The Barbarian c-5 Read online

  The Barbarian

  ( Casca - 5 )

  Barry Sadler

  Barry Sadler

  The Barbarian

  Preface

  My name is Doctor Julius Goldman.

  For some years now I have been involved with the fate of a man known only to a few and believed by the majority of those to be no more than a myth from the distant past. Yes! a myth… like the hero of the Epics of Gilgamesh or the Kulkulkan of the Mayan legends, and even the story of the wandering Jew. The man I know came to me with a wound that should have been fatal, but he did not die. From that first meeting our lives have been intertwined.

  For some reason, he has a compulsion to finish the story of his life. A story that for me began in the hospital at Nha Trang, in South Vietnam, over ten years ago. From time to time we have met, and each time a force comes over me, as it did in that hospital. I am drawn again into the past of the man I first knew as Sergeant Casey Remain-a man who the rest of the world only knows dimly… as the man who killed Jesus on Golgatha.

  He is the Roman legionnaire, Casca Rufio Longinus.

  And, as Casca has his compulsion to finish what he began with me, I have the same drive to put down his story. I know most won't believe me, but then, that doesn't really matter; I know it's real, and even today…

  Casca lives to walk the earth until the Second Coming… Casca Lives!

  Prologue

  Stinging sand whipped at his eyes as the wind howled about him, trying to blow his robes free to sail over the desert with the sandstorm. His horse whinnied and shied away from the wind, trying to turn around and put its rear to the cutting bits of grit.

  Casca finally agreed and took shelter on the leeward side of a dune. Tying his horse to a bush, he pulled his robe over his head and sat with his back to the wind. Feeling the sand slowly begin to pile up against him, he kept his head down and pulled his precious goatskin of water closer between his legs. There was nothing to do now but wait. His horse whinnied again. The beast didn't tike this region of whirling, biting sand devils and screaming winds. As far as that went, the horse didn't particularly like his new master. The man didn't have the smell of those who had owned him before. But Casca really didn't give a damn whether the horse liked him or not. As far as he was concerned, he would rather eat one of the damn things than ride it, and if he didn't come across some food soon, that would probably not be far in the future. The horse's previous master was beyond any complaint.

  The Arab's body lay two days behind, the sun and wind drying it into another of the thousands of shriveled, desiccated husks of humanity that littered the floor of the Persian desert. The former member of the victorious legions of Avidius Cassius felt no remorse. If the bastard hadn't thought Casca was easy picking, he wouldn't be lying back there with the large blue flies trying to suck out the last remaining bits of moisture from his body.

  A sand lizard, blown from its shelter under the dune, crawled between his legs and sat looking up at him. Casca smiled through cracked lips. "Welcome, little friend, to what protection I can give. We'll just have to wait this thing out, and if you don't bite, neither will I."

  Back on the battlefield of Ctesiphon were forty thousand that would never bite or do anything else again. He had no sense of guilt for deserting the Eagle standards of Rome. Avidius Cassius had promised the warriors of Parthia that he would spare the city and its people if they came out to do battle, but even now Casca knew that thousands were on their way to the slave pens of Syria and that the city was still burning. It took a long time for a city to die-much longer than it did for a man.

  He had had enough of slaughter and wanted no more than to get away to some place where the stench of death didn't fill the nostrils. But even that was to be denied him. If that stupid Arab hadn't tried to take him on, the man would still be living, feeling the blood course through his veins and the beat of his heart.

  The sand had reached up to his waist and began to flow around him; he knew that if it didn't stop soon he would be buried. He wondered how his horse was faring-for some time now he had heard nothing save the keening of the wind over the dunes.

  He pulled the stopper from the goatskin and took a pull of the strong-tasting, brackish water. The lizard watched him, its eyes moving independently from one another; it missed nothing. Casca ran his tongue over his lips, put his hand down in front of the small creature, and poured a couple of drops into his palm, holding it still. The lizard twitched its tail, looking as if it were thinking about running, then, making up its mind, moved onto the man's palm and drank, its mouth opening and closing like a fish trying to breathe air. Then, finishing quick as a blink, it flashed back to its place between Casca's legs.

  Casca wiped the remaining damp spot across his lips. The heat of the sand on his back was drugging him, making his eyes feel heavy and gritty. He sighed and pulled his robe closer about him. Looking at his guest, he spoke, eyes red rimmed and dull from heat and fatigue.

  "Well, little friend, I'm going to crap out for a while. You keep watch for me and I'll see you later." His eyes closed and the darkness set in-the kind that eats up the hours and rests the soul. He slept, not knowing when the storm passed by and the night sky shone clear and stark in its brilliance, the stars each set perfect in the firmament of the heavens.

  Some time during the storm the horse broke free and followed the course of the wind.

  The silence woke him. Slowly, stiff-jointed, he moved. The sand, which had built up to his shoulders, slid off in slow waves. The lizard blinked once, twice at the disturbance, and was gone, burrowing back into the shelter of the dunes to wait for the warmth of the next dawn to start the blood flowing through its veins. Casca wished him well. Rising, he looked for his horse, which he knew was long gone. Well, he thought, that's about normal. If it wasn't for bad luck, I wouldn't have any. He pulled his burnoose closer about him. The insulating sand had kept him warm, but now the night chill of the desert made itself known. It always amazed him, the contrast between the burning sun and heat of the day, which could kill a man without water in six hours, and the chill of the night. He climbed the nearest dune and looked out over the open expanse, ghostly lit by the clear night sky. There was nothing, not even the howl of a desert jackal; it was empty. He had hoped perhaps to see his horse, but knew there was little or no chance. Sighing, he went back down the slope. Sliding and kneeling, he dug himself a small pit in the sand and lay down, pulling the sand back around him to serve as a blanket to keep the worst of the cold out. He closed his eyes again and slept in the small, shallow grave.

  Just minutes before dawn, Casca pulled himself out of his cocoon and rose, stretching his arms to the sky. He straightened, cracking the sore bones in his back and neck. He took a deep breath and exhaled. Moving to the bush where he had tied his horse, he dug in the sand and pulled out his pack, searching the meager content. Finding out a small, hard, rancid horse curd and a chunk of ten-day-old bread, he climbed back up the crest of the dune to await the coming of the sun.

  Taking another small swig of tepid water to wet his throat before attempting to eat the rock-hard and rancid curds, he hunched down in the sand, waiting, his eyes toward the East. The thin, predawn glow lay on the horizon. The sun would be rising soon, and with it would come the brain-cooking heat of the desert.

  He put the taste of the food out of his mind and concentrated on chewing the hard bread. Eating slowly, he would let each bite soften and turn sweet in his mouth before swallowing. Careful of how much he ate, he saved most of the curds for later, knowing he would need the strength they could give him then. A light breeze was beginning to pick up with the coming of the sun, as it usually did in the desert. There was no trace of moisture in the air. He was still a long way from t
he ocean, and the waters of the Tigris and Euphrates lay far behind him.

  Before the storm had hit, he had been staying fairly close to the same route he and the legions of Gaius Avidius Cassius had taken in their invasion of Parthia when they had left their staging area at Damascus. It was one thing to cross the desert as part of a great army with supplies laid in along the way, and quite another to try it in reverse, alone and without any stores of food or water to make it across the five hundred miles back. It would be stupid to have tried to make his way along the Euphrates or Tigris. He would have been sure to have run into patrols from the Gelions that had taken Amida and Europa, and he had no desire to have his carcass strung up and crucified for desertion.

  The sun was up now, a massive red-gold orb slowly rising. He could see how the Greeks in the legends called it "the fiery chariot of Apollo." In these lands, the sun was everything-the giver of life, and the taker. The ground he would have to cover was bad enough, but to the south was the monstrous ocean of sands that the wandering Semite tribes of Arabia fought so fiercely to keep under control. As far as he was concerned, they could keep it all.

  Casca rose from the sands and wiped the scanty remnants of his morning meal from his fingertips and face. The curds had left a sour taste in his mouth, but he resisted the temptation to wash it away with another drink of his scant supply of water. The advance of the sun was beginning to drive the chill of the night from his bones. He knew the day would be a bitch, so he had to try to find some shade before the worst of the heat came. He could see from his position on top of the dune a distant line of mountains to the northwest. They were delicate shades of rose and pink now, but with the rising of the day they would change into shimmering, distant, gray crags of barren rock, cracked and split into schisms from the endless heating and cooling of the centuries.

  That was where he must go if water and food were to be found. What there was would be found in those inhospitable stones. He gathered his possessions and made them into a pack, using a couple of strips torn from his robe to sling them over his shoulder.

  The soldier of Rome walked out onto the shifting floor of the desert. With every step the sand worked its way into his sandals and then spilled out again into thin streams. He settled down into the mile-eating, steady tread of the professional foot soldier, the sun on his back pushing him on.

  He walked slowly but steadily, avoiding the desire to rush, knowing that that would use him up faster than his measured pace. He would have to make the mountains by the next day or run out of water. Even now the base of the crags could not be seen. The top half was floating over the floor, the desert shifting and riding on shimmering heat waves. The day found him crossing a field of stones with lizards and serpents watching his progress. His step was already slowing down, the heat a constant drain, drawing off his life's essence and strength. The water bag at his side sloshed continuously, tempting him to raise it to his mouth and drink, or wash his face to get rid of the caked-up dust and sweat and streaked grit around the corners of his eyes.

  Stopping, he raised his head and looked out across the field of stones and serpents. He had to stop and wait out the worst of the heat. A single, darker object rose from the rocky floor. It was a large boulder that hadn't yet given into the remorseless efforts to wear it down to the size of its neighbors. It stood like a lonely sentinel, guarding nothing.

  Casca sat down on the shaded side of the stone. It was about as tall as he was and five feet around, but it also had the only shade for miles. He scraped away the surface layer of rocks, knowing they would be the hottest. Sitting on them would have drawn some of his moisture. He pulled his robes over him, forming a tent, and leaned back against the shaded side of the boulder. He was a single lonely figure, waiting. The gray, once-white robe, which if seen from any distance would seem just another rock, was his protection and shelter. He would wait now until the sun chariot had almost completed its journey before drinking again. He would travel all the coming night, and if nothing unforeseen occurred, he should make the distant mountains by the next sunrise.

  He slept fitfully, a waking sleep that came and went. The silence was complete; only the omnipresent heat was his companion, though not a friend. He dozed, head jerking up now and then as he tried to seek the comfort of unconsciousness. He was still sweating and knew that that was a good sign; if the sweating were to stop, he knew a heat stroke would not be far away. As long as he could sweat, he was all right.

  The seconds were minutes and the minutes were hours. Time seemed to stop, his mind in a turmoil. He had no way of telling of the passing of the hours. It was too much of an effort to try and determine how long he had been sitting. He knew when the day began to cool, that would be the time to rise. Until then he would have to endure the dragging hours silently, helpless to speed them up.

  Far across the desert and sea, another waited, silent and meditating in somewhat different surroundings. Marcus Aurelius, emperor of Rome, worried over how the Persian camping was progressing. Long ago, at the age of twelve, the emperor had embraced the teachings and severities of the Stoics. He had trained himself to place his body second to his mind, to resist passion in all forms, and to deal only in logic. For the Stoic, there were only two paths a man could take: the path to good or the path to evil. He regretted only that the office of state that he held so often forced him into unpleasant acts that he deemed necessary for the greater good. He personally had nothing against Christians, but they were a disturbing influence and preached a religion of weakness, which, if allowed to flourish, could sap the already vital strength of the empire.

  Therefore, with a sigh of regret, he was now signing the order condemning another ten thousand of these followers of the crucified god to be put to death. He handed the instrument of death over to his chamberlain and took a drink of spring water. He avoided the use of wine or even eating to excess. In his mind, as the father of the Roman people, he had to set the example in everything. How else could he lead but by example, if he wanted the Roman people to return to the earlier state of nobility and virtue under which they had conquered most of the known world.

  But, he sighed, he was sorely afraid that he was too late in coming on the scene. Still, one must try, and there was always the hope that his successor would be able to carry on with his work. Smiling, he thought of his son, Commodus-bright-eyed, brave, quick to learn, and the light of his father's eye. Yes, Commodus would carry on after him and lead the empire into an even greater age of prosperity and peace. Commodus would be the artist who would paint in the fine details of the future. He Marcus would now lay in the background with broad, sweeping strokes.

  He rose and made his ablutions. It was time to preside over the college of priests and to perform sacrifices for the welfare of Rome and entreat the gods to grant them victory in all things. His wife, Lady Faustina, daughter of Antonius Pius, was waiting for him. She would not, of course, be permitted entry into the college. In her position, she would go to the Temple of the Vestal Virgins and make her own sacrifice and donatives.

  Marcus Aurelius was blind to one thing, and that was the infidelity of his wife, who openly carried on with anyone she pleased and promoted her lovers to position of power. None dared tell the emperor otherwise, for to him, as he had written, she was the epitome of virtue. He would hear of nothing else. But his councillors knew, and indeed wondered if the boy Commodus had any of his father's blood in him. For the child, they knew, instead of being serious and gifted as was his father, was instead shallow of mind and purpose, taking on more the attitudes and directions of his mother than the rigid discipline of self-denial that the emperor espoused. The councillors dreaded the day Marcus would give the reins of the empire to his son.

  The change in temperature brought Casca back from his dull, half-drugged sleep. He forced his eyes to open. The lids, dried and caked with grit and sweat, stung as he blinked to clear them. Rising from his shelter, he stood and faced the mountains, trying to lock the direction in his mind. If th
ere was no moonlight tonight, and if there were no stars, there was certainly nothing else in the wasteland that he would be able to get a fix on to help guide him.

  Long shadows were reaching across the plain of stones from the gentle rises and hillocks. The sole boulder became a sundial as its shadow reached out to twice its own length.

  Casca shook his water skin. There was precious little left. He took one full, long swallow and held it in his mouth to let it soak into the gums and the membranes of his throat, cutting some of the buildup of phlegm and foul taste away. The bag would be empty this night. He rewrapped his burnoose about him and tied it at his waist.

  The cooling of the evening was a balm to his heat-reddened and flushed skin. It even helped to ease the sore spots under his armpits and groins where the grime and sand wore against his skin. The dark closed around him like a soft, silent blanket. He walked, the cool air giving him a sense of renewed strength. The heat soon passed and there were a few miles of stumbling over smooth, slippery stones. Once, this must have been a lake or an ocean bed. Several times he walked over shining paths of salt that had collected into the low areas where the waters must have evaporated or receded back into the earth.

  A few times he almost stepped on snakes, which hissed and stuck out their tongues to taste the air, then pulled back into sinuous twisting tendrils ready to strike.

  All that night, under dear but moonless skies, he trekked toward the hoped-for shelter in the mountains. With stumbling steps, he met the new dawn and looked to his objective.

  It was still, to his eyes, as far away as it had been on the previous day. As he had earlier noticed, distance was often deceptive in this land of shimmering waves of heat. His water was gone. He still carried the empty bag with him in the hope that he might find a spring among the rocks or in the sand and would be able to refill it. He would not be able to rest much this day. If he stayed in one place too long, the heat would take what remained of his strength and he might not reach the walls of granite ahead. This day, heat or not, he must continue as long as he was able.