Casca 6: The Persian

by Barry Sadler

  Casca was drained and hurt. He left the body of Boguda to lie beside his horse that was still kicking its life away, and knelt beside Jugotai.

  He started the task of removing the Kushanite chief from beneath his mount but was stopped by the groan of pain as he tried to lift the horse from Jugotai.

  Jugotai, his face gray from the loss of blood, coughed through red foaming lips upon seeing the face of his old friend above him.

  "Welcome and well met," he tried to laugh feebly. "It is as I thought. My son errs in his age estimates. For certainly you look much older than I do." He coughed again, grimacing with controlled pain.

  Casca did look old now. His face was covered with grime and blood. Dust had formed in his hair, turning it a gray hue, and the deep creases of exhaustion and emotional strain had added many years to his appearance. He wasn't sure what Jugotai had meant but he went along with him, for he did feel as if the weight of ages had rested on his shoulders and settled deep into his soul.

  He watched the labored bloody breathing of his friend and knew that his minutes on this earth were not long now. Jugotai was dying. He covered the gaping wound in Jugotai's chest by tearing off a piece of his own tunic and placing it over the opening., This was the first time he'd watched an old friend die. Other friends had died, but not while he was with them. He had moved on before, never to return.

  His voice cracked, dry from the battle, and he was forced to swallow several times to work up enough saliva so his words could be said.

  "It is good to see you again, old friend. Our trails have been long, Jugotai, and I see you have achieved all that you'd wished for. When first we met, you were as thin as a rail and wanted only to return home to become a warrior and sire sons to fight the Huns. You have done well, for around you lie the bodies of Huns and your son is tall and strong. I envy you, old sword mate and comrade."

  The descriptive words of old felt strange to his lips, because he still felt that Jugotai was the young lad he'd first met, though an old man lay beside him dying. A shadow fell over them from behind and Casca rose, sword in hand.

  "Hold, Lord, it is only me, Shuvar, son of Jugotai. The battle is over, the Huns are finished. How is my father?"

  Casca took the boy's hand, holding it in his own scarred and bloody paw. Jugotai himself answered the boy's question.

  "My son, Shuvar, you are the light of my life and though my own spark will fade and leave, I know that I live on in you. You have made me very proud and have given meaning to the world for me. The ways of our people are such that we do not say the things we should before it is too late. Before my shade rides away from me I would tell you this. I love you!" The effort of speaking was draining Jugotai and his face started to smooth out with the coming of death.

  The boy stood, his head to the sky. The Roman didn't feel the tears running down his face, washing the dust and blood from his cheeks and forming fallen drops on the stained ground.

  Shuvar began to chant. Holding his sword above his head, he cried out in a strong voice, proud and with no trace of weakness, calling to the gods and spirits to take a warrior into their fold. He turned four times to face each of the winds and sang his father's song, telling the spirits of the air and mountains of his father's deeds. Clouds raced overhead, taking his words with them to the roof of the world. Shuvar sang, and all within hearing stopped what they were doing to listen. They knew a great man was leaving them.

  Casca held Jugotai's hand and felt the coldness coming to claim him. As the life force ebbed, Jugotai's face slowly became the one Casca had first seen. The years washed away from the old man as his spirit let loose of its human shell. The moment of death was at hand as Jugotai smiled at the Roman above him.

  "Casca, big nose. It is good to see you. I thought you were dead when those priests had captured you." His voice strengthened for a moment, as often it does when death is near the heart. His breath rattled in his chest as he choked on a piece of dried blood and spat it out. "We shall make it over the mountains and to my home yet, old friend." He was now reliving their last trip together, Casca knew.

  "There is nothing to stop us now, the road is clear. I can see the high peaks where the gods live and they welcome us back to my homelands. We will always travel together as sword mates, won't we?"

  Casca cried silently. He couldn't let Jugotai hear his sorrow. Jugotai shook his head and answered his own question.

  "No! I forget that you have a longer road to follow than mine.”

  Shuvar continued his song, the words retelling every moment of Jugotai's glory for all to hear. He wanted to stop but he could not. The song must be sung as the soul departs. The time was now!

  Jugotai raised his head as far up as he could, opening his mouth so as to let his spirit free. He called out the name from his youth that he'd loved best.

  "Casca... "

  The death rattle came with the word, the two of them as one. A single shudder Casca had seen a thousand times, but had never felt before as he did this one, escaped his lips, and the shade of Jugotai winged its way to the winds.

  Shuvar's song stopped, there was silence over the battlefield. Then came the wailing of the women. They were not sure just who had died but the song was enough to blend their own grief into that of Shuvar's. They wailed and the surviving Hun prisoners shivered in fear.

  Casca released Jugotai's hand, having to pry loose the old man's fingers.

  With one hand he wiped the tears from his face and spoke softly to the still warm corpse below him.

  "Come darkness, come peace. Welcome death!" He didn't know if the words were for Jugotai, for himself, or for both.

  Shuvar touched Casca's shoulder and made a request that Casca honored. It was the son and the father's right.

  Indemeer rode up with Shirkin, calling Casca aside to give him the after action report. Casca told them to take care of the details and the wounded. He didn't want to stay here any longer; they would leave this day. The wounded would remain to be cared for by the Kushanites until they were well enough to return.

  Once more, he rode away from the city, this time going to the west. Leading his army slowly, they began to climb back to the pass leading to the capital city of Persia. He stopped once briefly, on the hill from where they'd watched the Huns attack, and looked back at the walled city.

  He knew what would be taking place below, even though he could not see clearly. The dark was coming now. He knew that four thousand Hun prisoners were being put to the sword, forced to kneel as teams of executioners decapitated them.

  Shuvar's request was being honored and four thousand Huns would be laid in one massive grave, their heads between their hands. The Huns would be Jugotai's slaves in the afterlife.

  Casca slowly moved his charger to a place a little higher and away from the weary line of his warriors winding their way to the pass and away from Kushan. The last red glow of the sun was barely visible on the horizon.

  Quietly, under his breath, he said a prayer. The first real prayer he could ever remember making.

  "Jesus, if you are the Son of God as You professed, and You do have the power of eternal life beyond, then hear me. Though by no choice of my own we are enemies, and You will not show me mercy or grant me peace, then so be it. But if You will, grant me this. Take the spirit of the one below, for he is a good man and deserves your peace that you promise."

  Then, in spite of himself, he made one last personal plea, whispering.

  "When will I have peace?"

  The answer came with the rustling of the leaves on the trees. Gently, softly, words that only he could hear. This time he thought he heard a trace of sadness in the voice.

  "When We Meet Again ..."

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Casca returned to Nev Shapur, this time not participating in the triumphant entry with his troops. There had been too much sadness with this expedition and he was content to leave the glory of the victory to Indemeer and Shirkin, who'd served as his surrogates in the procession.
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  As the army was entering the main gates he went through the side entrance to make his report to the King. After he'd finished he asked permission to go home and was granted it.

  Shapur, after Casca had made his report and left, sensed that something was amiss with his general, but he didn't push the issue. Rasheed, who'd sat in on the report, also commented on the fact that Shapur's Roman general looked a bit preoccupied and nervous. The King pushed the observation away. Rasheed always referred to Casca as the Roman and the King, even though he was aware Rasheed didn't like the Roman, wondered why. He had looked questioningly at the Roman's back as he'd left the court. Casca was different from the others. There was a quality to him that he couldn't put his finger on, and this bothered Shapur. The King liked everything to fit into nice, neat niches. Shapur decided he'd have to keep an eye on his foreign general. He was becoming too successful.

  Casca used the time to ease the pain of Jugotai's death, with the help of Anobia. He let Masuul go; he had grown tired of the constant bickering between the two. He had enough problems without being referee between his woman and his servant.

  As he waited out the storms and rains of winter, there was another who was not idle like himself.

  Rasheed! He never lost a chance to use the name of Casca in the presence of the King. Shapur was more than aware that his Vizier did not care for the Roman and was beginning to wonder why he sang his praises so often. But, Shapur said nothing about it to either of them. Shapur knew that one of his best weapons in the maintenance of power was the constant shuffle for position among his courtiers, and Rasheed's dislike for his Roman general just might prove useful in time. As long as they kept competing for his favor by keeping an eye on each other, his throne would be just that much more secure. Let Rasheed watch the Roman and he, Shapur, would watch Rasheed.

  Meanwhile, Shapur's ears were fertile ground for the seeds of Rasheed's praise of Casca. He knew they'd bloom soon.

  The King moved his court to the city of Koramshar, by the sea. He would spend some months there; it was good policy, he thought, for the court to be moved from time to time that his people might see and hear his judgments in person.

  As the King's household followed him, so did Casca bring with him Anobia. They set up house-keeping in a small villa on a hill overlooking the baked walls of the city. There were tall trees around it, set in a garden that bloomed year round. Anobia was delighted with the place and showed her pleasure to Casca by trying to drain off every ounce of strength he possessed in the following days.

  At unexpected times, she would throw herself on him, demanding that he make love to her. It happened at breakfast, at dinner, or even when he was currying his horse in the stable. Anyplace, anytime, was good and each period of sharing was as fresh as the first; fresh and new with wonder and surprise at the delights they found in each other.

  The death of Jugotai, in distant Kushan, was fading with the months. Now he was just a fond memory that Casca would retain forever. For Casca, Jugotai would always be young; the gray haired man he'd held in his arms in death was gone. That time was more distant now than when they had crossed the pass together. Jugotai had been no more than thirteen years of age…

  Rasheed, too, waited, growing impatient for the justice he had been promised. The heretic, Casca, lived too well. Every breath that he drew was an abomination and an insult. The beast must be punished. He wondered at times if the Elder was not possibly growing too old for his responsibilities? Whose face lay behind the hood of the Elder? He'd find out when he was admitted to the Inner Circle. But he sadly recalled, that could not happen until one of the brothers died. Several of them were older than the Elder probably, and when one of them passed on to his greater glory, surely he, Rasheed, would have the opportunity to take his place and sit on the ruling council of the Brotherhood. There was a need for new thought and direction in the Brotherhood as far as he was concerned; it was growing stale. The Elder Dacort hadn't hesitated to treat the beast as he deserved. Now there was punishment if ever there was.

  Rasheed was bitter and tired of waiting. He'd laid the groundwork for having the Roman swine punished by keeping Casca's name constantly in the ear of the King. Rasheed knew Shapur well, and the name of Casca constantly being brought to his attention would have an adverse effect on the King, turning praise to doubt sooner or later. He must now figure out the way, the proper justification for Shapur to make the final move himself. The King was ready, all he had to do was use the built in paranoia of people in power, who see enemies in every shadow. Shapur would do the rest.

  Rasheed, however, was frustrated and he cursed the Roman. He couldn't do anything more about it though until after the next conclave of the Brotherhood, and that was not to be held for another two weeks near the ruins of Babylon. Perhaps then the Elder might decide to act.

  Time passed quickly and Rasheed, begging leave from the court of Shapur, rode to the conclave near Babylon.

  In the ruins of an ancient ziggurat, perhaps, he thought, one the Jews had worked on, Rasheed shook the dust from his riding clothes and donned his hooded robe. He wished that the Brotherhood could meet in the same place each time and not have this constant moving from one site to another. But it was probably wiser to not have a physical temple and instead just rely on the spirit of their beliefs. This method did reduce the chances of their being found out, with nothing to risk save one day out of the year. Even then they sometimes missed a year or two if the way was too dangerous or the nations were at war with each other and restricting the members' travel.

  No, this was more than likely the best way and hopefully tonight there would be a decision made about the Roman heretic.

  He entered, passing the guards of the Brotherhood, and knowing that beneath their robes were weapons they would not hesitate to use if he failed to give the proper password. They were under orders to kill instantly if one did so.

  The Brotherhood of the Lamb did not follow the preachings of weakness but instead heeded those of strength. These brothers would not go gently to the slaughter like those insipid weaklings who glorified themselves in the name of martyrs.

  Rasheed could see that he was early. Several others were bringing up his rear and few were seated. He found his place as designated by his cult number and knelt on bony knees to pray until the time of the gathering was called to order.

  Other silent figures came and took their places. Some of them he thought he knew as he occasionally caught a glimpse of a face under the hood or heard a somewhat familiar voice in hushed prayer. But it was not wise to look too close, as was intended. The less one knew, the less to be forced from one's lips under duress.

  He let his mind fold in on itself, wrapped in his devotions and prayers. The age of the ruins of this Babylonian tower pressed down upon him. The great antiquity of the structure suited this meeting. As before, as at all the meetings of the Brotherhood, the chamber was lit by torches and lamps. One set of lamps was set to focus its light and show to best effect the Holy of All Holys, the Spear of Longinus.

  It was an honored task to have in their care the most important relic in the world. They had guarded it for centuries. Only once had he, Rasheed, been permitted to touch it. The feel of the iron spear tip sent a chill through him that gave him a serene shiver to this day. The time he'd been permitted to touch the sacred spear had been when he'd been accepted into the fold, as had his father and his father before him.

  Gradually the room filled with the sounds of breathing; all the seats were filled now except for three. Whether the three absent brothers were dead or circumstances had merely prevented their attendance, he didn't know. In the back of his mind, he wished that the three empty seats had been in the ranks of those set to the front, where the members of the Inner Circle were placed.

  The Inner Circle! Twelve places reserved for the leaders of the Brotherhood and the thirteenth seat on the raised dais reserved for the Elder.

  A rustle of robes caused Rasheed to raise his eyes. The E
lder was standing before them and, for the thousandth time, Rasheed wondered of his identity.

  Most of the brothers present were the leaders of cells. Each cell consisted of twelve members and their leader. None of the brothers knew any of the others by face or name. The one sitting next to you might be your neighbor, or your master outside. A beggar might be a cell leader and hold the power of death over those that gave him alms for his beggar's bowl. This way, if they were ever found out and persecuted, the trail would stop at the cell leader. Some, like Rasheed, did not serve in a cell. These were ones in positions of power and influence. Some even held positions high in the church of the Christians, in Rome itself. These members were too valuable to risk having them betrayed by a cell member who might not be able to withstand questioning under torture, and their identities were even more secretly guarded. Still some had leaked in the past; there were always a few traitors who'd sell out for money.

  The Elder clapped his long graceful hands together and convocation of the Brotherhood of The Lamb was called to order. It was time once more for the re-enactment of the crucifixion. The elite of the Brotherhood had come as they were bidden, from the corners of the earth, to witness and participate in this most sacred of events.

  The Elder, as was his charge, would now read from the Book of Izram, telling of the message given him by the laws he passed on to those who followed his teachings. Rasheed waited, as did the rest, to hear the words of Izram, the Thirteenth Disciple.

  The Elder, his face as always in darkness, read from the scroll of parchment in his hands. The words were in the ancient tongue of Aramaic.

  "Hear my brothers, the words of Izram and his message to us his followers, blessed be his name. We are the chosen ones, bound together as one in our great mission. This is The Word!"

  Fully unrolling the scroll, he continued reading. He knew the words by heart, but it still thrilled the Elder to touch and read the scroll that had been written by their founder, Izram, over three hundred and fifty years before. His voice gained strength and he read.