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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 stan-dards 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
antici-pated 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, theYueh-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 night-ly custom, visit different quarters
of the city. In ev-ery house, the inhabitants were doing what they could to
aid the
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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 slaugh-tered.
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 peo-ple. 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.
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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 some-one
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
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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.
He drained his bowl of thin soup quickly, it wastasteless anyway. Well, he
thought, if they were to die, then he could have no better sword companion by
his side than Jugotai, Master of the Horse for the
Kushanite Empire. Death will come when and where it will. The best they could
do was to meet it as honorable men who d done their duty and had been true to
themselves and their oaths.
He excused himself, leaving his father to his thoughts, and went to see about
his own men. They were guarding the section of the wall by the gate that
opened to the road leading to the Kabul River, and on to the greatTarim basin
and beyond.
Now, over the hill that Jugotai had been eyeing from the wall earlier, another
warrior was taking his meal on horseback. It was Boguda,Touman of the clan of
the White River. He was watching the captives his men had rounded up. There
were women, children, and old men only. All men, and boys that were strong
enough to pull a bow or swing a sword, had been slain. He would send no
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warriors to the wall, only the weak. Starving war-riors might just turn around
and fight.
Boguda was tall for one of his race. Even with his twisted legs, he stood
nearly six feet tall. His strength was the pride of his tribe, and he used it
freely. His favorite method of executing prisoners was snapping their necks.
He would grab their heads between his hands, raising them from the ground,then
shaking them until the bones cracked. Then, he would laugh and twist their
heads in half a circle until they faced the rear, while crying out loudly to
the unhearing corpses, You will never have to worry about what comes at you
from the rear now. The joke never failed to elicit a properresponse of
laughter from his warriors. Who ever said that Huns had no sense of humor?
The women begged for food for their babies, ex-posing their breasts, hoping
one of the Hun war-riors would exchange a piece of cheese or a crust of bread
for their bodies.
But it was a futile gesture. The Huns took what they wanted and never paid for
it. The women and young girls had been raped repeatedly. Any soldier who was
not on duty was authorized by Boguda to have one at will.
Boguda watched from his position for a few minutes longer and ordered ten of
the prisoners killed for making too much noise. He wanted quiet so he could
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