by Tony Roberts
This is a book of fiction. All the names, characters and events portrayed in this book are Fictional and any resemblance to real people and incidents are purely coincidental.
CASCA: #28 The Avenger
Casca Ebooks are published by arrangement with the copyright holder
Copyright © 2008 by Tony Roberts
Cover design by Damian Leigh
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Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
EPILOGUE
Continuing Casca’s adventures, book 30 Napoleon’s Soldier
PROLOGUE
The rider hung wearily on his mount, head hung so as to avoid the glare of the Persian sun. His mount was terribly thin, the ribs showing through its flanks, and the way it was walking showed that it was reaching the end of its stamina and endurance. Death wasn’t too far away.
The man was dressed in rags - rags which once were richly colored robes but now hung in faded shreds stained with long dried mud and blood. He raised his head and stared through grey-blue eyes at the horizon but nothing caught his attention, just the dry, arid land that he had been riding through for the past few weeks. The sun hammered down mercilessly, its glare hurting the rider’s eyes, and the wind whipped up dust that blew into his face, so he lowered his face once more.
Other eyes watched from nearby, eyes that regarded the horse with longing. A horse – even this one once fed back to a healthy size - would fetch a good price at the market and the rider must have other belongings worth something. The watching tribesmen, four of them, hadn’t had much luck recently robbing people along this route, but a lone horseman was too good an opportunity to miss out. The leader, a short, bushy-bearded ugly specimen, grunted at the others to spread out and prepare their javelins. The horse must not be hit, only the rider. He would pass close to the boulders they were hiding behind, and it would be then that they would strike. Had they known who the rider was, they would have hidden motionless and waited till he had passed them by, for he was a tough hard bitten mercenary who had lived far longer than any normal man already. Casca Rufio Longinus.
Far behind Casca lay the lands of Sogdiana, and somewhere in its vast expanse lay the grave of Hrolvath who had died believing he had saved Casca from a violent death; but little had the warrior known that Casca was immortal, cursed by a dying Jesus on Golgotha five centuries before to live until He came again, wandering the earth forever a soldier, killing, killing, killing, while all the time he couldn't die. He was not even permitted to love for long, for he never aged and when his woman looked at him that certain way when age cast its finger on their hair and face yet he remained the same, he knew that it would be time to move on. Even those who stayed with him died in the end, such as Lida of Helsfjord or his latest love, Ireina.
At remembering her, and her son, Demos, a flicker of anger surfaced in him, directed at Gregory and the cursed Brotherhood of the Lamb. It had been the Elder Gregory who had killed little Demos and one of his minions had speared Ireina to death, all because they were his wife and child and he, Casca Rufio Longinus, was the hated demon that the Brotherhood despised above everything else. Gregory was no more, killed at the hands of Casca, but the death of the Elder had changed nothing, for another would be elected and the Brotherhood would continue to grow and prosper, polluting innocent minds wherever they went.
Casca was returning to Constantinople to seek out the rest of the Brotherhood, and when he found them he would exact his revenge until his burning desire of vengeance was sated. He even knew the name of some, the most notable being the Armenian eunuch Narses, a man in a high position in the Eastern Roman government. Casca would find a way to get at him, for it had been one of Narses' men that had killed Hrolvath in that place far behind him now.
He brought the stumbling horse to a halt, knowing it was close to death, and dismounted. From his time in Persia when he had served Shapur II he knew he was close to the western edges of Persia and the beginning of the lands of the Empire. He had traveled before from Persia to the Empire far to the south of this place but it was at a time when Rome had ruled the civilized world. Now the West was the domain of the barbarian tribes that had ravaged the Empire while only the East remained, a relic of that great time when the Caesars lived. Casca remembered the first one he had served under, the great Tiberius. Some of the other Emperors had been great too. Most were sometimes good, sometimes weak, often corrupted by power. That fat slug Nero had enslaved him for spreading shit over his statue while three centuries later Honorius had freed him after he and his Germanic friend Vergix had fought and killed barbarians and two members of the Praetorian guards at one of the last Gladiatorial games.
The Games were no more in Rome; ended so he heard by a priest's accidental death during one of the fights Honorius had attended. Now in Constantinople the Games were chariot races between the Greens and Blues, political factions that had nearly toppled the current Emperor Justinian in riots just a couple of years back. If it hadn't been for the combined efforts of three generals, Narses, Mundus and Belisarius in crushing it who knows what might have happened?
Narses was currently in favor at the court of Emperor Justinian and his wife the Empress Theodora, so Casca would have to tread carefully. Perhaps Narses had got the plague, but Casca was too much a realist to expect that. Narses had been encamped outside the city when the plague had been raging through the streets, so he expected him to escape its touch.
Somewhere up ahead there must be a watering hole or even the Tigris, for he was coming into mountainous territory which would make the going harder but the prospect of water would more than balance that. He looked at his horse and regretfully reached for his sword. The horse would slow him down now and besides, he needed meat to give him strength for the journey ahead and there wasn't much in the way of equipment on the mount. When he had pursued Gregory from Constantinople he had only stopped to get a horse and a bagful of coins from a plague stricken house. He still had the money and he could buy himself a stable full of horses if he so desired. But the only things he needed before he reached the city would be another horse which he would purchase once in the Empire, and the ferry cost across the Bosphorus.
He took the saddle and harness off the horse and patted it on the neck. He silently promised it a quick, clean death.
The tribesman leader didn’t want this to happen, so he stood up and aimed at the mercenary. It was a long shot but he had nothing to lose. The others stood too, aiming their javelins. The movement of dirty white robes amongst the uniform gray of the rocks caught Casca’s attention and
he turned just as the first missile was launched.
Instinct took over. Not caring about the rocky surface of the ground, he flung himself to his left, hands splayed wide to absorb the impact of hitting the stony slope. Two javelins narrowly missed him, striking small rocks and sending up sparks where they hit. Casca rolled into a ball, cursing the as yet unseen assailants and painfully came to a halt against a larger rock. He’d cut himself in a dozen places and pain flared up his arms and chest. But he was now armed, his sword familiar and comforting in his right fist.
Another javelin arced towards him but it was too long and he gauged where the attackers were from its trajectory. Casca took three deep breaths, then sprang up and, roaring mightily, bounded over the boulders and along the slope up towards the ambushers. The tribesmen took one look at what was coming towards them and decided the price of one half dead horse wasn’t worth the risk and fled. Except that was, for the leader.
He reckoned he was a match for the approaching man and drew out a long curved sword and jumped onto the top of a flat rock, using its height to his advantage. Casca slowed and looked at the tribesman critically. A bearded, scruffy looking individual with deep-set brown eyes and a filthy cloth turban unraveling on his head. The sword was the only decent thing about him. His bare, bony knees looked ludicrous and Casca almost laughed, but his mood prevented that luxury; his depression was all consuming.
The tribesman kicked out as Casca went to climb up onto the rock, catching the muscular warrior on the shoulder. “Kick me, would you?” Casca roared, his voice echoing down the valley, reflecting off the rocks and boulders, sending lizards scurrying for cover in fright.
The tribesman slashed through the dry air, hoping to separate Casca’s head from his shoulders but the Eternal Mercenary was wise to that one; he half turned, half stepped away and trapped the filthy man’s sword against the rock with his own blade. The tribesman yanked hard on the weapon but it was stuck fast. “Now you’ll say sorry for ruining my pleasant journey,” Casca growled and took hold of the man’s sleeve, grasped the arm firmly and pulled hard.
The tribesman yelled in fear as he was sent arcing over Casca off the rock, and connected with a teeth-jarring crash against a jumble of stones, each the size of a horse’s head. He lay there, stunned, his turban slipping off his head and his legs above his waist. Casca saw that he was wearing nothing underneath the long, bulky robe and pulled a face. Not the best thing to see at any time.
He waved his sword threateningly at the tribesman and returned to his horse which had ambled off to some shade during the small fight. It stood pitifully, its head down and eyes half closed, as if knowing what the approaching man was about to do. The tribesman remained where he was, the pain in his arms, neck and hip too much for him to try to get up, and groaned in dismay as Casca raised his sword high above the poor stricken beast.
Casca half turned and eyed the man. “Be silent! Or would you rather suffer the fate of this poor animal?” The tribesman shook his head fearfully. Casca snorted with derision. The Hillman wasn’t much of an opponent. “At least you’re not who I’m after,” Casca said. “They're far ahead and when I catch up with them they’re going to wish they’d never been born.”
Then he struck.
CHAPTER ONE
Having concluded the Catholic Mass for the Dead at Sacred Heart Church in Hartsdale, New York, the mourners of the late Dr. Bob Landries piled into their respective vehicles, with headlights on and small funeral pennants dangling from each radio antenna, and drove in line for the entire 15-mile trip down the New York Thruway, exiting inside Van Cortlandt Park and looping into the Woodlawn National Cemetery in the north Bronx for the deceased’s burial.
The coffin was lowered gently into the six-foot deep hole, while the priest who was smartly dressed in black and white read out a prayer from the small leather bound book he was holding. Members of the deceased's family stood close to the edge and dropped roses and earth onto the shiny pine surface below.
Doctor Julius Goldman had come all the way to New York City to pay his last respects to the man he had been a close friend of for the past thirty years or so, Bob Landries, and turned away to leave Landries' family alone with their grief. He had taken perhaps five or six paces when he caught sight of a man standing by himself close to a large oak tree, perhaps thirty feet from the nearest mourner. This man was square, heavily muscled and had an air of sadness about him that was discernible at even this distance. Goldman caught his breath and made his way off the path towards the man, knowing even before he was close enough to see that there was a scar running down the man's face from eye to mouth.
“So you got my cable then, Casey,” Goldman said by way of greeting. The man he addressed as Casey grunted and nodded his head towards the black clad mourners at the graveside.
“Although I have no family I feel as though you and he were like distant cousins, so to speak, so I had to come.”
“Yes,” Goldman said, slowly nodding. “You see the good looking young man to the left of the priest? Well, he’s Danny Landries, Bob’s son. Bob began telling Danny about you on his deathbed, so Danny told me the other day, and he’s keen to meet you and hear your story.”
Casey examined the smooth-skinned neat man, judging him to be about twenty-five or so. He grunted. “He believed his father?”
Goldman shook his head. “Thinks it’s the ramblings of a dying mind, but he’s curious enough. But not today; today’s not the day to meet Danny, is it?”
“True,” Casey admitted and turned to leave the cemetery. Goldman fell into step as Casey began walking towards the gate where a number of automobiles stood parked. He remembered the first time he – and the late Bob Landries - had come across the remarkable man some thirty-five years ago in an army medical unit in Vietnam. Sergeant Casey Romain had been admitted suffering from a terrible head wound, courtesy of a Vietcong mortar attack. It was there that Goldman, then a Major, first became aware of the indestructible powers of Casey (or, as he later learned, Casca Rufio Longinus, soldier of Rome) and had been drawn by Casey into his story stretching back to the crucifixion on Golgotha. Ever since that day Casey had reappeared from time to time adding another chapter to the story, sometimes continuing where he left off, on other occasions relating a different part of his history. Goldman felt privileged to be the one that had been chosen to hear the story, and had indeed put them down on paper, initially for Landries to read, later for a wider audience which had brought him some extra wealth. Casey didn't seem to mind and in fact appeared to get something out of telling his story, perhaps a purging of a tortured mind or the like. Although today Casey seemed down which, Goldman admitted to himself, was no big surprise.
They reached the gate and Goldman offered the scarred man a lift. “Where are you staying? Maybe I can offer you a lift back?”
Casey replied, “Sure. I’m staying at some no-tell motel on the service road of the New England Expressway near Bartow Avenue. It’s clean enough if you don’t mind the hookers and dope dealers.”
Goldman smiled, “Ah the good old Bronx. You know what Ogden Nash said about the Bronx?” Casey shook his head and Goldman continued, “’The Bronx? No, Thonx.’” Casey grimaced at the disgusting tiny couplet.
Coming off Woodlawn on the E. 233rd Street side, Goldman and Casey got on and off the Bronx River Parkway, leaving it at Gun Hill Road and following that all the way to Casey’s nondescript little motel.
They spoke little on the journey, each paying a silent tribute to the memory of Landries until Casey suddenly pointed down the street. “I'm staying at that hotel. Perhaps you would like to toast the good Colonel on his way? I have a bottle of good old Scotch Malt Whisky in my room.”
Goldman accepted, pulling over to the parking slot in front of a rather fading hotel on the down side of its peak, just the type a mercenary would choose. They took the stairs to the second floor; the elevator hadn’t worked in probably five years at least, or so Goldman theorized, and Casey admitt
ed the doctor into a small but comfortable room. He sat on the bed while Casey rummaged for and found the whisky and two tooth glasses. Spilling a couple of fingers into each, he offered one to Goldman and raised the other. “To Colonel Landries, may he rest in peace.”
“To Bob,” Goldman said solemnly and knocked the fiery liquid back. After gasping at the quality of the drink, he gazed at the scarred man who by now had sat down on a stout wooden chair next to the bed. “So where have you been these past couple of years? The last time I saw you, in my house in Boston, you told me about your time in the Civil War.”
Casey smiled briefly. “I do seem to have been leaping about all over history, haven't I? World War One, the Mongols, the Civil War. Well, let me take you back to the time after I had crucified Gregory, you remember?” Goldman felt the familiar sensation of being drawn into the hypnotic eyes, the voice commanding and irresistible. Goldman continued hearing the voice but now he was no longer in a downtown hotel, he was flying through time and across space to Asia in the sixth century, passing over mountains and deserts. “Yes, I killed Gregory and buried Hrolvath before returning to Constantinople, buying another horse at Amida, the border town on the Tigris before riding west across Anatolia to the Bosphorus, intent on exterminating the Brotherhood.....”
Goldman caught his breath as the scenery burst into view in front of him and his stomach almost leaped out through his throat as he swooped rapidly over a stunning clear unpolluted vista of trees and rolling hills that ran down towards a glittering sea and, he could see, one which narrowed into a straight where on the other side a mighty walled city rose, capped with church spires and a dome of immense size.
Ships plied back and forth between the shores and he was now slowing as he approached the walled city where people were disembarking and making their way to the gates of the harbor and he knew the name of the city….. Constantinople….
CHAPTER TWO