The Eternal Mercenary c-1 Read online

The deep, demanding voice of Casey blended with the glowing eyes, a unity in Goldman's brain he could no longer separate. He felt himself being drawn into the eyes, felt himself falling through clouds of clearing mist…

  There was an interim when Goldman felt himself falling out of one plane of reality into another, when he could see buildings drawing closer. As though he were in an airplane making an approach for a landing. The details were confused… dirt roads, adobe walls… a paved stone road… stone walls… flat topped buildings… narrow streets… stone, stone, stone… a sense of eternity as though this place had been here before the beginning of time and would be here forever… trees… a grove of olive trees… rising ground…

  And then one enormous, gleaming white, dominating structure, massive, beautiful… as though God, Himself, had polished the stones…The Temple? Was this the Temple? Great God in Heaven! No wonder my people remember…

  Goldman wavered between reality and the vision. It seemed for a moment that the vision was gone… He was drawing close enough to see the people, and he was seeing them with twentieth-century eyes…like a scene from a Cecil B. De Mille movie… men in robes… a wrapped head covering…turbans?… riding asses and camels… a marketplace where vendors cried out for the attention of potential customers. The people were familiar. He felt as though he knew them.

  Were they Arabs? Then…

  He looked up.

  The Temple!

  Bearded long-haired men, arms lifted in prayer, their voices becoming intelligible as they wailed the ululating prayers of the Hebrew…

  "Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one…"

  My God! It really is the Temple! said the consciousness that was Goldman.

  "Yes," came Casey's voice, almost unwelcome to the doctor. "It is the Temple of the Jews that you are seeing now, learned doctor. The Temple of the Jews. Watch and learn the truth of this day and what it means to me, I, Casca Rufio Longinius, soldier of the legions of Imperial Rome in the reign of the great Tiberius…"

  The words boomed in Goldman's brain, and the transition was complete. He stood on the stone pavement of a Jerusalem street, in the land of his people, in the time of his people. Hear, O Israel, the Lord thy God is one God.

  The greater reality enveloped him.

  THREE

  Damn all Jews!

  It was not what Pontius Pilate, Procurator of Judea, would call your best quality day. There had been the matter of this Jesus. Pilate suspected that he had been outmaneuvered by the wily Herod, that fat slob, and forced into a position where it was politically expedient to follow the wishes of the Jewish leaders of Jerusalem; he had ordered another of those madmen that this insane land produced in a seemingly endless stream to be crucified along with a couple of petty thieves. A pity, in a way. Seemed like a pretty decent fellow. As he had told the Jewish priests, "I can find nothing wrong with what this man has said or done, but it is the policy of Rome"-Pilate loved laying the imperial gobbledegook on the natives-"to allow as much latitude as possible to the local authorities in the administration of laws involving their customs and religions as long as those laws and religions do not conflict with the administration of the Roman order."

  He had added what he thought was a nice theatrical touch: he had called for water and washed his hands ostentatiously. "He is yours. Take him and kill him." And then, with a distinct trace of contempt: "The decision is yours, not mine."

  Leaving the forum, he returned to the cool interior of his chambers. Pausing at a bust of Augustus, he mentally queried the marble figure: "Why me? Why Judea? What was wrong with Greece? Or even Spain? What did I do that you had to banish me to this realm of the insane? All these Jews are mad-with their unseen god and religious restrictions on what they can eat or drink or touch. I shall write to you again, my Emperor. Perhaps now you will let me return home-or at least transfer me to a province where all I have to deal with is an occasional border war with some normal barbarians. At least I can understand their motives and will know how to deal with them. But here I have not only the Jews, I have Herod, Claudius's friend, to contend with-and he is damn near as crazy as the rest of this mad population. I really believe the fat little shit is beginning to think he is part of the power structure of this place. I may have to slap him down, even if it does piss Claudius off."

  Claudius. For some reason Augustus tolerates that spastic prig and listens to him. Well, enough. I am through for the day, and I'm going to forget all this. I don't know why I aggravate myself over one more lousy halfmad Jew.

  But there was something about him. What was his name? Yeshua… Jesus. That's it, Jesus. He seemed to expect all that happened. It didn't upset or surprise him. He just accepted it as if he had more important things on his mind.

  Enough. I think I'll try out the new shipment of Falernian from Rome and get blind, staggering drunk.

  Jews.

  He headed for the wine room.

  The Judean sun had passed its zenith, but the day was just now at its hottest. The streets leading to the place of execution were lined with crowds of people waiting to see the so-called "Messiah."

  The Jew strained under the burden of carrying his cross, his face covered with blood from the crown of thorns on his head. To protect him from abuse from the orthodox Jewish population, a squad of Roman legionnaires walked with him. They grumbled under their breaths at this piece of extra duty they had drawn.

  The decurion in charge of the unit cursed at the sweat rolling down his own back and soaking the leather armor surrounding his chest and abdomen. The thing to be thankful for was that the armor wasn't metal. At least the local centurion had enough sense to know that in this climate metal armor was almost unbearable for normal duty days.

  The decurion had six men in his escort squad: two Syrians, a Gaul from Messilia, one member of the Tuetonii tribe of Germans, and two men from the northern Latin provinces. All of them shared the common belief that Judea was the armpit of the Empire.

  Cursing and beating the locals away from his charge, the squad leader led his group toward the place of execution, a mount called Golgotha, the Place of the Skull.

  The skinny Jew was stronger than he looked. He made it part of the way, but after he had fallen a couple of times, the decurion drafted one of the onlookers, a big husky black man, probably a visitor from Cyrene, and put him to carrying the cross. Damn tourist. The decurion wanted to get the job over with so he could get back to the barracks and clean up for tonight's date with that little dancer from Armenia.

  Even with the black man carrying the cross the journey seemed interminable, but finally they trudged their way through the dust and garbage up to the hilltop, leaving behind most of the spectators. It was just too damned hot for the crowd to hang around; only a few hardcore hangers-on stayed for the final spectacle-they and the women. Surprisingly, there were several women.

  When they reached the place of execution, the decurion took a deep breath and told the two Syrians to go ahead and get the Jew put up properly and for them to use the spikes he had brought along as well as the usual ropes. His orders were that the Jew was not to live any longer than necessary because it was always possible that some of his followers might start some trouble. The soldiers were to make sure that, after the example had been made and the local leaders were satisfied, they were to finish him off before anything unpleasant happened.

  The Syrians quickly stripped the robe off the Jew and laid him unresisting on the cross, one of them humming a child's song as he tied the man to the cross. The Jew was mumbling something under his breath, praying or something. As the two Syrians went about their job, the Jew kept his eyes closed and only opened them when the first spike was driven through his right wrist. His body writhed, and a moan burst from his cracked and drying lips. This was repeated when his other wrist and legs were nailed, and then all the squad got together to draw the cross into an upright position and drop it into the hole that had been dug for it. Jesus gave one long moan during this operati
on and a short cry as the cross thumped into the bottom of its hole.

  The legionnaires quickly tamped the earth down around the base of the cross and sat down to take a break, passing around a flask of raw, half-fermented, local date wine. It wasn't much, but it was the best they could afford since it was still a week until payday.

  Then they crucified the two thieves, one on either side of Jesus.

  The sun was moving westward and beginning to grow large and red. The decurion thought of tonight's date. The other men in the squad were throwing dice for the Jew's robe. The decurion watched them for a moment and made up his mind.

  "Shit, there ain't no reason for all of us to hang around here for this. You guys throw the dice. The three low points stay and finish up. The rest of us are going to take off."

  The shortest Latin had just put his cup and carved bone dice back in his kit bag after the gamble for the robe. Now he pulled them out again. The three who lost were the two Syrians and the big tall North Latin, Casca. Casca, at five-foot-ten, stood at least half a head over the others. He tried to buy his way out of this job, offering to take guard duty for any of the others their next turn up. There were no takers. It was just too damned hot to hang around. He would just have to take his lumps and sweat it out.

  As the rest of the squad marched wearily back down the hill, the Jew on the cross moaned and asked for water.

  "Water?" Casca grumbled. "That will just keep you alive that much longer." Laughing, he poured some of the sour wine onto a rag tied to the end of his pilum and held it to the mouth of the Jew. Jesus sucked eagerly at the sour-almost vinegar-wine, and passed out.

  Casca and the two Syrians sat and waited.

  The two thieves died.

  The Jew was quiet. At least they didn't have to listen to him moan or pray. These Hebrews were always moaning about something their God said or did-or praying for Him to come save them from the wicked Romans. Hell, they had a lot less trouble under the laws of Rome than they did when they ran their own country. There was no satisfying some people…

  Casca grumbled as he sat at the base of the cross and tried to catch a little sleep. The two Syrians were throwing dice, gambling against their next payday. Casca dozed fitfully, sweating inside his leather jerkin, sweat filling his sandals, the sweat burning a sore place where the sandals had rubbed a raw spot between his toes.

  Casca slept.

  How long he slept he did not know, but he came suddenly violently awake, skin crawling with premonition.

  Something was going to happen…

  When Casca opened his eyes the skies were dark as though night had come and a storm was at hand. He felt disoriented; memory and present reality jumbled in his mind. Time no longer seemed to flow in a straight pattern but halted, backed up, stepped forward. Damn Jew wine… musta gotta hold of a bad batch…

  He remembered dozing fitfully, sweating inside his leather jerkin, the sweat burning. His opening eyes were sticky from sleep and sweat; that seemed real enough. The night was almost on them…Had he slept that long? All the spectators had left except for a couple of women and a few of the Jew's followers. But there was something odd as hell about the night. Below him, Casca expected to see the lamps being lit around the doorway leading to the temple of the divine Jupiter. And the beginning wind should be picking up the smell of cooking food. But there were no lamps. And the stirring wind smelled… Hell!.. odd…

  Casca drew himself erect and beat the dust off his legs, glancing at the two gambling Syrians. One of them was ticked off because the other had just clipped him for his next pay-as well as the Jew's robe. Casca ignored the bickering soldier and stood in front of the Jew. Looking up, his eyes met those of the self-proclaimed "Son of God."

  "Well, Jew, it's about time to get this over with."

  At the sound of Casca's voice, Jesus raised his eyes to the darkening sky and cried out. As best Casca could make out the words, they were: "O my Father, why hast Thou forsaken me?"

  He seemed to choke back a sob, as though embarrassed by his own outburst.

  Casca drew his red army cloak about him. The night had taken a sudden chill as the freshening wind began to build.

  "Why has your father forsaken you?" he said to the Jew. "You fool. We are all forsaken from the time we first draw a breath. No one lives forever. Stop that whining and prepare yourself to die like a man, and stop calling for your father to help. It's too late for anyone to help."

  The wind whipped stinging bits of sand against his legs, and thunder rumbled in the distance. Casca picked up the spear where it was leaning against a rock. The wind was becoming fierce, and he had to squint his eyes against the force of the building storm. Small drops of rain were beginning to touch down, making puffs of dust jump from the dirt at the foot of the cross. The two Syrians covered their heads with their cloaks for protection. Casca took his spear and stood close to the cross.

  "It's time to get this over. I'll try to make it as painless as possible."

  The Jew clenched his teeth, his lips pale. Casca drew back slightly and with a smooth thrust ran his spear up against the last rib on the left side, aiming for the heart. He missed, and withdrew for another lunge.

  The skies broke open. Black clouds seemed to suck the very light itself from the earth. Wind and rain howled around them as if the elements had gone mad. Fluid and blood poured forth from the wound, and drops of blood splashed against Casca's right hand.

  Jesus opened his eyes and looked on the Roman's face.

  Fear ran through the bowels of Casca. He had never seen a face like this. The intent and tremendous power of the Jew swept over him as though it were a part of the raging storm.

  "Soldier, you are content with what you are. Then that you shall remain until we meet again. As I go now to my Father, you must one day come to me." The Jew's voice blasted its way into Casca's mind. The two Syrians did not appear to hear or see. "Soldier. You are content with what you are. Then that you shall remain… until we meet again…"

  The wind screamed. Casca stood in shock and fear, the Jew's blood on his hand mingling with the falling drops of rain. Unthinking, Casca wiped his hand across his mouth, and one drop of blood touched his tongue, and Casca screamed. He doubled over in cramps. What felt like liquid fire raced through his veins to his brain, setting his whole being on fire. And still the others noticed nothing.

  Casca fell to the ground and lay there whimpering while his whole body was racked with sobs. Slowly the pain ebbed away, leaving him weak and frightened.

  What was it the Jew said just before he died?

  "Until we meet again…"

  FOUR

  The pain slowly flowed from Casca's body, like great draining off of his essence. He pulled himself to his knees and looked into the face of the man Jesus.

  "Dead?" he asked. "Are you dead?" Pulling himself erect, his mind not understanding what had transpired, Casca knew fear, deep fear of the primeval kind that lives within the manbeast of all human beings, elemental fear. A woman came to him, her face in shadows, a wisp of brown hair showing as the storm winds blew her garments about. "Soldier, may I have my son? Can we take him now?"

  As Casca drew himself together the fear slowly faded, flowing out with his pain. The Jew was dead, and dead men harm no one.

  Croaking out the words, Casca told the woman, "He is yours. Take him and be damned."

  The woman looked questioningly into his face, and a subtle change which frightened Casca came into her voice. "Damned, did you say? You will learn the meaning of that word a thousand times over, Roman, conqueror of the world. You will surely learn what it means to be damned."

  Casca turned from her. A cold river of uncertainty raced through his bowels, leaving him chilled. But he was what he was.

  "Take him, witch, and begone!"

  The woman motioned to her friends. Gently they removed the body and the man they called Josephus began the death wail of the Hebrews.

  Casca called to the Syrians to get their things
and move out. While they were doing so, the decurion returned bitching. "What the hell are you up to?" he asked Casca.

  "I had to stay and see this job was done properly."

  "Properly, my ass. What's to do with crucifying a couple of thieves and a madman? Is everything all right?"

  Seeing the men and women wailing over the body of Jesus, the squad leader took a close look for himself. Catching Casca's eye as he straightened up, he said, "Just checking. You got to make sure. You know how sneaky these people are." Turning to the Syrian legionnaires, he barked, "Are you two still shooting dice?" Seeing the Jew's coat under the arm of the darkest Syrian, the decurion took the cloak from the Syrian, grumbling to himself. "If I have to come all the way back up here, I'm not leaving empty-handed." Ripping the cloak into quarters, he handed a piece to each of the soldiers, saying: "Here's your wages for the day. Maybe you can clean some of the crap off your gear with these. Because there's going to be an inspection tomorrow by the garrison commander, so let's get the hell out of here. Our job is over."

  The wind mounted another blast as they faced down from the north side of the hill and started back, not making any effort to get in step. Casca turned his head for one last look. The Jew's followers were cleaning the body. Cataclysmic bursts of lightning and thunder rolled over the city, shaking the very ground as though an earthquake had struck. Even the curtains covering the entrance to the Temple were ripped by the wind. With the rain beating at his face, Casca, keeping his own counsel, followed the others back to the barracks, dripping wet, the taste of fear still coppery and bitter in his mouth. The night beat at him, seeming to follow him purposefully through the narrow streets.

  Only when he entered the familiar surroundings of his barracks was he aware that the real night had not come yet; it was what should have been late afternoon. That was why there had been no smell of cooking food. The storm had turned day into night. But why? These thoughts are too much for me. I'm only a simple soldier… But why didn't the others see the Jew talking to me, hear what he said to me? And what did he mean?… Too much to think about.