The Warlord Read online

  Young Ch'asca was a fine boy who even now could sit a saddle and ride his pony with the same élan of his father. Five was a great age for a child when all was new and wonderful and Casca envied his friend his son.

  Following the official confirmation, the lesser nobles bowed and acknowledged the position of nobility of sung Ti. Gifts were presented and the banquet held in the larger imperial gardens.

  Casca sat with his godson on his knee, letting the boy ride his leg like a mountain pony while Li Tsao smiled and performed the duties of a hostess to the gathering of nobles and warriors. The banquet lasted long with one exotic course of food following another. Snow had even been brought from the distant mountains to chill the rare wines and beverages. The changing hues of the trees gave the final touch of color to this joyous occasion.

  Calling for a toast to the honor of the new family, the guests' cups were filled with fine white wine of the south. All drank deeply. Casca swallowed one long draught and raised his empty cup to his friend.

  "Long life and honor to the Sung-Ti and his son, who will one day be Baron of Chung Wei."

  The last words stuck in his throat as a coldness gripped his limbs and spread over his entire body stiffening it. He turned to look at Li Tsao and tried to raise an accusing finger but was unable, the coldness reached his brain and claimed him. His body had not hit the ground before Li Tsao gave a curt order and the slave who had filled his cup found his head suddenly separated from his body, lying on the ground waiting for the rest of him to fall. The guard who had performed the execution looked expectantly at the Imperial Lady and licked his lips in anticipation of the reward she had promised. That night, he too, would join his ancestors before he ever knew the pleasures of her arms.

  Chapter Nineteen - THE BURIAL

  The procession wound its way through the sculptured valleys and terraced hills leading to the place of entombment. Peasants bowed low in Kowtow before the symbols of the Imperial Lady. Her palanquin cast reflected rays of light from the gold leaf and polished lapis lazuli which made up the intertwined dragons and seemed to be lending their sinuous strength to the columns supporting the silken canopy beneath which Lady Li Tsao reclined.

  Her face was like ivory which had turned gold with time, beautiful but unfeeling: only in the almond eyes were hints of deeper passion and desires.

  Behind, came the litter bearing Casca's coffin of teakwood, embellished with scenes of his service to the Emperor. Inside, Casca lay on silk cushions, his arms tied to his sides and a silk gag covering his mouth. Wailers and singers led the way; musicians followed, lending the beat of brass gongs and flutes to the lilting voices of the paid mourners. This was indeed a noble's funeral.

  Guards escorting the party marched in solemn dignity prodigious in the apparel of the Imperial Protectors – black on gold and a circle of gold thread in which was the ideograph of the Emperor Tzin – marching in half-step, their pikes lowered to forward angle position, decreed for a solemn occasion such as this. They were paying homage to a brave and fallen soldier. Most had fought alongside him at one time or another.

  The day was clear and sharp with only a hint of the coming north winds in the light breeze, causing pennants and flags on the pikes and standards to whip, gently fluttering. The procession itself, from a distance, appeared to depict one of the scenes that the artisans of Chin delighted so much in preserving on painstakingly carved tusks of ivory and on jade. The rice paddies and tamarisk trees added background to this touching act of affection and honor that Lady Li Tsao was paying a friend of the Son of Heaven, Emperor Tzin.

  A languid wave of her hand silenced the wailers and musicians.

  They had reached the place of entombment. The porters stood breathing deeply though the day was cool, the weight of the coffin and palanquin giving them a sweaty glistening sheen to their faces.

  Between the clefts of a rocky gorge, the tomb had been built. The walls and sides of carefully joined gray stone were sealed with a mixture of lime and rock dust to make it airtight. The gaping tomb awaited its occupant. A great slab of stone bearing the Imperial seal showed this was an honored tomb and not to be disturbed.

  Casca was motionless in his coffin. The drugs administered earlier served to keep him quiet; though not unconscious, he was unable to move or talk. His mind tried to reach out from the darkness. It seemed almost as if he could see what was happening in a detached way, as if he were watching from the heights of one of the nearby hills. The litter bearers lowered their burden to the earth and stepped away. The guards took positions indicated by their commander and turned their backs to the tomb, facing outward. The priests lit sticks of joss and incense, placing them on the tomb and spinning their prayer wheels: they too, turned away from the tomb.

  Li Tsao and her two personal physicians approached the casket. She stood by idly, enjoying the strengthening warmth of the fall sun as it neared midday. The two healers opened the lid of the teak casket, exposing Casca to the sky. His head was on silk pillows and his bindings concealed by robes of honor. Only the silken gag was visible, appearing to be more of a covering for his lower face than anything else.

  Waving the physicians away, Li Tsao moved with the grace of a temple dancer, her small delicate body swaying slightly with each tiny step, her fan of thinnest ivory sheaves making gentle breezes. Casca's eyes were closed. Li Tsao leaned over, her brown eyes taking in the face of one who had denied her the right to eternal youth. She was beautiful still, but time's insidious advance could not be stopped forever. One day the artful use of cosmetics would no longer be able to hide the small lines now making their slow but sure appearance on her ivory skin, marring the once perfect beauty.

  Snapping her fingers, an attendant approached bringing an object wrapped in white silk. Taking it from him and then waving a hand of dismissal, she laid the silken package on the chest of Casca.

  "Barbarian, do you hear me?" Taking his cheek between her lacquered nails she twisted once, and then again, leaving a bloody trickle running down his face. Casca's eyes opened slowly, blurred from the drug induced sleep. He tried to focus with difficulty. "Good, Barbarian, I have brought you something," she patted the silk package. "In here is your sword. You may need it to fight your way through the demons of darkness. I felt much for you, but you rejected me and this cannot go unpunished, but for the feelings and the life we might have had eternally young, I leave you your weapon." Her face swam above him as she leaned over and kissed him long and full on the mouth, her tongue darting like a serpent. She kissed him as she would one she loved long and full, as if in this final kiss she was trying to draw off the essence that made him what he was. Placing her fingers over his face, she closed his eyes, her voice lilting, and sweet she whispered, "sleep the long sleep of eternity."

  Darkness closed in again as the lid of his coffin was closed and even the thin glow of light from the sun through his shut lids was terminated. The slaves lowered Casca into the rock tomb that would be his home for the ages. Straining, they needed the help of twenty guards to place the massive slab on top.

  They bowed their way back from the tomb, out of sight. This was the business of those above them as they were above the vermin that crawled in the bowels of the earth.

  One by one, the soldiers made obeisance and lit sticks of incense for the deceased and laid them on the small stone altar where the incense burned. The priests began their death chant in earnest, nasally whining paeans to the dark spirits to let the traveler through safely to join his ancestors. The mourners – the best that money could buy and completely devoted to their occupation – took their cue and began to wail as if a child had been torn away from them. With undulating cries of grief and sorrow, they pitched themselves into ever greater expressions of grief, slashing their faces with their fingernails and tearing their clothes into shreds to the syncopation of the gongs and flutes until they lay exhausted upon the ground in a sobbing mass of genuine bereavement.

  Thus, Casca was buried.

  The
procession reformed itself and left quietly with dignity. The Lady Li Tsao being well-pleased made a mental note to use the same mourners when the Emperor died. Calling her attendant, she asked to which guild they belonged.

  Casca awoke, the effects of the opiate having worn off; most men would have been unconscious for at least a full day and night. The procession had not yet reached the outskirts of the sacred city when the terror came over him. Unable to move his arms, the darkness enveloped him like some horrible placenta.

  "No!" he screamed through muffled lips. "No!"

  The terror of being buried alive washed over him. The same desperate fear he had felt as a slave in the mines of Greece returned. To be buried alive, unable to die. How long would the darkness last ...one year ... five ... a hundred or for eternity?

  He cried out through his gag, his mouth working at the bindings. He beat his head against the silken pillows in anguish. "Alive, the bitch has burled me alive." The horror settled on him giving vent to an icy chill that came from the surface of his skin, deep into his bones. "Alive, for how long? How can I find the Jew If I'm buried here forever." Casca's efforts to free himself slackened. He felt heavy, his arms and legs like lead appendages, his chest aching for air. The darkness came again, his eyes closed once more and the deep chill faded. Casca was still, his body unmoving. Then a tiny movement in the great vein of his neck. Minutes passed... then another quick twitch of the large vein.

  Once every twenty minutes his pulse beat and every forty minutes his chest would move slowly, taking a shallow breath. His system came to an almost complete halt. Like the great bears of the ice mountains, Casca slept.

  The years passed, the business of the kingdom went on, babes were born, old men died and wars were fought. Occasionally a bundle of fresh incense would be lit at his grave by one with whom he had soldiered. Bowls of rice to feed his spirit were set with honor. The birds and rats appreciated the offerings. Occasionally one of the great plates of the earth shifted and tremors came to the surface as minor quakes, not severe or uncommon in this land. To the peasant, this was accepted like the seasons – some were good and some were bad – but all were part of their life.

  Casca's tomb cracked open at the north seam, letting in a tiny amount of air; not much, but enough for the sleeping one inside. With the crack came others. Smaller vermin and insects made homes in the robes of silk. Families grew in the beard and chest hair of the sleeper. His hair still grew and in the growth were many colonies of worms, seeking the warmer spots in his armpits a small family of vipers chose the place between his crotch for their own. The insects and a minute amount of moisture weakened the fabric of the robes and bindings until finally, a great rat made his way in after gnawing for days at the crack. The rodent walked up and down the length of Casca carefully to avoid the snakes and after satisfying himself, took a bite out of Casca's big toe but immediately began to eat dirt and run his mouth and tongue over the ground trying to get the taste out. This was a large piece of meat and the rat prided himself on being able to eat anything, but not this – to eat this was death. In frustrated hunger, the rat nibbled and chewed the silk bindings away from Casca's arms and while trying to digest his silk meal, became a meal himself for a family of snakes in the sleeper's crotch.

  Chapter Twenty - THE PREACHER

  The seasons came and went in their time. The sleeper in his bed of stone was unaware of the years passing. Only the endless weaving of the brown spider marked the passage of the years as she spun a gossamer web over the still form of the sleeping man, covering him from head to feet in a delicate pattern of webs in which she trapped smaller insects to feed her brood. When she died, others took her place, spinning their own silken threads until the sleeper appeared to be more of a giant embryonic larva waiting in his cocoon for time to hatch. Beneath the rocks, the earth periodically shifted and shuffled, causing tremors on the surface. The year's frost killed the blossoming cherry tree buds by the hillside and for another three weeks, the branches were bare, but spring finally came, as she must. The winds blew gently over the grass and the peasants in the fields labored planting; their backs bent early from constant stooping as they painstakingly strived to make the earth produce the necessities for their existence.

  The planting of the peasants was broken by the sound of a bell ringing. They stopped, turning their heads to the sound from the hillside. A figure made its way down to the field, a staff in one hand, and in the other, a bell of bronze which he rang with every other step. An unintelligible chanting issued from the scarecrow caricature that came closer into view; a foreigner and one touched by the gods, obviously mad and therefore blessed.

  The peasants waited, their faces in the shadows of the woven straw conical-shaped hats worn by men and women alike, their legs encrusted with dried mud to above the knees. They waited to see what the stranger wanted.

  "Peace and the blessing of the Messiah on you," spoke the stranger in Chinese. "Praise God, you heathen, for I bring to you the greatest gift of the world; the word of the living God and salvation awaits those who will listen and heed. Bow your heads you heathen dogs." The mad man pointed one gnarled finger at Wing Sung, the man in whose fields the others toiled: "Down you slant-eyed barbarian and I shall save your soul, though I don't know why the Lord has placed this burden on me." His voice rose to a moderate bellow: "Down!"

  Startled, Wing Sung obeyed. After all one never knew about these mad monks who wandered the earth, for did not Buddha do much the same? It was considered unwise to offend those the gods had touched and unlucky, especially during the seasons of planting when all luck is needed. If he's just a madman, we will stone him to death later; for now, it's best to play it safe.

  Wing Sung's laborers followed his action. All bowed low from the waist, wondering what was going to happen next.

  The madman strode toward them, his clothes a nondescript mixture of castoff items from a dozen tribes; though just which, by this time, none could tell. His beard reached to his waist and a look of blind fanaticism was clear in his red rimmed eyes.

  “I am Peter. I have come to you at the bidding of the Lord Jesus Christ, for in my dreams he commanded me to go forth and save souls of those who have not heard his words. Fifteen years I have wandered and preached the gospel to the benighted heathen and always the Lord has provided, though not as well as I would have liked sometimes – indeed, I have lost more pounds than I started with, but I am well enough and if the Lord chooses to test me, who am I to question Him?" The question was as much to himself as to anyone else and as it did not require an answer, he continued, "Now, you sloe-eyed idol worshippers, you are in luck today, because today and today only, I am going to bring to some salvation and eternal life in paradise. Those of you who are so ignorant as not to recognize the truth of my words will just have to go to Hell and that's fine with me. I will have given you a chance and it's your tough luck if you pass it up."

  Wing Sung peered up through the epicanthic folds of his eyes. "Are you from the lands to the West?" he queried, still not certain if the stranger was blessed or just nuts.

  "Indeed I am, you poor miserable idolater. I have come from a land called Dacia. There I heard the words of the Gospel and knew I was to bring the Lord's word to all within range of my voice," his eyes flashed as he recalled his own salvation, "I learned your tongue while living with a tribe of nomads in the great desert where I saved many souls for the Lord. Now, which of you wishes to be saved first? Step forward, don't be bashful: I don't have all day you know." Wing Sung kept his opinions to himself but addressed the madman once more. "Holy man, there is another of your own race entombed nearby, a great warrior who served the Emperor Tzin. He was put into the great stone sarcophagus there," pointing to the nearby valley where the tomb of Casca lay.

  Peter the madman looked to the place where Wing Sung had pointed. "A man of my race you say? Was he a Christian?" "What's a Christian?" Wing Sung asked.

  "A Christian is a follower of the crucified God, Christ." The
n showing Wing Sung what the Chinese considered a particularly gruesome item, a small silver crucifix with a man nailed to it, Wing Sung shrugged. "I don't know if he was what you call a Christian or not, but he was entombed with honors due a noble of the royal court by the Lady Li Tsao, consort to the Emperor Tzin."

  Peter drew himself up to his full height, his bony cheeks flushed with the thought he might be able to save a soul. "Why you miserable heathen, if he was buried by your idol worshipping practices, he will never know paradise. The least I can do is say the last rites over him to give his soul a chance for salvation. Show me the way."

  Wing Sung did as he was told and showed the ragged messenger of the one called the Messiah to the place of Casca's entombment. The villagers gathered in the background, anxious to see what this weird ragged, pale-faced stranger would do. They squatted in a semicircle, their knees almost to their chest and waited.

  Peter, full of righteous fervor approached the tomb. Standing before it he saw the embossed emblems of eternal life and the four-toed dragon, given only to those of the royal household and the tree of life with spreading branches. Raising his silver crucifix, he began to chant and preach, his voice gaining strength as he got into his act. His eyes raised, body twitching, he gained power such as he had never known. The power was on him. His voice echoed throughout the hills and valleys. He got into his thing as he spoke the words of the gospel and finally the words of Revelation.

  Nature picked this particular time to let the mountainous rocky plates beneath the earth shift once more, the shock from below traveling to the surface like a stone in a lake rippling its way out in widening circles, cracking the granite boulders into splinters and changing the course of an underground hot spring; the one that fed the baths of the village of Feng Shang. The vibrating waves of the earthquake cracked further the stone tomb, letting the boiling waters of the hot spring flow into the interior, cooking all the assorted vermin that had chosen to make Casca and his tomb their home. Rats as well as spiders, died in a steam that would have driven Casca mad with pain had he been able to feel the heat. The waves of the earthquake reached the surface, the ground swaying as if at sea.