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.
Indemeer bowed, accepting the responsibility and advising Casca that it would be wise to have a strong escort in his return. Many of the Huns that had escaped were now broken up into parties of varying sizes and scattered to the winds. There could be some behind them and it would probably be, Indemeer warned, at least a week or two before the last Hunnish forces could be rounded up and wiped out.
Casca agreed and Indemeer assigned a detachment of two hundred light archers to escort him back to the capital. The archers were under the command of young Shirkin who had not, as of yet, the full-grown beard favored by the Persians. It would still be a year or two before the dark fuzz turned into a proper growth. But Casca had noticed the young officer in battle. The youth had displayed a cool mind.
He had husbanded his forces and kept them from overextending themselves and being cut offfrom the main body. His courage was evident from the number of minor wounds he had received in the fight. His left arm, Casca could see, was nursing a saber cut almost to the bone and Casca knew the youngster had experienced agony from the red-hot iron used to cauterize the wound and keep it from corrupting.
Shirkin's face showed no sign of fever. His eyes were clear, though he did wince from pain now and then when his horse made too sudden a move.
They left the valley in formation, with scouts and skirmishers out. Half of their small force was utilized in this capacity while the rest rode in two ranks along the road. At midday they switched off, the outriders coming in to take up the ranks on the road while their comrades took their turn out front among the rocks and barren ground. Even when they switched it was not done all at once. In turn, one element would come in, then another. This way, they could not be caught by surprise with all their forces on the road and no scouts out.
As they rode from the place of slaughter they could see birds by the thousands flying over them, heading back from where the riders had come. Kites and vultures. Somehow they knew that ahead lay a place where food could be had. Even packs of jackals could be seen furtively scurrying between the scrub brush and rocks, making for the feast. Casca knew that before two days had passed there would be nothing left of the Huns' remains but scraps of cloth, fur, and scattered bones to whiten in the sun.
One of the outriders came at a gallop, his horse lathering at the chest and mouth. He reined up infront of Casca and Shirkin.
"Lord, I have sighted a band of Huns heading to the north of us. I think they are making for the river crossing."
"How many?" Shirkin beat Casca to the question.