Yes, as they said, war was hell. But at least he had someone to return to-a good woman and a place offering gentle contrast to the horrors of war.
Anobia gave him peace of mind and soul when he needed it most and it was good to be able to return home and lose himself for awhile.
But he knew each period of rest and peace would be broken in time by the heavy-handed knock of an Imperial messenger. They would beat on his door in the wee hours of the morning, summoning him with bad news to Shapur's side. Why did bad news always come at night?
The seasons turned one after another, winter came and went, and he was pleased with life. He had respect and power, wealth and honors, and, above all else, he was loved.
Sometimes, when he thought of the old Jew, Samuel's warnings that Persia was not for the likes of a man like Casca, he would laugh. Hell, Persia was the best thing that had happened to him in a long time, and he was content.
His peace was interrupted again in late spring. This time the messenger's knock on his door came at a very critical time-he and Anobia were joined and Casca was approaching the area called the short rows. Damn!
Instinctively, he knew there was trouble. His sword was needed again by his king, Shapur.
EIGHT
From the rise, he could see the snaking line of his soldiers, twisting through the pass below him, laboring their way to the heights. Ten thousand warriors. Archers, light cavalrymen on horseback, and two thousand infantry. The men were leading their animals over the treacherous rocks and through places where the trail diminished in size to a width so narrow that the horses' bellies rubbed the rock walls.
Soon, they would start heading back down, down to where the air would be thick again and the men wouldn't have to gasp for breath every other minute.
Casca knew that on the other side of these mountains lay plush green valleys with plentiful fodder for their horses and fresh food for his men. At this rarified altitude, it was seldom that you could find anything other than moss or lichens that were stubbornly trying to eke out an existence on the granite face of the windswept rocks.
He had removed his helmet and tied it to his saddle. Cool wind came from the peaks to rustle through his hair. It was odd how a man could build up such a sweat in a location like this, with air coldenough that even now, in the heart of summer, breath was misting from the horse's nostrils at high noon. A distant scream came to his ears.
Another of his Persian warriors had lost his footing and had plummeted down thousands of feet, to smash on the rocky bed of the gorge below. Too bad. But they had been lucky, all in all. Only eleven men and ten horses had slipped today, but it had been enough to make the others wary and had slowed their movement. Casca yelled down for his commanders to speed their men up a little. He didn't have time to exercise as much caution as he would have liked. They must hurry. Twenty thousand Huns were up ahead, laying waste to Kushan, an ally and tribute state of Persia, and the gateway to the Indus and China.
It was there that Jugotai, as a boy, had served as his guide some forty years before.
Jugotai! A child then, but determined to be a man before his time. It had been he that had led Casca over this same mountain pass to safety. The raging torrents of winter wind and snow had kept them penned up for days in a small cave. It was easier this time.
His reflections were interrupted by the arrival now of Indemeer. The hoary old warhorse had insisted on coming with them on this mission. Casca knew the climb had been hard on Indemeer. The thin air had left his face flushed with white spots at the cheeks, but he would show no sign of visible difficulty to his men or his leader. Still, Casca thought, he had seemed relieved when he'd told him they were nearing the summit and for him to go on ahead of them and check the trail. Casca knew that this would get him on the other side firstand down into thicker air, where the old man could breathe a little better.
As the lead element of archers passed him, he dismounted. Taking his horse's reins in the manner of his men, he walked the animal carefully over the loose stones and patches of ice remaining from the last storms of winter. Raising his eyes, he looked up even higher. The bare, craggy peaks wore only their eternal coat of ice and snow, standing out in stark contrast to the pale blue of the sky, fading into varying hues of purple and blue with the distance.
He reached the crest. Somewhere behind him, he knew, was the cave that he and Jugotai had stayed in, but he had not seen it on this trip up. Perhaps it had been concealed by one of the countless rock-slides that plagued these hellish peaks.
In the distance, he could see the broad back of Indemeer just disappearing around a curve in the mountain. He'd started down now, and wasn't wasting any time in doing so. He figured the old soldier would reach the base of the mountain before nightfall. It was much shorter going down than coming up. They would only have to drop four or five thousand feet to reach the valleys of the highlands of Kushan. On the Persian side, the one they just came up, they'd had to climb over twelve thousand feet to reach the top of the pass. It had taken them four days.
He wondered if he'd ever meet Jugotai and his son, Shuvar, again, or even if they still lived. Jugotai would be old now, for a man of the hills anyway, and if he had survived the many battles with the rapacious Huns, he would certainly look much older than Casca. How would he explain thatto Jugotai? What would he say to him about that? He shook off the thought. Time to worry about that when they met, if they met.
The trail had widened enough to accommodate horse and rider now. He threw his leg up and settled himself uncomfortably in the saddle.
He jerked and swayed down the trail until he came upon Indemeer. The old man rested against a large boulder, a skin of water in his hands, beads of perspiration rolling off his face. The white spots on his cheeks were gone now and color was slowly returning to his face. Casca was unsure if the old fellow would be able to make the return trip over the mountain behind them. But he was certain that the old bastard would try.
Indemeer waved him over, offering him his water skin. Casca dismounted, thinking that after this campaign he would find a good excuse to send Indemeer and a detachment of his best soldiers back home via the long route on the silk road. It would be longer, but easier on the old sucker.
He took the offered skin and uncorked it, taking a long pull. It was a flat, tepid fluid and it tasted of sweat. They would have fresh drink soon. Indemeer pointed down the trail.
'Not much farther, Lord. We should be there in an hour at the most.'
Casca agreed with him, and they talked about what they'd do when they arrived. They knew when they reached the valley below that they would be at their most vulnerable. The troops would be coming down the pass in single file and exhausted from the labor of the climb. If the Huns were aware of their coming, and had sent a strong force to intercept them, they could keep the Persians bottled up in the pass and pick them off a few at a time as they entered the valley. It was not a good position for an army to be in, but they had no choice in the matter.
A message, sent by a relay team of Imperial riders, had reached the court at Nev-Shapur ten days previously, saying that the city of Kushan was under siege. This had happened at the same time that the Kushanite armies were already engaged in a critical battle against the savage tribes to their far south, and there was no way that their forces could be disengaged without suffering terrible losses. If they withdrew, the enemy would surely pursue. The Kushanites could not possibly have withstood the attack of the combined forces of the tribes of Hind and those of the Huns should they decide to ally, so Casca had been ordered by Shapur to take his relief column of ten thousand soldiers to the support of the Kushanites in their struggle with the Huns.
He gave the lead element time to rest before sending them ahead to scout the terrain, checking for Hun patrols or units in that area. If none were sighted, they were to send back a rider; then the rest of the army would go down and make camp in the valley. If Huns were spotted, and depending on how many, he would decide what to do about that when the time came. Contingency planning was not his forte. He was a soldier of spontaneity, quick decisions on the spot.
In the meantime, it was good to rest and let the men take a break until the scout returned.
Indemeer leaned his gray, curled hair against the boulder, asking wearily, 'How long ago was it, Lord, that you came over these foul passes?'
