friend above him.
'Welcome and well met,' he tried to laugh feebly. 'It is as I thought. My son errs in his age estimates. For certainly you look much older than I do.' He coughed again, grimacing with controlled pain.
Casca did look old now. His face was covered with grime and blood. Dust had formed in his hair, turning it a gray hue, and the deep creases of exhaustion and emotional strain had added many years to his appearance. He wasn't sure what Jugotai had meant but he went along with him, for he did feel as if the weight of ages had rested on his shoulders and settled deep into his soul.
He watched the labored bloody breathing of his friend and knew that his minutes on this earth were not long now. Jugotai was dying. He covered the gaping wound in Jugotai's chest by tearing off a piece of his own tunic and placing it over the opening. This was the first time he'd watched an old friend die. Other friends had died, but not while he was with them. He had moved on before, never to return.
His voice cracked, dry from the battle, and he was forced to swallow several times to work up enough saliva so his words could be said.
'It is good to see you again, old friend. Our trails have been long, Jugotai, and I see you have achieved all that you'd wished for. When first we met, you were as thin as a rail and wanted only to return home to become a warrior and sire sons to fight the Huns. You have done well, for around you lie the bodies of Huns and your son is tall and strong. I envy you, old sword mate and comrade.'
The descriptive words ofold felt strange to his lips, because he still felt that Jugotai was the young lad he'd first met, though an old man lay beside him dying. A shadow fell over them from behind and Casca rose, sword in hand.
'Hold, Lord, it is only me, Shuvar, son of Jugotai. The battle is over, the Huns are finished. How is my father?'
Casca took the boy's hand, holding it in his own scarred and bloody paw. Jugotai himself answered the boy's question.
'My son, Shuvar, you are the light of my life and though my own spark will fade and leave, I know that I live on in you. You have made me very proud and have given meaning to the world for me. The ways of our people are such that we do not say the things we should before it is too late. Before my shade rides away from me I would tell you this. I love you!' The effort of speaking was draining Jugotai and his face started to smooth out with the coming of death.
The boy stood, his head to the sky. The Roman didn't feel the tears running down his face, washing the dust and blood from his cheeks and forming fallen drops on the stained ground.
Shuvar began to chant. Holding his sword above his head, he cried out in a strong voice, proud and with no trace of weakness, calling to the gods and spirits to take a warrior into their fold. He turned four times to face each of the winds and sang his father's song, telling the spirits of the air and mountains of his father's deeds. Clouds raced overhead, taking his words with them to the roof of the world. Shuvar sang, and all within hearing stopped what they were doing to listen. They knew a great man was leaving them.
Casca held Jugotai's hand and felt the coldness coming to claim him. As the life force ebbed, Jugotai's face slowly became the one Casca had first seen. The years washed away from the old man as his spirit let loose of its human shell. The moment of death was at hand as Jugotai smiled at the Roman above him.
'Casca, big nose. It is good to see you. I thought you were dead when those priests had capturedyou.' His voice strengthened for a moment, as often it does when death is near the heart. His breath rattled in his chest as he choked on a piece of dried blood and spat it out. 'We shall make it over the mountains and to my home yet, old friend.' He was now reliving their last trip together, Casca knew.
'There is nothing to stop us now, the road is clear. I can see the high peaks where the gods live and they welcome us back to my homelands. We will always travel together as sword mates, won't we?'
Casca cried silently. He couldn't let Jugotai hear his sorrow. Jugotai shook his head and answered his own question.
'No! I forget that you have a longer road to follow than mine.'
Shuvar continued his song, the words retelling every moment of Jugotai's glory for all to hear. He wanted to stop but he could not. The song must be sung as the soul departs. The time wasnow!
Jugotai raised his head as far up as he could, opening his mouth so as to let his spirit free. He called out the name from his youth that he'd loved best.
'Casca…'
The death rattle came with the word, the two of them as one. A single shudder Casca had seen a thousand times, but had never felt before as he did this one, escaped his lips, and the shade of Jugotai winged its way to the winds.
Shuvar's song stopped, there was silence over the battlefield. Then came the wailing of the women. They were not sure just who had died but the songwas enough to blend their own grief into that of Shuvar's. They wailed and the surviving Hun prisoners shivered in fear.
Casca released Jugotai's hand, having to pry loose the old man's fingers.
With one hand he wiped the tears from his face and spoke softly to the still warm corpse below him.
'Come darkness, come peace. Welcome death!' He didn't know if the words were for Jugotai, for himself, or for both.
Shuvar touched Casca's shoulder and made a request that Casca honored. It was the son and the father's right.
Indemeer rode up with Shirkin, calling Casca aside to give him the after-action report. Casca told them to take care of the details and the wounded. He didn't want to stay here any longer; they would leave this day. The wounded would remain to be cared for by the Kushanites until they were well enough to return.
Once more, he rode away from the city, this time going to the west. Leading his army slowly, they began to climb back to the pass leading to the capital city of Persia. He stopped once briefly, on the hill from where they'd watched the Huns attack, and looked back at the walled city.
He knew what would be taking place below, even though he could not see clearly. The dark was coming now. He knew that four thousand Hun prisoners were being put to the sword, forced to kneel as teams of executioners decapitated them.
Shuvar's request was being honored and four thousand Huns would be laid in one massive grave, their heads between their hands. The Huns would be Jugotai's slaves in the afterlife.
Casca slowly moved his charger to a place a little higher and away from the weary line of his warriors winding their way to the pass and away from Kushan. The last red glow of the sun was barely visible on the horizon.
Quietly, under his breath, he said a prayer. The first real prayer he could ever remember making.
'Jesus, if you are the Son of God as You professed, and You do have the power of eternal life beyond, then hear me. Though by no choice of my own we are enemies, and You will not show me mercy or grant me peace, then so be it. But if You will, grant me this. Take the spirit of the one below, for he is a good man and deserves your peace that you promise.'
Then, in spite of himself, he made one last personal plea, whispering.
'When will I have peace?'
The answer came with the rustling of the leaves on the trees. Gently, softly, words that only he could hear. This time he thought he heard a trace of sadness in the voice.
'When We Meet Again…'
THIRTEEN
Casca returned to Nev-Shapur, this time not participating in the triumphant entry with his troops. There had been too much sadness with this expedition and he was content to leave the glory of the victory to Indemeer and Shirkin, who'd served as his surrogates in the procession.
As the army was entering the main gates he went through the side entrance to make his report to the King. After he'd finished he asked permission to go home and was granted it.
