The order of march, when they broke camp the following morning, was as he'd told Indemeer. His officers listened, making suggestions. Some were accepted, some were not. The hundred small details of any army somehow sorted themselves out when they moved.
Three weaving tendrils of men and animals moved through the valley floor towards Kushan. Casca had the infantry hold to the tails of the horses to help pull them along. This would increase their distance and, with a little practice, they would be able to cover thirty or even forty miles a day, depending on the terrain.
Casca took up a position in the center line while Indemeer commanded the left. The right file was led by the young officer, Shirkin, who had accompanied Casca on his first encounter with the Huns under the standards of Shapur. Casca had promoted him to the rank of regimental commander after that battle, pissing off some of the senior officers.
But Casca knew the young man's capabilities and he also wanted a few reliable men around him that owed him a debt of gratitude. He'd much rather have someone on his side that served out of loyalty rather than just being paid for their services.
Three times on the march, they came across evidence of the Huns' presence. Burned villages lay in their path and the ever-present signs of death, trademark of the Huns. Most of them, he could see, had not died easily. The Kushanites were a fierce and proud people and, even when surprised and outnumbered, they fought like devils. The women were damned near as mean as their men. They'd all been raised in a hostile land and each knew well the use of weapons. They'd learned in childhood. Evidence of their bravery was made clear to Casca and his men when they came across the corpse of a small boy no more than eight or ten years old. The boy's body had been trampled beneath the hooves of the Hunnish horses and yet, near his hand, was his lance. It was broken in two, the spear end lying a few feet away from the butt, with dried blood on its tip. The youngster had most likely set the butt in the ground and, when the Hun had rode over him, he'd speared him in the gut.
He hated leaving the bodies out there exposed, where they would be picked at by vultures and other animals, but he knew he didn't have time for the dead right now, he was more concerned with their living relatives and friends, fighting the Huns in Kushan. He knew the living needed him and his warriors more than their dead. They rode on. Three days passed.
They were nearing Kushan now, and several times his outriders had reported they had seen bands of foraging Huns, but in obeyance of his orders had hidden themselves and had made no attempt to engage them. Indemeer made the observation that if the Huns were ranging out this far, a one and two-day march, they surely must be short of food and supplies. Could this mean that the city was still holding on, forcing the Huns to go in search of food around the countryside? Food that they expected to get easily in Kushan? It must be!
When Casca received word that the city was only a half-day march by foot, he called a halt. Making good use of the available cover, which was plentiful here, he ordered his men to conceal themselves. They were careful, using the pines and gulleys to hide themselves and their animals. Two of his junior officers, full of piss and vigor, impatiently asked as to why they were not going directly to the aid of the city they had ventured so many miles tosave. This time Casca let Shirkin answer. The reason for this maneuver was similar to when he'd moved his forces to the other valley when they'd destroyed the Huns with the trick of suicide. Shirkin was a quick study and he'd use his brains instead of his emotions. He'd be a good general one day. "Answer the question, Shirkin!"
Shirkin informed the junior officers that it would be stupid to rush into battle before several things were done. First, they didn't know the disposition and condition of their enemy. How many were at the walls? How many were in the camps? Where were the locations of the Khans of the tribe? Also, our own men needed rest before going into battle; tired soldiers were ineffective and they'd suffer more casualties without rest. Shirkin ordered them both to return to their commands and think of the many reasons why the enemy should not be engaged today. He further ordered each to make a report to him before they broke camp the following morning. Indemeer and Casca nodded with approval. Shirkin was doing just fine.
This night, as was the case in the past five days, it was to be a cold camp. No fires on pain of death and Casca's wrath. Any sentry who fell asleep on duty would lose his head to the ax.
It was a restless camp that night. The anticipation of the morrow's events bothered all.
Some would die, others would live. Many would be maimed and crippled forever. But such is war and the ways of it. Man's ultimate insanity, one for which there is no cure.
Throughout the night, the old-timers, warriors who'd seen much battle, passed on tricks and suggestions to the others who were going into battle for the first time. Giving them bits of advice that just might save their lives. The young ones listened carefully. Lucky charms and fetishes were brought out, amulets of all kinds. ThoughAhura-mazda was the supreme deity of Persia, several men made offers to different gods. It couldn't hurt, could it? Wine was spilled on the earth to honor Zeus. A crippled horse was slaughtered for food and dedicated to Ares. These gods were holdovers from centuries of Greek rule and people did not lightly rid themselves of their gods or fears. It was always best to play it safe and there was safety in numbers.
Casca had no gods. He was not given even that small comfort. Though he still used their names in speech, from long practice, he didn't believe that Jupiter or Zeus were real any more thanAhura-mazda was, or the evil one of the Persian gods, Ahriram.
About Jesus, he was unsure. The Jew had possessed powers, that was clear, but was he truly the Son of God? And if so, what God? Or, was Jesus some kind of evil spirit? Casca did believe that there was a force beyond his comprehension but exactly what it was he was sure he'd never know, even though he'd lived a dozen centuries or more. He did believe in the soul, the thing that lived on after the body was no more than an empty husk. Perhaps, as he'd heard from some devotees of different gods, the spirit lived on, waiting to be reborn again in a different body. Perhaps that was the way Jesus would return. He would have to keep his ears open. One day they would meet again, of that he had no doubt.
He put these thoughts behind, trying to concentrate on the battle ahead. But it was no use planning now, he needed more intelligence. That, he would have in the morning when his scouts returned with the disposition of the Huns and their movements. Until then, he would do better to get what little sleep he could. Rolling himself up in his saddle blanket, he slept under the clear, open sky. There would be no tent for him tonight. They were too close now and events could change things in a matter of seconds.
TEN
Jugotai looked out over the ramparts at the circling Huns, riding beneath their standards of yak tails and human skulls. They hadn't been strong enough to break into the city or mount its thirty-foot walls. But neither had the Kushanite forces the strength to drive them off. The time was near when a decision would be made either way.
He knew what the Huns were doing at all times. Reports of their activities came to him from his spies and scouts that slipped over the walls at night, returning the same way to inform him of their movements. A lot of them never returned from their nightly missions, but the Huns made it a practice to toss their heads back over the walls to let those inside know of their failure.
But a few were successful and had brought news to him of their coming disaster. The Huns were rounding up every villager, man, woman, and child, that could be taken alive, and were herding them into pens to use later. From what Jugotai had learned, they now had over forty thousand of his people in those pens out of sight over the nearest hill. Out of sight, yes. But not out of sound. Hecould hear them. God, could he hear them. Starving people have a sound all their own and it can shrivel the heart of the strongest warrior when he hears it multiplied a thousand times.