Casca 18: The Cursed

by Barry Sadler

  CHAPTER TEN

  Casca came to, lying on his stomach, to find himself looking into the mad eyes of Hu Wei, staring at him out of the dead head that sat before him in the roadway.

  He tried to rise, but neither of his arms would take his weight: He rolled onto his back and sat up.

  Beyond the city gates he could see an approaching cloud of dust. Horses. He began to remember and realized that these were his pursuers. And that he owed one of them an eye.

  He swiveled on his rump and saw that the other end of the narrow street was blocked at the turn by another band of horsemen, whom he rightly took to be the warlord Zhag Jintao and his cohort.

  "Jupiter's fat ass," he cursed, "what a busy fucking town."

  "Hu Wei," the warlord called from where he sat astride his horse. "Why do you have two heads today?"

  "By the two headed dog, Janus, who guards the way to Hades, I'll show you," Casca muttered as he picked up Hu's head. He reversed it and rammed it hard onto the ornamented spike atop his helmet.

  Groggily, he got to his feet, turning as he did to look back along the road.

  A babble of excited and apprehensive shouts broke from Zhang's men as they saw what they took to be their comrade in arms with his back to them, while his head glared at them from above his helmet.

  The thrust of the spike had set off some nervous response, and the eyes were blinking rapidly, the tongue vibrating in the open mouth.

  Everywhere along the street doors were slamming shut, bars falling into place.

  The pursuing horsemen were now slowing to approach the gates at a walk to comply with the established protocol. Nobles of the imperial court would not set a bad example merely to pursue a malefactor.

  And Baron Ying Ruochen and his lieutenants had another reason to slow their pace.

  Casca had turned back to face the warlord, and they could now see Hu Wei's writhing head. It was much more animated than the iron mask they had been looking at a moment earlier.

  Zhang, for his part, felt more comfortable looking at the mask and the back of Hu's head, even though the Korean's long black hair hung down over the forehead of the mask and lent it the look of a live face.

  "Er, Hu Wei," Zhang asked respectfully, "who are these horsemen who pursue you?"

  Casca swung around to glance toward the gates, then back to Zhang. The effect, as Hu's head wobbled on the spike and his hair swayed about above the mask, was to make both heads look very much alive.

  The approaching army was still not out of sight around the turn in the road. Good. And the nobles were still too far away from where Zhang sat astride his horse for him to perceive who they were. Best of all the men whose eye Casca had taken was not with them, no doubt staying along the road to have his wound tended.

  "Some rich merchants whom I tried to rob. But they are well armed and they drove me off, but now we can take them and their gold."

  Zhang well knew Hu to be a coward, and this story rang true. He still felt uncomfortable about the two heads, but it was not too bad looking at the mask. And the mention of gold removed his last reservation.

  He spurred his horse forward, thinking to attack the merchants, and his men moved too. But at that moment the two men he had posted by the gate heard Ying Ruochen identify himself as Baron of Chaochow, and at the same time they saw the first ranks of the baron's army round the turn in the road.

  Shouting warnings, they started to run toward Zhang, but were brought up short by the grisly sight of the two headed monster. They faltered and turned, to be cut down by the swords of the baron's lieutenants.

  Zhang was spurring his horse forward, when he, too, saw the approaching army.

  He pulled his horse up short a little distance from where Casca stood by the upturned cart and his dying horse.

  "Hu Wei," Zhang shouted in some confusion, "do you lie to me?"

  Realizing his ruse hadn't worked, he answered, "Alas master, this spare head is not reliable."

  Zhang lost interest in the explanation as he saw the nobles urging their horses forward. He wheeled his horse around, colliding with the press of horses and men behind him. His front ranks tried to turn too, and, in turn, crashed into those behind them. Farther back, Zhang's troops were still pressing forward, every man anxious to be among the first to fall upon the rich merchants. The narrow street was jammed with wheeling horses and men trying to draw their weapons as they began to realize their situation.

  The nobles were now almost to where the upturned cart blocked the street, alongside the two headed monster and his horse.

  Casca's aching fingers had made no progress with Hu's heavy sword belt, and his revolver remained out of his reach under the armored jacket.

  As the nobles reached him, he took Hu's head from his helmet and hurled it into the milling mass of the warlord's men. Then he crawled into the space between the cart and the wall where he could not be too easily reached. The nobles moved one by one through the narrow gap at the other end of the cart, ignoring him for the moment, being much more interested in coming to grips with the warlord and his men.

  The flying head struck Zhang on the shoulder, ricocheted up into the air, and came down again amongst his ranks. Everywhere horses shied and men cringed away from it. They were still in complete disarray when the nobles' lances spitted the first of them.

  Now Zhang's men had to turn again to defend themselves, and the baron and his lieutenants were able to hack them to pieces as they tried to maneuver in the narrow space.

  Then the rest of the army was upon them, and the cobblestones ran thick with blood. The air rang with the clash of swords. Dying men screamed, horses neighed as their hooves slipped on the bloodied stones.

  Zhang's men broke and fled, but the baron's men were close behind them and made great sport of cutting them down from behind with their swords or running them through with their lances.

  The rout moved around the corner, the shouts and screams moved away, and Casca found himself alone in the street outside Ju Liqun's store.

  He scraped gently at the door. "Deng Ziyang," he called, "the battle is over. It is safe now. Let me in. I will reward you well."

  Inside the Ju household the cowering family heard Casca's repeated calls and argued amongst themselves. "We have had enough trouble," Ju Liqun whined. "Let him die in the street."

  "Stupid fool," Deng hissed at him, "how much trouble is enough? What do you know of enough who never has enough to drink? And whose children never have enough to eat. Do you not yet know that one man's trouble is another man's opportunity? And is it not the way of the Hakka to assist strangers and so acquire merit in the eyes of the gods. Let him in, I say, and you may yet be rich."

  "We already have the barbarian's boxes," Ju Liqun argued. "Surely when we break them open we shall be rich enough."

  "And how rich is rich enough? And how do you know what might be in the boxes? We know the barbarian has money on his person. And when your kitchen god, Tsou Shen, reports on this household for the year, shall he speak well or ill of your hospitality? Let him in, I say."

  They were still arguing when the baron's army came back around the corner with Zhang Jintao's head and several others on their lances, and a number of prisoners being dragged along with ropes around their necks.

  Casca groaned at the sight. In another moment he was looking into the points of a dozen lances and swords. Wearily he got to his feet and came out from behind the cart. A noose dropped over his head and he was dragged along the street with the other prisoners. They were taken to the village square where their captors beat upon wooden drums to summon the population.

  The baron and his lieutenants were joined by the elders of the village and the headman and his men. The Buddhist priests didn't come to the square, but sat on the temple steps to watch.

  One by one the prisoners were paraded and villagers who had suffered at their hands gave evidence against them. As the evidence against each one came to an end Baron Ying asked the prisoner if he had anything
to say in his defense.

  Most of the prisoners remained mute and were beheaded on the spot. A few denied the charges and were beheaded anyway. Some burst into tears and begged for mercy, and these were summarily beheaded, too. Some only had a few accusers and their crimes only amounted to pilfering, and these had one or both hands chopped off, the bleeding stumps being cauterized with flaming torches and then plunged into a barrel of hot pitch.

  Casca noticed that as the trials proceeded the villagers became more courageous in coming forward with evidence, and soon they were competing with each other to establish the evildoing of the prisoners. The last few men were vehemently accused of every possible crime, and, although it seemed clear that the villagers were now inventing their evidence, they were beheaded anyway.

  At last Casca was the only prisoner left.

  He was dragged to the center of the square to the boos and hisses of the population. Villager after villager told of how this huge beast in the hideous mask had looted their homes, raped their wives and daughters, killed their sons.

  But there was a sudden silence when the mask was jerked down from his face. Several people who had been loud in their accusations qualified before the steady gaze of Casca's blue eyes A number withdrew and hid amongst the crowd. A hush fell over the square. Even the sobbing and groaning of the mutilated ceased.

  "Who knows this man?" the baron asked, but nobody spoke.

  He singled out one villager who had been loud in his accusations and who had stood his ground when the mask was removed.

  "Is this the man?" the baron demanded.

  "No, Lord, he is not. The beast who raped my daughter and killed my young son had black eyes and skin the color of my own."

  One by one other accusers confirmed his statement.

  "Very well," the baron said at last, "we will interrogate this strange one and allow him to accuse himself." He gave a signal and Casca's guard jerked at the rope around his neck. Another tied his hands, forcing a scream from him as the rope wrenched at his broken wrist.

  The baron gave some of the captured weapons and horses to the village: Only a handful of the baron's men had been wounded, and these were placed on carts borrowed from the village. There was no such humane treatment for Casca, but he was allowed to mount one of the captured horses.

  The army moved out of the village and headed back along the road to Tsungkow, dragging Casca along behind them by the rope around his neck. He suffered mightily on the thirty mile ride. None of his wounds was deep, and he was no longer losing much blood, but every stride of his horse jolted his wounded butt on the saddle so that he came to think of his earlier ride in Deng's cart as a luxurious excursion.

  When they arrived at last in Tsungkow Casca was taken to the town jail and handed over to the turnkey, who removed Hu's sword belt and then untied Casca's hands so that he could remove the armored shirt. He gleefully seized Casca's knife, but was puzzled by the revolver.

  "It is a powerful weapon," Casca told him. "More powerful than the large handgun the baron carries. But it can be easily damaged, and if you do damage it the baron will punish you severely."

  The turnkey had seen a few handguns, but had never seen one in use. He grasped the Webley by the pistol grip, pointed it in Casca's direction, and pulled the trigger.

  Casca threw himself to the floor and the shot went into the stone wall. The jailer dropped the gun in alarm.

  Casca seized it and pointed it at his fat belly. He backed away in terror. Casca could hear feet running to report this phenomenon.

  He backed the jailer against the wall and slammed him in the temple with the gun butt. He pitched to the floor and Casca picked up his heavy key ring and threw it through the bars of one of the cells.

  He retrieved his knife and held the hilt in his teeth while he hacked through the rope on his wrists. He put on Hu Wei's shirt again, this time with his gun belt outside. As he ran from the jail he could hear the prisoners opening one cell after another. Good. A mass jailbreak should slow any pursuit.

  As Casca reached the courtyard that separated the jail from the town's administrative buildings he saw an under jailer and an important looking official running for the prison.

  He took his time and shot the official neatly through the head. The terrified under jailer fell begging to his knees and Casca walked over to him and clubbed him senseless.

  There were numerous horses in the adjoining stable yard, some of them still saddled. Casca grabbed the nearest one and managed painfully to get into the saddle. He kicked the horse into a gallop and raced away.

  He gritted his teeth in agony. His left hand was now just a ball of pain. He could not use it to hold the reins and had wound them around his fist, which didn't give him much control over the horse, but he didn't need all that much control. He didn't care where the animal went so long as it moved fast, and his pointed spurs saw to that.

  His right arm ached from the wound in his back to the wound in his arm, to the fingers that held his revolver. And he felt the wounds in his rump open afresh.

  A pikeman appeared in his path, his weapon pointed directly at Casca's gut, the man resolutely standing his ground as the distance between them diminished.

  Casca held out his throbbing right arm and, pointing along the length of the pike, pulled the trigger.

  The man went over backward, a bullet in his heart, his weapon sticking straight up in the air.

  He died in an instant and his hand released the pike, which fell forward to take Casca's horse squarely in the chest, the butt of the weapon being braced against the man's dead body and the ground. The weight and speed of horse and rider ran the pike deep into the horse's body and it crashed to its knees.

  As he flew into the air one more time, Casca thought: "That's the third fucking horse I've lost today so far."

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  "He lives."

  Casca heard a voice that he thought he could recall from somewhere.

  "Ah, yes," another voice said, "he is not badly hurt."

  In an aching fury Casca forced his eyes open to see who this was who decided he wasn't badly hurt. Not badly hurt? he thought. I am hurt almost unto death.

  An elderly Chinese squatted beside him where he lay naked on a bench. The walls of the room were covered with what appeared to be anatomy charts. The old man was manipulating a long silver needle that was inserted in the right side of Casca's neck.

  A great weariness assailed him and he swooned back toward oblivion. Consciousness hurt. Casca tried to avoid it, seeking the darkness where the pain was blurred, if not softened.

  But the doctor pushed the needle deeper, and spun its shaft between his palms. Deep within him Casca felt a tingling that spread throughout his body, gradually replacing the pain.

  His head cleared and he felt the pain diminishing as the doctor continued to twirl the length of the needle. Against his will his eyes opened again.

  Baron Ying – so it was his voice he had heard – stood over him. The baron spoke. "For now you are going to live, Hu Wei, or whatever your name is. We will know presently, and then I will think on your punishment."

  "I am not Hu Wei. My name is Cas Ca Sho."

  "Sho? Long life? Then you are wrongly named. You have not yet had a long life, and I assure you, you are not going to live much longer."

  In spite of his predicament Casca chuckled faintly as he looked up at the baron. "I have already lived longer than you could dream, Baron, and I will yet outlive you and your grandchildren and their grandchildren."

  The baron looked at him in some puzzlement. "You talk in riddles, Cas Ca Sho. But you have cost me many men today. And you will pay for those with your life after I have learned from you what I need to know."

  He turned to leave, saying to the doctor over his shoulder, "Poon Fong, kindly let me know when he is strong enough for questioning."

  Casca could feel his body rebuilding itself even faster than he had ever previously experienced as the old doctor worked on him wi
th the silver needle. His broken wrist had been set and bandaged, and the pain from his arm, as if the bones were slowly breaking apart, came, he knew, from the reverse process of the bones putting themselves back together. But, never since the curse of Jesus had first caused his body to go through this process, had it happened so fast.

  The pain was already diminishing; the swelling was noticeably reduced. And Casca was feeling stronger and stronger by the minute.

  The doctor removed the long needle and moved to insert it in another position.

  Casca didn't intend to wait around to be tortured. Now was the time to go, or never.

  He came up quickly from the bench, his right hand moving for the doctor's neck to immobilize him.

  But Poon Fong wasn't there. He had swayed just out of Casca's reach, and as Casca's fingers closed on air the doctor struck him in the throat with the tips of two fingers, knocking him back onto the bench, gasping for air. Without speaking the doctor inserted the needle in the new place as if nothing had happened.

  Casca lay quiet, recovering and thinking. Clearly the old man had been studying the way of the open hand as long as he had studied medicine. So, he was going to be a tougher nut than Casca had reckoned on. But then, Casca could be a lot tougher, too. He put aside the thought that this Fong might match him at his best. After all, he had not lived one tenth as long as Casca had, and Casca had devoted much time to the way of the open hand since the sage Lao Tze first introduced him to the philosophy and practice of K'ung Fu tzu, the wise man Marco Polo had called Confucius in Latin.

  But now the old man was using the needle differently, tapping gently on its head, each tap sending a pleasant tingle through Casca's body, and even through his mind. The urgency of his need to escape, the fear of his impending torture, receded into the pleasant glow that was enveloping him. Even the mental torture of the prophet's curse that rarely left his mind, while awake or asleep, slipped away from him, and his consciousness faded into a quiet sleep.