There was food enough in the walled city of Kushan to feed the people inside for another three weeks. Then, if relief did not come, either from their armies to the south, or from their Persian allies, he would have no choice but to go out and do battle and hope for the best. That hope, he knew, was slim, for they were outnumbered three to one. Even that was a lesser fear right now than the one the Huns had in store for them. They intended to drive the starving villagers to the walls of the city, give them ladders, and set them free to scale the walls.
Jugotai's problem was simple. If he allowed them to enter, they, in their vast numbers, would consume the food and supplies on hand so fast that their end would come in three days instead of three weeks. His other choice was to kill them. He shook his graying head, looking older than his fifty-two years. It was hard to consider killing your own people when all they wanted was bread for their children and water for themselves. He was also aware that if he ordered them shot down, he'd run short of spears and arrows to do the job, and again deplete his supply needed so badly against the Huns later. The Huns would come, he knew, when the starving thousands were swarming up the walls. Surely they would use that time to mount an attack of their own. Jugotai could not spread his men out to where they could handle forty thousand starving people and still beat the Huns back. No, his was aproblem that had no answer. Perhaps it would be better to open the gates and have the entire city march out to die, at least it would be over with quickly.
A hand at his shoulder brought him around quickly. The handsome face of his warrior son, Shuvar, the pride of his life, stood beside him, bow in hand. He knew what terrible thoughts were plaguing his father and it hurt him to know that he could only offer the touch of his hand in consolation. But his father knew that it was Shuvar's way of telling him he was ready to do whatever his father said, trusting that it was the best they could do, even if it meant killing their own people. Yes, command was a lonely thing, but he was glad his son was back.
Shuvar had returned from Chin after an absence of two years. His mission to secure an alliance with the peoples behind the Great Wall had failed. His pleas had fallen on deaf ears. The nations of Chin were involved in a great struggle for power among themselves. One nation, one brother fighting another. They had no time, Shuvar had learned, for anything other than their own problems. Though they listened to him courteously, neither of the three kings would spare the men or equipment to mount a campaign to reduce the growing threat of the Huns. Each had told him to return when the wars were over and they would listen again.
Shuvar hadn't thought at the time that he'd live to return to them, and even if he did, he thought it would most likely be too late to do any good. The Huns had added tens of thousands of their standards in the last few years. They'd absorbed onetribe after another, turning them into partners. He'd returned to Kushan, sadly telling his father that they'd refused to listen. Jugotai had anticipated it and consoled him, praising his efforts.
Shuvar and his father, who still clung to the old style hair-dress of the warriors of his tribe, the Yueh-chih, the scalp lock reaching almost to mid-back, now gray with years, went silently down the stairs of stone that led to the streets of the city below. He knew they would, as was Jugotai's nightly custom, visit different quarters of the city. In every house, the inhabitants were doing what they could to aid the fighters on the ramparts. Arrows were being made. Bronze, copper, and iron were being gathered to take to the smelters to be turned into spear and arrow heads.
Every able-bodied man and stripling in the city took their turn on the wall. But still, it was not enough. Normally there would have been about twenty thousand living inside the walls of Kushan, now there were about thirty thousand. Refugees that had entered to escape the wrath of the Huns outside had swollen their numbers, but nearly all of these were women and children that would be of little use in battle. They only served to deplete their stock of food a little faster. There were not even dogs, cats, or rats to be seen on the streets; all had gone into the cooking pots.
Jugotai had fought against the wishes of some of the other commanders to have the horses slaughtered. True, they would help to feed the city for a few more days, but would leave them without mounts if they had to go out and fight, or go to the assistance of their rescuers, if they ever came. No, the horses were not to be slain, but he'd ordered all sick, lame, and old animals to be given to the people. The fighting animals were to be well looked after.
They passed the reclining figures of Buddha, the small smile on the lips of each patient, gentle effigy with all the time of stone on its side. Time to be patient with the follies of man.
Jugotai's old body held a touch of rheumatism from the years he'd spent in the saddle riding from one war to another. But his back was straight and no flab dangled from beneath his upper arms, as was common of men his age. They were still strong arms of sinew that could draw back a bow to the ear, sending its deadly shaft through an iron helmet and into the brain of an enemy warrior.
Jugotai was a warrior of a race of warriors, and he was determined to die as one. These problems of state and politics he wished he could leave to someone else, someone wiser than he. Jugotai was a man who enjoyed taking orders. Issue them and he would obey. But there were none here to rule. Kidara, the King, suffered from the dropping sickness, and his mind grew weaker and feebler by the day. His son, who should be making the decisions, was leading the armies to the south.
Shuvar interrupted his thoughts.
"Father, perhaps one of our messengers got through and relief is coming from Persia. Shapur is a tyrant, it's true, but he does need us to guard his eastern reaches. He cannot let us fall, Father. He has to send aid, or lose credibility with the other nations that have accepted him as overlord. Yes, Father, the Persians will come!"
Jugotai nodded his head in agreement.
"Yes, my son. But will they come in time? The hours of survival grow very small."
They entered the palace, acknowledging the salute of the guards. Passing through the stone halls, they entered Jugotai's office. Once it had served as the office of a man from Chin that had advised the king, Kidara III-Tsun-tai, a wise and gentle man who had been kind to Jugotai when he'd rode into Kushan with the Roman soldier, Casca.
Casca! He'd heard that Casca was serving the Great King in Persia now, but he must be very old. He had hoped to see the Roman again but it seemed that something was forever interfering with his going to him. Now it was not likely that they would ever meet again. He grinned, remembering that Shuvar had told him of meeting his old friend in the desert, and of him saving his life. But Shuvar had told him that the man looked not to be over thirty years of age. Impossible, but children think anyone over a certain age all look alike.
He and his son would eat their one meal of the day now, here in his office, in silence, together. A thin soup, made from the cracked bones of some animal, he knew not what. He didn't like to think about what it might be. Already he had heard rumors that the flesh of humans could be bought in the market.
Shuvar was worried about his father, but he was glad that the defense of the city was not his own, though he would have gladly taken the load from his father to himself if he could have.