Camp was made, pickets set out, and scouts sent far away to keep watch for any signs that the Huns were approaching their camp area.
Casca ordered that there would be no campfires that night. For as long as possible, he wanted the Huns to be unaware of their presence. Still, he knew that a warm meal was important for the morale of his troops, so he let the cooks remain at the foot of the pass with their cooking pots. The winds there would whisk away any smoke and the fires could be well concealed in the boulders. One detachment of men at a time, they made their way to the cooking area to fill their bowls and eat. It wasn't as good as the men would have liked, but it was better than cold mutton and bread.
Casca had the men set his command tent up near the pond where he and Jugotai had rested on their way to Kushan. He walked the picket line twice that night to assure himself that none of his sentries were sleeping on duty. Twice, his outriders had come back in to report. They had seen nothing other than a giant glow on the horizon, probably a burning village, he thought.
Casca checked in on Indemeer to see how the oldman was faring. Indemeer's face had regained most of its color and he seemed to be breathing much easier. Casca was relieved; he liked the old war-horse a lot, and needed him and his support. Indemeer lazily asked of Casca how much farther they had to go before reaching Kushan.
"Four, perhaps five days at the most, old friend. From here on in we go in triple columns, as long as the terrain permits, that is. I don't want us to get strung out to the point that there's a possibility that our lead or trailing elements could be cut off."
He knew the Huns were skilled at the old tactic of attacking the leading element and then, when the rear rushed up in aid of their comrades, the Huns would desist and wait for them to spread out again, attacking the rear next and forcing the front to double back and give assistance. These tactics caused considerable wear and tear on the men and the animals and could slow a march nearly to a standstill. By using three lines of march he would be able to counter an attack without having his men rushing back and forth. If one line was assaulted they would fall back on their nearest supporting line. Should the Huns be stupid enough to attack between the columns, they'd be trapped inside. Indemeer nodded, smiling in admiration of his commander's battle savvy. Casca bade him to have a good night.
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.