Casca 1: The Eternal Mercenary Page 3

  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.

  Casca lay on the straw-filled cot, not even taking his wet gear off. And he slept. Outside, the stone wall surrounding the Roman encampment presented a bulwark against the hostile elements of the local population, but there was nothing to protect Casca's mind from the hostile waves of thought that assaulted him. Over and over, he saw every moment of the crucifixion.

  Over and over, he saw the Jew's face, terrible in its intensity and power. "Until we meet again... " Over and over, he heard the Jew's words. They etched themselves into his brain, like acid. "Until we meet again... "

  The storm passed with the night. Dawn came, cool and clear. A breeze blew in from the unseen and seemingly very distant ocean, rustling through the fronds of the date trees outside the barracks. Casca was pulled from his restless sleep by the curses of the barracks chief rousing the men for breakfast. It was the hour of the dawn, and day was upon them. While the others went for food, Casca stayed behind and cleaned his gear.

  The decurion had said there would be an inspection today; his gear looked like crap from having slept in it without cleaning it before he went to sleep. He wiped and oiled his leather chest armor, working the oil in it to keep the leather supple and easier to wear. The familiar task comforted him.

  He dropped into the routine of polish and rub, not thinking, and it was pleasant not to think. When he had finished his chest coverings, he did his sandals, noticing with a slight sense of wonder that the sore spot between his toes was gone.

  Examining the spot more closely, he saw that already the flesh was completely healed ... with no trace of redness remaining. Odd! ... but he dismissed it from his mind, and returned to cleaning the rest of his gear, using the scrap of cloth from the Jew's cloak that the squad leader had given him to clean his sword and spear.

  Casca was proud of his abilities with the sword, especially with the Gladius Iberius as some called the Roman short sword. Personally, Casca did not think that it came as a modification of those long butcher knives so popular with the Spanish Iberians. He had a theory that it came from the gladiators' use of short swords. The spectators at the Arena liked to see their favorites fight at close range. Only for special contests were long swords such as the Germans used permitted. For the legionnaire, the short sword was best. When the legion locked shields and formed the square, the short sword made it easier to stab under your shield, over it, and around the sides when the barbarians were crowded up against the living wall of the legion. The long swords of the barbarians just got in their way. When they got too crowded, there just wasn't enough room to swing them properly.

  Casca laughed mentally at the remembrance of one monstrous German at least six feet in height who in his battle rage killed at least a half dozen of his own tribesmen swinging that long sword – the size of a tent pole – and bellowing for Odin to give him strength. He had been killed by the legion company cook who had crawled between Casca's legs and stabbed the big German through the navel with a kitchen knife and then scurried back to his pots, content to leave the glory to the combat elements of the century.

  The other troops returned from breakfast. The two Syrians, Kleton and Achron, carne and sat down across from Casca, the dark one rocking back and forth, his hands around his knee.

  "It was a strange thing yesterday," Achron remarked, "was it not, Casca?"

  Casca nodded, and the Syrian continued.

  "After you crapped out on us and went to sleep, it got interesting for a while. Several of the Jewish priests came over from their Temple to harass and mock the one on the cross. Then the Jew promised one of the thieves that he would go with him. I don't know where they thought they were going to. But it was interesting, was it not? But, Casca, where did you learn to speak Hebrew? I didn't know you could even understand it, much less speak it"

  Casca stopped his rubbing, raised his face, and said quietly, "I can't."

  "But I heard you answer the Jew's statement about his father forsaking him. You talked in Hebrew."

  Casca looked Achron directly in the eye and said, "No. The Jew spoke Latin, as clear as we are speaking it now."

  The other Syrian said, "You are both wrong. He spoke Aramaic. It is the tongue of my native village. He spoke it perfectly."

  Casca stood, his neck swelling with anger. "Enough of this. I don't want to hear any more about the Jew or what language he was talking. I don't care. It is over and done with. Now let me alone before I break your faces."

  Turning from the two Syrians, Casca went outside and put on the rest of his gear. The trumpeter was just sounding reveille, and the legionnaires were being called to form the ranks of their centuries, each century being broken down into ten squads of ten men each. Casca liked the orderliness of the Roman army. Every man and everything in its place. One hundred men to a century, two centuries to a maniple, three maniples to a cohort, and 3,600 men to a legion with two centuries per legion as service troops. When Augustus became emperor, there were sixty legions, but now, after his long and efficient reign, there were only thirty eight active legions watching over the Pax Romana. The legion was the queen of battle; any legion that lost its eagles was forever disgraced until the eagles were returned. Had not Augustus forced the Parthians to return the captured eagles of Crassus and Antony?

  So, as Casca stood in the ranks, he felt the unity surrounding him, the sense of strength from being part of something great and powerful. His commander stood in front and called them to attention and gave his orders. The standards were raised. Casca's century drew swords and beat in time against the shield faces, repeating the cry, "Ave, Tiberius Imperator! Ave! ... "

  It was a glorious moment.

  Casca almost forgot the words of the Jew.

  Almost.

  FIVE

  For Casca, the memory of the day of crucifixion faded into the routine of garrison life. The days were full, but uneventful. His hours were busy with the regular training cycles of his unit. Their commander had lately got a bug up his ass, and the general consensus was that the old bastard was bucking for a promotion; he had the troops out constantly, doing facing maneuvers and close order drill.

  Casca didn't mind. He enjoyed the routine of it all. The century's morale was good, and it was pleasant to work up a good sweat in mock combat, hacking at each other with lead-weighted wooden swords. That, and a couple of hours of chopping at a wooden post to build up your sword arm, pretty well wore a man out. But he wasn't so tired that he couldn't enjoy a few of the gentler pleasures of life. After all, he was a fine figure of a man... in his prime... not yet thirty. His light brown hair and gray-blue eyes had brought him something of a reputation as a ladies' man among his comrades.

  Even the wife of Pilate, the beautiful and cultured patrician, Lady Procla, had smiled at him more than once. His body was smooth and well-muscled, with only enough scars to show that he was a veteran and thereby to be treated with respect by his peers. The most obvious scar was one that ran a
bout the length of a lady's little finger from the side of his right eye to just above his mouth. It gave him a slightly sinister look that had turned on more than one seemingly reluctant maid. And if the darling ladies chose to think it was a wound of valor, who was he to disillusion them and hurt their feelings by telling them that a whore from Achea had sliced him up when he tried to short-change her after she had done her best for this noble hero of Rome?

  No, it was certainly better that he let the little dears think of him as a brave and valorous soldier brutally scarred in battle against the barbarians of the dark German forests. Definitely better. He had gotten no complaints about his amorous capabilities. Perhaps his body was a little too thick and heavily muscled for the patricians, but it served him well enough when the fight got thick. He was glad to have those extra pounds of muscled-up beef. They gave him power and had helped him more than once to cleave the helmet of an enemy of Rome – and in the process save his own ass. Casca was never exactly sure which was the more important: his duty to the legion, or his concern for his own hide. He suspected the centurion would have a different opinion from his own on that, but on one thing he knew all the soldiers in the legion would agree – what it was like in combat.

  There was something about battle that meant the same for every soldier. When the blood started flowing hot in your veins, and the legion formed the square and began to march against the enemy... like a juggernaut of flesh and steel... you lost yourself in the feeling of the whole, you became part of a thing separate from yourself, and yourself became less important than the belonging. And the belonging was awesome and great.

  You were caught up in the movement and surge of battle. Then the killing rage and lust for blood that came when your leaders gave the cry, "Let loose the legion!"... The order to break ranks and pursue the retreating and faltering foe...

  That was the time of the blood lust and the slaughter... when one might strike down a dozen – nay, even two dozen of the retreating, demoralized foe.

  For some reason, when the barbarians felt the battle was lost, they usually just gave up; giving only minor resistance even when they knew they were doomed. Strange...

  Yes, Casca felt good. Life was good. Tonight he and his squad would be a guard of honor for King Herod's party. Guard of honor, he chuckled inwardly. Honor? The only reason Pilate would send any of his men to Herod's palace was to remind the simpering degenerate who was the boss.

  Not even Achron's news that the body of the crucified Jew was missing from its place of entombment disturbed him. Casca was a reasonable man and had a bit of formal education. He could even read – something which would guarantee him a soft spot in the orderly room if he had too much trouble with Sporus the decurion.

  No, if the Jew's body was missing, it just meant that his followers were trying to keep the cult alive. It's no big deal.

  There was nothing to disturb the tranquility of Casca. He had even escaped the bout of dysentery that had struck down most of his century for several days earlier this week. The latrine was for a while the most popular place in camp – and the hardest – to get into. Only Casca had been untouched.

  Tonight, when he stood guard at Herod's palace, he would look striking in his new cloak and cuirass – chest armor. He had just bought a new set off a recruit whose rich merchant father had made a payoff and had gotten his darling child out of such rough company after the silly shit got drunk and enlisted. Casca had helped the boy a time or two, so the youngster let him have the cloak and armor for next to nothing – which was about how much money Casca normally had, unless he did a little moonlighting now and then as bouncer at several of the local wine shops.

  The legion didn't think much of Herod, but if things went well tonight, Casca could leave the palace with a few extra shekels. Herod was known to be a big spender and to tip well. Casca's squad had the early duty. They should be relieved before the party got really rolling and everyone got stoned. That was the time to get out. The new guard mount would have their hands full trying to keep the noble ladies from ripping their armor off and screwing them right there. That was no place to be if you had any sense at all. The legion commander would flay the skin from the back of any of his men who let themselves be compromised. That old fart had about as much compassion and sense of humor as a pit viper with hemorrhoids.

  Casca was after safer game tonight. That hot little dancer from Armenia had promised to dance for him alone after she got off from work. The memory of her flashing body whirling faster and faster as her stomach sucked in and out... undulating and twisting... her breasts set high and glistening with sweat and perfumed oil ... made him almost drunk with anticipation. Tonight's the night... He hummed a familiar popular song to himself. The only fly in the ointment was Sporus, his squad leader. That tough old fart had the hots for the little dancer, too, and had been paying part of her rent. But what the old boy didn't know couldn't hurt; Sporus would be sergeant of the guard for the late shift tonight while Casca was sampling the wares of that luscious little she savage.

  The guard mount began making its way up to the hill upon which the palace of Herod was built. As they left behind the narrow streets of Jerusalem, the smell of food cooking in the palace wafted over the dusky air, making their mouths water. After enduring the less-than-exciting menu of their company cook – boiled barley and rye and stewed pig did little for the taste buds, but it was filling, and where so many starved that was not a small thing they anticipated the rich food of the palace banquet as though it were the fare of the gods.

  And yet...

  As the unit marched up past the villas of the rich and titled, disturbing thoughts nibbled at Casca's mind. Here were the lavish estates... with gardens... and many slaves to keep away anything unpleasant. For the rich, it was the best of all lives. Anything could be had if you could pay. Women, slaves, palaces, power were all on the auction block to go to the highest bidder. For the poor soldier, none of these things. Unless...

  There was always the hope of war taking place, in which case the soldier's lot could be loot and spoils. One lucky break, and a man could be set up for life. That's all it took, one lucky break. Until then

  Oh, the hell with it. Wonder what Herod's palace is like inside?

  SIX

  Casca was properly impressed. One hell of a place to stand guard duty...

  This palace of Herod Antipas was all that the mind of an Asian despot with almost unlimited wealth could wish for. The richness of the decorations and the brilliance of the dress of Herod and his guests made the few Romans present look lackluster and dull by comparison, for the Roman evening dress could in no way equal the splendor of Herod's finery – or even that of his personal guards. His bodyguards were all dressed in matched sets of armor, the expensive brass fish-scale kind that looked like liquid gold when they moved. Their helmets were of steel, with a chain-mail mesh of brass covering the back of the neck and the shoulders. Damn pretty-boy types. They were all mercenaries from Greece. Herod was shrewd enough to understand the degree of affection in which he was held by the indigenous populace; as foreigners, the Greek mercenaries would give their loyalty directly to him.

  Envious of the Greeks, Casca waited out the time.

  The entertainment progressed through the evening. Jugglers and clowns performed through the first eight courses of food. As the evening wore on and the wine took effect, several of the guests made use of the vomitorium, some because they were sick, others to empty their stomachs so that they could eat more. The tempo picked up. Performers from Numidia and Egypt danced; they seemed more insane beings than dancers as their oiled bodies writhed over the marble floor and twisted into the semblance of monster serpents with human features. Casca and his troop stood firm, trying not to be too obvious in their distaste for the parasites and sycophants for whom this gaudy display was intended. The troopers were legionnaires. They would maintain their proper attitudes, reflecting the discipline of the Roman army. Damn all civilians.

  The time app
roached for the relief to come on duty, and Casca sighed mentally, impatient for his relief. He was ready. A hot spot from the rigid attention position had settled into a burning throb just below his left shoulder blade. That, along with that bitch niece of Herod's, was beginning to make things a little tough for him. The niece, Salome, had been in there showing the guests how to really dance. One thing about her, she could throw that ass around faster than anything he had ever seen ... and then pull her stomach in until it looked like her navel was going to rub up against her spine. Casca could feel the pressure building in him. Tonight, he promised himself, that little Armenian of Sporus's I've got lined up is going to get more than she bargained for... damn. He was about to burst with frustration.

  Damned right. That Salome slut is one hot piece of goods... and she is driving Herod crazy. The fat fart was on his knees, begging her to lay with him. Said he'd make her a queen. The fool actually slobbered in frustrated passion. That bitch had her hooks in the old boy, but good. During one part of her dance she had used Casca as a support to twine herself around – and also to aggravate Herod. She had rubbed up against Casca, trying to get some reaction out of him. Casca felt a certain degree of satisfaction out of his maintaining his cool so well under duress.

  Casca would have felt a lot more satisfied with himself if Salome hadn't snuck a feel on him and found out exactly how much she had worked him up. That slut was an accident waiting to happen, and Casca was glad to be getting out of there before the party got real rough. You could feel that it was going to get worse before it got better.