Barry Sadler - Casca 05 - The Barbarian

VIP免费
2024-12-24 0 0 567.7KB 71 页 5.9玖币
侵权投诉
CASCA, Volume Five
Barry Sadler
Table Of Contents
Preface
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
Preface
My name is Doctor Julius Goldman.
For some years now I have been involved with the fate of a man known only to a few and believed by
the majority of those to be no more than a myth from the distant past. Yes! a myth ... like the hero of the
Epics of Gilgamesh or the Kulkulkan of the Mayan legends, and even the story of the wandering Jew.
The man I know came to me with a wound that should have been fatal, but he did not die. From that first
meeting our lives have been intertwined.
For some reason, he has a compulsion to finish the story of his life. A story that for me began in the
hospital at Nha Trang, in South Vietnam, over ten years ago. From time to time we have met, and each
time a force comes over me, as it did in that hospital. I am drawn again into the past of the man I first
knew as Sergeant Casey Remain—a man who the rest of the world only knows dimly ... as the man who
killed Jesus on Golgatha.
He is the Roman legionnaire, Casca Rufio Longinus.
And, as Casca has his compulsion to finish what he began with me, I have the same drive to put down
his story. I know most won’t believe me, but then, that doesn’t really matter; I know it’s real, and even
today ...
Casca lives to walk the earth until the Second Coming ... Casca Lives!
Prologue
Stinging sand whipped at his eyes as the wind howled about him, trying to blow his robes free to sail
over the desert with the sandstorm. His horse whinnied and shied away from the wind, trying to turn
around and put its rear to the cutting bits of grit.
Casca finally agreed and took shelter on the leeward side of a dune. Tying his horse to a bush, he
pulled his robe over his head and sat with his back to the wind. Feeling the sand slowly begin to pile up
against him, he kept his head down and pulled his precious goatskin of water closer between his legs.
There was nothing to do now but wait. His horse whinnied again. The beast didn’t tike this region of
whirling, biting sand devils and screaming winds. As far as that went, the horse didn’t particularly like his
new master. The man didn’t have the smell of those who had owned him before. But Casca really didn’t
give a damn whether the horse liked him or not. As far as he was concerned, he would rather eat one of
the damn things than ride it, and if he didn’t come across some food soon, that would probably not be far
in the future. The horse’s previous master was beyond any complaint.
The Arab’s body lay two days behind, the sun and wind drying it into another of the thousands of
shriveled, desiccated husks of humanity that littered the floor of the Persian desert. The former member
of the victorious legions of Avidius Cassius felt no remorse. If the bastard hadn’t thought Casca was easy
picking, he wouldn’t be lying back there with the large blue flies trying to suck out the last remaining bits
of moisture from his body.
A sand lizard, blown from its shelter under the dune, crawled between his legs and sat looking up at
him. Casca smiled through cracked lips. “Welcome, little friend, to what protection I can give. We’ll just
have to wait this thing out, and if you don’t bite, neither will I.”
Back on the battlefield of Ctesiphon were forty thousand that would never bite or do anything else
again. He had no sense of guilt for deserting the Eagle standards of Rome. Avidius Cassius had promised
the warriors of Parthia that he would spare the city and its people if they came out to do battle, but even
now Casca knew that thousands were on their way to the slave pens of Syria and that the city was still
burning. It took a long time for a city to die—much longer than it did for a man.
He had had enough of slaughter and wanted no more than to get away to some place where the
stench of death didn’t fill the nostrils. But even that was to be denied him. If that stupid Arab hadn’t tried
to take him on, the man would still be living, feeling the blood course through his veins and the beat of his
heart.
The sand had reached up to his waist and began to flow around him; he knew that if it didn’t stop
soon he would be buried. He wondered how his horse was faring—for some time now he had heard
nothing save the keening of the wind over the dunes.
He pulled the stopper from the goatskin and took a pull of the strong-tasting, brackish water. The
lizard watched him, its eyes moving independently from one another; it missed nothing. Casca ran his
tongue over his lips, put his hand down in front of the small creature, and poured a couple of drops into
his palm, holding it still. The lizard twitched its tail, looking as if it were thinking about running, then,
making up its mind, moved onto the man’s palm and drank, its mouth opening and closing like a fish
trying to breathe air. Then, finishing quick as a blink, it flashed back to its place between Casca’s legs.
Casca wiped the remaining damp spot across his lips. The heat of the sand on his back was drugging
him, making his eyes feel heavy and gritty. He sighed and pulled his robe closer about him. Looking at his
guest, he spoke, eyes red rimmed and dull from heat and fatigue.
“Well, little friend, I’m going to crap out for a while. You keep watch for me and I’ll see you later.”
His eyes closed and the darkness set in—the kind that eats up the hours and rests the soul. He slept, not
knowing when the storm passed by and the night sky shone clear and stark in its brilliance, the stars each
set perfect in the firmament of the heavens.
Some time during the storm the horse broke free and followed the course of the wind.
The silence woke him. Slowly, stiff-jointed, he moved. The sand, which had built up to his shoulders,
slid off in slow waves. The lizard blinked once, twice at the disturbance, and was gone, burrowing back
into the shelter of the dunes to wait for the warmth of the next dawn to start the blood flowing through its
veins. Casca wished him well. Rising, he looked for his horse, which he knew was long gone. Well, he
thought, that’s about normal. If it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have any. He pulled his burnoose closer
about him. The insulating sand had kept him warm, but now the night chill of the desert made itself
known. It always amazed him, the contrast between the burning sun and heat of the day, which could kill
a man without water in six hours, and the chill of the night. He climbed the nearest dune and looked out
over the open expanse, ghostly lit by the clear night sky. There was nothing, not even the howl of a desert
jackal; it was empty. He had hoped perhaps to see his horse, but knew there was little or no chance.
Sighing, he went back down the slope. Sliding and kneeling, he dug himself a small pit in the sand and lay
down, pulling the sand back around him to serve as a blanket to keep the worst of the cold out. He
closed his eyes again and slept in the small, shallow grave.
Just minutes before dawn, Casca pulled himself out of his cocoon and rose, stretching his arms to the
sky. He straightened, cracking the sore bones in his back and neck. He took a deep breath and exhaled.
Moving to the bush where he had tied his horse, he dug in the sand and pulled out his pack, searching the
meager content. Finding out a small, hard, rancid horse curd and a chunk of ten-day-old bread, he
climbed back up the crest of the dune to await the coming of the sun.
Taking another small swig of tepid water to wet his throat before attempting to eat the rock-hard and
rancid curds, he hunched down in the sand, waiting, his eyes toward the East. The thin, predawn glow lay
on the horizon. The sun would be rising soon, and with it would come the brain-cooking heat of the
desert.
He put the taste of the food out of his mind and concentrated on chewing the hard bread. Eating
slowly, he would let each bite soften and turn sweet in his mouth before swallowing. Careful of how much
he ate, he saved most of the curds for later, knowing he would need the strength they could give him
then. A light breeze was beginning to pick up with the coming of the sun, as it usually did in the desert.
There was no trace of moisture in the air. He was still a long way from the ocean, and the waters of the
Tigris and Euphrates lay far behind him.
Before the storm had hit, he had been staying fairly close to the same route he and the legions of Gaius
Avidius Cassius had taken in their invasion of Parthia when they had left their staging area at Damascus.
It was one thing to cross the desert as part of a great army with supplies laid in along the way, and quite
another to try it in reverse, alone and without any stores of food or water to make it across the five
hundred miles back. It would be stupid to have tried to make his way along the Euphrates or Tigris. He
would have been sure to have run into patrols from the Gelions that had taken Amida and Europa, and he
had no desire to have his carcass strung up and crucified for desertion.
The sun was up now, a massive red-gold orb slowly rising. He could see how the Greeks in the
legends called it “the fiery chariot of Apollo.” In these lands, the sun was everything—the giver of life,
and the taker. The ground he would have to cover was bad enough, but to the south was the monstrous
ocean of sands that the wandering Semite tribes of Arabia fought so fiercely to keep under control. As
far as he was concerned, they could keep it all.
Casca rose from the sands and wiped the scanty remnants of his morning meal from his fingertips and
face. The curds had left a sour taste in his mouth, but he resisted the temptation to wash it away with
another drink of his scant supply of water. The advance of the sun was beginning to drive the chill of the
night from his bones. He knew the day would be a bitch, so he had to try to find some shade before the
worst of the heat came. He could see from his position on top of the dune a distant line of mountains to
the northwest. They were delicate shades of rose and pink now, but with the rising of the day they would
change into shimmering, distant, gray crags of barren rock, cracked and split into schisms from the
endless heating and cooling of the centuries.
That was where he must go if water and food were to be found. What there was would be found in
those inhospitable stones. He gathered his possessions and made them into a pack, using a couple of
strips torn from his robe to sling them over his shoulder.
The soldier of Rome walked out onto the shifting floor of the desert. With every step the sand worked
its way into his sandals and then spilled out again into thin streams. He settled down into the mile-eating,
steady tread of the professional foot soldier, the sun on his back pushing him on.
He walked slowly but steadily, avoiding the desire to rush, knowing that that would use him up faster
than his measured pace. He would have to make the mountains by the next day or run out of water. Even
now the base of the crags could not be seen. The top half was floating over the floor, the desert shifting
and riding on shimmering heat waves. The day found him crossing a field of stones with lizards and
serpents watching his progress. His step was already slowing down, the heat a constant drain, drawing
off his life’s essence and strength. The water bag at his side sloshed continuously, tempting him to raise it
to his mouth and drink, or wash his face to get rid of the caked-up dust and sweat and streaked grit
around the corners of his eyes.
Stopping, he raised his head and looked out across the field of stones and serpents. He had to stop
and wait out the worst of the heat. A single, darker object rose from the rocky floor. It was a large
boulder that hadn’t yet given into the remorseless efforts to wear it down to the size of its neighbors. It
stood like a lonely sentinel, guarding nothing.
Casca sat down on the shaded side of the stone. It was about as tall as he was and five feet around,
but it also had the only shade for miles. He scraped away the surface layer of rocks, knowing they would
be the hottest. Sitting on them would have drawn some of his moisture. He pulled his robes over him,
forming a tent, and leaned back against the shaded side of the boulder. He was a single lonely figure,
waiting. The gray, once-white robe, which if seen from any distance would seem just another rock, was
his protection and shelter. He would wait now until the sun chariot had almost completed its journey
before drinking again. He would travel all the coming night, and if nothing unforeseen occurred, he should
make the distant mountains by the next sunrise.
He slept fitfully, a waking sleep that came and went. The silence was complete; only the omnipresent
heat was his companion, though not a friend. He dozed, head jerking up now and then as he tried to seek
the comfort of unconsciousness. He was still sweating and knew that that was a good sign; if the sweating
were to stop, he knew a heat stroke would not be far away. As long as he could sweat, he was all right.
The seconds were minutes and the minutes were hours. Time seemed to stop, his mind in a turmoil.
He had no way of telling of the passing of the hours. It was too much of an effort to try and determine
how long he had been sitting. He knew when the day began to cool, that would be the time to rise. Until
then he would have to endure the dragging hours silently, helpless to speed them up.
Far across the desert and sea, another waited, silent and meditating in somewhat different
surroundings. Marcus Aurelius, emperor of Rome, worried over how the Persian camping was
progressing. Long ago, at the age of twelve, the emperor had embraced the teachings and severities of
the Stoics. He had trained himself to place his body second to his mind, to resist passion in all forms, and
to deal only in logic. For the Stoic, there were only two paths a man could take: the path to good or the
path to evil. He regretted only that the office of state that he held so often forced him into unpleasant acts
that he deemed necessary for the greater good. He personally had nothing against Christians, but they
were a disturbing influence and preached a religion of weakness, which, if allowed to flourish, could sap
the already vital strength of the empire.
Therefore, with a sigh of regret, he was now signing the order condemning another ten thousand of
these followers of the crucified god to be put to death. He handed the instrument of death over to his
chamberlain and took a drink of spring water. He avoided the use of wine or even eating to excess. In his
mind, as the father of the Roman people, he had to set the example in everything. How else could he lead
but by example, if he wanted the Roman people to return to the earlier state of nobility and virtue under
which they had conquered most of the known world.
But, he sighed, he was sorely afraid that he was too late in coming on the scene. Still, one must try,
and there was always the hope that his successor would be able to carry on with his work. Smiling, he
thought of his son, Commodus—bright-eyed, brave, quick to learn, and the light of his father’s eye. Yes,
Commodus would carry on after him and lead the empire into an even greater age of prosperity and
peace. Commodus would be the artist who would paint in the fine details of the future. He Marcus would
now lay in the background with broad, sweeping strokes.
He rose and made his ablutions. It was time to preside over the college of priests and to perform
sacrifices for the welfare of Rome and entreat the gods to grant them victory in all things. His wife, Lady
Faustina, daughter of Antonius Pius, was waiting for him. She would not, of course, be permitted entry
into the college. In her position, she would go to the Temple of the Vestal Virgins and make her own
sacrifice and donatives.
Marcus Aurelius was blind to one thing, and that was the infidelity of his wife, who openly carried on
with anyone she pleased and promoted her lovers to position of power. None dared tell the emperor
otherwise, for to him, as he had written, she was the epitome of virtue. He would hear of nothing else.
But his councillors knew, and indeed wondered if the boy Commodus had any of his father’s blood in
him. For the child, they knew, instead of being serious and gifted as was his father, was instead shallow
of mind and purpose, taking on more the attitudes and directions of his mother than the rigid discipline of
self-denial that the emperor espoused. The councillors dreaded the day Marcus would give the reins of
the empire to his son.
The change in temperature brought Casca back from his dull, half-drugged sleep. He forced his eyes
to open. The lids, dried and caked with grit and sweat, stung as he blinked to clear them. Rising from his
shelter, he stood and faced the mountains, trying to lock the direction in his mind. If there was no
moonlight tonight, and if there were no stars, there was certainly nothing else in the wasteland that he
would be able to get a fix on to help guide him.
Long shadows were reaching across the plain of stones from the gentle rises and hillocks. The sole
boulder became a sundial as its shadow reached out to twice its own length.
Casca shook his water skin. There was precious little left. He took one full, long swallow and held it in
his mouth to let it soak into the gums and the membranes of his throat, cutting some of the buildup of
phlegm and foul taste away. The bag would be empty this night. He rewrapped his burnoose about him
and tied it at his waist.
The cooling of the evening was a balm to his heat-reddened and flushed skin. It even helped to ease
the sore spots under his armpits and groins where the grime and sand wore against his skin. The dark
closed around him like a soft, silent blanket. He walked, the cool air giving him a sense of renewed
strength. The heat soon passed and there were a few miles of stumbling over smooth, slippery stones.
Once, this must have been a lake or an ocean bed. Several times he walked over shining paths of salt that
had collected into the low areas where the waters must have evaporated or receded back into the earth.
A few times he almost stepped on snakes, which hissed and stuck out their tongues to taste the air,
then pulled back into sinuous twisting tendrils ready to strike.
All that night, under dear but moonless skies, he trekked toward the hoped-for shelter in the
mountains. With stumbling steps, he met the new dawn and looked to his objective.
It was still, to his eyes, as far away as it had been on the previous day. As he had earlier noticed,
distance was often deceptive in this land of shimmering waves of heat. His water was gone. He still
carried the empty bag with him in the hope that he might find a spring among the rocks or in the sand and
would be able to refill it. He would not be able to rest much this day. If he stayed in one place too long,
the heat would take what remained of his strength and he might not reach the walls of granite ahead. This
day, heat or not, he must continue as long as he was able.
By midday, it felt as if Vulcan himself was pounding at his temples, trying to forge some strange
weapon in his eternally burning furnace. The glare of the sun was a piercing, fiery dagger that lanced
Casca’s eyes. Every step was heavier than the last, but to stop was perhaps to never be able to go on.
He stumbled blindly toward the mountains. A rock caught his dragging feet. It tore one sandal off and he
fell to the earth, mouth open and panting, gulping in breaths of oven-baked air. He lay there for some
time, trying to gather his inner resources together for the tremendous effort it would take to rise to his feet
again. He lay still, mouth open and panting, eyes focused on a small gray stone, inches from his nose. A
shadow moved over the stone. His eyes flicked up to meet another pair of goggle-wide eyes watching
him. A large gray-and-brown-mottled lizard, the length of his foot, lay on its belly, mouth opening and
closing like a fish. It was attracted by the flies beginning to gather around the form of the fallen man. Once
and again, a long tongue flicked out and snared a victim faster than an eye could blink. It moved closer to
his face and lay still, watching, one eye moving independently of the other. Casca’s right hand, near his
face, moved before he even thought of it and he held the lizard in his hand. He could feel the sinuous
strength of its body squirming in his hand. Through silent lips he apologized for what he was about to do,
then tore the beast’s head off and placed the neck of the bleeding carcass between his cracked lips and
sucked. He sucked the thin blood until the body of the lizard was drained, then tore it into pieces and
chewed the meat slowly, squeezing every drop of moisture from the small cadaver. It wasn’t much, but it
was enough to give him the strength to rise once more to his feet.
He tossed what was left of the drained body of the lizard away and forced his mind on the hazy
mountains.
He had to draw on every bit of his inner strength to take the first stumbling step. Fear aided him,
too—the fear of what he would go through if he fell once more and was unable to rise. What would
happen to him? He wouldn’t be permitted to die; the Jew had seen to that. Would he just lie there and
become a dried, desiccated husk that refused to die, condemned to a never-ending thirst and suffering?
That fear gave him a degree of increased fortitude and determination to go on. One dragging step after
another, forcing his mind to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, he drifted into a
semidrugged state that helped to ease the pain of his cut and blistered feet. He tried to lick his lips but
found he couldn’t force his tongue out of his mouth. It had swollen to twice its normal size and threatened
to cut off his gasping and labored breathing.
His eyes were swollen almost completely shut and he thought for a time he was going blind when the
day became darker and what little he could see began to fade from sight. He stumbled into a nearby bush
and fell over onto his back. The bush was in a dry riverbed. Feebly, he reached up to its branches and
felt them. They were hard to see. A chill rushed over him from the evening breeze. At least, he thought,
I’m not blind. It’s just the night coming on. He touched the leaves, feeling their soft green suppleness
under his torn fingers.
Soft..? Up till now, everything in this pit of fire that he had seen or touched had been dry and rough!
He tried to force his mind to work. It was difficult! His mind kept wanting to slide off into distant
disjointed thoughts. With a tremendous effort he forced his concentration back to the bush. It’s green; the
leaves are soft. It must be getting moisture. Rolling over onto his belly, he began to push the sand away
from the roots of the bush.
Slowly, with an almost impossible effort, the hole deepened. Casca put his face down into the bottom
of it and breathed deeply, ignoring the bits of sand that were sucked up into his nostrils. He could smell
moisture. No! Smell wasn’t quite right; he could taste it with his mind. He tore a limb from the bush to
help him dig. Hours passed as he worked in slow motion, but the hole deepened, and soon he could feel
the moisture with his fingers. The rains that came so seldom to this region would turn this dry bed into a
raging torrent, and then would disappear as fast as they had come. But some of the water remained for
this plant to feed on and a few others.
The darkness was on him now, and still he scooped out the sand until at last he could feel real
wetness. Sandy mud slid between his raw ringers. He scooped up a handful of it and placed it in his
mouth, letting the wetness ease the pain and soak into his gums and tongue. He fought back an impulse to
swallow the mud and sand. It helped, but it wasn’t enough: he needed to drink. The hole wasn’t filling
with water; it was just wet sand muck.
Tearing off a patch of his tunic, he filled it with the sand and mud. Tying it into a bundle, he strained his
neck, held the cloth to his mouth, and squeezed, forcing every ounce of strength remaining into his right
hand and finally, through the cloth, came ... water! A slow, sweet wetness that increased as he gained
strength from the moisture. Again and again he refilled his rag and drank, nursing the wetness. As a child
feeds at its mother’s breasts, he sucked and was eventually filled.
He lay back then and slept, as his stomach dispersed the life-giving wetness throughout his body,
feeding the cells and bringing back suppleness to dried tissue that had shrunk under the hammer of the
sun. Two days he stayed by his miniature oasis, gathering his strength. At night, he found that if he stayed
away from the hole for a while, other creatures would come to it, drawn by the smell of moisture in the
night air. Rodents, lizards, snakes, and other vermin appeared. All were food and he wasted nothing.
What he didn’t eat was sliced into strips and put into the sun to dry. There wasn’t much, but it was a
great deal more than he had eaten for some time and would be enough, he hoped, to see him through.
He used much of his time squeezing his rag to fill his water skin, controlling the urge to drink it dry,
and contenting himself with his damp rag. The water skin would be needed when he left, for he didn’t
know how long he would have to go before finding more. The mountains rose over him. They were stark,
craggy, uneven piles of raw rock that reached to the clear desert heavens. They seemed like Hercules,
carrying the weight of the world on their granite shoulders.
Four days he stayed by his hole until he knew it was time to leave. He was as strong as he would ever
be with the lack of real food. If he waited too long the hole might run dry and the few animals that came
would disappear, and then he would be back right where he started.
He waited for the dusk and once more began his trek across the wastelands of the Persian desert. But
now, the mountains were his travel companions, and the wind that came from them in the night talked to
him of lost caravans and vanished armies that had once followed this path. Some had made it, but most
lay forgotten under the shifting, whispering dunes behind him. Their stories were covered by the
ever-changing sands that each year claimed a little more of the arable lands, until one day they would
reach clear to the sea.
Several days passed as he made his way along the boundary of the mountains heading west. He knew
he would have to come out of the desert at some point; it could not be much further. He found small
springs in the shelters of the crags, which kept his water skins filled. And ... where he found water, he
found food.
At one such lonely watering hole he found two horses grazing on the brush. A man, who Casca
presumed had been their owner, lay facedown near the waterhole. Rolling the body over, the cause of
death was evident. The man’s face was swollen to half again its normal size, and there was a purple color
from the poison that had been injected into his face through the two puncture marks on his cheek.
Probably a desert snake, lying near the hole, had struck him while he’d been drinking. And, Casca
figured, it hadn’t been too long ago. The body showed no signs of decay yet and the horses looked to be
in fair shape.
He dug a shallow grave and covered the body with stones. He said a general prayer for the man’s
sake to whatever gods there were in this place, and thanked him for the gift of the horses.
He rode out from the spot that night after checking the packs. There was little in them but the things a
lonely traveler would need on the trail. There were new clothes for him, though, and packets of food to
insure his reaching civilization with at least a minimum of comfort. He followed the trail back the way the
man had come, moving easily, letting the swaying of the horse rock him into a light sleep as the miles
were covered.
He felt a tingling up his spine on several occasions after the first two days. It was a tingle that says one
is not alone, that eyes are watching.
But he never spotted anybody and put it down to nerves. But the feeling still lingered, and from time to
time he thought that if he could just turn around fast enough, he would be able to catch sight of the
watchers.
At night, he would search out crevices in the rocks in which to build his lonely camp. A small fire and
saddle blankets provided him with all the creature comforts he needed. The distant yapping of a desert
jackal would punctuate his thoughts, and the isolation became almost a friend. He gathered it around him
as he did his saddle blankets, often spending long hours sitting on a rise looking out over the panorama of
deserts and mountains. The wind was shifting and the cooler nights spoke of the end of summer. More
frequently now, clouds would gather and let loose in the distance some of their jealously hoarded,
life-giving rain. The few times it rained where he was, the Roman would raise his face to the drops, letting
them clean the grit from his eyes and face, making no attempt to seek shelter.
There, standing on a ridge in the rain, overlooking the edge of the world, he felt as if he were the only
man left in all creation. Would he in fact be that one day? Would he be all that was left of mankind? Or
摘要：

CASCA,VolumeFiveBarrySadlerTableOfContentsPrefacePrologueChapterOneChapterTwoChapterThreeChapterFourChapterFiveChapterSixChapterSevenChapterEightChapterNineChapterTenChapterElevenChapterTwelveChapterThirteenChapterFourteenChapterFifteenChapterSixteenChapterSeventeenPrefaceMynameisDoctorJuliusGoldman...

展开>> 收起<<
Barry Sadler - Casca 05 - The Barbarian.pdf

共71页,预览15页

还剩页未读， 继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

相关推荐

更多
立即下载
分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：71 页 大小：567.7KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-24

开通VIP享超值会员特权

  • 多端同步记录
  • 高速下载文档
  • 免费文档工具
  • 分享文档赚钱
  • 每日登录抽奖
  • 优质衍生服务

作者详情

相关内容

更多

热门标签

人际关系 动力学连接体 力的合成 配电装置 高考理综 全宋诗作者索引 公务员考试
/ 71
评分 收藏
分享
立即下载 VIP免费下载
客服
关注