Casca 1: The Eternal Mercenary Page 4

  Good! Here comes the relief! The changing of the guard mount took only a moment, and Casca, as assistant squad leader, formed up his troops and took them out as rapidly as possible. Now for that little Armenian dancer.

  The night was in full swing by the time Casca had been released from duty for the rest of the evening. Although Verianus, Sporus's assistant, had warned him about messing around with the Sarge's girl, Casca paid no heed. After what Salome had done to him he was not about to let something like Sporus's hurt feelings interfere with his getting some of that good Armenian pussy. That luscious thing had one of the prettiest heart-shaped asses he had ever seen...

  The tavern was crowded with a blending of the humanity to be found in this region... legionnaires from around the world... merchants from Asia Minor... and even some of the desert dwellers with their flowing robes and wrapped headdresses. The Arabians gave the Roman Casca an unfriendly glare, but they were smart enough not to start anything. The Tenth Legion had a reputation for kicking ass and killing, a reputation that was well-deserved. The troopers of the Tenth were all around about as tough a group of men as you could hope to have in any army. Most of them were tough guys and troublemakers who had been shipped out here to get them out of their original outfits.

  Judea was commonly known to be a punishment tour – but it beat the normal punishment for minor infractions such as fifty strokes with a reed cane across the soles of your feet for not rising fast enough when an officer entered your barracks. No, there were worse things than Judea... and it would not last forever.

  Casca glared back at the Arabians and took a seat close to the door, his back to the wall. Most old soldiers sat the same. Cover your back was one of the basic laws for survival in an occupied country. You could never tell when a case of liberation fever might strike one of the locals and have him or them try to remove your liver with a fish knife.

  The little Armenian still had one more show to do before she could take off, so Casca just kind of sat there and laid back, letting his mind and senses absorb the sounds and color. Jerusalem wasn't the best liberty town in the Empire, but it did have a lot of different types come through it, and that was entertaining if you were a people watcher. Right now he was getting off on watching Rheza doing her number on a tourist. The dummy really believed that he was turning her on because she smiled at him while dancing.

  It never changes... but tonight's my night. While old Sarge protects the honor of Rome, I'll be doing my number for Astarte.

  He had just enough wine to mellow him and make the night seem warmer than it was as he and Rheza made their way through the narrow, winding streets. A beggar called to them: "Alms. Alms, noble Roman. Alms for the lame." He showed an incredibly filthy leg twisted under him, obviously a terrible deformity, and Casca ignored him completely.

  As Casca and Rheza passed out of earshot, the lame man stood, spit at the back of the noble Roman, and nimbly moved on to a more likely place.

  As they walked, Rheza's breast formed a sweet, warm spot against Casca's side. He put his arm around her and pulled her close, taking advantage of a doorway to get in a little preliminary loving.

  Rheza jerked her body against him and sank tiny white teeth into his lower lip and slipped out of his encircling arms. Teasing, she ran away from Casca, not fast enough to lose him, just fast enough to get him aroused. "Little she-devil," he gurgled through a leering grin and took off after her.

  They played their game until she ran into the doorway of the building where she lived. The old man watching the doorway for the tenants while they were out gave a knowing smile at seeing the Roman soldier follow the dancing girl up to the second floor where her room was. The smile was toothless, but the old man leaned back against the wall to dream of long lost youth, long gone but not forgotten. Women he sighed in his mind... They are the only thing really worthwhile.

  Entering Rheza's room, Casca closed the door behind him and took from his pouch his flint and iron striker. He struck off on a piece of flint and lit the oil lamp in the room. The light of the single flame cast a soft red glow over the place. Casca caught his breath as Rheza slipped out of her clothing and let it fall to the floor. She was well aware of the power she had in her body. Casca removed his tunic, still watching her, comparing her to Salome. She didn't come out too bad.

  He reached out for her.

  This time she didn't run away, but melted into him, letting her body mold itself to him. Casca reached behind her and took one firm cheek of that lovely ass and began to squeeze ... while she tried to strangle him with her tongue.

  Then-

  "What the hell is this, you slut?"

  Where the caved-in door had been, Sporus's bearlike frame stood, his face livid with rage. "Casca, you son of a bitch, I am going to rip your arms off and beat you to death with the bloody stumps. But first I am going to carve you up a little." Sporus pulled out his hideous knife, a slick poniard-type blade, one meant for stabbing, not slicing.

  Casca stood there in shock.

  "Hey, wait a minute, Sarge. You don't want to cut me. Hell, there's nothing serious going on here. We're just friends. And you're supposed to be on duty."

  "Friends, my ass, you sneaky traitor. I got off early when I had to escort a prisoner to the stockade. The night officer said I could take off – and now I find you two taking it off. Well, right now, young soldier, you are going to pay for messing with my woman – and then I am going to slice her ears off so she won't ever listen to anyone else's bullshit."

  Sporus lunged, making a low upward slice to the belly.

  Casca stumbled back, his feet caught in Rheza's clothing, and fell, Sporus on him like an enraged beast. Almost without realizing it until the pain hit, Casca knew he had been stabbed. The blade was sunk to the hilt in his stomach, and the pain was like fire.

  Sporus let loose of the blade and stepped back.

  Both of them knew it was a death blow.

  Looking down at the handle of the knife protruding from his abdomen, Casca at first felt a sensation akin to embarrassment... then a rage came over him.

  "Kill me, will you?" he screamed. He reached down with his right hand and pulled the blade from his gut, crying out in pain and rage.

  Sporus stood there, stunned by what was happening, and then started to back out the door…

  Casca leaped on him, and sank the blade into Sporus's throat, opening the esophagus. Sporus fell down to his knees, his hands around his throat as if he were trying to close the wound and keep from drowning in his blood, but his lungs filled with the red arterial blood from his carotid artery, and, eyes not really understanding, he slipped into darkness, the rattling sound of his death breath, beating on his ears as he died.

  And Casca fell down beside Sporus. He knew he was bleeding inside, that the blade had severed the great artery that runs along the spine behind the stomach. He was a dead man, and he knew it.

  Lying there on the dark floor he felt the weakness coming over him. His mind said, I am going to die. But... a cold shiver of fear... and something else... raced through his veins. He heard a voice, the voice of the Jew:

  So you shall remain until we meet again...

  SEVEN

  Rheza gave one short squeaking scream and sat down in a corner of the room, her hands over her mouth, in semi-shock.

  Sporus lay dead, looking as though someone had given him another mouth.

  Casca lay moaning and mumbling to himself, his hands over his gut as if trying to squeeze the pain out of his stomach.

  Rheza's eyes clicked up in panic as a shadow entered her doorway, then another.

  Verianus and the Syrian stood in the room.

  In silence Verianus checked Sporus to see if there was anything he could do, but when he got a good look at the slit throat he turned to Casca, rolled him over, and pulled Casca's hands away from his stomach.

  "You dumb shit. I told you to leave that slut alone. You knew how crazy old Sporus was for her. I tried. When Kleton here told me th
at Sporus had come back to barracks and changed into civvies, we got here as fast as we could. But too damn late. By Moloch, you're a greater ass than I would have believed. Did you have to kill him? Move your damn hands away. How can I see if you keep getting in the way?"

  Casca gurgled something unintelligible about a crucifixion.

  "Casca, old boy, I can't tell too much, but if the wound's not too deep, you'll be all right. If it is deep, you're a dead man. Which might be the best thing for you anyway. The CO's going to hit the roof when he hears about this. Kleton, go and get the vigiles and let's get this over with. Casca, you clot, if you live, the old man's going to burn your ass. You know he's been bucking for a promotion, and crap like this does not look good on his record. Goddammit, man, why did you have to kill him? I know you're a better fighter than that."

  Casca burbled something like "...till we meet again ..." "What the hell is that you're mumbling? I'm not going anywhere. But if you live to be court-martialed, you will be."

  The vigiles arrived, and, as most policemen would in such circumstances, the first thing they did was to search the girl. It should not have taken as long as it did, seeing that she was already naked when they started, but Rome demanded that its military police be efficient. The repeated handling brought Rheza back to her senses, and she began to enjoy herself a little. The senior MP pinched her on the butt and whispered in her ear, "Later?" Rheza nodded and rubbed her ripe tits along his arm. After all, a girl needed a protector. Sporus was dead, and Casca was going to go to jail – or die – either way he was out of the picture. Besides, a Roman policeman could be very handy to have around when some customer felt he had not received his proper change...

  Finishing the necessary search of the girl, the senior MP turned to Verianus. "Okay, what's the deal?"

  Verianus laid it on him in as few words as possible.

  Checking Sporus's cadaver, the lawman made one short whistle. "Really laid him open, didn't he? Reminds me of that stiff we found over by the Temple of Mars last week." And then speaking to his buddy, "Doesn't it to you, Toninus?" He explained to Verianus, "Someone laid open a visiting politician from Sarmatia. He had the same look on his face, too. You know, like he was a little embarrassed... Well, enough of this bullshit." He pointed to Casca and asked Verianus, "Is this one going to make it?"

  He got a noncommittal reply.

  "Okay, then you two guys haul his ass out of here and over to the stockade. They'll take over there, and we'll get your statement and write up our report for the provost marshal in the morning."

  The Syrian and Verianus finally got Casca on the shoulders of Verianus after dropping him on his head once. They switched off, taking turns carrying him the three miles to the stockade where they turned him over to a not-too-sympathetic jailer. The jailer checked Casca over and told the two to toss him on a pile of straw in the orderly room, that he'd have the medics check on Casca when they came on duty in the morning. This was done, and the sweating and cursing Verianus and his Syrian helpmate were by this time regretting slightly that Casca had not died in the dancer's room.

  Casca lay unconscious on the straw, the only thing alive about him an occasional groan... and his dreams... those haunting memories that kept returning. Storm clouds raced through his thoughts as they had in that cursed darkness during the crucifixion. The pain was almost more than he could bear. But inside his subconscious he knew something was happening that shouldn't happen – his body was healing. The bleeding inside had already stopped. The artery was growing back together. The spilled blood in his abdominal cavity was being absorbed into the thin walls of the mesentery and recirculated back into his system. But the pain was still there, though just now it was settling into a dull, throbbing ache.

  He gave one long groan, which woke up the dozing guard with a jerk. The sleazy-looking jailer bore an amazing resemblance to a ferret – right down to the beady, bulging, red-rimmed eyes. He gave the wounded man one dirty look and dropped back off to sleep, oblivious of the new set of oversexed body lice that had just copulated their way up the long journey from his unwashed feet along the calves of his stringy, hairy legs and into the curly, matted hair of his pubic region, there to join a number of their relatives – including a few diehard fleas who would have rather been on a decent dog.

  The night passed as all things must, and the dawn brought an enraged commanding officer to the stockade at the early hour of cock's crow.

  The noble and ambitious commander of the garrison, one Tigelanius by name (who claimed a distant relationship to divine Julius on his mother's side), was pissed off. He roared through the orderly room and scared the hell out of the jailer when he kicked the stool the slug was sitting on out from under him.

  "Where is he?" he bellowed.

  Looking around, he spotted Casca asleep in the straw.

  With one smooth motion he reached the side of the sleeping man and booted him in the butt.

  "How dare you kill one of my non-coms! You piece of insubordinate garbage! You know what that looks like on my personnel records? It looks like I don't have any discipline!"

  Casca raised up, still sleeping and confused. All the time the patrician Tigelanius was roaring at him he looked at and touched the spot where the poniard had entered his stomach. There was no more pain, and the wound was closed. Only a thin red line showed where the blade had penetrated.

  Tigelanius caught where Casca looked. Pointing at the scar with his baton, he screamed, "Is that the ‘almost deathlike blow’ Sporus inflicted on you? Shit! I've cut myself worse than that shaving."

  Tigelanius was livid, his face white with anger. Calling to the jailer to bring a couple of men, he had Casca bound and ordered one hundred strokes of the cane, to begin with fifty for each foot – but Casca was not to be crippled; if they had to, they could let him have a break and do it in increments.

  Turning to the filthy jailer, he bellowed "Get this man into chains! What the hell is he doing running around loose? You slime bucket, clean yourself up, or you'll share everything he gets – and do it now! I will inspect this facility in two hours, and it had better be spotless. And that goes for the torture chamber, too. It's a pigsty in there. How the hell do you expect a decent man to work in those surroundings? Now, do it – now! And bring this insubordinate piece of garbage to me after he has been stroked."

  Damned enlisted men. Didn't they know how important his promotion was?

  EIGHT

  Casca offered no resistance to being chained and manacled. He was still half in a stupor. He looked dazedly down at the heavy manacles, but the meaning of them could not reach his brain. He felt doped. He did not exist.

  The two troopers led him to the stocks where he was laid on his back and the sandals taken from his feet. The older trooper looked down at him and spoke, the words coming through the fog of Casca's consciousness:

  "Man, I am sorry about this, Casca, but you heard the orders, and you know that if we don't do the job right, the old man will put us down there with you. So, no hard feelings. There's nothing personal in this."

  The trooper's voice was quiet, and the tone familiar, and because of that, realization came to Casca, and he was acutely aware of what was going to happen to him. But he did not let it show in his face as he watched the troopers get ready.

  Taking one of the two whiplike four-foot rods, each about the thickness of a forefinger, the first trooper whished it back and forth in the air a couple of times to get the feel of it, and then handed the other one to his comrade. His face twitched in distaste for what was about to occur, and he said to his associate, "Let's get this over with, Corio."

  The troopers took position, one on each side of the stocks, took off their helmets, and got themselves set.

  Casca said nothing. Now completely out of the stupor, he knew full well the extent of the forthcoming pain, having been on the other end of the whiplike rods more than once, and having seen what that pain would do to even the toughest trooper. By some odd trick of the mi
nd he seemed to feel the pain before the rods even touched his feet, and it took all the strength of his will to fight down an impulse to scream wildly.

  He could feel his heart racing madly. Had he been merely a casual observer this punishment might not seem particularly harsh, but Casca, like every legionnaire, knew the reality. The mere threat of the rods would set any legionnaire's pulse to racing madly.

  Whish! The rod arced through the sunlight.

  Casca's body arched in a spasm of agony as the first stroke of the rod hit the soles of his bare feet. The pain was unbearable. And then again. And again. The whipping rods flashed in the air. The pain passed the realm of reality and became one continuous blur of fire. His body jerked uncontrollably with the lashing. His teeth bit through his lower lip. The salt taste of his own blood was almost a relief.

  But there was no relief. It would go on forever. Then it was done.

  No more did the flashing rods come down.

  But still the pain continued to mount. He thought he had experienced the worst, but this pain, was even greater, building with the swelling of his tortured feet. The insteps were swollen to at least three times their normal size and were a deep purple in color. It seemed that the skin would burst open under the internal pressure of the bruised tissue.

  The two legionnaires assigned to the punishment detail wiped the sweat from their foreheads, undid' the stocks, and carried Casca back to the stockade, to the cell that the jailer had assigned him.

  Casca lay in the straw, curled into a fetal knot. His body twitched with uncontrolled nervous reactions. Time stopped.

  After a while he began to edge his way across the filth-encrusted floor toward the water jug in the far corner, moaning to himself, trying to keep from crying aloud. He pawed clumsily at the water jug, like an animal. He lifted the terra-cotta vessel to his cracked lips. The small flow of the precious liquid was like the ambrosia of the gods. Sitting up, he tilted the jug and carefully poured a few drops onto his feet. The coolness of the lukewarm water on the inflamed feet started another spasm of pain, but he poured more, and the cooling relief began to spread through him.