start the fight just for the sheer hell of it.

  They followed Casca readily enough, as they respected his size, his fighting prowess and the fact he could out punch and out curse any of them. That was respect well earned. He knew soldiers, and understood them. Knew what they wanted and needed. And did his utmost to get them it. So they were happ
y to go with him, as almost certainly they weren’t going to Yerevan to see the churches and have a chat with the local monks. As alcohol had been mentioned, that was enough to get their interest.

  They weren’t supposed to be away from camp, but Casca had persuaded the camp commissariat to forge a letter to allow him three days with escort on a scouting mission. When asked what the scouting mission was, Casca had mentioned checking the local slopes for avalanche potentials. The pass had been finished in fairly good time after that.

  Yerevan was nestled neatly in a river valley in between two massive mountains, and was a welcome sight to the six men tramping down the snow covered track from the hills. The camp was set in a pasture, and had been cleared of snow repeatedly. Now huge walls of snow formed a sort of barrier and sentry steps had been cut in them to allow the guards to look over them.

  It was cold and snow fell wetly from a grey heavy sky. Flakes found their way past their helmet neck guards and ran wetly down their necks and backs. Hands were ice cold and noses were red. The men, all cold and wet and their breath clouding the air around them, followed Casca to the nearest tavern.

  The locals all regarded them with ill-concealed hostility as they entered the place. They wanted to be left alone. They were tired of the Greeks and Persians fighting over them. All they brought were war and demands for the upkeep of their troops, and rising taxes.

  “Where’s the owner?” Casca demanded of the barkeep.

  “Upstairs. Why do you ask?”

  “I want to discuss a business deal with him,” Casca said, looking round at the groups of silent patrons. “Good morning,” he said cheerily and loudly. “Lovely weather for this time of year, isn’t it?”

  The men with Casca grinned. They looked even more murderous in the gloom of the tavern. The locals turned their backs and began muttering in their local dialects so they couldn’t be understood. The barkeep called over a serving wench and spoke to her. She vanished through the back and the barkeep stood facing Casca across the bar, saying nothing. Casca grunted. The atmosphere could be cut with a knife. “Business good?” Casca asked idly.