Casca 3: The Warlord (5 page)

The column of hooded figures wound its way to the place of fulfillment. The devotees whipped themselves and their brothers with flails of thorns and cried out in ecstasy, the pain a drug to bring them closer to God, filling them with the pain of Jesus. They were as one with him in his agony.

They cried and wailed in fanatic fervor. The fortunate one chosen to represent Jesus as they relived his last
moments, was the most ecstatic of all. His eyes glazed, he frothed at the mouth and spoke in tongues as he labored under the weight of the cross he bore on his shoulders, the wreath of thorns stuck in his forehead let trickles of blood run their sticky course down his cheeks and clotted in the hairs of his thin beard.

God was with him. The spirit of Jesus walked with him. He knew the glory of the Messiah's pain.

Laboriously, he carried his instrument of death to the crest of the mount and there lay his burden down as his brethren begged him to forgive their sins and transgressions. Placing himself on the cross, he stretched his arms, resting them on the crossbeams, the feel of the rough wood on his skin sensual. He opened his eyes wide and screamed in pleasure, the knowledge of his certain salvation was manifest when the first spike was driven through the space between the wrist bones into the roughened wood of the cross; then again and once more he screamed as the last spike nailed his feet together. He cried out to the glory of the Lord God and to the honor that was his, to be able to experience all that the Lord Jesus did on this Holy of Holy days, to ascend and sit at the feet of the master, to be one with God himself.

His brethren whipped themselves even
more, many laying their backs open to the bone. They wailed as the cross was set into place. The scenario was almost complete. The crucified supplicant prayed not to die before the allotted time had passed. He must feel every second and minute, of the divine agony, until the final great moment which was yet to come.

The Guardians of the Blood of the Lamb threw back their hoods from their rough homespun cloaks, exposing tear-streaked faces in contorted caricatures of ecstasy as they wept for the Lamb.

"Longinus," they began to chant, the name echoing from the nearby hills. "Longinus." Over and over, in rhythm with their own heartbeats, they chanted.

Casca felt a shiver run over him as his name was called. From his place of concealment, everything was visible; the bushes he was hiding behind served only to keep him from the eyes of the Guardians. But why were they calling his name?

The answer was not long in coming. Elder Dacort approached the crucified sobbing man, wearing the uniform of the legion of two hundred years ago, complete with trappings and insignia of the Legion, the Jerusalem Garrison. His red army cloak billowed in the wind, Casca noted that the Gladius Iberius was in the proper position on the priest's right side and then in the monk's left hand he saw the pilum.

"The spear, Longinus," the monks wailed. "Have mercy!" Elder Dacort stood at the surrogate Christ's left side and raised the spear, his face wild, long beard whipping in the growing wind. Even from this
distance, Casca could see the weapon clearly, His mark was on it, where in practice, a careless lunge had left a deep scar in the wooden shaft running a foot up to the base of the metal blade.

"It's mine. It's my spear.
Where did they get it, and how?" The brother on the cross looked at his executioner in delirious pleasure. The time was near. Raising his eyes to the heavens he cried out, "O my father, why hast thou forsaken me," and shivered in pleasure.

As the mock Roman drove the spear into his side, some words were lost to Casca as the wind blew them away but several came through clear enough to make his stomach jerk in fear. . . "As you are, so you shall remain. . ."

The spear was withdrawn from the man's side and blood poured forth, covering the weapon for a foot or more down the blade.

The brethren crawled on their bellies, moaning as they slid over the stones to the base of the cross,
then rising up high enough to lick blood off the weapon and fall into a fit approaching a religious orgasm. Each in his turn, drank the blood of the crucified Lamb.

The blessed one on the cross shivered and died, his body hanging with limp arms outstretched at the shoulder sockets.

Elder Dacort in his Roman uniform held the spear above his head. Crying out, his voice almost a shriek: "Behold, the spear of Longinus, the spawn of Satan. Through the Blood of the Lamb, was he given life... life to walk the earth until the master returns. The founder of our order, Izram the Syrian, who came to join the master and became the thirteenth disciple, was at the Mount of Skulls and heard the words of the Lord Jesus that condemned the Roman dog to life. It was Izram who witnessed the blood of the Lamb touching the dog's tongue and thereby transforming him into the undying beast he is now and Izram who bought the Roman's spear from his comrades after the beast was sentenced to the mines. Izram founded our holy order and gave unto us the keeping of the most holy of relics, the Instrument of our Lord's death... the spear of Longinus. Longinus, who must walk the earth until the master comes again. May his every moment be filled with pain unbearable, prolonged through the centuries; may worms nest in his eyes and rats live in his bowels. Longinus lives through the blood of the Lamb as we shall live in Paradise through the blood of our blessed martyred brother, who has become one with the Lord Jesus. Behold the spear of the murderer, the holiest relic in our world, the gateway to heaven."

His eyes flashed as he waved the weapon above his head. "Brothers, pray with me and curse the name of Longinus, the Killer of God!"

The brethren cried tears of agony, which flowed into the dry ground and mingled with the blood of their self-inflicted wounds where they had scourged themselves. They moaned and sobbed crying out,

"Longinus, Longinus, Longinus......”

Taking the body of their brother from the cross they washed and cleansed it and reverently carried it away sobbing; the act was complete. Elder Dacort disappeared from sight while Casca watched the others at their grisly chore.

Moving from his place of concealment, he worked his way back to the shrine area and the main temple. Sand in his sandals gritted against his skin, giving him the feeling of walking on needles. Dark was coming and the horizon was bathed in a red glow that gave him the feeling of being immersed in a strange aura.

No one was present. No disciples were to be seen. Only silence, the silence of the Asian wind, blowing into the interior and whispering against the cut stone wall making the torches in their brackets dance and sway. instinctively staying close to the side of the hall, Casca moved down the corridors following the trail of lit torches to the inner sanctum of the Brothers of the Blood of the Lamb. He could now hear clearly the singing and chanting and fanatical preaching of Elder Dacort. "It must be here . . . my spear," he thought. He knew the best action he could take would be to place as much distance between himself and these fanatics as possible, but a compulsion to see the weapon closer drove him on.

Stopping at the door, he listened for any sign of life inside. Hearing nothing, he carefully drew his sword and opened the massive doors engraved with stylized emblems of the fish and crucifix. Slipping in, he closed the door behind him facing the interior, a room of not more than forty feet wide but over two hundred feet long. The stones were polished smooth from the endless tread of bare feet and knees crawling over them in supplication to reach the sacred object enshrined over the carved wooden representation of Jesus crucified. The spear, no other ornamentation was there, only bare stones which seemed to amplify the pleadings of the loyal followers of Izram, the thirteenth disciple.

Walking as if hypnotized, he saw only the spear before him, drawing him like a magnet; here was the beginning and ending of his life. His sword grip grew sweaty in his right hand and the blade increased in weight with every step, the sound of his own heart beating drummed in his ears like thunder, his breath began to come in short gasps and his feet became as lead.

The spear drew him until after what seemed like an eternity, he stood before it. The face of the crucified Christ seemed to mock him. The brass spikes through the wrists made Casca's own wrists ache as if they too were nailed to the cross. Light from the torches bounced off the spearhead, revealing traces of blood still visible, having dried to a dark stain on the blade and shaft. The spear rested on a silver bracket over the Christ. Climbing the three steps, his left hand went out slowly and fearfully, reaching, his fingers shaking.

"My spear, almost three hundred years and it is here," his fingers touched the wooden shaft and like of old, they gripped the weapon and lifted it from the silver brackets, his eyes never leaving the blade. The shaft seemed to twist and squirm in his hand, or was it his own trembling that seemed to give the weapon a life of its own? Casca's lips formed one soundless word: “Mine.”

A blinding flash of pain and darkness claimed him....

Elder Dacort stood over Casca's body and motioned the brother with the club to move
back, and bending over, took the spear from the fingers of the killer of his God and reverently placed it back into the silver bracket. Smiling to himself, the Elder Dacort had Casca carried from the sanctuary to a smaller room to the left of the main hail and laid him on the floor after first taking his weapon and placing it in a cupboard.

He then sat and waited, his blood-flecked eyes never leaving the Roman's face.

Content to wait, for after all, they had waited for the last three centuries, what matter a few more moments. For three centuries they had been waiting at this, the only bastion of the true faith. Every stone had been made by the hands of the brotherhood. They knew their duty, to keep the true faith of God. Only a chosen few were recruited to take the place of those who died, either by infirmity, accident, age or were blessed enough to take the supreme part of the act of Golgotha.

Dacort stroked his thin beard with gnarled fingers, the nails worn down to the meat from the hours he had spent on his knees scrubbing the floors of the sanctuary. The Roman uniform was back in its place, waiting for the next holy day; now, like the others, he wore his robe of homespun rough brown wool.

Casca stirred. Elder Dacort clapped his hands and two brothers appeared dressed the same as he, carrying a length of timber. They tied Casca's arms to it keeping them outstretched. Dacort would take no chances. The Roman heretic was dangerous and must not escape his punishment.

Casca awoke, his head throbbing, spots flashing before him, until his eyes finally focused upon the
Elder smiling at him from his chair. Trying to rise, Casca fell back, noting for the first time that his arms were tied.

Dacort motioned for the two brothers to raise him to the kneeling position, one on each side, they obeyed. Almost gently, they placed Casca on his knees before the Elder. The elder rose, standing gaunt and skeletal, his whole demeanor was that of a man with a sacred mission.

Pointing his finger at Casca, he said: "We have waited long for you to come, Casca Rufio Longinus."

Casca jerked.

"Yes, we know you and know you well. Through the ages you have been watched. When you slaved in the mines of Greece those long years, Brothers of the Lamb were there; when one died, another was sent to take his place. In the arena, the men who served your food were of our order, even on the benches of the warships of Rome we were there. We lost you for a time when your ship wrecked on the shores of Greece, but found you again in Parthia; lost yet again when you crossed the Rhine, but we knew you would return. Always we have waited and now, Praise the Lamb! You are here." Dacort's voice almost a whisper, he hissed: "You are the greatest defilement to ever exist, you are an abomination, but you are the road that leads to God. Jesus said to you... As I go now to my father you must one day come to me... you are the trail that will lead one day to the coming of the Messiah and we shall be there with you. We know you, Casca Longinus, better than you know yourself. We will not try to kill you after all; we both know it would be useless and neither shall we confine you, for how else can you lead us to Jesus?

"No, spawn of Baal, you must go free, but you shall be punished. You dared to touch the most sacred relic with your filthy hand. You performed the sacrilege and as the word says, if thine eye offends thee, cast it out... surely that must also apply to other portions of the body."

The hatred in Dacort's voice washed over him: "Thy hand offends me!" Swifter than Casca would have believed the elder capable of moving, he saw the flash of an axe come from the elder's robes and cold burning as the blade of the axe sunk into the wood of the cross beam. There was a dull thump and Casca looked down to see his hand lying in front of him on the stone floor, draining. Then the pain began and Casca screamed as the stump of his wrist was washed in the flames of a torch held by one of the brothers, the smell of his own cooking flesh, clotted in his nostrils and the dark took him once more, mercifully.

The Brothers of the Lamb tossed Casca's unconscious body on the rocks, tying his horse to the brush nearby. A fly walked over his eyelids, sucking up the salt moisture that had collected there and then, satisfied, flew off.

Elder Dacort stood alone, looking down at what to him was the vilest piece of filth the world had ever known. Reaching into a pocket from under his robes, he withdrew the claw-like stump of Casca's hand. Throwing it to the ground, he spat upon Casca's unconscious body.

Dacort walked slowly down the hillside, his sandals kicking up small clouds of dust, his head bowed and hands folded together, and prayed.

Casca woke to the throbbing in his wrist, squirming he tried to fight his way back to awareness. The pain burned and spread up his arm.

"I can't move....why can't I move?"

A jolt brought his eyes open. He was tied to the saddle of his horse. In front, the small wiry form of Jugotai was leading the horse. Casca tried to take the reins in his left hand and felt awkward when he felt the fingers move, but nothing happened. Looking down, the sight of the seared stump brought it all back.

"Those bastards have cut my hand off!"

Indignation followed by anger which faded as another jolt bumped his stump against the side of the horse brought an involuntary groan. Jugotai's head turned.

Stopping the horses, Jugotai unstrapped Casca and eased him to the ground, taking his own jacket of
goatskin, he made a pillow for the Roman's head and laid him down. Taking his skin of water, he washed Casca's face and let a few drops fall into the mouth slowly; too much water when a man has been wounded could make him worse ... this his father had told him.

Casca slept again, this time quietly.

When he next awoke, the glow of a small smokeless fire warmed his face. Jugotai sat quietly watching, squatting on his heels as he had seen the sage, Shiu Lao Tze
do many times.

"How do you feel?" The boy's voice was beginning to deepen and become a man's, Casca noted.

Groaning, Casca raised himself on his good arm. "How the Hades do you think I feel? I feel like shit, that's how."

Nodding, the boy smiled showing strong white teeth. "Good, if you feel that way, then you're not too bad off." Reaching into his travel bag, the boy took out Casca's hand and laid it on the saddle blanket which he squatted on. "What do you want me to do with this?"

The sight of his own hand lying there, fingers like claws reaching up, looking out of place and much too small to be his hand, as if the blood that had drained, left the member shrunken and undersized, gave rise to a feeling of nausea in Casca. He cleared his throat before speaking, "Give me a drink first."

Taking a long pull at the skin waterbag, the water tasted hot and warm, but good and eased the fire in his throat. Reaching over, he held the hand, the feeling of his own limp tissue sending chills racing over him. The hand was warm... warm to the touch.

Jugotai took a drink from the bag watching Casca. "I noticed that too. Do you want to tell me about it? Why is the hand warm when it should be cold and dead?"

Casca shook his head, "Later. Right now I have to think."
I need my hand, I wonder... like the boy said, it's still alive. I have heard about some people having their ears sewn back after being cut off... perhaps...
"sew it back on."

Jugotai stared for a moment and then went to the saddle bags to take out the bronze needle and threads of sinew he carried. Under the direction of the Roman, Jugotai lined up the severed piece making sure the bones matched. As the severed pieces rested on a flat stone on the blanket, he quickly ran a neat line of sutures around the entire wound, more often than not the needle would stick in the tough skin and he would have to twist and push to get it through, but the pain was nothing to the man he worked on. It was done. The stitches stuck out in knots where they were tied, but the hand was attached, though as yet gave no indication of wanting to return to work.

Tearing a piece from his cloak, Casca made a sling and put his hand to rest in it, out of sight. Another swallow of tepid water. Casca sighed, the burning was easing and the pain fading; back again but not beating at him. Lying down he looked up at the stars that were beginning to make, their appearance in the night sky.

Finally he spoke. "It's a long story Jugotai. Let's just say that those men and I have had a bit of a difference over a religious matter and they took offense. As to my hand, we will just have to wait and see."

Casca told Jugotai about the ears he had seen sewn back on. His explanation seemed to satisfy the boy – for now anyway. Jugotai placed some brush on the small blaze, curled up in his blanket and slept. Dawn would come soon enough and the land of his fathers was still a long way off.

The next days they spent slowly climbing to higher ground. Water became more abundant as did game. It was seldom that Jugotai missed bringing back some game; small or large, antelope or hares, so long as it was meat, it made no difference at all to the two. High above them they could see snow on the peaks.

Several times every day, Casca looked at his hand and tried to will the fingers to move. Nothing. But the hand had not shown any sign of decay. They rode on.

On several occasions they saw large caravans in the distance with strange two-humped camels. They rode and marched through an unending labyrinth of valleys and gorges, climbed mountain passes where the icy wind tried to cut them as though with cold knives. Climbing one icy overhang, Casca's horse stumbled and threw him to the ground. Slipping and sliding on the ice to the edge of a
precipice, he reached out and caught at a twisted tree root and held on, pulling himself to a safe footing.

"I used my hand," he realized excitedly. His left hand had gone out involuntarily and grasped the twisted root of the tree, but now the hand would not let go. He pried the fingers open with his right hand and sat down, letting the wind whip at him, unmindful of the ice forming in his growing beard.

Crossing his legs, he squatted on the ice and stared at the hand, willing the fingers to move again. The forefinger gave one slight, almost unnoticeable twitch. Casca concentrated even harder, brows furrowed, unmindful of the cold sweat forming on his forehead turning to frozen crystals before it could run down his face.

The whole hand clenched, then opened again and clenched once more. Jugotai arrived on the scene in time to witness the act; saying nothing he pointed to the skies. Heavy dark clouds were racing overhead. A storm was coming. They must find shelter before the night.

Jugotai wasted nothing. He would gather the horses' droppings and save them, putting them into a bag to dry. When dried, they made an excellent fire in these high altitudes where there was a shortage of wood. Only the twisted dwarf trees stubbornly tried to find sustenance among the rocks, some sinking their roots twice and even three times their surface height into the ground, searching and seeking nourishment in the thin soil.

The storm hit with the force of a hurricane, seeking every inch of the cave they had taken for shelter. The horses in the rear whinnied and stomped their hooves as if they could feel the elemental forces that tried to rip off the skin coverings of the entrance. Four days the winds raged and screamed like mad women as the two sat in their rocky shelter. The remains of old fires told them this small haven had been a sanctuary more than once to the few travelers who ventured over the range.

"How much further?" Casca grumbled through his beard, while gnawing on a piece of mountain sheep Jugotai had nailed with a well-placed arrow six days earlier.

"Damn that's tough. You would think falling four hundred feet down on the rocks would have tenderized this sucker a little bit."
"How much further?" Casca repeated a little irritably. Jugotai merely smiled and drew a rough map on the floor of the cave using his forefinger for a marker, "We are here. When we come off the mountain it will be but one day's ride to the boundaries of my tribe. From that time on, we will be watched and met when they decide to check us out. Perhaps five more days. Then beyond the next range of mountains lies the lands of the Han, or Chin. The land takes the name from whatever dynasty rules. Who sits now in the throne I do not know."

The storm left, leaving the bright clear sky and air that only the highlands of the world ever know. Sharp and crystal clear, the sun cast sparkles of myriad diamond-like beams from the ice and snow left behind by the Father of Winds, as Jugotai said the storm was called.

The trail to the valleys below was uneventful. When they gained the lower elevations, the horses found plenty of fodder on which to feed and stuffed themselves after the short rations on the heights above. Green fields of grass and full-sized trees greeted them. The smell of the rich earth and warm breezes was welcome and they removed their heavy blankets and skins.

Casca headed for the nearest pond, stripped and dived in, coming out just as quickly from the pond fed by the ice lakes of the heights. Steeling himself, he went in again, but more slowly this time, cursing with each step. He used sand to rub the grime of the weeks on the trail from his body. Taking his dagger, he honed it against his boot leather and scraped the beard from his face accompanied by an occasional grunt of pain and a curse. The job completed, he rinsed his clothes and set them to dry on nearby tree branches.

Jugotai looked at Casca as if he were utterly mad, but said nothing. He would wait until they crested the next rise to wash... where the hot springs were. Had he not told Casca of them?

Jugotai lay back to catch a nap while the horses ate and rested. Rolling over, he put his face into the grass and breathed deeply. The land of his fathers… he was here.
Soon he would be a man, entitled to wear the curved sword and shave his head, leaving only one long lock to show all that here was a man ready to take a wife.