Casca 2: God of Death Read online

  GOD OF DEATH

  This is a book of fiction. All the names, characters and events portrayed in this book are Fictional and any resemblance to real people and incidents are purely coincidental.

  CASCA: God of Death

  Copyright © 1979 Barry Sadler

  Published by arrangement with the copyright holder

  Casca Ebooks

  Cover Design by

  Greg Brantley

  Dynamic Arts

  All Rights Reserved

  Including the rights to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form or format without permission. No part of this document or the related files may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN 978-1-6306-8333-7

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Continuing Casca’s adventures, book 3 The Warlord

  THE CASCA SERIES IN EBOOKS

  Tezmec stood frozen

  A burning phosphorescence-like the kind seen at sea that hovers over the masts of ships-enveloped the sacrificial stone. The jade mask glowed and seemed to throw out rays of emerald light. Tezmec held the still-beating heart in his hand. It was throbbing, moving. The golden knife dropped from Tezmec's grasp when another hand covered his.

  Casca, his body enveloped in the green fire of the sea, stood holding Tezmec's hand stationary over the altar fire. And then Casca took his own beating heart out of the priest's hand.

  “It takes a god to kill a god, and my time is not yet coming.

  "I am Casca. I am the Quetza.

  "I am God!"

  PROLOGUE

  Casca came to the Rhine at the same spot where he had fought his first battle against the German tribesmen known as the Suevii; the grass always seemed to be a little richer where blood had been spilled. In his mind he could almost make out the outlines of the fight, a smaller patch of green a hundred yards distant where the young men of the cavalry unit assigned to Casca's unit had been pulled from their horses by long-hooked poles and had their throats slit with fish knives while they lay on the ground. That barbarian ambush had almost been successful. Only the legion's automatic response to danger and the immediate forming of the square had saved them all from being butchered and having their heads stuck on poles outside the longhouses of the barbaric tribesmen from across the Rhine.

  Casca walked slowly, memories rushing upon him. Stopping, he bent over and picked up a piece of metal protruding from the earth. It was the handle of a knife, a knife stuck in something. Tugging gently, Casca freed it. The rusty blade came forth, almost completely eaten away but still strong enough to hold the piece of human skull it had penetrated so many years ago. Ours? Or theirs? Casca mused. He hooked his pack up higher and looked in the direction of the river. He walked toward it, his footsteps taking him back to that first battle when he was young and the copper taste of piss-blinding fear was in his mouth. He knew that beneath his feet were the bones of men whom he had known and served with, some friends, some not, but all comrades. The legion ... the legion ... my only true home ... my father and my mother.... Here is where I killed my first man over a hundred and fifty years ago. The wheel turns. As I told the leader of the caravan out of Anatolia before we headed for Damascus, the wheels of the gods grind slow, yet they grind exceedingly fine. Everything is as it was and will be. The only exception is me. I am what I was and apparently always will be until the Jew comes again. I am the continuation of myself. Shit, where the hell did I learn to talk like that? Continuation my ass. I am what I am, and perhaps I get a little maudlin now and then. But life is still interesting. There are yet places to go, people to meet, women to love ... and leave....

  Casca drew himself erect, his hand on his belt. He looked across the river. The Jew said it: What I am, that I shall be. Good enough. I am Casca, soldier of the legions, part-time slave – but I exist. Cogito, ergo sum. I will beat the Jew yet. My fortunes lie in front of me... in life and adventure.

  Certainly I get feelings of sympathy for myself now and then, but, as He said, I am what I am. Therefore I shall live the life that my destiny demands. But as my own man.

  Absorbed in his interior monologue, Casca had reached the river.

  The Rhine, dark and swift, flowed before him. He knelt at the same spot where he had slaked his thirst in the then bloody waters of that battle so long ago ... his battle thirst after the Suevii had broken and run, and the legionnaires had slaughtered them all the way to the river and even in it. The passing face of a young German boy ran before Casca's eyes ... and faded. One he had killed? It grew hard to recall them all after a while. Casca sat by the bank of the great river looking across to where no Roman in his right mind would want to be. Germania. Terra incognita. The unknown lands of the fiercest tribesmen on earth. The Germans and the Parthians were the only peoples to stand against the might of Imperial Rome. But the Parthians were cultured and rich, with not only the heritage of the great Persian Empire, but with the sophistication of their first conquerors, the Greeks, under the young warrior, Alexander. The Germans were something else. Casca had the feeling they would always be a pain in the ass to the rest of the world no matter how civilized they might eventually become on the surface. They had born in them, and nurtured by the first taste of their mothers' milk, a lust for life that fulfilled itself only in battle.

  By all the demons of whatever reality there are, it seems as if the sage Shiu Lao Tze was right. Everything is a great circle and repeats itself like that endless line of slaves in the mines of Greece, never ending, always coming back to the beginning. Or is it the end? Perhaps beginning and ending are both the same.

  The night was close upon him, and the water looked too damned cold for swimming across in the dark. Tomorrow is time enough. Building a small fire, Casca waited, letting the warmth of the red embers reach deep within him. The piece of donkey meat he was cooking crackled and sizzled. The rich smell of the roasting meat made his mouth salivate. In anticipation, he smacked his lips. Ahh! There's nothing like a nice hot piece of young ass to set a man's mouth watering....

  As the meat turned crisp and juicy, Casca reached over and cut off a slice and filled his mouth with the strong taste of young ass. He gulped the meat down, pulled his cloak around him, rolled over, and went to sleep facing the fire.

  Tomorrow, Germany...

  When the dawn came and Casca awoke, there was the same type fog rolling across the river as had surrounded the ghostlike images of the Suevii floating across the Rhine on logs so many years ago. But this time it was Casca's turn to enter the whirling waters.

  The coals of his fire had long since died. Grumbling as he rose, he walked to the water's edge, scratching his ass. He farted and joined his stream with that of the mighty river. Going back to his campsite, he stirred the dead coals hopefully and looked questioningly at a piece of the donkey flesh that remained, but it was now black and charred. Restraining a belch, he mumbled, "No way. There's no way I'm going to eat a piece of cold burned ass this early in the morning."

  The ground fog swirled around him and the trees. The dawn became day. The rising sun burned off the mist, a few rays breaking through the surrounding trees to give a sense of impending warmth.

&nb
sp; "Well, shit," he said aloud, looking at the river, "I might as well get it over with. The sooner I get across, the sooner I can dry off." He dragged a log to the river's edge, tied his gear, a chunk of donkey meat, and his pack to it, and shoved off into the frigid, dark waters, gingerly at first as he waded in, cursing at the icy cold. "Ooh! Ah! Damn, that's cold!" As the Rhine slowly advanced up his legs, his scrotum tried to climb up even higher to avoid the chilling advance, but, as nature wills it, his balls could only go up so far. Then he was in, and the coldness became warm as he struck off and began paddling across, letting the current take him. It really didn't make a damn where he landed, so he let the river do the work.

  The waters finally took him to where his feet could touch bottom. Groaning, he pushed the log to the edge of the bank and began to take his gear from it before leaving the water himself.

  "Ho, little man! What do you here?"

  The speaker, unexpected as he was, seemed to exemplify that popular image of German barbarism. He stood six-foot-three, and he was two hundred and fifty pounds of meat-stuffed flesh if he was an ounce. He wore a horned helmet, and his sweeping mustache would have made a walrus proud.

  "Ho, little man!" he repeated, his voice the thundering bellow of an oversize Germanic ox. "Do you ashore come? I can see that you are not of the tribes, so therefore you must pay before entering this land. As I am a reasonable man, I will take only your pack and weapons, leaving you your clothes. They would not fit anyway. Fair enough? Or do you wish to dispute me over the matter?" With this he drew a monstrous long sword that must have weighed forty pounds and swung it easily through the air, the slicing blade whistling. He used just one hand and then brought the sword down, resting the point at his thong-wrapped feet.

  "Well, what will it be, my wet little titmouse? Though you are larger than most of your sickly ilk, I can see by your rags that you are a Latin. May Wotan piss in your soup."

  Oh, no, thought Casca. This is all I need to start the day off. Getting a firm footing on the slippery bottom, he raised himself up to a full height of five-foot-ten – which still seemed small, woefully small, in comparison to the huge barbarian.

  "Now, listen to me, lard guts," he said in German. "I have had just about enough of your mouth and this river. Take your large, overstuffed carcass away and leave me in peace, or I'll ruin your love life by braiding your legs. Verstand, sheiss kopf?"

  "Shithead you dare call me? Glam Tyrsbjorn a shithead? Come out of the water, you dago mouse, and I'll teach you some manners."

  "Piss on you, fur mouth. I'm no dummy. If you want a piece of my ass, let's make it even. Either you back off and let me out of the river, or come in and get your feet wet, turnip dick."

  "Turnip dick!" Glam turned first red, then white, then purple with rage. Stamping his fur-wrapped feet like a human version of the old forest ox of the Aurochs, he bellowed, "I would come in after you, but I am no fish and cannot swim. So come out where I can put my hands on you. I am going to shove my right fist up your ass so far that I will grab you by the jawbone and pull you inside out."

  "Big deal, big mouth," Casca scoffed. "Sure you're tough with that oversize meat cleaver. If you didn't have that, you'd be like a castratto – which you may be anyway. I keep hearing your whimpering turn into a falsetto, you louse-ridden eunuch."

  "By the bones of Ymir from which Odin and his brothers created the world, I will show you that I need nothing but my own hands to complete your education, Roman boy!" With that, Gam threw his monstrous long sword from him with such force that it almost severed a two-foot pine, the point burying itself in the wood. "There, you lousy dago! Now will you come out and fight?"

  "You got it, sausage breath." Casca splashed his way out of the river while Glam stomped and waited, chewing his mustache in anticipation of settling the affront made to his honor. Turnip dick indeed!

  As Casca came out, Glam turned and threw a long, looping punch that Casca easily dodged. Using the art of the yellow sage Shiu Tze, Casca blocked with his right arm and gave a quick, inside snap kick to the balls. Glam, between clenched teeth, tried with both hands to comfort his bruised groin. While he was involved with coddling himself, Casca went into a reverse roundhouse kick with his heel that knocked the big German into the Rhine unconscious, face down. Bubbles of air started welling up as the German drowned. Casca watched for a second, then, grumbling about being a sucker, he waded out into the river and grabbed the soggy tribesman by the hair and raised his face out of the water. Holding Glam by the hair of the head with one hand, Casca began a firm cracking slap across the face with the other. Glam sputtered, spitting out a quantity of the sacred Rhine.

  "Enough!" he burbled. "Enough! I surrender. I'm your slave. Just get me out of the water."

  "All right, but one wrong twitch and I'll do what I said about your legs."

  "No, master. I, Glam, son of Halfdan the Ganger, may be many things, but I keep my word. You win. Just remove me from this miserable river and set my feet on solid earth."

  The Norseman's helmet had gone to the bottom, so Casca got a firmer grip on the shoulder-length hair and hauled Glam to where he could pull himself out of the river to the edge of the bank and lie down. This the German did, his lungs trying to turn themselves inside out. While he finished this process, Casca returned and hauled his gear out. Sitting on a moss-covered log, he took a dry rag and began to wipe down his short sword, for he was a warrior, and a warrior takes care of his weapons.

  By the time Casca had finished cleaning his gear and drying himself off as best he could, the sun was giving indication that the day would be bright and warm. Glam drew himself erect and strode to stand in front of Casca. Tensing, Casca took a firmer grip on his blade, but Glam suddenly dropped to his face and lay down in front of Casca. Taking Casca's right foot, he set it on top of his head. "I swear by the Aesir and Odin Allfather that I am your man in all things until you release me from my pledge."

  Tossing Casca's foot off, Glam jumped back. "Well, now that is over, where do we go from here, master?"

  Casca looked up at the fur-draped and water-dripping giant. He grumbled, but there was a laugh behind his voice trying to break through. "For someone who's just made himself a slave, you're not very damn humble."

  "Humble?" Glam asked in surprise. "Why in the name of the sacred oak should I be humble? I am the finest fighter and bravest man in the northlands from Scandia to the Danube. Sure, I'm your slave. But who said anything about being humble?" He beckoned to Casca. "Come by the fire, little master, and take the chill of the river off your bones. We'll take a bite of your smoked ass, and you will learn how fortunate you are to have a man like myself as a friend and companion."

  "Friend and companion? What the Hades happened to your being my slave?"

  Nonplussed, Glam continued somewhat testily, "Well, if you want to be rigid in your thinking, that's so. But I thought we might modify our relationship a little bit. It is only because I find myself liking you in spite of your parentage that I would be willing to make such an offer, because, knowing myself, I know that I would be an unhappy slave and as such would most likely cause you a great deal of trouble and concern. But as a friend and companion – Ahh! – that's something else. In that happy condition I would put all my intelligence and resources at your disposal. Now, wouldn't that be better than having an unhappy slave that you couldn't trust?"

  By the time the big German had ended his monologue Casca was desperately trying to control a fit of laughter. Choking it back, he cleared his throat. "Good enough, my monstrous friend. We will be comrades until the time when our roads must part. Until then, we will be true to one another in our actions and trust. Is it agreed?" He held out his hand.

  Glam nodded his head vigorously up and down. "Aye, Roman, that it is. And think not that I am ungrateful for your releasing me from my bonds on slavery, for certainly I was miserable all the time of my servitude."

  Casca laughed out loud in spite of himself. "By Mithra, man, you were a slave fo
r only less than an hour. How much misery could you acquire in that short a time?"

  Glam responded in wounded tones, his mustache starting to bristle up. "It is not the length of bondage. It is the emotional pain of the condition that counts. And I –" he visibly swelled "I have the soul of a poet. The soul, if –regrettably – not the words."

  "Stop. Enough already, you great barbarian. I accept your reasoning. Just spare me the story." Glam nodded in agreement, and Casca went on. It was best to get their relationship straight from the beginning. "First things first," he said. "My name is Casca. And I'm no one's dummy. I've been around a long time – longer than you might think. I know most of the tricks of the trade. In fact, I've invented a few of them. I have been a soldier in the legions, and I have hired out my sword as a mercenary to those who could pay the price. The only thing I won't do is fight a fight I don't believe in. There is enough action around that I don't think we have to sell our souls to the shit mongers. So, if you want to come with me, let's understand things. I am the boss, and we play by my rules." He locked eyes with the big German. The intent with which he spoke allowed for no smart answers. His tone was absolutely serious.

  Uneasily, Glam looked away for a moment. There was something about this stranger that was disturbing, something for which there was no ready answer. A power? What could it be? But he looked back full in Casca's eyes and said, "Good enough. You are the leader until our road ends."

  The road Casca and Glam took was, for the most part, a good one. The two rapidly found a fondness for each other that went far beyond the relationship of master and servant. Glam, with his boisterous humour, was almost as good as he thought he was – though he never got used to the idea that the smaller Roman had whipped him without even using weapons. That summer of A.D. 210 they walked through the great dank forests of Germania. Casca kept his Roman armor out of sight in his kit bag. The sight of the hated Roman cuirass might lead to more trouble than they wanted. The trail through the woods had the rich smell of life, of green and growing things. The sun broke through the treetops with shining, hazy blades of light and lit up the floor of the forest so that it glowed with green fire. The feel of such spots was most welcome for in the morning and in the afternoon a chill would come.