by Tony Roberts
It was a few days later that Gundoric approached Casca again, this time via an open doorway of the rudimentary hut they’d camped around for the night. Casca had ordered the men to set up a camp with perimeter guards and a ditch, much in the way he’d experienced himself as a Roman soldier centuries back. The rest of the army was close by and Casca was pleased they’d caught them up. Belisarius had been asking questions about their absence from the main body in a series of letters sent by rider over the past couple of days.
“General,” Gundoric began, filling the wooden doorway. Casca looked up from his seated position behind a table where he’d been reading reports by candlelight. He was tired; the men were tired. It was hot, dusty and dry. Gods! How he hated campaigning in Persia!
“Yes, Gundoric? Come to tell me more have deserted?” There had been a few who’d run off, inevitably, and Casca wondered how many they’d have come the reckoning.
Gundoric shook his head and stepped into the small room, making it seem even smaller. “No; I’ve banged a few heads together and told them the next one who tries to run off I’ll cut their damned legs off and feed them to the dogs. I’m worried about the morale of the men; they’re feeling that they’re expendable and we’ll be thrown in the front line to take the shit and tire out these Persian guys. People have been talking and they say the Persians have these fucking great armored horses they use as shock troops.”
“Cataphracti.” Casca sighed and leaned back. He needed a woman to knead out the aches and kinks in his muscles. Preferably one with no clothes on. “Yes, they do have those. And yes, I think we’ll be put in the front line to face them. As soon as we stop for a few days I’ll start training the men. We haven’t had time up to now, but I’ll give them all a talk on what we’re likely to expect and how we’re going to deal with it.”
Gundoric put his helm on the table and stood silently in front of the Eternal Mercenary. Casca studied him for a few moments, then sat upright. “Okay, you great hairy brute, what’s on your mind?”
Gundoric smiled briefly, then became serious again. “General; you’ve been tough and hard on the men and they feel you don’t trust them. They don’t feel you like them. You want to be rid of us all as soon as you can. You’ve been very brutal in selecting your personal guard, and nobody wants to even try to join it. Not after your treatment of the two the other day.”
Casca regarded the giant Goth for a moment then slowly stood up. “I had a bad experience recently at the hands of a couple of your countrymen. But you’re right, I’ve been too hard on them. They’re away from their homes, their families and what they’ve known. So are you. Come, tell me, Gundoric; what’s your story? How have you come to be here?”
So the Goth told Casca of his growing up in Verona, how his father had been an old veteran of King Theoderic’s retinue and proud of it, and how Gundoric had joined the army to fight the invading Byzantines and been captured at Ravenna. He felt shame and dishonor. He had a girl betrothed to him but she was still in Ravenna, for all he knew she may well have now taken another man. “The others have similar stories, General. We’re men without homes, land or a sense of belonging. Is it any wonder we feel no sense of pride in what we’re doing?”
Casca sat on the edge of the table and thought deeply. Gundoric’s words had made him realize just how badly the Goths felt. In this state of mind they’d run at the first sign of trouble! He needed to give them a sense of belonging, a sense of togetherness. “Gundoric, my friend, you speak sense. What are men who have no home or honor? I must give them both. Go to your men and Frindicar, and tell them tomorrow morning I shall speak to you all.”
Gundoric nodded and picked up his helm. “And finding some wenches would be helpful too,” he added before leaving.
Casca smiled tiredly. He continued looking out of the now empty doorway for some time after the big man had left, wondering just how he was going to inspire the men outside. And how, he wondered to himself, would he manage to get them to withstand the awful charge of the Persian heavy cavalry when the time came, as surely it would?
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Persian sun beat down on the assembled men the next morning as they stood facing their heavily muscled commander. Gundoric and Frindicar stood to either side, their size dwarfing Casca. Even so, it was clear who had the most authority of the three, and Casca slowly walked along the line of men. He looked at them for the first time properly; men who regarded him with a mixture of awe, hatred, respect, fear and distaste. They also had the look of men resigned to dying before long, and that was something the Eternal Mercenary wanted to eliminate.
The Goths also looked on their muscular leader in a strange way. He was something none of them had ever come across before and he knew their language and ancient customs better than many of them did. He often used the old gods in curses and although obviously a Latin he was in many ways more Gothic than they were. If any of them challenged his authority, the way he looked at them with his pale blue-grey eyes stopped them dead, for there was some inner power this man had that warned them not to press him any further
“Warriors,” Casca began, standing once more in the center, facing the dusty, hot, sweating men, “you are here to fight for a foreign Emperor against an even more foreign enemy. You are in a strange land.” He turned and surveyed the dry, arid land that fell away from the campsite, giving them all a good view of the dusty, harsh terrain of rocks and rolling brown colored hills that they were to cross. “The garden spot of Persia.” He turned to face his men, some of whom smiled at the joke. “Why would you fight for an Empire that has taken you, a defeated people, away from your own homeland?” The men nodded and looked at each other, muttering. Casca wiped a droplet of sweat off his forehead before it fell into his eye. “Why indeed follow my orders? I’ll tell you why, because you and I are warriors. Men of honor, men of courage.”
He stepped a little closer. “I don’t lack courage, I don’t lack the ability to lead you all to victories. Any of you doubt that? If there’s no doubt then if you follow me you’ll surely prove victorious. And that brings honor, and loot. Yes, loot. Plunder. Your enemies out there have gold and precious jewels, for they are Persians. Persians have gold and jewels and other precious belongings that make even the Emperor in Constantinople poor by comparison!”
He saw the men look at each other again. “With riches you can either buy your passage back to Italy, or buy a property in the Empire and own your own slaves and land. How many of you have ever owned that?” There was a pause. “I see none of you have. So. I have no doubt of your bravery and fighting ability, or I would not wish to lead such men as you. I’m a fighting man. Look!” and he pulled off his chain mail hauberk and under tunic, revealing his scarred torso, and bulging muscles. The men all stared in fascination at him. “Does this not tell you of my badges of honor, my wounds earned of the battlefield? I lead by example. I fight, and I win. If I had lost with these wounds, would I be here today?”
The men began shaking their heads, muttering again. Casca put on his under tunic; he didn’t want to get sunburned. “No, I wouldn’t. So I fight and win! I only fight with men who can fight with me, and also win, and I can see in your faces the need to prove yourselves to me as true warriors, the need to win. And I accept that. I shall be with you in battle against these fools who call themselves Persians, and be triumphant in victory!”
Some of the men raised their swords and shields in the air and cheered. Casca grinned. “The Persians haven’t yet fought Gothic warriors. Oh are they in for a surprise! They will remember the day they faced you – those who survive – and they will spread the word of how terrible it is to face Goths in battle!” This time the roar was heard across the valley. Ahead, down the sun-baked road, Belisarius turned and looked back up at the camp he and the rest of the army had left some time back. He looked at his subordinate who shrugged, then they continued on their way.
A short while later Casca led his men out of the camp and followed the old r
oad in the wake of the rest of the army, following the wagons and carts of the supply units that struggled on, feeding and watering the army and providing the means by which to give the soldiers clothing, repairs, luxuries, and even women. But all at a price.
Casca marched his men up to the rearmost of these wagons and cursed. The dust it was kicking up was coating him and his Goths in a fine, white film, so that they all appeared as ghosts. By about midday he’d had enough and grabbed one of the soldier’s spears and sent it hurtling through the spokes of the lumbering wagon, jamming the wheel and causing the cart to swing round and halt. Casca pushed past, scowling at the sweating drover and was confronted by an enraged sutler, who’d jumped off the driver’s board.
“What in the name of God d’you think you’re doing? Trying to kill me or what? You think I’ll sell my wares to you or any of your men after this act? You’ll be lucky, you damned maniac!”
“Shut up,” Casca said in return and shoved the man aside, his mouth parched and feeling like the bottom of a vulture’s cage. The Goths shambled past, all white from head to foot. The sutler spluttered in outrage and stepped up to Casca who’d stopped to watch his men file past. “Shut up? Shut up?!?!? Who the devil d’you think you’re talking to?”
“I really don’t know,” Casca replied, his light blue eyes the only colorful feature of his dust-covered face. “And I really couldn’t give a shit, either. Get out of my way or I’ll shove your head up that ox’s ass there,” he nodded at one of the beasts that had been pulling the wagon, and was now docilely standing halfway across the road, still harnessed, like its companion, to the wagon.
“Right. I’m going to report you to Magister Belisarius,” the man snarled.
“Report me to the fucking Emperor for all I care,” Casca said indifferently, looking away from the furious sutler, “just shut up and get out of my face.” He ignored the sutler’s curses and watched as his men filed past, glad to be away from the dust cloud the cart had covered them in.
After thirty minutes the last had passed by and the wheel of the wagon was well on the way to being repaired. Casca looked over the wagon’s contents, a collection of barrels, crates and cloths. “Wouldn’t buy any of that cheap rubbish anyway,” he said. “The wine’s sour, the food’s maggot ridden and the cloths look like they’ve been used to wipe your ass with. Name’s Casca. Vicarius. Nice meeting you.” With that he walked off, leaving an open-mouthed trader and his sweating drover to complete the job.
They reached a tributary of the Euphrates later that day and gratefully washed themselves off. Casca decided to make sure they were camped in a position so that they’d set off before any of the supply wagons or beasts. He’d just finished overseeing the camp being made when a messenger turned up, announced himself and thrust a small message into Casca’s hand. It was a summons from Belisarius to attend his tent in the middle of camp. Casca grumbled. It would be nothing good, probably a complaint from someone or other.
He arrived with Gundoric, having left Frindicar to make sure the Goths were behaving themselves, and presented himself to the army commander. Belisarius gave him a cursory look and waved him to a small canvas seat next to his writing table. Five other senior officers were already there, smartly attired and washed. Casca looked like a homeless beggar by comparison, and one or two of the Greek officers looked down their noses at him.
“Trouble on the road today, Vicarius?” Belisarius asked, pouring Casca a beaker of watered wine.
Casca took the drink and nodded gratefully, downing it thirstily. “Ah! That’s good. Oh, nothing much. Some jumped-up sutler took exception to my unit passing him. Nothing important.”
“That’s not what I heard,” Belisarius replied and gave Casca a stern look. “We don’t want to annoy our supply providers, not this deep into hostile territory.” He paused before continuing. “The Persians have more than one force operating in the region, and we’re going to have to separate. I want to take the city of Nisiblis, but if I go after it, I leave my flank open for a possible attack from this unit here,” and he jabbed a finger onto a hide map that was covered in black marks that Casca could see roughly made a representation of the region and its geographical features. “I need you, Casca, to detach your unit from the main army here and fall back on the Euphrates here.” He pointed at another spot. “The Persian force to the east won’t come after me as long as you’re there. They’ll have to attack you first to secure their own supply lines and flank. Also you’ll be close to the river and have a reliable water supply.”
“What are these Persians made up of?”
Belisarius turned to his lieutenant, Buzes. Buzes, the former commander in the east, stood up, a barrel-chested hairy man with a bushy beard. “These won’t be Khusrau’s elite forces and their numbers won’t be much greater than yours. The usual mix of infantry and cavalry, although they will have heavy cavalry. We think there’ll be about 8,000.”
“I’ve only 4,000,” Casca replied, studying the map again. “All infantry.”
“I’m loaning you a thousand cavalry to help. Look after them, I don’t want to lose too many. I have faith in you to stand and fight,” Belisarius smiled and clapped him on the shoulder, “while we have the hazardous task of taking the city. I won’t want a thousand cataphracti up my ass.”
Casca stared at his commander. “A thousand? That’s enough to destroy my entire force on their own!”
“I have faith,” Belisarius repeated. “As do my generals here, don’t you, gentlemen?”
He got a few nods, but Casca could see in their eyes they expected him to be slaughtered. It appeared the fears of the Goths was true; they were expendable. One or two of the officers even had pleasure in their expressions. Casca scowled. “And they’ll have mounted archers too. I’ll need archers to fend those swine off or they’ll shoot my men to pieces. They get steppe nomads to supplement their cataphracti. Their infantry isn’t worth much, unless they have Kurdish javelinmen.”
Belisarius took a step back and eyed his Vicarius. “You know a lot about these Persians, Casca. You fought these Sassanids before?”
Casca shook his head. It was true; he’d never fought the Persians since the Sassanids had taken over from the Parthians over three centuries back. He’d fought the old Parthians under Avidius Cassius at Ctesiphon where he’d tried to commit suicide, but not their successors. What he wouldn’t tell any of those present was he’d fought for them under Shapur II. He mused to himself. How long ago was that? Oh, must be over a hundred and fifty years ago. Can’t tell them that! He thought for a plausible answer. “I knew men who did though, while fighting under you in North Africa. Those men of Sicarus – mercenaries – they’ve been everywhere!”
“Ah yes,” Belisarius nodded knowingly, “that’s true enough. Rascals all, but good men to have under your belt. Very well, I’ll loan you some of my Syrian bowmen, but not many as I’ll need them myself. You’ll have 5,500 men altogether. That should be enough. We’ll leave in the morning; you are to burn the camp and make sure the desert jackals that live round here don’t profit from us in any way. Then you are to make for your new position and await further orders from me. If I need you I’ll send for you.”
“Yes, Magister.” Casca saluted him in the old Roman manner and faced the others. “I’ll go prepare the men. I’ll leave you to plan the march, since I’m not going to be part of it.” He turned and left, glad to be away from the scheming Byzantines.
His mind was full of the problems he’d have to face away from the main army. Supplies, brigands, the sun, the desert. And of course, the Persians. He was outnumbered, out on a limb and exposed. Moreover, if Belisarius was correct, they’d send down their flanking force to attack and destroy him, and this would contain a thousand of the dreaded armored heavy cavalry.
He would have to work out a way to defeat them, and quickly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Goths stood at the end of a long valley, spears ready. The sides of the valley rose ste
eply and were dotted with rocks and boulders. They had been waiting there for the best part of a day. Casca’s scouts had returned informing him of an advancing Persian force approaching from the direction of Lake Van. Now they stood under the hammering heat of the afternoon sun, sweating and fidgeting. Ahead, waves of heat rose from the parched ground, making the approaching figures indistinct. Birds circled overhead, as if they knew that today, here, men would fight and die, and the birds would feast and be satisfied.
Over the past few days Casca’s Goths had fallen back to the Euphrates, shortening their lines of communication and enabling them to have an abundant supply of water, whereas the Persian force, being lured on by the retreating imperial force, had to pass through barren territory and cities locked from them with hostile garrisons. Casca decided to stand with the Euphrates at their backs and a plan to defeat the enemy which he’d thought up during the week long journey.
He stood behind the two rows of spearmen, with the archers up on the slopes behind so they could shoot over the heads of the Goths. The Syrians looked unhappy; all too often the Persians also employed Syrian archers and they were worried they may be shooting at their own people, but Casca had told them to concentrate on the mounted archers who would be Iranian or from beyond the Oxus. As long as the archers concentrated on them, the rest he could deal with.
Gundoric paced restlessly to the right, itching to get at the Persians who were now lining up at the end of the valley, the dust rising up into the air around them. The sunlight broke through the dust to reflect off the dazzling armor of the nobles on their mounts, the dreaded Cataphracti, and Casca hastily did a head count. He looked at the other figures slowly assembling and turned to Gundoric. “How many do you think?”