Casca 3: The Warlord (4 page)

Casca stayed close to Ostia until the time for sailing. From Rome came the news of the death of the favorite of the masses – the glorious Marcellius – who had been set upon by at least ten thugs in the dark, according to his young companion who had his jaw smashed by a wicked blow from a club. According to the young gallant, Marcellius slew at least seven of the brutes before a blow from behind knocked him unconscious, where upon the savages had finished him off and stolen away in the dark, taking their dead with them. It was indeed a tragedy for such a man to be struck down unfairly in the dark by thugs.

Ortius commented on the case as he read the daily report in the
acta diurnia
.

"I saw him fight a couple of times, Casca, old wart hog, and I do believe he might have given you a run for your money. But enough, we sail on the dawn tide. First port of call will be Naxos and then onto Carthage with a group of travelers and tourists. I made them a good rate on a package deal, but they supply their own meals. From Carthage, we cut back across, making stops at several other ports for whatever cargoes we can get and then on to Byzantium. Now, there was one hell of a city until Gallienus had the place sacked and looted. I used to know a couple of Armenian hookers – twin sisters they were – each would start at different points of your body and work their way to the center." Ortius sighed deeply and scratched his ass.

"Ahh. But I was younger then. It would probably kill me to try something like that now, still a man is tempted to always recapture something of his youth, even if there is a price to pay. Is that not so, my over-muscled friend?"

Casca merely grunted non-committedly and stuffed his face with fresh oysters from the bay. Rising, Ortius paid the bill and said, "I'm off for a massage and oiling. You finish up with the stevedores and make sure none of the bales are broken open." They set sail with the dawn tide and were out to sea by the time the day broke in fully on them. The group of tourists going to Carthage immediately started chanting and wailing while they conducted a ritual among themselves. Words drifted up through the open hatch. Casca was standing beside Ortius near the oar sweeps. Turning to him, he squinted as a beam of reflected light from the sea struck his face.

"They're Christians?"

Ortius nodded. "Aye, they're going to Carthage to escape. The word is out there will soon be another purge in Rome. In Carthage they are not bothered so much and even on occasions have been permitted to conduct their services openly. There are hundreds if not thousands there. Personally, I could care less what cult or gods they worship so long as their gold and silver is good. One thing about Christians – their god forbids them to cheat or lie." Laughing, he cleared his throat and spat phlegm over the side. "Did you ever hear anything so ridiculous in your life?"

After an uneventful trip, they docked at the inner harbor and tied up next to the storage houses used for transhipment of goods from the interior of the great African plains and mountains, most of which went to Rome.

The Christians were met by others of their sect and quickly left the harbor to find new homes and what they hoped would be safety from the coming persecutions.

Casca spent the day wandering through this miniature Rome where once the Carthaginians had challenged the power of Rome and were destroyed by the legions of Scipio. The city had resisted fanatically, the last survivors fighting to the death under the leadership of Hasdrubal in the Temple of Eshmun. With their death came also the death of the city as the conquerors pillaged and butchered. The stones of the buildings were broken and all human habitation of this place was forbidden on pain of death.

For twenty years only lizards and desert creatures lived in the rubble that once housed 700,000 men, women and children who were now no more. Mars is a vengeful god.

While Ortius attended to ship's business, Casca rented a piebald pony from a local stable and went for a tour of the city, glad to exchange the swaying of the ship for the bump of the saddle. On several walls he saw the symbols of old, of the hated gods of Carthage that the Romans detested so, for their savagery and rites of human sacrifice. Rome seemed to find no parallel between those who died in the name of a god and those sent to the arena to die for the amusement of the Romans. Casca wondered how the difference affected the enthusiasm of those to be killed. Passing a stone panel used to rebuild a wall enclosing the sumptuous domus of a retired senator who had taken up farming, he saw the emblems of Tanith, the supreme goddess of the city. Properly called Tanit pene Baal, the Other Face of Baal, the carving was that of the disk and crescent moon. The other face of Baal . . . the one he showed was bad enough.

Passing a market place, Casca saw a small bronze figure of the insatiable deity who demanded the firstborn of every family to be offered to him and fed to his flames. The small figure still held an aura of sinister depravity in the shape of human lips above the beard; crowning the figure were the horns of a beast. Baal, Moloch, Jupiter, Quetza.

"Damn, what's the answer... what's the question?'' The African sun beat heavily on his back as he headed back to the wharves where ships lay in wait. Ortius was ready to put out to sea but had to wait for the tide on the morrow. That night was spent in a small inn near the waterfront. The morning found them cutting their way into the clear blue of the Mediterranean, heading northeast, carrying a new cargo of skins and ivory and amphorae of salted fish.

Casca cast one look back at the city founded by Queen Dido when she sought refuge on this hostile shore. It was said the king of the land offered her only the area that could be covered by the hide of a bull, but Dido (smart bitch that she was), held him to his word and cut the bullhide into thread thin lengths and from this encircled the area that was to be her city.

The sea trail leading to Byzantium was marked by only a couple of minor storms. Two sailors and a pilgrim saw the shrine of Athena on one of the lesser islands of the group between Crete and Achea. Perhaps he should have been a devotee of Father Neptune or Poseidon as the Greeks knew him, but what's in a name – a god by any other name is still s pain in the ass.

At last with the coming of the summer solstice, they pulled into sight of Byzantium – nearly a thousand years old and founded by the Greeks, those great settlers of the Mediterranean world. Here, Casca knew his sea road would end.

Bidding a sad farewell to Ortius at the dock, he made his way through the streets which had not yet recovered from the ravages Gallenius had inflicted in order to squelch what he thought was a beginning insurrection. Across the straits lay Asia Minor, the gateway to the east. For some time now, the words of Shiu Lao Tze had haunted his dreams:

"Come to the East beyond the Indus."

Casca left Ortius tending to his usual condition of bribing the port officials and made a deal with a fisherman to get to the opposite shore across the Propontis and land in the Asian city of Calchedon. From there he would begin his odyssey to the far east across the known lands of Cappadocia, Armenia, Media, Hyrcania and Parthia to the Oxus River, eighteen hundred miles as the crow or vulture flies, it would be next spring before he reached the frontiers of Bactria and from there he knew nothing of the way to Khitai, other than to head east, but others knew the way. In Rome itself, he had seen men of Shi
u's race trading their cargoes of precious silk to the merchants of the city. The trail they took was called the Silk Road. Silk was smooth and soft, but Casca had the feeling this description would have nothing in common with the road he would ride, securing the animals and supplies, he climbed into the saddle, tugging at the lead rope of his pack animal and headed out, out to whatever fate awaited him in the distance.

Ortius drowned his sorrow of the loss of his comrade by finding the twin sisters still in residence in the city – a little older and perhaps a trifle more shopworn then when he last saw them, but they had lost none of their enthusiasm for the trade of Aphrodite. They still knew how to work their way to the center of a man's attention and it had little to do with food. Casca was gone, but life went on. Ortius wished the Roman well and with the aid of the two sisters, drowned his sorrows with a rare vintage of 50 year old Lesbos wine.

The flickering red glow of a distant flame told of the presence of men. Casca and the boy had seen no sign of life for the last two weeks. The limits of the Roman Empire were now far behind, past even the boundaries of the divine Alexander. The city of stone and mud-baked bricks that bore his name marked the end of his conquests. Here the Jaxartes River turned from the mountains to flow northward to the Aral Sea from the land of Han. From Eschate the Silk Road ran all the way to Rome, but there also was the wild country, filled only with danger for the unwary man or beast.

Occasionally, roving bands of savages would sweep down from the steppes ravaging along the way, like monstrous locusts, leaving nothing in their path. Tartars, Huns and Mongols – along with lesser nations composed only of herds of horses, sheep and people: they were only a little better than their beasts and then only by the degree of cruelty they relished, that was unknown to the animals of the world.

As Casca wrapped his cloak closer about him, the scent of brush and dry air reached his nostrils. The slender form of Jugotai standing beside the pack horse stood out in marked contrast to this barren world of stones and rocky gorges. With every league into the wild lands, the boy seemed to grow taller. The closer they came to his tribal lands, the more his self-confidence increased. Fourteen years old as near as he could figure, he was a wild mop of black hair handing in a windswept mane to his shoulders, and anthracitic eyes. The chill of the night did not seem to bother him at all; indeed, he breathed more deeply, filling his chest with the dry wind.

During the weeks with Casca, he had already started to put some meat on his bones, especially those sticking out from his rib cage and chest. He was going home, to the lands of the Yueh-Chih. The boy had been caught and sold by nomads when he was ten, to the placid farmers of Armenia for two copper pieces and a bent sword.
The farmers being no match for the wild-spirited youngster, breathed a sigh of relief when he ran away, taking only a donkey for transport. The Hsuing-Nu forced his people out of the Kansu corridor 440 years before and forced the tribe to flee to Bactria for safety. Not until the time of the Emperor Wu Ti and his general, Pan Ch'oa, were the Yueh-Chih able to build a nation known as the Kushan. This was their destination, the gateway to the wall that ran forever.

Though Jugotai's tribe was wild, they had been heavily influenced by the envoys and trade with the Han Empire. They were also excellent horsemen, a fact easily demonstrated by Jugotai's ability to ride circles around Casca.

It was now time for the boy to return to his tribe. He was of the age to face the rites of manhood and nothing would stand in his way – save death itself.

The distant yapping of a pack of desert jackals came with the wind. The pack horse whinnied softly and was instantly quieted by his young master, a gentle hand and soothing hiss served to let the beast know all was well. Jugotai watched Casca with silent noncommittal eyes. The big man confused him. He had a blend of fierceness he had seldom seen equaled by the best of his tribe and a gentleness seen in some of the teachers who came to his people from the lamaseries to teach the words of Buddha.

With a nod, Casca indicated the path from the craggy hillside leading to the gorge where light was glowing and flickering. Ordinarily he would have bypassed the beckoning flame but as they were low on food and there was the chance the camp below might be friendly enough to barter for some of the silver denarii Casca had in the purse under his cloak, the two made their way down the hillside.

The horses picked their way gingerly through the rubble and stones, walking as if on eggs. The night was clear and lit by a full moon. As the distance between them and the fire closed, the wind shifted and the sound of chanting, bouncing gently off the basalt walls of the gorge was heard, slowly the lines of a massive building carved out of living stone became visible. The chanting ceased before they could make out the words or the language. The glowing light seemed to be coming from the interior of the main building. The doors were opened wide and inviting, but Casca's hair prickled on the back of his neck, making him shift his sword to a handier position. Jugotai drew back and stopped out of sight from the range of the light. With a shake of his head he indicated he would go no further and pointed silently to the hillside to the east. Casca nodded his assent as the boy took the pack horse and faded into the gloom.

Watching him go, Casca thought, "Cautious little bastard, but maybe he knows more about this part of the world." Dismounting, Casca lost his footing for a moment and almost fell. As he straightened, a soft whispery voice broke the silence as a hand came forward taking the reins of his horse.

"Welcome, we have been expecting you, Latin."

Regaining his balance, Casca took in the figure of his welcoming committee of one who spoke the language of Rome.

A tall thin figure in brown homespun robes reaching to the rocky floor of the gorge smiled at him. "Welcome," his host repeated. "I am Elder Dacort, the senior brother of this refuge for the lost and weary.''

Casca looked at him, the hair on his neck still tingling. "How did you know I was coming?"

The man calling himself Elder Dacort laughed easily, his voice stronger than his appearance. "From the ridge you just crested to reach us. We could see you coming for a full day across the plains. This is the natural approach that one would follow after leaving the plains below. But where is your companion?" He looked about squinting at the darkness.

Casca shrugged. "Gone. After we reached the crest he decided to go on his own. No great loss. We were just traveling together for convenience, but all trails end sometime."

Elder Dacort smiled. "Yes, they do. They most certainly do.
But enough of standing out here in the cold. Come inside and make yourself welcome. As you can see, there is no danger for you from such as we." He indicated his weaponless condition. Gently he took Casca's elbow and escorted him inside the confines of the building.

Casca still kept his sword at the ready. Then he saw the carvings on the door, the sign of the fish and the cross. He grumbled silently to himself, "Oh, no, not more Christians. At least I know they are harmless always preaching about steal not, kill not, and whatever else the Hades they can think of not to do."

Dacort noticed Casca's recognition of the symbols. "Yes, my brother, we are followers of the way of the gentle lamb. Here we study his words and preserve them. Our years are spent in quiet meditation and prayer for the salvation of the souls of the world." Escorting his guest to a side room from the hall lit with torches in iron brackets to a table laid with food and wine, he said: "You see we have been waiting for you. We cannot perform the miracles of our Lord Jesus and turn water into wine or make one loaf of bread feed thousands, but we do have some small fields not far from here that provide enough for the brotherhood and the few guests who come this way." He seated Casca at the head of a wooden table designed to seat some twenty or more, in a room projecting a feeling of great emptiness. Casca looked around, noting he had seen no one but Elder Dacort since entering the place.

Dacort observed Casca's look and replied, "The rest of the brotherhood are at rest or at prayers. We rise quite early to say our devotionals,
then go to the fields." The smell of roast goat and fresh bread convinced Casca to sit. Elder Dacort handed him a plate piled high with food and sat watching. Casca started to take a drink of wine and then hesitated, putting the cup back on the table.

Dacort laughed gently and took the cup in his hands and drank. Smiling, he then ate a small portion of each of the foods on Casca's plate.

Casca smiled, embarrassed. Dacort halted his protestations with an up lifted palm. "No need for explanations my son, it is a cruel world and there are many pitfalls awaiting the unwary." While Casca ate, Elder Dacort talked of Rome and the world. Casca found this gaunt man quite well informed on happenings in Rome, as well as what lay beyond to the east and other lands Casca had never heard of. The man's voice was soothing and soon Casca's limbs felt heavy, his eyes like leaden weights. He began to feel the first distant tinge of fear and tried to stand. His legs were like water. All the while, Dacort talked to him softly of the world and its happenings as if not noticing the wine being overturned and the wooden plates crashing to the floor as Casca fell, face first, into a leftover mess of goat and bread.

Dacort smiled to himself as he stood over the sprawled out figure of the former legionary. Reaching into his robes, he took out a small vial in the shape of an amphora and took the remaining fluid with a grimace of distaste. "The antidote was bitter as green figs," he thought. "Prior planning pays off," he smiled as he had when he had dosed himself long before Casca's appearance at the steps of the Temple of the Lamb.

The next day, Casca lay as one dead to the world. His host and the rest of the brethren were preparing for the most holy day of their year. Prayers echoed throughout the halls and chambers. Soon it would be time.

Dacort trusted no other than himself to watch over his unconscious guest. Casca lay on a skin-framed cot wearing only his tunic, his sword on a shelf nearby. Dacort knew well the strength of his potion. The Roman would sleep for yet another day, but it paid to be careful. Administering another dose to his guest that would guarantee his remaining in a comatose condition for another twenty-four hours, Elder Dacort went to prepare himself for the great day ahead.
Giving Casca one last look and satisfied that the man would remain as he was, the elder left.

Casca's mind filled with images leaping across and then fading, images of ships and pyramids, Saxons and Parthians, mountains and deserts. His stomach turned inside out, spewing out the fluids given him. Consciousness returned by millimeters, Head aching, he rose to his elbow and ran his tongue over his gums. "By Mithra, it tastes like a camel just shit in my mouth." His stomach turned again and the last of its contents spilled onto the stone floor. Weaving on unsteady legs, he rose trying to focus.
His sword. Where was it?

Stumbling to the shelf, he held the blade in his hand and pulled it from its scabbard, the feel of the familiar grip restoring him. “Now I'll give those psalm singing, drink-dopers something to pray about. They better pray I don't carve all of them into legs of lamb." Breathing deeply through his mouth, he let his strength return, shaking his head from side to side to clear the fog from it, he moved to the door. Raising the latch, he stuck his head out and glanced down the hall. The lamps in the iron brackets were out; cracks of bright light told him it was day outside.

"Where in the Hades are they? Is everyone here mad? What do I mean by everyone?" He stopped and thought, "The only bastard I've seen is that damned so-called Elder and that sucker certainly doesn't behave in a Christian manner. Where are they?"

Making his way on still unsteady legs, he held his short sword ready, wondering if Jugotai was still on the loose.

"Probably," thought Casca. "The little desert rat has more sense than I do."

The large door swung open on greased hinges and Casca slipped out looking to see if his horse was there. No luck. Staying close to the sides of the building, he kept to the shadows until he came close to a patch of boulders and brush. Bending low to the ground, he raced across and threw himself to the gravel behind the boulders leaving a skin mark running from his ankle to his knee.

He saw nothing. Only the dry wind whispered through the brush and the rocks. It was close to midday. Crawling backwards, he kept his eye on the temple until he was certain he couldn't be seen from that direction and headed for high ground. If Jugotai was anywhere around, that's where he would find him.

Climbing over rocks and boulders, he reached a small plateau and there lay flat on his stomach, letting his gaze run over the countryside, searching for any sign of movement. As far as he could see from his aerial perch, there was nothing but the wild country and the temple in the gorge below.

"There! A movement." Wiping a trickle of sweat from his eyes, he saw something move again. One man and then another and another, all in brown robes, their hands moving and bodies twisting, came into view. The man in front was carrying something on his shoulders. A log? The trail made a turn and Casca started. The man in front was carrying a cross. Distant sounds reached him, but they were too far away to make out. Watching their direction, Casca looked ahead and picked up the trail where it reached a small mound. Working his way carefully, he sped ahead of the group and found a sheltered spot underneath some brush that also provided protection. From this spot he could see where the trail stopped. Settling himself down, he wished for water or anything to quench his thirst.

For now he would have to wait and hope Jugotai was nearby; if he was, then they would have to figure out what to do next, especially about Casca's horse.