FIVE
Casca surveyed the Persian Host. Twenty thousand men, one quarter of their ranks from Shapur's own bodyguard. The Immortals, each especially selected and trained, every man richly equipped with the finest of blades and armor made of steel scales that rippled in the day's sunlight.
The infantry stood at ease, weapons to hand, waiting for the appearance of the Huns. Casca had chosen this ground and gave the order to wait. They would move no further.
By waiting here it would force the enemy to come to them, forcing them to march through the worst heat of the day, and when they did meet, a portion of their vitality would have been sapped by the Persian sun that baked the rocks of this valley until they split and cracked from the constant heating and cooling. He signaled his trumpeter, who responded with two short blasts. Five thousand men advanced from the rear to stand in five ranks in front of the rest of the waiting army of select troops. Now they totaled twenty-five thousand. These men were uniformed as the others, but carried no shields or spears; neither did they wear helmets of brass and iron.
Only the green tunics fringed with tassels identified them as members of the same force.
Rising, Casca removed his helmet and swung up into the saddle of his waiting horse, looking out over the five thousand. Filling his lungs, he called out to them.
'The King Shapur has given you this opportunity to save your families from death. You have already been sentenced to die, some of you for treason, others for robbery or murder or refusing to accept the state religion. It matters not what your crime against the Great King was, you are all as one in your sentence. But this day you shall be permitted to atone for those crimes and the Great King will spare your families. They will not have to go under the headman's ax. Let not one of you hesitate. Do as you have been ordered and all will be well for those you leave behind. Such is the order of the Great King.'
Each of the five thousand raised his only weapon, a single knife, in salute and bowed low at the words of the Great King, Shapur.
Casca turned from them and returned to his position on the ridge to await the Hunnish horde.
What he had just done had not been an easy thing. He wished now that he hadn't told Shapur of the manner by which the Viscount of Wu had achieved victory over the Chu seven hundred years before with the use of three thousand men. But he had told him and Shapur had ordered him to try to same technique in this battle. Shapur, in his mind superior to any Chinese, had given Casca five thousand instead of the three used by the Viscount.
The only consolation he could muster for theplan was that these men were already condemned and most of them would die this day with less pain than they would have if left to the tender mercies of the royal headsmen who delighted in their own forms of experimentation. And, Casca knew, Shapur's word was law. Their families would be spared. He had explained to Shapur that it would make the men accept their fate more easily and the King had conceded.
The five thousand men stood waiting in five ranks across the sunbaked floor of the valley, each to his own thoughts and fears. They knew they had no choice but to obey. They shuffled their feet nervously, the sun pounding on their temples and backs. Many already had the look of men dead, or at least men at peace with themselves. In their faces, Casca could see no panic. Fear, yes. Fear of the unknown. Some of them, in a perverse manner, even seemed to be looking forward to what the next minutes would bring.
At the far entrance to the valley the horsemen of the Hephalites began to gather, a cloud of dust rising over them as their horses milled about in their thousands.
War drums began to beat and the Huns sang and chanted as their shaman prayed to the elemental spirits. They whipped themselves into a fighting frenzy, ragged and savage apparitions, their horses wild, red-eyed and rearing, white streaks of foam dripping from their mouths and down their flanks. It was rumored that the Huns often fed their horses the flesh and blood of humans. Their Khans waited also, waited for the precise moment when their men were so filled with the lust to kill that theycould no longer be restrained.
Now, horns blared. Under the horse-tailed standards, the Huns charged against the stationary line of the waiting Persians.
The first line of the five thousand condemned men stepped forward ten paces, separating themselves from the rest of the Host. They stood alone, without shields or spears to protect them, with only their short bare blades held above their heads, waiting for the Huns to close. Casca watched from his vantage point, feeling a little sick to his stomach. He couldn't let the Huns get too close or their own impetus would carry them through the first line. His trumpeter stood close by. Closer and closer the Huns advanced, the bravest of them on the fastest horses at the forefront, screaming.
The heads of vanquished enemies hung on ropes, draped from the necks of their foam-mouthed, red-eyed war horses. Closer, the drumming hooves came. Casca raised his sword, holding it above his head for a moment, the midday sun twinkling off the polished steel of its blade.
Now! He swung the blade downward and his trumpeter sounded a long single note to echo across the sun- bleached rocks of the valley floor. At the signal, the first rank of the condemned stepped forward two more paces and raised a single cry to the glory of the King of Kings, Shapur, then sliced their own throats open. In less than the beat of a heart, a thousand men cut their own throats in front of their Hunnish enemies and fell forward in their own blood.
The leaders of the advancing Huns slowed their charge. The horn sounded again and another thousand stepped forward to where the first had died, raised their knives in salute to Shapur, then sliced wide open their windpipes and fell across the bodies of those already dead.
The first wave of the Huns halted altogether. The smell of blood reached the flaring, foam-flecked nostrils of their steeds. Once more, then again… And again, the lone signal of the trumpeter called forth a thousand to their death until the five thousand lay dead by their own hands. The Huns wavered; superstitious fear told them that this was something outside their experience. Killing the enemy they were used, to, but an enemy who killed himself while shouting to the glory of his king was more than their barbaric mind could comprehend. And what one cannot understand, one fears. And, behind the five thousand dead waited thousands more.
Basic primeval fear of the unknown rushed over them as the remaining forces of the Persian Host raised their lances and spears on high and cried out in the Hunnish tongue as Casca had taught them. 'Death! Death! Death!'
The Huns broke, and turning back from the madmen they raced to the rear; for it was well known that the mad were protected by the spirits and to touch them was to invite disaster and death. They fled from the field, pursued by the Persian Cavalry. Having the fresh animals, the Persians quickly overtook the panic-stricken Huns whose horses even now were staggering and windblown. Some dying from ruptured hearts were throwing their twisted-legged masters to the earth where the Persian infantry quickly dispatched them. Amongthose whose animals could still run, panic spread as wildfire feeds on dry grass. Nothing could stop them but death. They raced to get away from the insane suicides.
Casca didn't join in the battle; there was no need. When the Huns broke, he knew then that it wouldn't be a fight, but a slaughter. And slaughter it was. All that day and into the dark, the Persian Cavalry pursued the Huns.
The following morning they counted the heads taken in battle. It required two hundred carts to carry the twenty thousand gape-mouthed trophies back to Nev-Shapur.
The Khans and Toumans of the Huns would think long and hard before they came again to the lands of the Sassanid kings. A nation that doesn't hesitate to kill itself is an enemy to be avoided. Besides, there were always easier pickings elsewhere.
SIX
The bloody business over with, Casca turned command of the Persian forces over to Indemeer and told him that he was returning to Nev-Shapur.
