Casca 53: The Last Defender, page 7
Helena nodded. “Easter is just a few days away and they always hold a big dance then. But I have nobody to go with,” she looked wistful.
“Then I’ll be your escort,” Casca said.
“You? But you’re a common soldier… oh! I’m sorry I didn’t mean to …”
Casca grinned. “Well, I’m a common soldier, but don’t worry, I told you I’ve some influence. If I can arrange for you and your old man to go to a banquet I damn well can arrange to attend an Easter Dance!”
“Oh, yes! I’d love to!” she breathed, “but don’t let my father know, he’d burst a blood vessel.”
“No worries there, lady. So that’s settled, I’ll see you definitely in three days when we have the dance, but certainly before that. I’ll let you know.” He leaned forward, taking her shoulders, and put his lips to hers.
She was kissed deeply, her breath taken away. Once or twice before she had been kissed by men, more as a dare or experiment than affection, but this was nothing like those times. Oh, God! This was unbelievable! She closed her eyes, pressed herself to him and put her arms around his neck. She remained like that for who knows how long before he gently pulled back.
“Until the next time, Helena.”
“Yes,” she said automatically, still tingling from the kiss. She turned and walked up to her front door and turned once to wave to him. He grinned, waved back, and turned into the darkness and walked away.
That night, she dreamed of things that would have shocked her father and mother, and probably herself of a few days back. But now she had a man and wanted badly to feel his presence more and more.
____
The Turkish vanguard approached the city, black garbed soldiers with tall cloth caps, carrying standards portraying the crescent moon of Islam. These were not Janissaries, the elite Turkish corps, but nonetheless were well trained men. They were of Anatolian stock, proud men from the powerful Anatolian nobility, the traditional Turkish army’s recruiting ground.
They looked with disdain on those from the European - Rumelian - parts of the Ottoman Empire. To these soldiers, the Rumelians were not of pure Turkish stock, but those whose bloodlines were tainted with Greek, Serbian or Bulgarian ancestry. It was not even a century since the Ottomans had crossed into Europe and conquered the lands of Thrace, Bulgaria and Serbia, so the memories of a pure Turkish army still lingered in their minds.
One of those present, Ahmet Pasha, hailed from the Turkish city of Iznik, formerly the Byzantine Nicea. His was a proud family, tracing its lines all the way back to Osman, founder of the dynasty of Ottoman. When Nicea had been captured and renamed Iznik in 1331, his family had set down roots there and transformed from a nomadic way of life to a settled one. Now he was the latest example of fine military servants the Ottomans could call upon.
Ahmet commanded a unit of one hundred men. He was a battalion commander with the rank of Chorbaji, a title meaning ‘soup-ladler’. Turkish military units valued the soup carrier greatly, for was it not true the expression that an army marched on its stomach? He was very proud of his title and his family bathed in the glory that Ahmet shone.
His was the leading detachment of soldiers to approach the infidel city, to carry out the initial survey of the land around and arrange sites for the mighty cannons to rest. They also had to direct the sappers to begin their undermining operations so it was vital to secure the land in front of the walls quickly.
They were full of pride and hope, and they were totally of the belief that the city would surrender to them when the size of the besieging force was known to them. Drummers beat on their animal skin drums, pipers blew out a martial song and cymbals crashed and tambourines shook. Ah! To be part of the Sultan’s army was a great thing!
Suddenly all went quiet.
Ahmet pushed to the front and stared at the sight in front of him. Just visible were the battlements of Constantinople, their destination, but standing in front of them were a number of defenders, all waiting silently for them. Was this a previously unknown army the heretics had raised? No, they numbered perhaps seventy.
The Turk strode forward a couple of paces, waving his standard bearer to come with him. Arrogantly he stood there and stared at the Greeks. “Go back to your kennels, dogs. Go back and tell your master to open the gates and allow us entry, for we are the first of many and we will surely smash down your walls.”
The Greeks in front of him remained where they were. Then a man stepped out from their ranks and sauntered up to him, a grin all over his scarred ugly face. Ahmet’s hand reached for his scimitar just in case the enemy tried anything, but he halted ten yards away, still grinning. Then, incredibly, he greeted him in a classic Islamic way, putting his hand to his chest, lips and forehead, bowing as he did so. “May the blessing of Allah be upon you this day.”
Ahmet stood open mouthed. A Byzantine who spoke fluent and faultless idiomatic Turkish! There was no accent either. A strange individual indeed. Perhaps a renegade Turk from one of the Rumelian provinces, judging by his light-coloured eyes.
Ahmet, too well-mannered in Islamic ways not to respond, returned the greeting. “It is strange meeting a traitor before one of the greatest moments in the history of Islam. Why do you side with those who are going to lose?”
Casca grunted at Ahmet’s words. “I have studied the teachings of the Prophet, yet I am not a follower of the Way. I am not a native of the Sultan’s lands, so I am not a traitor. I have made a free choice to stand here today to stop this city from being plundered by your savage army.”
Ahmet scowled. Such disrespect, indeed! “You speak well yet your manners are lacking. No more to be expected from a Christian.”
“I am not a Christian. I follow no religion.”
By Allah! No religion? Then he has no soul. Perhaps a demon? He turned and beckoned Haji Kulu, the dervish that accompanied his troops, forward. Haji, a fanatical man with burning eyes and a thin frame, eagerly came to his commander. Any chance to spit in the faces of Christians was not to be passed up.
Ahmet faced Casca again. “Are you a demon?”
Casca guffawed. He turned and repeated the question to his men in Greek who began to shake with laughter. Ahmet’s face darkened. To be laughed at by infidels before a great battle! Such ignominy! “Haji, cleanse this animal!”
Haji waited not a second more. Stepping out he began to wave in the air and chant nasally, turning round on his heel every few seconds or so. The Greeks stopped laughing and watched the spectacle, fascinated. Casca, bored, waited with hands on hips for a few moments before shaking his head and stepping up to the dervish. He sent a meaty fist down onto Haji’s head which sent the dervish crashing to the ground, knocked clean out. The Greeks burst out laughing again.
Ahmet nearly choked in fury. “You beast! You attack one of Allah’s chosen servants in prayer? Have you no respect?”
“Not to an asshole like that. Now go back to your commander and tell him we are not going to surrender. If he don’t like that, well he can stick it somewhere he don’t like. May Allah piss in your soup.”
The Turk stamped in white hot anger. This vermin would pay for such irreverence and disrespect. Without checking to see if Casca had returned to his men or not he stamped back to his lines and ordered his tufenki or hand gunners, to form a line to shoot a volley into the massed ranks of Greeks.
Casca saw what was happening and called out to his archers to begin shooting, making sure he was back in their lines before the shooting started. Now the hand gunners took time to load and prepare their shot, so that by the time fuses were in place arrows were falling amongst them, cutting down the few gunners that the Turkish force had. Ahmet screamed in frustration and ordered a general attack, yelling out to Allah and Mohammed to give him strength to destroy these hated Christian pigs.
“Here they come, boys,” Casca said, motioning for the archers to step back behind the spearmen who now stood to the fore, weapons pointing at the onrushing foe. The Turks ran at them, yelling strange cries and making odd hollering noises in an attempt to unnerve the defenders, but Casca had warned them all about this before he had led them out of the city. Standing by his side were Rafael and Martin, each armed with crossbows. It had been a deliberate decision to leave behind their guns as they didn’t want the enemy to see their full range of weaponry before the siege began in earnest.
The spearmen took the first charge stolidly, stepping back a pace or two with the force, but they stood firm despite the pressure. A few Greeks fell to well aimed scimitar blows, but most of those that fell were Turks. With a deep clacking noise the two Italians let fly their crossbows, skewering two more screaming Turks. Casca raised his sword and yelled: “now at ‘em, lads!”
With great cries the Greco-Italian force advanced, spears to the fore, swords behind. The losses the Turks had received now put them in the minority and as one they gave ground. Paradise may be a beautiful place to go after falling in battle against the infidel, but many were not quite ready yet thank-you to go there. Ahmet led the retreat back up the road towards the next detachment that was approaching, shouting out that they were under attack from a hostile force.
Casca, seeing the next wave of the enemy, decided one victory was better than a victory and a defeat, and gave the order to fall back across the great ditch in front of the walls. As his troops fell back in good order the mercenary spotted a fallen spear. Picking it up he hefted it and aimed at the first of the approaching enemy. Although the distance was far, he had thrown such lengths before, surprising many an enemy. Taking in a deep breath he held it, then expelled it in one huge go as he threw the weapon.
The missile arced through the air and plunged down towards the shocked Turk. The victim had barely time to register his life was in danger before the metal point burrowed into his chest, sending him crashing back to the ground. He lay there, the spear pointing up to the sky, his companions staring at the spectacle in shock. No-one could throw that far!
Casca was the last one back through the gate which was locked and bolted behind him. His men were chatting excitedly amongst themselves at the small victory they had gained. Losses were light, only five killed and seven wounded, and they gauged enemy losses to be around forty.
Still, all knew it was but a drop in the ocean.
CHAPTER NINE
EASTER
The Christian year has two great feasts that stand out above all others: Christmas, when the birth of the prophet Jesus is celebrated; and Easter, when the resurrection of the same prophet is remembered.
For the people of Constantinople, this particular Easter was overshadowed by the spectre of the besieging army which was increasing in size daily. Sorties by the defenders had brought some limited successes, but as the main force of the enemy was yet to arrive, these had little effect. Nevertheless, preparations went on and masses were held for all to attend. The great church of Hagia Sofia remained half empty however, as the native Greek orthodox clergy shunned it, stating that as Union between Eastern and Western churches had been announced within its walls and a Western - heretical - mass had been said therein, they would not go there until the Catholics had left.
To Casca this was all churlish. Believers of one God should worship together, not squabble amongst themselves. Hades; in the old Roman days one could worship whatever god or gods one liked and not be whipped, tortured and publicly ridiculed. It seemed to him that to be a Christian meant you had to have little or no tolerance for any other point of view. Bigoted lot. At least the Moslems allowed you to carry on with your religion, and Mehmet had already stated he would allow the Orthodox Church to continue. He had already earmarked a Patriarch, a man called Gennadius who was a known opponent of Union. That would be an improvement on the Greeks current situation. They could not agree on a Patriarch to head the church of Eastern Christendom, and the Russians, the latest converts to the Orthodox fold, were making noises about appointing one of their own in Moscow, their new capital.
The Saturday before Easter Sunday was when the dance was held. Casca donned his imperial outfit he’d wrangled out of Phrantzes, a smart uniform of an officer of the Guard, and escorted Helena into the hall. Helena giggled to Casca about how her father’s expression had been when the letter signed by Phrantzes from the Palace had arrived, inviting her attendance to the banquet and dance. Her father had queried why she was being invited and by whom. The messenger had stated it was at the behest of an officer in the Greek Guard, and that had shut the old man up for a moment, then he’d become insistent as to whom this man was. Helena had told him it was someone she’d met a few days back and he wasn’t to worry. Still, he’d grumbled about being left on his own but she’d told him not to fuss and she’d be back the following morning.
Many dignitaries were present, including Giustianini, and the Genoese received quite a surprise when he saw his sergeant attired so.
The mercenary captain had a lovely woman on his arm and introduced her as Maria Selymbus, a widowed woman who lived in the palace as a lady of the court. Even though there may not be an Empress, the imperial posts for one would remain.
“You surprise me daily, Longini” the Genoese murmured. “Are there any more up your sleeve?”
“If you stay around me long enough, you might see more,” Casca grinned. “But you’ll have to excuse me, I intend to reserve any surprises this evening for my escort.”
Giustianini smiled knowingly. He had similar plans.
To Helena the evening was as a dream. She remained close to the man who she regarded as hers now, and she had no objections when he whispered in her ear close to the end of the dance that he had a room in the palace and would she like to accompany him to it. Her heart pounded as he led her up a staircase and along a couple of corridors, away from the sounds of music and voices.
He stopped outside a door and unlocked it before gesturing her in. Candles flickered as the door closed and a fire crackled in one wall, bringing warmth and light to the room. The chamber was dominated by a huge bed with screens, and in the other part of the room a large wardrobe and drawer set stood against an entire wall. Rich thick curtains hung to the floor, hiding the windows, attesting to the richness of the quarters.
“Oh, how beautiful” she gasped. Her house had little in the way of luxuries.
Casca responded by kissing her on the neck, bringing an involuntary sigh from her. She leaned against him, eyes shut, savouring the lips of the man against her skin. He lifted her up and carried her to the bed, allowing her to sink into its soft folds. “Oohh, it’s so comfortable!” she exclaimed, lying back in pleasure. Casca slid over to her, his mouth tracing a path from her lips down her chin, neck and throat, to the top of her dress.
Helena caught her breath as she felt the buttons being undone. For a man as bulky as he and as rough as he appeared, he was incredibly gentle. As her dress came undone he moved down to parts of her body another man had never seen, let alone touch.
Casca knew he had to take his time. Most of the women he had been with were whores and expected nothing but a quickie. Taking time with a whore was not good business, for time was money. But Helena was no prostitute. She had no previous experience and if things were left the most likely initial experience with a man would either be with a Latin or a Turk. The Turk would probably rape her while the Latin not bother with such considerations as foreplay. The average western soldier’s idea of foreplay was ‘lie down I love you’, and their approach to sex was much the same as their battle techniques: attack, thrust, move on to the next one.
In his time, the Roman had bedded many women from many lands, and he had found the further east one went the better the women were at lovemaking. Perhaps this was because they educated their men better. He had certainly benefited from their teachings, and used it to great effect on western women who found his ways far better than the boorish men they were used to.
He now had Helena naked to the waist and was clearly enjoying the whole thing and moaned and groaned, writhing in pleasure beneath him.
As he carried on bringing new pleasures to her, she gradually realised that there was something every man had that her friends had talked about in times gone past. They had mentioned this ‘thing’ all men carried inside their trousers and what they could do with it. Helena had been shocked at the time but now had a sudden insatiable desire to see if the tales had been true or false.
His robe was open and she plunged both hands inside, feeling around the silken breeches. Suddenly she stopped, feeling an incredibly hard part of him beneath the material. “Oh, my God!” she breathed.
“Here, let me help,” Casca muttered, sliding his breeches down and shrugging off the robe. Naked, his body could now be seen to contain hundreds of scars, all criss-crossing each other.
For the moment she forgot what she had wanted to see. “By the sweet Lord Jesus! Your body!”
“Is fine. Battle scars of the past, none of which did me much harm.” Not really, like the one in his chest the priest had left after ripping his heart out at the ‘sacrifice’, or the one left him by the Persian soldier’s pike on the banks of the Euphrates. He took her hand and guided it to where she hardly dared to on her own.
Helena thought for a moment she’d faint. It sent a fire through her loins that spread up her body.
Then he was moving again, down her body, using centuries of experience to build her to a climax so that she was digging her hands into the sheets and crying out in ecstasy. No sooner had he stopped then he was on top of her again, pulling her over onto his stomach as he rolled. Both were now completely naked, she knelt astride him, straddling his loins, feeling his hardness against her.
“Take your time,” he smiled at her, easing his manhood against her loins. Slowly she sank down on it, feeling a sharp pain for a moment, then it had passed and a deep throbbing pleasure pushed up through her. Incredibly, she managed to accommodate all of him, even though she had doubted it at first sight.
