Casca 22: The Mongol Read Online Free

sweet dates of Samarkand, figs from the Colchis Mountains, and jars of sweet honey from the mountain bees of Tarbagatai. All of these delicacies were kept relatively clear of a coating of flies and gnats by constant sweeping with horsetail whisks by the vendors. This was not done for any sanitary reason. If they had not kept the insects constantly moving, no one would have been able to see their wares.
    None paid much attention to the gaunt, ragged boy as he wandered through the stalls and crowds of nomads. Past jongleurs and soothsayers of many kinds, those who read the burned, cracked bones of sheep and those who sat in the dust rocking on their heels as they stared into the high, clear sun and spoke with distant voices of the customers' futures.
    He would have tried to steal something to eat, but to do so and be caught would mean at least a public whipping. That he would not chance; it was not as if he had not had food recently. He had become a master at snaring hares and desert rodents, though without salt they had little to offer in the way of taste. It was therefore with reluctance and discontent after seeing the delicacies of the bazaar that he found a place outside the bustle of the camp to eat his last piece of cold, half-raw partridge. A well-cast stone two days earlier had provided him with the morsel, and this was the last of it. At least it had aged enough that it had a bit of flavor to it. Licking his fingers, not to clean them but to obtain the last bit of thin grease clinging to them, he smiled. The gods or fortune would provide. Of that he was certain, for did he not have a great and glorious future awaiting him?
    The gathering would last at least five days; somewhere in that time he felt that chance would present itself to him. Perhaps he would find one who wandered off alone, drunk from the partaking of too much kumass or the unaccustomed wine of Chin or Persia. Or there could be one who would leave the gathering early, then he would be able to ambush him and thereby gain for himself a horse and valuables. Patience was all that was needed.
    He sat himself to wait between a row of yurts where there was shade. In the afternoon there would be combat between men, wrestlers, and perhaps even swordplay. He enjoyed that almost as much as the buzkashi, where opposing teams tried to take the carcass of a calf from one end of a field to the other. It was not uncommon for men to be trampled to death by enthusiastic players as they whipped their horses back and forth across the field, each tugging at the carcass of the headless calf, often tearing it in two with their efforts. During this time riders would even trample one of their own team if he was between them and the headless calf. The one who had the largest portion of the animal was the one everyone else went after, whipping at his face and hands, attempting to make him drop it. The only restriction to the game was that only horse whips could be used. No edged weapons or clubs were permitted. A good sport for warriors, but that was not scheduled till four days hence. It would be the last real event of import during the gathering, something to talk about for another season during the long winter nights and on the endless treks as the nomads followed the animals from pasture to pasture in search of grazing lands. The game would be retalked and critiqued ten thousand times before the next gathering.
     
    Zhoutai led the way. Casca, in his black, shapeless woman's dress, hands and feet chained, escorted by two of Zhoutai's men, followed after him. He tried to ignore the jibes and vulgarities cast at him as they passed through the crowd, waiting for the sport to begin. Zhoutai was pleased that the audience did not take his entry very seriously. It would drive the odds up. Already he had made several wagers at very favorable points, and there would be more before he took the woman's dress off his animal.
    The site of the event was near the bazaar, no more than a slight