The Sentinel Read online

  Gregory withdrew the spear, leaving an opening through which the old man's thin blood could pour out. It was a woefully thin stream. Gregory made a mental note not to use men of such advanced age again.

  The Elder turned to hold the spear above his head, showing his followers the blood on it. He spoke the ancient words that had been passed down from the first Elder to him and were spoken only once a year at this holy conclave:

  "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 become 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 and 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 the world, the gateway to heaven."

  Gregory paused to catch his breath. The fervor of the ancient words caught him up as always. His heart was pounding fiercely, Sweat was running down his face, and his eyes bulged in righteous passion. Raising the spear above his head, he sobbed out, "Brothers, pray with me and curse the name of Longinus, the killer of God!"

  He lowered the point of the spear with the thin blood of their sacrifice moving slowly down to the point as the air clotted it. In order, the Brothers crept forward on their knees to touch their tongues against the dark stain that had collected on the point. One after another they tasted the blood of their surrogate lamb and received the holy spirit into themselves. They moved away to fall over, scourging themselves, rolling and crying out the name of the one they hated most in the world: "Longinus, Longinus."

  The crucifixion was over. The body of their brother was removed from the cross to be washed and cleansed and then wrapped in linen and placed in a tomb prepared in the side of the catacombs and cemented in with bricks.

  It was over. Gregory was exhausted. The message had been given, and the ceremony had come off quite well; he was satisfied. He would meet with the others of the Inner Circle the next day to give them their final orders pertaining to the finding of Casca and also to go over their accounts. It seemed as if there never was enough gold to cover all their expenses. But at least many of his followers had positions from which they were able to siphon funds to serve the Brotherhood of the Lamb.

  The spear was returned to its case to be put away until the next year, when once again it would serve to remind the faithful of their duties and the honor they had been given in the service of God.

  Before the first light of dawn, many of the Brotherhood were already taking varied means of transportation to return to their homelands. A feeling of satisfaction traveled with them, for they knew that they were the chosen few.

  In the morning, the members of the Inner Circle attended their Elder at a breakfast held at his villa outside the walls of Constantinople, where they would be assured of absolute privacy.

  Gregory was dressed in a loose, flowing, knee-length tunic of pure white wool. The waist was gathered with a single strand of woven gold from which hung the silver image of a fish. His guests were dressed in varied costumes according to their positions in the secular world, though two did wear the robes of Catholic bishops.

  Gregory once again thought how wise Izram had been when he had founded the Order of Thirteen. There were thirteen members of the Inner Circle. Each controlled thirteen deacons, who controlled thirteen lay brothers, who controlled thirteen novices or acolytes. Each leader of thirteen knew only the members directly under his control by their true names. In this manner, if their ranks were ever betrayed, the line would cease with their deaths and go no further. Each brother, from the newest novice to the Elder, was firmly committed to die before revealing any information about the order.

  As the Elder, Gregory was not only the leader of the Inner Circle but had his own thirteen, who were the swords of their order. From all ranks his thirteen were selected for their strength, intelligence, and courage; of course, they had to be brothers of absolute devotion. They were trained in the matters of security used their knives or garrottes to enforce discipline or eliminate anyone who interfered with their plans.

  At his villa this day, only the members of his Swords of God were in attendance. All other servants and slaves had been sent away. A light breakfast of fresh fruit, cheese, and bread was served. Gregory noticed the way most of his guests sat with their backs away from their chairs. It would be some days before they were able to sleep on their backs without some discomfort.

  To these men he repeated his message of the previous evening. Casca must be found, and if they had need of gold, men, or influence, they were not to count the cost or hesitate to call on him for anything. Even a small war was not out of the question if it would help.

  During their meal, he passed down what little information he had about the hated one, which was woefully small. He had last been seen, as had been stated, while in the service of Aetius and had disappeared after the withdrawal of Attila and his Huns from Italy. There had been an unconfirmed report that he had been seen at a tavern near the foothills of the Julian Alps, where one of their lay brothers was master. But that had been long ago. The beast could be anywhere, but he would show up again. He always did.

  CHAPTER TWO - The Warrior

  Wearily, the warrior trudged up the trail past a grove of pines. The shield on his back rubbed a sore spot on his shoulder where the strap cut into his flesh. Eyes down on the pine needle-covered deer trail, he moved forward with heavy shuffling steps. The spear in his right hand pointed its steel head down in front of him in the manner in which a blind man uses his staff to search his sightless way through the Stygian darkness of his existence.

  But this man was not blind, though there had been many times when he wished that he'd had no eyes to see the horrors of his existence. His appearance would give any watcher hesitation: the worn battered jacket of iron scales under his fur robe, the steel helmet resting low over his forehead, the nose guard raised, but most of all, the aura of terrible bloody death that was in the gray-blue eyes.

  Those eyes had seen the rise and fall of many nations, emperors and kings, gods and devils. He was a man who had been both god and demon, soldier and slave. He was Casca Longinus, the damned. The curse of Jesus the Nazarene was ever with him since the moment when his pilum had pierced the side of the one they had called the messiah over four hundred years before.

  "Soldier," Jesus had said, "you are content with what you are, then that you shall remain until we meet again."

  The words had meant nothing to him then as the blood of the Jew rushed out to cover his spear and his hand where he touched it to his lips unthinkingly and thereby took the blood of Jesus into his own body. He was damned. Damned! Damned to a life of eternal conflict and suffering. Condemned to live until the second coming of Jesus. Condemned to walk the earth without ever knowing peace or even the comfort of having his own family, for he knew that his blood was sick and that the seed of his body would never grow in the womb of a mortal woman.

  He had known love, but always it had been taken from him by the insidious passage of time. He couldn't stay with a woman who would one day question him as to why his face didn't show the normal ravages of time or why disease never stayed in his body or why wounds healed that should have killed him.

  The day always came when o
nce more he would put his shield on his back, his sword in its scabbard, and move on to the next battle: endless battles, screaming faces, and rivers of blood to feed the ambitions of those who would be kings. Even in this he had no choice, for Jesus had said, "As you are, so you shall remain." He was a soldier of the legions then, and a soldier he would remain. He was the eternal mercenary.

  Below, in the warmer lands of Italy, he had left behind battlefields littered with the thousands of corpses that had fallen in battle against Attila and his Huns. Even worse were those who had died from the fevered touch of war's handmaiden, plague.

  His body was thick and heavily muscled, the body of a man born to fight. Under the robe and armor were scars to attest his trials. Thick-fingered hands that could barely handle a writing quill could move a spear or sword with the ease of a master painter. He was death's artist, who painted on fate's canvas from a palette of fire and blood, leaving his lifeless works behind on his long journey to eternity.

  A whipping branch struck him across the face, causing his eyes to water and bringing him back to reality. Cursing, he wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his left hand and moved up the mountain trail. A rushing sound ahead of him brought his spear up to the ready position. He moved off the trail, concealing himself behind a tree. The sound came closer. Someone was running. A figure broke through the brush to his front and fell to the ground a few feet from where he stood.

  A woman lay on her knees, huddled over. Wracking sobs came from her in short gasping barks as she struggled to get her breath. She was holding something to her chest. From where he stood, it looked like a bundle of rags.

  Casca stepped back onto the trail, and his shadow fell across the woman. She raised red-rimmed panicked eyes and screamed, holding the bundle to her breast. Whimpering in terror, she backed away on her knees until her back came against the rough bark of tree and she could go no farther. As she moved, Casca saw that the bundle she held was not a pack of rags but a child, a baby of no more than a year. He also knew that the baby was dead.

  As the woman cringed in terror, part of the dingy blanket around her child fell away, and he saw the reason for the child's death. It had been stabbed repeatedly. The sight of those ugly wounds on the young flesh set in his brain like acid. This was the worst part of his curse, to have to witness the endless slaughter of innocents.

  He knelt down in front of the woman, speaking slowly and carefully, his voice gentle but firm. "Where are those that did this thing?" He didn't ask who had done it. That made no difference.

  He moved the thin blanket back up to cover the child's ugly wounds. This act served to stop the woman's screams. Again he repeated, "Where are those that did this thing?"

  The woman pointed back up the trail with a dirty finger on which the blood had not yet clotted, and by this Casca knew that they were near.

  He rose from his knees, unslung his shield, and put it on his left arm. Then he lowered the nasal guard of his helmet. Looking down on the poor woman and her child, he spoke gently: "Your babe is dead. I cannot help him, but I can see that those who would do a thing like this know pain. Bury your child, woman, but know that his death will be paid for."

  Casca turned from her and moved along the trail. Stretching his legs out, with the spear held in front of him, he half ran through the woods. He reached the treeline in less than five minutes and saw across an open field of mountain grass the upright logs that served as a palisade for the small village of thatch-roofed huts and shacks.

  From where he was, he could tell that the puny barrier was better suited for keeping livestock in than raiders out. He couldn't see any sign of men on the wall, and so he struck out straight for the wall. Moving up against the logs, he caught his breath and listened. Inside, he could hear the mixed cries of pain and pleasure. The cries were few, and so he figured that there couldn't be too many inside. Most of the villages in this region had fewer than a hundred people, and this one looked to be a bit smaller than that.

  He worked his way around to the right of the wall until he could see the gate. It was open, which he expected, but if it hadn't been, it still would not have been any problem to get over the top of the logs.

  Slipping inside, he stayed close to the walls of the huts and in the shadows. He passed the bodies of several men, women, and a few children of varying ages who had been put to the sword. One of the men was still breathing, but Casca didn't have time to see whether he could do anything for him.

  He saw two warriors guarding a longhouse, probably the one bachelor males lived in. Both were armed with spears and swords. What tribe they were from he couldn't tell. From their coloring they looked to be Germans or perhaps Goths: fair-sized, full-bearded, rough-looking specimens who were badly in need of bathing.

  From inside the longhouse he could hear voices, some of which were crying. The surviving villagers were obviously being kept in there. Like most longhouses, there was only one entrance and exit; therefore, two men could easily keep those inside under control, for the entrance was such that people could enter or leave it only one at a time on hands and knees.

  Casca unslung the shield from his shoulder and put it on his left arm. It was of the common round type, of ox skin with an iron boss in the center and studs of brass spotted over the rest of the hide. Moving away from the longhouse, he looked for the rest of the raiders. It was easy to find them. The village was not large, and the sounds of laughter led him to where the other invaders were taking their pleasure with the women of the village.

  A rape was in progress. One of the raiders had thrown a woman to the earth and then lay on top of her, forcing her legs apart as he dropped his leather breeches over his knees. There were eight women, of whom three hadn't reached the twelfth year, but then, barbarians were never particular. He remembered times when toothless crones were as eagerly raped as if they had been young, full-bodied women.

  He didn't choose to interrupt them at their pleasures at this time. There might be more than the four men taking turns with their captives. They would have to wait a few minutes until he circled the village to make sure of their numbers.

  This was done quickly. He found only two others at different spots, searching through the huts for anything of value. These died quickly and silently when his fingers knotted around their throats to squeeze the life from them.

  Once he was sure that there were no more, Casca returned to where the two warriors were guarding the longhouse. It was wisest to take out the small numbers first before tackling the larger group.

  There was a space of about fifty feet separating him from the two guards when he looked around the corner of the hut. He would have to be patient. The women should keep the others occupied long enough for him to finish here.

  The two guards laughed and joked over their good fortune in finding this place where they would winter; it was fully supplied with food and women to keep them warm during the icy-nights.

  Casca set his shield down, loosened his sword in its scabbard, and took a different grip on his spear. Waiting until the two men were lined up the way he wanted them, he sucked in a deep breath and ran three long steps toward them, twisting his body to put the full force of his arm and his motion behind the cast. The spear streaked straight for the two men.

  One of the guards had his back to the longhouse, facing his comrade, whose back was to Casca. He just had time to see Casca over his comrade's shoulder before the spear entered the latter's back with such force that two feet of it exited through the man's stomach with enough power left to sink a foot into his own soft belly. As Casca threw, he kept on running. He was on them nearly as quickly as the spear. A quick swipe with his sword and he cut a throat, opening up the esophagus of the man whose back had been to the longhouse, stopping a scream that had only reached the back of his throat before Casca let it hiss out with the last of the air in the warrior's lungs.

  Casca called softly inside the low opening of the longhouse until a grizzled gray head appeared. Hogar, the el
der of the village, looked with surprise and confusion at the two dead warriors and then at the face of the scarred man speaking to him.

  "How many do you have in there?" The scar-faced speaker pointed back the way Hogar had come.

  "Forty-two, master, all that are left of us. Mostly women or children and four grown men who were saved to be sold at the slave markets in the south."

  Casca nodded. "Take them and get out of here. Head for the woods until I signal you to come back."

  The elder tried to persuade Casca to let him and the other men aid in killing the last of the raiders. Casca shook his shaggy head. "You would just get in the way. You're not warriors, and even if you outnumbered them, they would still slaughter you like sheep. Also, I would have to watch out for you, and that would make me vulnerable. Do as I say. It won't take long." He left, not waiting for Hogar to agree to his orders. He knew that they would obey.

  He picked up the two spears of the men he had just killed, tucked them under his arm, retrieved his shield, and went to where the others were still involved with their women captives.

  A new one had been selected for their pleasure. A girl whose breasts had not yet grown past the budding stage was being held down for one of the raiders to grunt over, thrusting his hips forward, ignoring her cries and cursing her for being too tight. He stopped her screams by giving her a solid blow on the temple. Casca could hear the skull crack from his position behind a storeroom. The raider did not care that he was on a dead girl. He continued his grunting over her limp body, laughing at how she had finally stopped whining.

  Casca moved until he was behind the warriors. Then he picked his first target, carefully selecting the toughest-looking of the men for his first cast. The warriors were overconfident. They had laid their heavy shields down and were leaning on their spears, making witty observations about their comrade's performance, saying, "If you'll ride a dead girl, why not a dead horse?"