by Tony Roberts
“Cold,” came the short reply. “Nothing going on. Too damned cold for that!”
“Yeah, know what you mean,” Casca grunted and passed on, his musket casually cradled in his arms. He wandered out into the open plain, looking into the darkness. The snow muffled sound, but he heard vague far-off noises. Something – or someone – was out there, and he waved to the Italian guard to join him. Curious, the guard came wading through the calf-deep snow and looked alert.
“Out there,” Casca pointed into the darkness to the north-east, “something or somebody’s moving. Can’t see what, but it’s out there.”
The Italian cocked his head to one side, concentrating. He was about to shake his head when he heard a noise, and tensed. “Yes,” he whispered, suddenly feeling fear, “you’re right.”
Casca strained his eyes. The snow played tricks on the eye but he swore something was moving. Suddenly a dark man-shape materialized directly ahead, stumbling. Casca snapped into a guard stance and thrust his musket forward. “Who goes there?” he snapped out loudly.
“France!” came a hoarse, gasping response.
Casca stared, then recognized the shako, and the odd variety of clothing the man was wearing. “Holy shit,” he said, stunned. “Ney?”
“Behind me; we’re all’s that left!”
Casca swung to the Italian. “Rouse the camp, Ney’s got through!”
The guard turned and plowed back towards the still sleeping camp, yelling at the top of his voice. The approaching man staggered through a deep drift and almost fell into Casca’s arms, gasping like a landed fish, a man virtually spent. Casca stopped him from falling and allowed him to get his breath back, and by the time he nodded and stepped back, others were coming out of the gloom, amazed they had made the journey.
Voices came from behind and men were coming running from the camp; Casca was stunned to see Prince Eugène himself leading a huge group of them, coats flapping, arms waving. They were shouting in delight and relief, and the soldiers from Ney’s corps flung themselves into the arms of the camp soldiers, some breaking down into tears of relief. Ney himself, a tall, gaunt-faced man, came out of the dark and smiled as Eugène ran to him. They embraced and Ney began telling him of their ordeal.
Casca got the story from one of the soldiers. They had refused to give into overwhelming odds, and after holding off Miloradovich’s attack had sneaked away north and crossed the Dnieper River. After that it had been a flight towards Orsha, pursued by the Cossacks, and eventually just a thousand men made it. Casca slapped the man on the back and pushed him in the direction of shelter and food.
The next day they set off once more, leaving Orsha behind them. The sky was blue and there was a light frost. The snow was calf-deep and the men marched with a lighter step, their morale improved with the miraculous escape of Ney from seemingly impossible odds. They kept closer but slowly gaps began to appear, with the wounded, frostbitten or the infirm slowing things down. Some were left behind by their comrades, eager to get to Minsk as soon as they could, but others felt they couldn’t abandon those who relied on them for protection from the Cossacks.
Casca kept a close eye on Marianka who was beginning to struggle. Her strength was failing her and Casca had to support her. She smiled wanly at him and made an effort to keep going, but by midday the pain was etched across her face. Casca stopped, suspended his musket from his neck down his front and took off his pack. He strapped it to the woman who looked at him wordlessly, a frown on her face, then Casca turned, bent slightly and indicated to her to climb on his back. She wrapped her arms round his shoulders and neck and he supported her thighs as she wrapped her legs around his waist. He then carried on, protected by Begos. Fabvier and Bausset looked at them as they walked on with the main group, then wordlessly turned away and left them behind, obviously believing they wouldn’t see them again.
Casca acknowledged Begos as the young soldier remained with him as they dropped further and further behind the group. He looked left and right and saw on the horizon a group of horsemen watching them. “Cossacks,” he nodded. “Keep an eye on them and shout when they begin to close in. We’re going to need all the luck in the world to keep them off.”
“Leave me,” Marianka said. “I’m slowing you down.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Casca snapped. “There’s no way I’m leaving you to those murdering swine. They’ll rape you and then slit your throat. Stay on my back and shut up about leaving you. I’m not going to so there’s no point in arguing.”
Marianka said nothing but tightened her grip around his neck for a second in thanks. Casca moved his arms and found if she gripped his waist tightly he could use his musket. Loading was hard but he managed to do so as he walked along, fumbling one or two actions. If it came to a fight he’d have to put Marianka down. Begos loaded up much easier, and kept looking at the eight horsemen who were spreading out, lances poised.
“Here they come,” Begos said suddenly, standing still.
“Okay Marianka, down!” Casca dropped the woman to the snow and brought his musket up. “Hold your fire, Etienne, wait for my signal.”
The eight had spread out into a wide arc and were coming at them from three directions. “Take the one on the extreme left,” Casca said, and picked the one next to him, deciding to take out the attack from one direction completely. Marianka crouched fearfully, the pack weighing her down into the snow.
The Cossacks came closer, intent on their faces, lances lowering. The horses floundered through the snow, kicking it up in sprays as they increased speed. “Now!” Casca snapped and squeezed the trigger. Both muskets spat flame and smoke, and both shots found their mark. Two Cossacks were sent flying from their saddles with screams. At a range of forty yards it was difficult to miss. But now the other six closed in, faces showing their intent on avenging their comrades, and they were now facing men with empty muskets.
Begos backed away from the man who was closest to the two that had been shot while Casca whirled to confront the attack from the other direction, stepping in front of Marianka. As three closed in on him, and three on Begos, they fully expected to be slaughtered where they stood, but suddenly the Cossacks peeled away and stopped. Casca stared at them, then at Begos and Marianka. Begos shrugged and closed in on Casca’s back so they were almost back to back with Marianka in the middle.
As they stood there, the Cossacks standing at a distance of twenty feet, more came galloping in from the south. Soon they were close enough for Casca to recognize the leader. “Aw, hell. It’s that ugly bastard Iuganov. No wonder they waited for us.”
“Should we reload?” Begos asked, trembling. He was terrified.
“No. If we do that they’ll come at us right away. Keep your bayonet at the ready.” Casca watched as Iuganov came close, then stopped and stared down at him. The Hetman was furious; his dark brown eyes glared at him and his beard worked as his jaw underneath moved with ill-concealed anger. Casca decided everything was lost anyway, so a little goading of the big bearded Cossack wouldn’t make much difference. “Ho, you ugly lump of horseshit,” he greeted him in Russian, “I see you’re still alive, sadly.”
Iuganov snorted deeply and thumped his saddle pommel. “Silence, dog! You are my prisoner and I’ll cut your stupid head off if you speak to me like that again.”
“Prisoner?” Casca laughed. “There’s no such thing for bandits like you! Death is the only future people have in your hands.”
Iuganov looked at Marianka with interest. “So, a French whore. Is she yours?”
“I’m Polish,” Marianka snapped. “And I’m not a whore.”
Iuganov looked surprised, then at his men who were wondering where the conversation was going. They were waiting for the command to take the two soldiers and relieve them of all their arms, equipment and clothes. They expected to then tie the two by the wrists to their horses and gallop off through the snow, dragging the two behind them. The woman would be used by Iuganov, and maybe if they were lucky them to
o if he tired of her. Iuganov gripped his pommel. “Well, Polish. Still an enemy of Mother Russia. You will serve me at my table and in my bed. You will carry my children and bear me sons. If you refuse I’ll let my men each take their turn with you and then you’ll be disposed of as useless.”
Marianka shivered and clutched Casca’s leg. She looked up at him beseechingly. Begos didn’t understand what had been said but the body language of the woman told him enough. “If that animal touches her I’ll kill him,” Begos said.
Casca waved a hand at Begos. “Let me deal with this. Marianka, drop the backpack. Now!”
Startled, the woman did as bid and stood there, shivering in her furs. Iuganov waved two of his men to take her. Casca stepped in front of her and swords were suddenly drawn and pointed at the Eternal Mercenary. The Hetman pointed a stubby forefinger at him. “You will answer with your life for this! She is mine!”
“The hell she is. I challenge you to a duel to the death. Winner takes the woman. Or are you shitting yourself up there on your horse? You smell like you have.”
Iuganov stared in amazement at Casca. “You fool! I’m a Cossack from the Don! Do you know how many men I’ve killed with the blade?”
“Who cares? Give me a sword and I’ll make sure you don’t add to that tally. Well? Your men are keen to see their great Hetman dispose of a lowly French soldier. Still scared?”
“I’m not scared, you Parisian Shit!” Iuganov roared and leaped off his horse. “Give him a sword!” he shouted, his own blade in his right hand. He laughed as Casca threw Begos his musket and took a sword that had been thrown point first into the snow. “Now you insolent dog, learn how a Cossack deals with disrespect.”
Casca grinned. The feel of the curved sword in his hand was a familiar feeling. He’d handled hundreds of different kinds of swords in his life, and the slender Cossack weapon was little different to those he’d used with the Mongols and Tamerlane. “Now, Iuganov,” he said, “let’s finish what we started in the woods in the summer.”
“Indeed,” the Cossack agreed. “You will lie at my feet staining the snow red by the time I’ve finished. Prepare to breathe your last.”
Casca nodded at Marianka and Begos. “They go free if I win. Your word.”
“Of course,” Iuganov smiled widely, his brown stained teeth prominent. “And when I win, she becomes my slave and this cur is mine to do with as I please.”
“If you win,” Casca corrected him. “Deal. Now defend yourself.”
The two circled each other, Casca having thrown his furs at Begos, wanting to fight without encumbrance. His French uniform was dirty, shabby and torn in a few places, but his body showed he was in good physical shape, at variance with many of his fellow soldiers. Iuganov wore his high felt boots, a baggy pair of trousers and a voluminous white shirt underneath a brightly decorated sleeveless jacket. Both had dispensed with their hats, and in the bright, clean air of that November day, circled each other like beasts from the forest, examining the other for weaknesses.
Marianka and Begos stood together, holding onto one another for comfort. The Cossacks sat on their horses in a rough circle, watching the scene with a fascinated air. They fully expected their hetman to dispose of this infuriating Frenchman; maybe he was playing with him first? Leading him on, giving him false hope? Yes, maybe that was it.
Casca had seen enough from the way Iuganov walked that he was more comfortable in the saddle. His stance was wide and flat-footed. This would mean he would be slow to turn and adjust. His arm strength would be good and he had experience, but Casca had much more of both, and he was much more at home on Terra Firma, solid ground. Iuganov was enraged at the smirking Frenchman, taunting him, turning in the circle that he himself was creating! The Cossack decided to humiliate him. He struck fast and hard, the blade cutting through the air cleanly, the edge seeking the neck of the enemy.
Casca turned into the blow, parried and stepped back. The sound of the blades meeting rang out across the snow. Iuganov pressed forward, his sword rising and then cutting down towards Casca’s left shoulder and chest. Casca danced to the right, leaned back and half jumped, half stepped out of the way. The blade sliced through thin air.
Casca circled his blade and jabbed forward, half-heartedly. Iuganov swiped it aside contemptuously and then with the return blow backhanded, sent his blade arcing in at Casca’s exposed throat. Casca flung up his blade and knocked the blow up and over his head, but this time he stood his ground. He now planted his right foot forward and transferred all his weight to it and flung his sword forward at Iuganov’s chest. The Cossack stepped back hastily and parried on the second step, his eyes wide.
The Cossacks fidgeted nervously. They could see immediately who the better swordsman was, and it wasn’t their Hetman. Casca set his face hard and pitiless. The lives of two people depended on him and his ability to defeat the ageing Hetman. He now stepped forward, dictating the course of the fight. A jab at Iuganov’s face was knocked up and aside and the Russian countered, pressing forward and slicing down hard, aiming for Casca’s neck. The former Roman legionary blocked the blow above his head and stood there, testing the Cossack’s strength. The two men stepped together, faces set, eyes boring into each other’s, teeth bared in hatred and effort.
“You whoreson,” Iuganov breathed, his halitosis wafting into Casca’s face. “Today you join your ancestors.”
“I won’t die at the hands of an animal like you,” Casca breathed and pushed the man away, swiping sideways to get distance. The snow was compacted by now and some of it slippery. The watching Cossacks and Marianka and Begos stood motionless in the freezing air, fascinated by the sight. Casca was taken back centuries to a warmer place, a sea of faces staring down at him as he stood on the sands of the arena facing the giant black Jubala. “Today you lose,” he said in Latin to the uncomprehending Russian.
Casca no longer saw the snow and the distant weighed down trees; into view came the Roman crowd baying for blood and the Emperor eagerly peering down at him, the bloated figure of Nero waiting to grant the crowd what they wanted. He screamed out loud and launched into a whirling attack, his blade slicing down from right, then up to the left, his muscles answering the call of his mind to finish it. His legs threw his body from right to left, a macabre dance that left Iuganov bewildered. The Cossack struck out in desperation, hoping to slow the mad Frenchman down, but his blade cut only through thin air. Casca slammed his hilt up into the Russian’s face, stunning him, and a sharp knuckle blow to the wrist sent the Cossack’s saber plopping into the hungry snow where it vanished, swallowed up by the two foot deep drift.
The Cossacks stood stunned as Casca held Iuganov close, his blade inches from slicing through his throat. “Give them a horse,” he commanded, nodding towards Marianka and Begos. “Do it or he dies.”
Slowly, reluctantly a horse was released. Casca snapped urgently to Begos. “Take it. Both of you get on it and ride to safety. Go!”
“What of you?” Begos asked, taking the reins. “You can come too!”
“No chance. This ugly specimen won’t let me ride; he’s a better horseman. The second I let go they’ll be all over me like flies on shit. Get going you idiot. I’ll catch you up. Get out of here!”
Marianka went to say something but Casca shook his head violently. Iuganov was squirming, his face beet red with anger, shame and the fact Casca was blocking air from his throat. The Cossacks slowly withdrew, their blades now bared, waiting to chop Casca to pieces. Begos was helped up by Marianka onto horseback, not really sure of himself, and then the woman mounted easily, turning the horse to face Casca. “I’ll go get help,” she said.
“No. Keep on going. The next group will be along soon enough. Get out of here, that’s an order, Etienne.”
Begos shrugged and nodded to Marianka who sobbed in frustration and turned the horse away and rode out of the circle of Cossacks and along the road in the wake of the rest. Casca grinned and stepped sideways. “Now,” he said aloud,
“it’s just you and me.”
“You’ll die soon enough, you son of a bastard leper.”
Casca chuckled. “That’s one I’ve not heard before, Iuganov. Thought you weren’t that original. Now, you and I have to do a deal. Give me a head start to those trees over there. After that, you can kill me if you can.”
Iuganov laughed. “A deal with you? Of course. Let me go and you can have thirty seconds start.”
Casca snorted, eyeing the circling Cossacks. “I’ll let you go when I’m halfway to those trees. The second I let you go you’ll go back on your word. Trust the word of a Don Cossack? You must think I’m simple-minded.” He breathed in deeply. “Let us go towards those trees and I’ll let him go halfway there. You can then try to catch me.”
The Cossacks parted, reluctant to let him go, but with their Hetman helpless they had no choice. Slowly Casca dragged the unhelpful Iuganov with him until he was halfway to the trees. He then swung Iuganov round. “Next time I’ll kill you, so count this as your lucky day.” He smiled and struck the snarling Russian across the head, knocking him to the ground. He set off across the knee-deep snow, wading hard. Behind him the Cossacks set off furiously, determined to take care of this invader once and for all. One stopped by the kneeling Iuganov and helped him up. Enraged, Iuganov struck the man and pulled him off the horse, grabbing his sword and riding on towards Casca.
The Eternal Mercenary cursed; he’d misjudged things. The snow was deeper than he’d expected and he was making slower progress than he’d hoped. He could hear the snorting of the horses behind him and the jingling of the harnesses, and the soft thudding of the hoofs in the snow. They’d catch him before he would get to the trees. His legs were agony, on fire. His lungs pulled air into his body, eager for oxygen to feed his muscles. He turned as he heard the first horseman close in on him. A lance thrust at him and Casca parried it desperately and swung the hilt two handed into the horse’s head, stunning it. The Cossack yelled as Casca grabbed him and threw him from the saddle. The Russian fell into the snow and rolled at once, knowing if he didn’t he was a dead man.