would once again have to climb back into the saddle the next morning. But there was nothing to be done about it; he had to report in. This side trip meant that he was already late, and surely by now Shapur had word of the battle and was wondering where in the hell his general was. Casca didn't want to piss off his king and knew that Shapur had short reins on his temper. But if Shapur would give him time to explain the reasons for his delay, he was sure the king would approve.
That night, he and Imhept sat by their campfire listening to the chanting of the tribesmen and the beating of their drums. Each, it seemed, was trying to be louder than the other. These, combined with reed flutes, mingled with the nasal, almost whistling trill of the village women in their black robes.
He and his companion fed on a spiced stew of young lamb and flat cakes of bread, toasted on hot stones. The meat was flavored with a trace of mint, which these people had a predilection for.
Imhept sat, facing Casca, wearing only his thin robe of linen. He didn't seem to mind the night chill at all, though Casca gave a shiver or two and tossed a couple of dried camel chips on the fire to warm things up a bit.
They sat up late that night and talked of things far away, of the minds of men and deeds men had accomplished and of gods and luck. The Egyptian's voice was low and patient, as if he weretrying to give Casca the benefit of his years. Casca knew that it was strange he should feel so much younger than this small, pleasant man when, in actuality, he passed him by many years. But he had not the maturity of Imhept, maturity that comes with age and the peace of mind that comes with time. Perhaps that was part of his curse, too. He would be always what he was until the Second Coming…
When Orion the Hunter passed over the clear night sky, they slept. Tomorrow they would both have to face Shapur again and that was not a chore to be relished under the best of circumstances.
It was near the evening hour when they finally arrived at the gates of Nev-Shapur the next day. The crowd was flowing outward, merchants and farmers returning to their homes. There was no place for them inside the walls after dark.
Casca led the way, acknowledging the salutes of the guards at the gate with an offhanded wave of his right arm. Once inside, he bade a temporary farewell to Imhept and the two of them went their separate ways, Imhept to his house and Casca directly to the palace.
He dismissed his guards at the entrance to the palace grounds, letting them return to their barracks to do the things all soldiers find pleasurable after a victory. To boast to their comrades and recount the deeds of their valor, deeds that would grow with each telling until their achievements rivaled the feats of the immortal gods of Olympus themselves.
For Casca, he had to face another power, one he found more fearsome than the gods of Greece and Rome combined. They were only phantoms, designed to scare children, but Shapur could provide anyone that offended him with an immediate entrance to the gates of hell.
He was admitted to the palace by the majordomo, who looked with some distaste at his travel-stained apparel. Casca didn't really care whether the eunuch approved of him or not. He knew that his dress would not go against him, for Shapur was interested in results, not fancy clothes.
Passing through the same fresco-lined halls that he had entered on his first visit to the throne room, he tried to pull his thoughts together. He wanted to make the shortest and clearest report he possibly could. He reached the door to the throne room. On each side of the entrance stood the Immortals of Shapur's personal guard. Inwardly, Casca was amused at their titles. Immortals? If they only knew.
The massive doors swung wide and the majordomo turned Casca over to the chamberlain, who immediately announced his presence. Tapping his metal-tipped staff on the marble floor three times, he called out for all to hear and bear witness that Casca, sent by his sovereign lord, Shapur II, to wage war against the Hephalites, had returned.
Casca strode to the center of the hall and stood rigidly at attention, looking straight ahead. Shapur was seated on his alabaster throne, wearing, as was his usual habit, only simple, plain clothes. His only jewelry pieces were two bands of silver, set with turquoise, on his wrists. A single silver headband served as his crown and beared in his hand was the ever-present sword. He rose from his seat.
'Welcome, Lord Casca. I see you have returnedbearing your shield rather than sitting on it. May I presume that your campaign was successful?'
By his tone, Casca knew that he'd already received a full report from his agents on Casca's mission. Shapur spoke.
'Well, Lord Casca, how did our little ruse work? Did it perform as well for us as it did for the General of Chin?'
Casca admitted that the five thousand who'd slit their own throats had done good service and had fulfilled their end of the bargain.
Shapur was pleased. 'Then I shall do likewise. Their crimes and dishonors are forgiven and their families shall bear no guilt. This is my word, so shall it be recorded.'
Scribes hastened to put down his words of command, as Casca related the details of the battle, even though he knew that Shapur already had the information. He explained his delay in reporting back because of the raid he'd made on the Huns by the river. Shapur accepted his explanations and raised his sword, pointing it at him.
'Hear me well. This man has done our bidding and has returned victorious. Let none of you do otherwise. This warrior is in my favor and it shall be so noted and demonstrated by the fact that from this time on, he shall have the full rank of general. He shall also be granted a reward of three thousand pieces of silver and a talent of gold.'
He addressed the entire hall. 'Know ye full well, that I know how to reward those who obey as well as how to punish those that offend me. Mark this man's example. He came to our court as a stranger and is now honored and trusted by us. From this time on, no one shall refer to him as a foreigner, forby my word, he is accepted into our ranks. Casca, Baron of Khitai, and now general of my armies, is a Persian by my order. So it has been said, therefore it is done. For I am Shapur.'
Casca bowed his way out of the royal presence and returned to his own residence to soak and scrape off the caked grime of the Persian deserts and plains. On his way out of the palace he was intercepted by Rasheed, who asked after his health and whether all was well with him. Rasheed had volunteered to give him whatever support he could in his position at court. His words were honeyed, but something told Casca that the flavor in back of them warranted his watching out.
Casca spent the next twenty-four hours sleeping the deep rest of exhaustion that comes when one has finally finished a long and tiring journey. When he awoke, he felt drugged, his head and limbs heavy and slow, his thoughts hard to gather. It took a few hours and some solid food, washed down with wine, before he could get his body moving properly.
It was near the twilight hour when, escorted by two of the household bodyguards, he ventured out into the streets. His personal bodyguards, he wondered? Or his jailers? He still wasn't quite sure of his status with Shapur. It didn't really matter.
He wandered into the market places, enjoying the freedom from the spine-jolting saddle he had ridden on for the last weeks, pleasuring himself at the stretching of his legs and being able to stop and sample fresh grapes from the mountains or wine from the vineyards of Armenia.
He passed the street of potters, their ever-spinning wheels being powered by naked feet, andmade his way through a crowd of merchants and hawkers crying out for him to buy their wares.
He entered the grand bazaar, where the last slaves of the day were being offered for sale, and decided to watch the action for awhile. He had no intention of buying anyone, but he was curious to see what kind of merchandise was being offered on the block.
Slaves from many lands were available to those with the silver or gold to buy them. There were fair-haired Circassians, and even some wild men from the Colchis, where, it was said, that the legend of the Golden Fleece had its origin. The savages of the Colchis made the gathering of gold their principle occupation, supposedly, by placing sheepskins in the fast-flowing streams, the oily hair collecting the particles of gold being swept along.
The bidding was noisy, as the buyers, each with his own need, made offers on strong black males to work in the fields, or contractors, looking for cheap labor for the constant building programs they had received contracts on from Shapur's ministers. They all yelled out their bids loudly.
Female slaves, several who were real beauties and proud of their bodies, twisted and turned, showing their charms, hoping to attract a wealthy purchaser who could give them at least a minimum of comfort, rather than the
