his ass firmly in the saddle with the knowledge that he had a long way to go. A distant sound came to him from the rear.
Turning to look back, he saw a figure coming after him over the swaying suspension bridge. Reaching the solid footing of the opposite bank, Jugotai yelled to Casca to wait. The boy rode like a devil, swinging from one side of his horse to the other, swooping down to pull clumps of grass from the ground and then sliding under his horse's belly to appear on the other side and back into his saddle. 'That little bastard can really ride,' Casca thought. 'But that is the ugliest horse I have ever seen.”
Jugotai's mount stood only about eleven hands and was covered with shaggy matted hair that dropped in clumps where he was losing his winter coat. The beast was as common looking as a pariah dog. Jugotai's head was clean-shaven save for the long scalp lock swinging behind him.
The curved blade swinging at his side meant business, not play. 'Ho, Roman,' he called as he reigned his horse to a dead stop, leaping from its back to stand in front of Casca.
Grinning, Casca said, 'It's good to see you, Jugotai. I had not thought we would meet again before I left. I see you have gained that which you sought.'
The boy smiled, dark eyes flashing. He pulled himself up to his full height and stuck out his chest which had started to put some meat on it and no longer resembled a starved chicken breast so strongly.
'Yes, and I have a wife now to bear my sons to fight against the Hsuing-nu.'
Casca dismounted and took the boy's hand in the Roman manner of holding the wrists.
'I am pleased and happy for you. You were a good friend and travel companion. I wish you were going with me, but I know that Tsin-ta'i has plans for you here. But, who knows, perhaps we will meet again one day. I must return and if the gods are kind, our paths will cross once more.'
The boy's dusky face lit up with pleasure.
'Roman, take the saddle from your mount and put it and your gear on mine. This is my gift to you.'
Casca looked from his sleek roan gelding to the runty, shaggy beast that Jugotai wished to trade.
Catching his look, Jugotai laughed. 'I am not going to rob you, Roman. This fine animal you ride now will not serve you half as well as this tough nasty-tempered one I wish you to take.'
Jugotai thumped the horse on the rib cage listening with a cocked ear to the hollow thump that issued forth.
'This miserable creature was bred and raised in the mountains and can live on dirt alone for weeks and go without water for days in the desert. He is like us of the Yeuh-chih; perhaps not as pretty as the refined nobles of Rome, but we can go the distance after the fine bloods have dropped ever from bad food and water. Pelieve me, you will not regret the exchange.'
The shaggy beast rolled his eyes around and Casca took a good look. The little bastard seemed to be pretty tough.
'Well, Jugotai, if you say he's the horse for me, then so be it.'
They swiftly changed saddles and gear. Casca swung himself up into the sheepskin-lined saddle, his feet almost reaching the ground. The nasty-looking horse gave him only one dirty look and ignored him while eating the bark from a tree, even though young grass was easily available.
Jugotai swung into his saddle with the grace of an acrobat and turned the horse's head back to the bridge, whirling his blade above his head. He reared the horse back on his hind legs and cried, 'Ride well, Roman. The road is before you. Remember you have friends among the tribes of Kushan. Be not a stranger.' With that, Jugotai raced back over the bridge and out of sight.
Days came one on the other as Casca followed the torrents of the Indus through gorges that seemed to drop into the bowels of Hades and rise until he thought it would be possible to touch the stars overhead. Jugotai was right, his cruddy little beast had the agility of a mountain goat and could eat anything, including a portion of one of Casca's tunics he left lying too close to the beast, while he fixed his meal for the day.
Lacking anything better, Casca named the horse Glam, after his old friend at the hold of Helsfjord. There was a resemblance; both were tough and shaggy and had an intelligence that their appearance belied.
Several times Casca met small caravans heading to the lands of the Kushan. From these he would receive information as to the trail ahead. Twice he stopped at what served as an inn for the tough and daring folk of these highlands where he tried as best he could to develop a taste for the fermented mare's milk and curds that the wiry inhabitants smacked their mouths over with such relish. At night they would huddle together in a mass of snoring, foul-smelling bodies. Each would transfer a number of his vermin to those sleeping next to him. Their bed was a large flat stone inside the inn, beneath which a small fire was kept burning to provide warmth. They were a happy folk with great attention paid to manners, almost to the point that it was impossible to talk straight to them.
Weeks passed and Casca finally reached the junction where the Indus was joined by the Panglong Shoa. The two formed a raging muddy torrent where they merged. The great peaks of the Naga Parat were far behind and now the trail passed through ranges that would lead to the desert.
Kicking Glam in the sides with his heels he turned north. Glam never failed him, even when he slept on his back. The horse seemed to have unlimited endurance and would continue on placidly ignoring the man on his back as if he were carrying no more than a feather. In the heights of the Karakoram pass Casca ate his pack horse and smoked enough of the remaining meat to last him for another week, which should see him through and beyond the Suget.
Finally the Suget side of the pasf showed the veins of the mountains, red streaks and bands of granite, massive slabs where the alternating heating and cooling of the mountain-made cracks that finally split and let the boulders break away to leave fresh scars that the winds and time would smooth away in a few centuries.
Four days more and Casca looked out over the basin of the Karim, stretching, it seemed, forever. The descent from his present height of eight thousand feet to the floor below was quick and uneventful. The trail was worn and the thicker air made him almost drunk after his months in the thin air of the Kushan and Indus valleys.
Twelve
Tsin-ta'i and the map were on the money. The trail leading to the east on the edge of the endless wastes of the Tarim basin was liberally sprinkled with the bones of man and beast; the strangest were the skeletons of the camels, their curved spines looking like huge skeletal snakes with legs.
Examining several of the human remains with a professional eye, Casca found indicators that spoke of violent death; a clean cut in the skull made by a sword, cracked ribs which could have come from a blow with a club or mace and several had arrowheads lodged in the ribs. There was no sign of wooden shafts or anything of wood. As the desert provided little wood, the raiders would naturally have taken any they found usable, even for extra kindling to throw on theirfires.
In the three days it took Casca to reach Ho-T'ien, he encountered two caravans, one of which numbered over three hundred pack animals carrying cargoes of rare spices, gems, ivory, slaves and the item most coveted by the matrons of Rome: silk. The caravans were well-armed, escorted by hired bands of mercenaries and slaves who preferred to work for the caravan masters rather than the desert raiders. Many of the mercenaries were Huns remaining from the Eastern tribes that hadn't been forced out by the pressures of the Hsuing-nu and had been migrating in ever greater numbers to the west.
These were tough men who had spent so much time in the saddle that their legs were deformed-they could hardly stand on even ground. As children their faces had been seared with red hot irons to stop the growth of beards, leaving only the upper lip with long mustaches that reached below their chins. In contrast, Casca also noticed a number of blue-eyed riders from the Caucasus mountains who were like giants next to the gnome-like Huns when standing. But in the saddle, the Huns with their laminated bows were the equal-if not the master-of all they met.
Casca hoarded his water even though his map showed water only a few days from Ho-T'ien. He felt relief when he reached the banks of the Khotan. He crossed a river shallow enough to be forded and made his way into a prosperous city. The predominant race was the same as Tsin, from Han. These were the merchant princes who
