The Eternal Mercenary c-1

by Barry Sadler

  Casca was in the second rank when the fight began. He held himself back. Damn it, 1 am not going to get involved. I'll just do what I have to do to get by. I am not going to get emotional… But the ranks behind began beating on their shields in time with the drums, the flats of their blades resounding like a pulse beat as they hammered their way into Casca's brain. No! I am not going to do it… Even as he said No! his gladius came up as if with a mind of its own, and, like a child breaking down, Casca let loose a primal cry and began beating his shield harder and harder, wanting his turn at the wall of flesh facing him. Then the centurion in charge of his maniple gave the order, and, like a beast, Casca raced forth into the gap, his sword flashing in the morning light.

  They fought and fought. The ground became slippery with the blood of thousands, and men died because they lost their footing and were trampled to death in the bloody clay mud. Many drowned, their mouths filled with blood that had collected in pools into which they had been unlucky enough to fall face first and had never been able to get up because the crazed men above them stood on their bodies trying to find a better footing.

  And Casca cried.

  Tears flowed down his face as he fought and killed, fought and killed, and killed again. His face struck terror into those who confronted this insane crying Roman. When his rank was signaled to step back, he refused. Unconscious of the order, he stayed in the front line, chopping and hacking. Time and again blows struck him, tearing holes in his armor, gouging chunks of meat from him. Then there came a burning in his left thigh. Looking down, he saw an arrow shaft sticking out of his leg. Roaring in rage-filled anguish and mental grief, he grabbed the shaft and pulled. The barbed head remained inside, but the gut bindings used to hold the bronze arrowhead to the shaft came loose under his tugging, and the shaft came out. A Parthian noble, gorgeous in bright Tyrian purple, threw himself bodily over the head of some of his countrymen to get at this mad Roman. Casca caught him as he came over, and with one hand he squeezed the life out of the noble while at the same time smashing the brains out of a wounded Parthian bowman with his shield. He regained his sword and hacked away.

  The butchery continued through the day. Only chest-heaving exhaustion forced Casca to stop his personal slaughtering. He lay behind while the ranks of the Romans forced the Parthians back. Back against the river and the walls. Casca lay and sobbed, his mind whirling with images and patterns he could not understand. The battle was almost done. Raising himself, he stumbled over the battlefield, stepping heedlessly over the bodies of the dead and dying. Crying still, he screamed out loud, but no one paid any attention to him. Madness in one form or another was not unusual in battle.

  "Is this all there is for me?" he cried to the unanswering heavens. "Is this what I am condemned to repeat over and over, never ending? Is this what I really am, a beast fit only for butchering his own kind?"

  But there was no answer from the sky, darkening now with a coming storm.

  The last of the Parthians was dead or in chains.

  The wailing of the women in the city was an eerie testimony to the devastation outside the walls. The noble Avidius Cassius had promised they would be spared and not sold into slavery if their men came out. At least they and their children would be spared that. But their men were dead.

  The arrow in Casca's leg burned like the acid in his soul as he worked his way mindlessly across and away from the battlefield. He sobbed, and stumbled with tear-blinded eyes.

  It was over.

  For now, at least, it was over…

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Dark clouds raced low over the plains of Parthia. Streaks of lightning shot from them like shining lances spearing the raped earth beneath. The waters of the Tigris reflected rust-colored lights.

  Blood, Casca thought. Death.

  He climbed wearily to the top of a mound and sat upon a pile of once-sunbaked bricks, now lead gray in the stormlight, and looked across the plains. The roof of a house showed that the mound he sat on was covering a ruined building from the mists of antiquity. To the southeast lay ancient Babylon, abandoned, forsaken all these centuries, knowing the footsteps of only a few shepherds. Eternity… Casca looked at his hands. They were covered with blood that was turning black from exposure to the air and drying on his skin. The arrowhead in his thigh had settled in with a dull throbbing. He raised his grime-streaked face to the skies. The storm clouds were great cumulus stallions racing toward some unknown infinity. As they crowded together, the dark deepened. In the flickering light and shadows that preceded darkness he looked out upon a scene that could only have come from a tortured mind. Below on the plains were forty-five thousand men locked in an obscene caricature of humanity, holding each other in contorted positions of death. Broken spears and gear littered the earth as far as Casca could see. For what? He looked toward the cause, that great city.

  Ctesiphon was no more. The flames of the burning city reached up with black, greasy fingers to the stormy sky. The screams of the inhabitants blended with the roar of the flames. Ctesiphon was being put to the sword and to the torch, her remaining people marched off into slavery-after the soldiers had first taken their pleasures, for is not rape the right of conquest? And what purpose do women serve other than that of servicing men? Those too old were put to the sword. The children were loaded into carts for the long journey to the slave markets of Syria where they would be auctioned off.

  The Parthian commander, surrounded by his dead followers, lay on the field, his mouth filled with dirt. The noble had died in spasms, biting at his wounds and the earth like a mad dog. At this moment his favorite wife was opening her legs and letting a squad of legionnaires take their pleasure with her in the hope that she and her children would be spared. The king's sons had already been quickly put to the sword-even to the babes. The best way to stop a royal line from cropping up to give trouble later was to wipe it out completely- and the Romans were practical men.

  Four thousand surviving warriors were chained together and were even now passing over the horizon, the cries of their women still ringing in their ears. Ctesiphon burned. The Roman eagles were triumphant. Only a small detachment remained behind for mopping up operations and to occupy the capital for a while. What remained of Ctesiphon would serve as a forward base and headquarters. The bulk of the army was already on the march for the glory of its general.

  While the city burned, another flame was born in the brain of its conqueror. Warmed with pleasure over the victory, Avidius Cassius considered his worth as a senator and leader of Rome. He reflected the true value of Roman honor; it seemed only natural that the thought would come: Ave Avidius, Imperator! The spark caught in his mind…Imperator!

  There were no sparks in Casca's mind. He turned his eyes upon the forty-five thousand dead men littering the field of battle. Other battles, other dead. How many scenes like this had he lived through? How many more could he face? Dead men… their corpses littered the ground as far as the eye could see. Horses… they screamed like women, their shrieks rising in the stormy air until, one by one, a member of the mop-up squad would mercifully slice the beast's throat, letting its rich blood join that of its human master in feeding the hungry soil beneath. Scavenging soldiers… Romans walked over the field below him, looting the bodies of the vanquished enemy. Parthia was no more. Killing the wounded was the final act of this dreadful scenario. Forty-five thousand men… eyes wide and staring… accusing the gods and forces that drove them… their mouths black gaping holes filled with silent screams… hands frozen in the act of clawing to reach the heavens… or digging into the torn earth as if seeking comfort. Dead. Dead. Dead!

  Dead… dead… all could kill, all could be killed-all but me! The thought came screaming into Casca's mind.

  Enough!

  Taking his torn and bloody armor from his chest, he raised his voice to the now-thundering skies above. The memory of another day and another storm washed over him… How long ago? Two hundred years? Fat drops of rain fell to the ground. Di
stant thunder rumbled its way closer.

  Tears streaked Casca's face, and the years of his anguish rushed up into his throat and burst forth in a soul-ripping cry. Drawing his gladius from its scabbard, the blade notched and dull from the day's slaughter, he cried out:

  "Yeshua! Jesus! Jew! God or devil!"

  His own voice seemed to be one with the thunder. Raising himself erect and holding the sword to the heavens, he cried:

  "In the name of pity, let me die! What I did to you those long years ago in Jerusalem was as nothing to what you have done to me. I have been punished a thousand times over. You are the one without pity or compassion. The love your followers preach is a lie. You are far more cruel than me or any man. You have died-let me do the same!"

  With one final great inarticulate cry Casca turned the blade to his chest. His muscles straining, he doubled over and drove the two-foot blade straight through his heart, and a foot of the Roman short sword stuck out his back, the soldier's blade almost cutting his heart into two pieces within his chest. The pain screamed through his nerves.

  He called for death to take him, to give him peace, and, as he felt his life force ebbing, draining from him, a sense of gratitude warmed his brain. "Death," he whispered through blood-flecked lips, "welcome… welcome."

  The sword moved in his hand.

  No!

  No! came the panic-stricken thought, no!

  The blade was being forced back out from his body and from his heart.

  "No!" he screamed.

  Silently, slowly, irresistibly, the blade was forced out of his body. He fought as he never had to keep the blade inside him, but he was losing the battle.

  He was losing his death.

  Now the blade was completely out of him. He could feel the torn heart already mending itself.

  Casca stood, his face to the now-thundering skies, rain breaking over him in a torrent, and cried out, sobbing in grief:

  "Let me die! Damn You, let me die! How long must I endure?"

  A cold shock grabbed his brain. The voice of the Jew came from the thunder and struck his consciousness with the words:

  "… until we meet again."

  TWENTY-SIX

  Goldman opened his eyes, and the blur between dream and reality vanished. There was no mistaking where he was; the click of the air conditioning coming on and beginning its interminable throbbing was familiar enough proof he was sitting in a hard, government issue chair in the hospital room at Nha Trang, Vietnam. Yet, his clothes were soaked with sweat, and a chill went through him as the cold air moved in the room.

  And there was another, more important, detail that was not right.

  The hospital bunk was empty.

  Casey-Casca-was gone…

  A cold wash of fear ran over Goldman. Momentarily his mind filled again with the sights and sounds and smell of that last great battle on the Parthian plains.

  Or was it the smell of blood coming from the hospital morgue next door? There were, of course, rational ways to rule out hallucinations. After all I am a doctor, forcing the emerging panic back to the dark where it came from. He made a controlled unhurried visual survey of the room. It was precisely as he had remembered it. Nothing whatever had changed except that Casey was no longer on the bed. And, considering where his chair was placed, no one could have rolled a stretcher into the room and taken the wounded man while he slept. He looked at the bed. Had the man never been there in the first place? No. There was the indentation a body would normally have made, and the top sheet was pushed aside much as it would have been if Casey had simply gotten up of his own accord and left the room.

  Goldman bent over the bed and absently ran his fingers lightly over the surface. He felt a lingering trace of warmth. He looked back at the door. Closed. Feeling a little foolish, he bent down and looked under the bed. He could see all the way to the shadowed wall. Nothing. He made a careful search of the entire room. Empty of any human life other than his own.

  Odd. Damned odd.

  He snapped the fingers of his right hand. He could hear the sharp noise distinctly. He moved his hand against the light. No. He was in full command of his own senses, a rational human being.

  Yet…

  He opened the door and stepped out into the hall and found himself stumbling, his body functioning as though all the energy had been drained from it. The lethargy weighed down his limbs as he made his way down the long hallway to Colonel Landries's room. He felt a little as though he were drunk-but he had no memory of drinking. As he passed the mess hall, an outside door opened, and he saw that dawn had almost come. He checked his watch: 0430 hours. Solid reality. Inside the mess hall the cooks were cussing out the Vietnamese kitchen help. Normal. Familiar.

  He beat on Landries's door.

  "What the hell is it now?" came the grumbling sleep-filled response from inside.

  Goldman pounded again.

  "All right. All right! Knock off the noise. I'm coming."

  Landires opened the door. He was wearing only Bermuda shorts, and sweat trickled down the thin gray hairs on his chest.

  "Goldman?" He saw something in his surgeon's eyes. "It's Casey, isn't it? He's dead?"

  "Dead?" Goldman laughed. "Dead? Casey dead? No, Doctor, that is the one thing he's not." He roared with laughter that bordered on the hysterical.

  They were in Landries's office, the door locked, and the bottle of Jack Daniel's whiskey nearly empty on the desk. Both men had been oblivious to the passage of time.

  "That's all of it, Colonel," Goldman concluded. "That's it. His bunk is empty, and he is gone. I don't know if perhaps I am not relieved that he is."

  Landries moved his glass between his thin, artistic fingers. Silence hung in the room. Finally Landries reached for the bottle, divided the remaining whiskey between his glass and Goldman's, and threw the empty bottle in the wastebasket. The gesture had a kind of routine finality to it… as though the whole matter was settled.

  Landries took a long pull from his glass, letting the sweet burning of the Tennessee sipping whiskey settle into his stomach. "Perhaps you're right, Goldie"-it was the first time he had ever called Goldman anything but Goldman-"Perhaps it is just as well. So

  … We will just turn it over to the military police as an AWOL from the hospital report and hope that's the end to it. Somehow I don't think the MPs are going to find him. And, as for the records, both you and I know how often medical records get lost or destroyed in a war zone. I've raised enough hell about it in the past. Well, I wouldn't be surprised if the same thing happened to Casey's records. All his records, including his 201 file you sent for. No, Goldie, I wouldn't be the least bit surprised at all if that happened. Would you?"

  Goldman nodded in agreement.

  "Now, as for the whole thing," the colonel continued, "what we saw and what he told you-that is another problem." He was silent a very long time. "Any suggestions?"

  "No."

  "Then let's just assume that it's none of our damned business and let it go at that."

  "Agreed."

  "However…" A slow, slightly malicious smile began to form at the edges of Landries's mouth. "Next time I corner the chaplain I think I'll have some interesting questions to put to him."

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  On the Sinai Peninsula an American-made halftrack roared and grumbled its way over a bank of sand dunes and settled into a wadi at the base of a small outcropping of rock. The driver wheeled the vehicle around, locking one tread so that it would spin in tight circles, the act of a hot-rodder that the young Israeli soldiers in the back thoroughly enjoyed. They yelled their approval, their tanned faces flushed with the excitement of victory and success. As the half-track spun, the Star of David was clearly visible on its side.

  The only soldier not exuberant or laughing was the squad leader, but the young Israelis did not hold this against him. They considered themselves lucky to have such a leader. Perhaps he was a little too dour and sober at times, but they all agreed that he had an uncann
y instinct for doing the right thing at the right time. That instinct had saved their asses more than once in this last bout with the Egyptians in their Russian-made armor. Yet, they really knew nothing about the squad leader. He was one of those who had come from nowhere to aid the Israelis in their struggle against the Arabs; Israel in turn had asked no questions.

  The Israeli troopers quickly dismounted and fanned out to take a careful look at the area and the surrounding terrain features. The radioman had already set up his equipment and was prepared to send or receive. The squad's assignment was important; twenty miles to the west, on their right flank, the Egyptian forces were reeling back in confusion and panic after an initial success; the halftrack's crew was to keep the Egyptians in sight and radio back the Egyptian position. Along with other units similar to theirs they were to keep the Egyptians canalized into as narrow an area as possible. This would make it easier for the Israeli Air Force to pick the Egyptians off. The secondary mission of the half-track squads was to take care of stragglers once the main body of the Egyptians had passed. They would either kill them or herd them back into the caldron of sunburned sand and rock that was Sinai.

  Evening was coming when the squad satisfied themselves that the area was secure. The driver of the half-track, a smiling, curly-haired young man of twenty, unslung his 9mm UZI submachine gun and squatted in the sand. Grabbing a handful between his fingers, he let it fall in separate streams to the earth. He looked up at his squad leader and said-in a voice that had Brooklyn all over it: "Shit, man, ain't there nothing out here but this?" He threw the last of the sand down. "This ain't no fun, man. I wish to hell I hadn't let my old man hype me on that 'return to Israel' jazz. I wouldn't be out here now trying to blow up a bunch of ragheads." Pausing, he licked his dry lips. "I wish we had more water. It might get thin if we're out here too long."