Barry Sadler - Casca 01 - The Eternal Mercenary

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"Soldier, you are content with what you are. Then that you shall remain until

we meet again. As I go now to my Father, you must one day come to me."

The wind screamed. Casca stood in shock and fear, the Jew's blood on his hand

mingling with the falling drops of rain. Unthinking, Casca wiped his hand

across his mouth, and one drop of blood touched his tongue, and Casca

screamed. He doubled over in cramps. What felt like liquid fire raced through

his veins to his brain, setting his whole being on fire. And still the others

noticed nothing.

CASCA-doomed by Jesus to an endless life as a soldier.

CASCA

THE ETERNAL MERCENARY

ONE

Nha Trang, Vietnam, 1970...

A flight of three Dust Off Med Evac helicopters was bringing in the remnants

of an infantry platoon that had been ambushed a little south of Nui Ba Den two

hours before.

The Cong had really ripped their ass on this one, but had screwed up by

hanging around a little too long-long enough to get caught between a unit of

the First Cav and a company of South Korean Rangers. The copters, were

bringing out the broken and dying humanity that had been the American platoon;

the dead and wounded Cong were left to become part of the mud.

Such are the benefits of a modern nation's technology: the Americans were even

now being placed in an air-conditioned hospital clearing room at Nha Trang

where rosy-cheeked young nurses could tell them how brave they were and how

proud they made the free world with their noble sacrifices. (And on occasion

the nurses might sacrifice a little of themselves by sleeping with such

wounded heroes-but only, of course, if they were officers. .)

Colonel Robert Landries, tall and ascetic looking, the senior surgeon of the

Eighth Field Hospital, personally supervised the sorting of the wounded by the

degree of severity. He was assisted in this humane endeavor by Major Julius

Goldman. The two directed which men would receive immediate treatment and

which would have to wait or take second best from some of the orderlies.

Goldman was examining one of the head wound casualties when he stopped

suddenly, straightened up, shook his head as if confused, and called to

Colonel Landries.

"Colonel, you better come over here and confirm what I'm looking at-or get

ready to put me in the rubber room."

Landries swore at him. "I have been ready to do that ever since you were

assigned to this unit, but I'll look."

Landries made his way over to Goldman, stopping occasionally to give

instructions about the disposition of a particular patient, or to answer a

question from one of the braless nurses. (The heat made bras develop a rash,

so Landries had authorized the only braless uniform in Indochina.)

"All right, Goldman, what the hell are you mumbling about now? Have you

finally pickled your brain with specimen alcohol?"

Goldman nodded, consternation written across his face. "I hope that's all

there is to it, Colonel. At least it would explain this." He indicated the

prone figure lying before them.

The casualty was a stocky, powerfully built man, not unusual as human beings

go. What was unusual about him was the wound. According to all the known laws

of medicine he had no right to be living.

Around the corners of the battle dressing on the left side of his head the

brain itself could be seen. Protruding from the exposed brain was a piece of

shrapnel, a shiny sliver of Russian steel about a quarter of an inch in

diameter sunk to an unknown depth in the exposed vital organ. The open area of

the brain was about four inches long and three inches wide and ran up to where

the part in a man's hair would normally be. This section of the skull had just

simply been blown away; an adjoining section was held on by a flap of skin. A

Chinese-made 60-mm mortar, firing Russian ammo, had obviously scored a direct

hit.

Landries bent over to take a closer look at the wound and the shrapnel. Blood

covered the man's face and the tails of the battle dressing holding the

bandage to his head. Landries squinted, looked closer, took out his glasses,

and looked again.

"My God!" he exclaimed, face paling, as he turned to Goldman. "What...?"

Both men turned their attention to the exposed brain.

A wound like that, in the incubator climate of Vietnam, meant almost certain

death, or, at the very least, that the man would be a vegetable if he lived.

But ...

This wound was different. God, how different!

Slowly, but surely, as the two surgeons watched in disbelief, the open wound

was taking steps to protect itself. The slender piece of shrapnel was being

isolated and encapsulated by what appeared to be the same kind of

calcification process that isolates TB bacilli in the lungs. For TB, it was

known-as a ghom complex, but what the hell this was was something else. The

dura mater, pia mater-the meninges-protective coverings for the brain and

spinal cord, were making slow but visible progress growing back over the

exposed regions of the brain.

Visible... Good God! Landrics turned to Gold-man.

"Get this man prepped and into surgery immediately." His voice rose to a

piercing shriek. "Move! Get X-rays of every centimeter of this man from every

angle-and do it now!"

The nurses and orderlies jumped at the commands, but Landries's voice still

followed them: "I want blood work. I want urology and hemoglobin. I want every

damned test this place can make-and some it can't. Move, you slugs! If this

man dies I will transfer every one of you to the paratroops and send you fine

young ladies to clean open sores at a leper colony. Move, damn it, move!"

He turned to Goldman.

"Goldman, you found him-so you can stay with him every second of every hour

until I can personally relieve you."

The major nodded and followed after the wounded man, telling the aides to get

an IV started. He ordered the nurses to get the man cleaned up and into

isolation, told them he wanted sterile technique to be observed, that if any

of them contaminated any of the specimens taken from this man there would be

hell to pay.

They took the soldier quickly to a bed in the isolation room of the hospital.

The only other patient in the room was an elderly Viet farmer in the final

stages of a bout with typhus, no longer contagious, so Goldman had the

orderlies throw him out with a gift of fifty American dollars. The sudden

windfall delighted the old man, and he quickly grabbed his few meager

belongings and sprinted out the door like an Olympic hurdlejumper as if he

feared these crazy Americans would change their minds and take the money back.

He went through the main gate so fast the A. P. standing guard shook his head

in wonder at the old timer's agility.

As the nurses and orderlies stripped the wounded man, Goldman called for an IV

of sterile saline to be started stat. For the first time he now looked at the

man's dog tags to check his blood type. 0 positive. No problem there. The most

common type of blood. Vital signs were next. The man's temperature was

97.9-almost a degree lower than normal. It shouldn't be lower than normal; he

should be running a fever. Respiration: 18 to the minute. A little rapid, but

not bad. Pulse: slightly faster than normal. Blood pressure: 140 over 90.

Normal.

But there was nothing normal about this; nothing about the wounded man was as

it should be..

Goldman left, taking the man's dog tags and wound tag. Again he read the

legend on the dog tags: "CASEY ROMAIN-TYPE 0-POS-PROTESTANT." It told him

nothing about who the man was. He stopped by his chief orderly's office to

drop off the wound tag.

"Get this man's medical records in here ASAP and tell the commanding officer

of his company to get me his 201 file. Also, I want all information on his

personal history and background. And have it for me by tomorrow afternoon."

The chief orderly had a bland look in his eyes, so Goldman went on:

"Sergeant Ferguson, you have been bragging about how you talked your way into

a cherry assignment here. I am not particularly fond of your ass anyway, so I

am going to tell you that if you don't have that info. for me by tomorrow I

have just the place for you. There is a Special Forces camp on the Laos border

that has lost its last three medics from KIAs in the last month, and it looks

like the shit is really going to hit the fan there. If you don't deliver that

information for me, you will find yourself reassigned as their Temporary

Medical Specialist by 0800 hours day after tomorrow and on your way to join

the Green Berets by noon. Good-bye, Sergeant."

As Goldman turned and left, Ferguson sat there in shocked silence. He had

thought of himself as secure in this safe slot, and now this lousy Jew doctor

was on the verge of screwing everything up for him. Another three months of

dealing penicillin and other drugs, on the black market and he would have

enough to set himself up with a nice little bar when he got Stateside.

Ferguson rubbed his nice, round, beer belly and then ran his hands through his

thinning, mouse-colored hair, grunted disgustedly to himself, and reached for

the phone. His survival was at stake. Green Berets! Who in his right mind

would want to be assigned to duty with those madmen? Shee... it! If those

suckers weren't being attacked, they were always out looking for trouble. No,

he thought, I will get all the trash he wants, but I'll have my day...

When Goldman returned to the isolation ward, Casey had been cleaned up and was

lying nude beneath a set of clean white sheets. His body had been scrubbed

down until it glowed a rosy pink. Goldman inspected the head wound again and

swabbed it down with an antiseptic solution. The progress of the membraneous

lining in its attempt to re-cover the exposed brain tissue was now obvious to

even an untrained eye. Even more startling was the fact that from a very close

examination it was clear that new bone was being grown around the perimeter of

the injury.

The major pulled the covers down from Casey's body to get a look at the rest

of him. He whistled softly under his breath. Casey's body was covered with

scars, many of them deep, and others with puckered edges as if they had healed

irregularly by themselves. The wounds were a blend of old and fairly recent,

but many of them had faded almost white from age, and others seemed to have

crisscrossed several times until it was impossible to tell which was the

oldest wound.

Goldman called for an orderly to take Sergeant E-5 Casey Romain to the X-ray

room for his series and to keep an eye on his vitals. If there was any change,

Goldman was to be notified immediately. In the meantime he would go and get

ready for surgery.

By the time Casey had been X-rayed, Goldman and the colonel had finished their

scrub and were waiting for their patient to be rolled in along with his

plates.

Placing Casey under the sterile sheets, Colonel Landries again inspected the

wound and remained silent for a moment before saying to Goldman:

"Has there been any sign of infection?"

"Negative," responded the major. "There is no sign of any Infection at all. We

should have his blood work in a few minutes. Perhaps that will tell us more."

The two doctors stood discussing the possible explanations for their strange

patient's condition until the X-ray plates were set up on the display. They

went over the plates one after another, and then repeated themselves,

consulting the X-ray tech's report on the unusual conditions present in the

patient. One particular item caught their special attention. A thick mass of

tissue in the patient's left thigh surrounded a piece of foreign matter of

unknown nature. Because of the angle from which the X-ray was made it was

difficult to make out exactly what the object was. They decided to go in for

it after they tried to remove the piece of shrapnel from the brain.

As Landries prepped the area around the head wound and painted it with

antiseptic, he commented that the shrapnel seemed a little longer than it had

been when they brought Casey in. Taking a pair of forceps, he gently tugged at

the piece of metal. Almost without any effort on his part it came free from

the surrounding brain tissue.

Casey was obviously in no distress, so Landries told Goldman to go after the

unknown object in the thigh.

Surgery over, the two doctors retired to the coffee room, Goldman taking the

object he had removed from Casey's thigh with him. While Landries sipped hot

black coffee, Goldman removed the membraneous tissue surrounding the object.

Slowly the form took shape... until there could be no doubt as to the object's

identity.

An arrowhead. A metal arrowhead.

Landries spilled his coffee as the object was dropped in front of him on the

table. Picking it up, he turned to Goldman.

"Bronze?"

Goldman nodded.

"Goldman, your hobby is ancient history. When would you say the last time an

arrowhead like this was made?"

Goldman took the piece from Landries, turning it over and over in his fingers.

"Colonel, this is handmade and not cast. It resembles very closely some of the

bronze artifacts I've seen in museums in Jerusalem and Istanbul. You know, I

went there with my uncle, the one who's the curator for the Judaic Arts and

History Museum in New York."

Re was silent for a moment, looking thoughtfully at the arrowhead.

"How old? Oh, I don't know. It looks a lot like some of the arrows I have seen

from the period of, say, 300 BC to AD 400. They didn't change very much among

most of the primitive-and some not so primitive-tribes during that time.

Bronze was still very popular-and a lot easier to work than iron.

"Doctor Landries, that man in there, Romain. Those wounds on his body look

like they were made by edged weapons like he had been sliced up by swords and

axes. We have treated almost every conceivable type of injury since we have

been here, and nothing-I repeat, nothing-even remotely resembles those wounds.

The' blood work on him is normal except for one thing: his white blood cells

are hyperactive. The phagocytic action is unbelievable. I set a smear of his

blood in with a preserved sample of the old Viet's-the old man who had the

typhus-and Romain's WBCs attacked and destroyed the typhus bacilli as if they

were at a picnic. That's the reason there is no sign of infection in his body.

Furthermore, there are no detectable foreign organisms present in his system

other than those that are necessary for the maintenance of life. Colonel, ! do

not believe that a harmful bacteria or virus can survive in Romain's body. He

doesn't even have any ~?????????yyyy

Landries nodded; "Anything else?"

Goldman hesitated a moment and said, "Yes... I injected two cc's of a whole

blood sample into a guinea pig, and the animal died in convulsions less than

ten seconds after the injection. Sergeant Romain's blood is poison, deadly

poison."

Landries shook his head, tired and confused. "We are faced with something

outside our experience, Major, and I am not sure I really want to find out

what it is. You stay with him and monitor him until midnight, and then give me

a call, and I'll relieve you."

The next shock 'came in the quietness of the isolation room where the

orderlies had brought Casey after surgery. Major Goldman had been sitting by

the bed, studying Casey's face in the single light of the bedside lamp. There

was nothing unusual in Casey's features. His age was indeterminate. He could

be anywhere in the late twenties to the late thirties.

Goldman closed his eyes and nodded.' The exhaustion of the day crept over him,

dragging him unaware into sleep. He dreamed... but it was one -of -those

dreams that wake one with a jerk as though falling.

Casey was moving restlessly on the bed,, beginning to mumble to himself,

jerking his head back and forth as though denying' some accusation. And for

the first time Casey spoke, the words coming forth clear and unhesitatingly

though his breathing had been troubled up to, this point.

Latin!

Not the Latin of the textbooks. Casey was speaking the Latin of the Caesars.

Perfectly. Fluently.

As a' doctor and historian, Goldman realized immediately that what he was

hearing was something only a few classical scholars could speak with any ease.

Goldman knew them all by name-and Romain was not one of them.

He bent closer and listened. His eyes grew large with wonder, and then he

gently nodded his head as understanding finally came...

The time to call Landries came and passed, and still Goldman sat and listened

to the words of the man on the bed.

Listened and wondered...

TWO

Major Goldman sat beside the bed of the man whose ID tags read, "Casey

Romain," watching his patient and listening to the sounds of the air

conditioners straining to keep the hot night away. Air conditioners in a war

zone. Time progresses... Goldman sat quietly, occasionally taking the vital

signs of the casualty on the bed. A timeless unreality hung in the room like

strange music probing the edges of the doctor's mind, the ironic symphony of

some incomprehensible' deity who blended the air conditioner noise with the

rrales-the crackling, rattling breathing-of the man named Casey and

periodically punctuated both with volleys of distant artillery fire crumping

its way throu'gh the surrounding mountains in search of an unseen enemy.

A vague uneasiness troubled the doctor... as though there were a presence in

the room.

Watching the still figure on the bed, Goldman let his thoughts run over the

events of the past day and night, troubled 'and amazed by what had come from

the mouth of this strange man whose body was covered with scars, whose wound

should have been fatal. He had no right to be alive.

Casey moved slightly as if dreaming. The rrales slowed. Goldman focused on the

sleeping man's face, and a stark clarity burst in' the doctor's

con~sciousness.

I know you, he whispered silently within his brain. I know who you are. There

have been legends written about "the one who must wait.", I know that you are

him, that you are the one who waits for the Coming. Yes, Sergeant First Class

Casey Romain, I know who you are.

He was not prepared for the real words. When they came, clear and loud, they

were like a splash of ice water across his consciousness:

"You do, do you? You really think you know me Doctor?"

Casey had sat straight up in the bed, nude from the waist up, that scarred

body' a shocking sight in the room. But it was not the scars that caught

Goldman's attention, it was Casey's eyes. They had an overwhelming power over

Goldman. He could not tear himself away from that glowing gaze.

"You really think you know me-and know what I am? Then look closer, Doctor,

and see that which no man but me has seen in almost two thousand years."

Hypnosis.,~ Goldman's mind told him there was hypnotic power in his patient's

eyes, a power he could not tear himself away from, but even in the thinking

his mind seem to split, one part alert and knowing the reality that was

happening, the other part, the deep, demanding voice of Casey blended with the

glowing eyes, a unity in Goldman's brain he could no longer separate. He felt

himself being drawn into the eyes, felt himself falling through clouds of

clearing mist.

There was an interim when Goldman felt himself falling out of one plane of

reality into another, when he could see buildings drawing closer. As though he

were in an airplane making an approach for a landing. The details were

confused... dirt roads, adobe walls... a paved stone road ... stone walls...

flat topped buildings... narrow streets. . . stone, stone, stone . . . a sense

of eternity as though this place had been here before the beginning of time

and would be here forever... trees . . . a grove of olive trees . . rising

ground...

And then one enormous, gleaming white, dominating structure, massive,

beautiful.. . as though

God, Himself, had polished the stones... The Temple? Was this the Temple?

Great God in Heaven!

No wonder my people remember...

Goldman wavered between reality and the vision. It seemed for a moment that

the vision was gone... He was drawing close enough to see the people, and he

was seeing them with twentieth-century eyes. . . like a scene from a Cecil B.

De Mule movie. . . men in robes. . . a wrapped head covering . . . turbans? .

. . riding asses and camels... a marketplace where vendors cried out for the

attention of potential customers. The people were familiar. He felt as though

he knew them.

"Were they Arabs? Then... He looked up.

The Temple!

'Bearded long-h'aired 'men9 arms' lifted in prayer, 'their voices becoming

intelligible as they wailed the 'ululating prayers of the Hebrew.

"Hear, 0 Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one...

My God! It really is the Temple! said the consciousness that was Goldman.

"Yes," came Casey's voice, almost unwelcome to the doctor. "It is the, Temple

of the Jews that you are seeing now, learned doctor. The Temple of the Jews.

Watch and learn the truth of this day and what it means to me, I, Casca Ruflo

Longinius, soldier of the legions of Imperial Rome in the reign of the, great

Tiberius..

The words boomed in Goldman's brain, and the transition was complete. He stood

on the stone 'pavement of a Jerusalem street, in the land of his people, in

the time of his people. Hear, 0 Israel, the Lord thy God is one God.

The greater reality enveloped him.

THREE

Damn all Jews!

It was not what Pontius Pilate, Procurator of Judea, would call your best

quality day. There had been the matter of this Jesus. Pilate suspected that he

had been outmaneuvered by the wily Herod, that fat slob, and forced into a

position where it was politically expedient to follow the wishes of the Jewish

leaders of Jerusalem; he had ordered another of those madmen that this insane

land produced in a seemingly endless stream to be crucified along with a

couple of petty thieves. A pity, in a, way. Seemed like a pretty decent

fellow. As he had told the Jewish priests, "I can find nothing wrong with what

this man has said or done, but it is the policy of Rome"-Pilate loved laying

the imperial gobbledegook on the natives-"to allow as much latitude as

possible to the local authorities in the administration of laws involving

their customs and religions as long as those laws and religions do not

conflict with the administration of the Roman order."

He had added what he thought was a nice theatrical touch: he had called for

water and washed his hands ostentatiously. "He is yours. Take him and kill

him." And then, with a distinct trace of contempt: "The decision is yours, not

mine.

Leaving the forum, he returned to the cool interior of his chambers. Pausing

at a bust of Augustus, he mentally queried the marble figure:

"Why me? Why Judea? What was wrong with Greece? Or even Spain? What did I do

that you had to banish me to this realm of the insane? All these Jews are

mad-with their unseen god and religious restrictions on what they can eat or

drink or touch. I shall write to you again, my Emperor. Perhaps now you will

let me return home-or at least transfer me to a province where all I have to

deal with is an occasional border war with some normal barbarians. At least I

can understand their motives and will know how to deal with them. But here I

have not only the Jews, I have Herod, Claudius's friend, to contend with-and

he is damn near as crazy as the rest of this mad population. I really believe

the fat little shit is beginning to think he is part of the power structure of

this place. I may have to slap him down, even if it does piss Claudius off."

Claudius. For some reason Augustus tolerates that spastic prig and listens to

him. Well, enough. I am through for the day, and I'm going to forget all this.

I don't know why I aggravate myself over one more lousy halfmad Jew.

But there was something about him. What was his name? Yeshua... Jesus. That's

it, Jesus. He seemed to expect all that happened. It didn't upset or surprise

him. He just accepted it as if he had more important things on his mind.

Enough. I think I'll try out the new shipment of Falernian from Rome and get

blind, staggering drunk.

Jews.

He headed for the wine room.

The Judean sun had passed its zenith, but the day was just now at its hottest.

The streets leading to the place of execution were lined with crowds of people

waiting to see the so-called "Messiah."

The Jew strained under the burden of carrying his cross, his face covered with

blood from the crown of thorns on his head. To protect him from abuse from the

orthodox Jewish population, a squad of Roman legionnaires walked with him.

They grumbled under their breaths at this piece of extra duty they had drawn.

The decurion in charge of the unit cursed at the sweat rolling down his own

back and soaking the leather armor surrounding his chest and abdomen. The

thing to be thankful for was that the armor wasn't metal. At least the local

centurion had enough sense to know that in this climate metal armor was almost

unbearable for normal duty days.

The decurion had six men in his escort squad: two Syrians, a Gaul from

Messilia, one member of the Tuetonii tribe of Germans, and two men from the

northern Latin provinces. All of them shared the common belief that Judea was

the armpit of the Empire.

Cursing and beating the locals away from his charge, the squad' leader led his

group toward the place of execution, a mount called Golgotha, the Place of the

Skull.

The skinny Jew was stronger than he looked. He made it part of the way, but

after he had fallen a couple of times, the decurion drafted one of the

onlookers, a big husky black man, probably a visitor from Cyrene, and put him

to carrying the, cross. Damn tourist. The decurion wanted to get the job over

with so he could get back to the barracks and clean up for tonight's date with

that little dancer from Armenia.

Even with the black man carrying the cross the journey seemed interminable,

but finally they trudged their way through the dust and garbage up to the

hilltop, leaving behind most of the spectators. It was just too damned hot for

the crowd to hang around, only a few hard-core hangers-on stayed for the final

spectacl,they and the women. Surprisingly, there were several women.

When they reached the place of execution, the decurion took a deep breath and

told the two Syrian's to go ahead and get the Jew put up properly and for them

to use the spikes he had brought along as well as the usual ropes. His orders

were that the Jew was not to live any longer than necessary because it was

always possible that some of his followers might start some trouble. The

soldiers were to make sure that, after the example had been made and the local

leaders were satisfied, they were to finish him off before anything unpleasant

happened.

The Syrians quickly stripped the robe off the Jew and laid him unresisting on

the cross, one of them humming a child's song as he tied the man to the cross.

The Jew was mumbling something under his breath, praying or something. As the

two Syrians went about their job, the Jew kept his eyes closed and only opened

them when the first spike was driven through his right wrist. His body

writhed, and a moan burst from his cracked and drying lips. This was repeated

when his other wrist and legs were nailed, and then all the squad got together

to draw the cross into an upright position and drop it into the hole that had

been dug for it. Jesus gave one long moan during this operation and a short

cry as the cross thumped into the bottom of its hole.

The Iegionnaires quickly tamped the earth down around the base of the cross

and sat down to take a break, passing around a flask of raw, half-fermented,

local date wine. It wasn't much, but it was the best they could afford since

it was still a week untill payday.

Then they crucified the two thieves, one on either side of Jesus.

The sun was moving westward and beginning to grow large and red. The decurion

thought of tonight's date. The other men in the squad were throwing dice for

the Jew's robe. The decurion watched them for a moment and made up his mind.

"Shit, there ain't no reason for all of us to hang around here for this. You

guys throw the dice. The three low points stay and finish up. The rest of us

are going to take off."

The shortest Latin had just put his cup and carved bone dice back in his kit

bag after the gamble for the robe. Now he pulled them out again. The three who

lost were the two Syrians and the big tall North Latin, Casca. Casca, at five

foot ten, stood at least half a head over the others. He tried to buy his way

out of this job, offering to take guard duty for any of the others their next

turn up. There were no takers. It was just too damned hot to hang around. He

would just have to take his lumps and sweat it out.

As the rest of the squad marched wearily back ,down the hill, the Jew on the

cross moaned and asked for water.

"Water?" Casca grumbled. "That will just keep you alive that much longer."

Laughing, he poured some of the sour wine onto a rag tied to the end of his

pilum and held it to the mouth of the Jew. Jesus sucked eagerly at the

sour-almost vinegar-wine,' and passed out.

Casca and the two Syrians sat and waited.

The two thieves died.

The Jew was quiet. At least they didn't have to listen to him moan or pray.

These Hebrews were always moaning about something their God said or did-or

praying for Him to come save them from the wicked Romans. Hell, they had a lot

less trouble under the laws of Rome than they did when they ran their own

country. There was no satisfying some people...

Casca grumbled as he sat at the base of the cross and tried to catch a little

sleep. The two Syrians were throwing dice, gambling against their next payday.

Casca dozed fitfully, sweating inside his leather jerkin, sweat filling his

sandals, the sweat burning a sore place where the sandals had rubbed a raw

spot between his toes.

Casca slept.

How long he slept he did not know, but he came suddenly violently awake, skin

crawling with premonition.

Something was going to happen ...

When Casca opened his eyes the skies were dark as though night had come and a

storm was at hand. He felt disoriented; memory and present reality jumbled in

his mind. Time no longer seemed to flow in a straight pattern but halted,

backed up, stepped forward. Damn Jew wine... musta gotta hold of a bad

batch...

He remembered dozing fitfully, sweating inside his leather jerkin, the sweat

burning. His opening eyes were sticky from sleep and sweat; that seemed real

enough. The night was almost on.

Had he slept that long? All the spectators had left except for a couple of

women and a few of the Jew's follower's. But there was something odd as hell

about the night. Below him, Casca expected to see the lamps being lit around

the doorway leading to the temple of the divine Jupiter. And the beginning

wind should be picking up the smell of cooking food. But there were no lamps.

And the stirring wind smelled... Hell!.. odd...

Casca drew himself erect and beat the dust off his legs, glancing at the two

gambling Syrians. One of them was ticked off because the other had just

clipped him for his next pay-as well as the Jew's robe. Casca ignored the

bickering soldier and stood in front of the Jew. Looking up, his eyes met

those of the self-proclaimed "Son of God."

"Well, Jew, it's about time to get this over with."

At the sound of Casca's voice, Jesus raised his eyes to the darkening sky and

cried out. As best Casca could make out the words, they were: "O my Father,

why hast Thou forsaken me?"

He seemed to choke back a sob, as though embarrassed by his own outburst.

Casca drew his red army cloak about him. The night had taken a sudden chill as

the freshening wind began to build.

"Why has your father forsaken you?" he said to the Jew. "You fool. We are all

forsaken from the time we first draw a breath. No one lives forever. Stop that

whining and prepare yourself to die like a man, and stop calling for your

father to help. It's too late for anyone to help."

The wind whipped stinging bits of sand against his legs, and thunder rumbled

in the distance. Casca picked up the spear where it was leaning against a

rock. The wind was becoming fierce, and he had to squint his eyes against the

force of the building storm. Small drops of rain were beginning to touch down,

making puffs of dust jump from the dirt at the foot of the cross. The two

Syrians covered their heads with their cloaks for protection. Casca took his

spear and stood close to the cross.

"It's time to get this over. I'll try to make it as painless as possible."

The Jew clenched his teeth, his lips pale. Casca drew back slightly and with a

smooth thrust ran his spear up against the last rib on the left side, aiming

for the heart. He missed, and withdrew for another lunge.

The skies broke open. Black clouds seemed to suck the very light itself from

the earth. Wind and rain howled around them as if the elements had gone mad.

Fluid and blood poured forth from the wound, and drops of blood splashed

against Casca's right hand.

Jesus opened his eyes and looked on the Roman's face.

Fear ran through the bowels of Casca. He had never seen a face like this. The

intent and tremendous power of the Jew swept over him as though it were a part

of the raging storm.

"Soldier, you are content with what you are. Then that you shall remain until

we meet again. As I go now to my Father, you must one day come to me." The

Jew's voice blasted its way into Casca's mind. The two Syrians did not appear

to hear or see. "Soldier. You are content with what you are. Then that you

shall remain... until we meet again..."

The wind screamed. Casca stood in shock and fear, the Jew's blood on his hand

mingling with the falling drops of rain. Unthinking, Casca wiped his hand

across his mouth, and one drop of blood touched his tongue, and Casca

screamed. He doubled over in cramps. What felt like liquid fire raced through

his veins to his brain, setting his whole being on fire. And still the others

noticed nothing.

Casca fell to the ground and lay there whimpermg while his whole body was

racked with sobs. Slowly the pain ebbed away, leaving him weak and frightened.

What was it the Jew said just before he died?

"Untll we meet again..."

FOUR

The pain slowly flowed from Casca's body, like a great draining off of his

essence. He pulled himself to his knees and looked into the face of the man

Jesus.

"Dead?" he asked. "Are you dead?" Pulling himself erect, his mind not

understanding what had transpired, Casca knew fear, deep fear of the primeval

kind that lives within the man-beast of all human beings, elemental fear.

A woman came to him, her face in shadows, a wisp of brown hair showing as the

storm winds blew her garments about.

"Soldier, may I have my son? Can we take him now?"

As Casca drew himself together the fear slowly faded, flowing out with his

pain. The Jew was dead, and dead men harm no one.

Croaking out the words, Casca told the woman, "He is yours. Take him and be

damned."

The woman looked questioningly into his face, and a subtle change which

frightened Casca came into her voice. "Damned, did you say? You will learn the

meaning of that word a thousand times over, Roman, conqueror of the world. You

will surely learn what it. means to be damned."

Casca turned from her. A cold river of uncertainty raced through his bowels,

leaving him chilled. But he was what he was.

"Take. him, witch, and begone!"

The woman motioned to her friends. Gently they removed the body and the man

they called Jjosephus. began the death wail of the Hebrews.

Casca called to the Syrians to get their things and move out. While they were

doing so, the decurion returned bitching. "What the hell are you up to?" he

asked Casca.

"I had to stay and see this job was done properly

"Properly, my ass. What's to do with crucifying a couple of thieves and a

madman? Is everything all right?"

Seeing the men and women wailing over the body of Jesus, the squad leader took

a close look for himself. Catching Casca's eye as he straightened up, he said,

"Just checking. You got to make sure. You know how sneaky these people are."

Turning to the Syrian legionnaires, he barked, "Are you two still shooting

dice?" Seeing the Jew's coat under the arm of the darkest Syrian, the decurion

took the cloak from the Syrian, grumbling to himself. "If I have to come all

the way back up here, I'm not leaving empty-handed." Ripping the cloak into

quarters, he handed a piece to each of the soldiers, saying: "Here's your

wages for the day. Maybe you can clean some of the crap off your gear with

these. Because there's going to be an inspection tomorrow by the garrison

commander, so let's get the hell out of here. Our job is over."

The wind mounted another blast as they faced down from the north side of the

hill and started back, not making any effort to get in step. Casca turned his

head for one last look. The Jew's followers were cleaning the body.

Cataclysniic bursts of lightning and thunder rolled over the city, shaking the

very ground as though an earthquake had struck. Even the curtains covering the

entrance to the Temple' were ripped by the wind.

With the rain beating at his face, Casca, keeping his own counsel, followed

the others back to the barracks, dripping wet, the taste of fear still coppery

and bitter in his mouth. The night beat at him, seeming to follow him

purposefully through the narrow streets.

Only when he entered the familiar surroundings of his barracks was he aware

that the real night had not come yet; it was what should have been late

afternoon. That was why there had been no smell of cooking food. The storm had

turned day into night. But why? These thoughts are too much for me. I'm only a

simple soldier. . . But why didn't the others see the Jew talking to me, hear

what he said to me? And what did he mean?. . . Too much to think about.

Casca lay on the straw-filled cot, not even taking his wet gear off. And he

slept.

Outside, the stone wall surrounding the Roman encampment presented a bulwark

against the hostile elements of the local population, but there was nothing to

protect Casca's mind from the hostile waves of thought that assaulted him.

Over and over, he saw every moment of the crucifixion. Over and over, he saw

the Jew's face, terrible in its intensity and power. "Until we meet again..."

Over and over, he heard the Jew's words. They etched themselves into his

brain, like acid. "Until we meet again..

The storm passed with the night. Dawn came, cool and clear. A breeze blew in

from the unseen and sceningly very distant ocean, rustling through the fronds

of the date trees outside the barracks. Casca was pulled from his restless

sleep by the curses of the barracks chief waking the men for breakfast. It was

the hour of the dawn, and day was upon them. While the others went for food,

Casca stayed behind and cleaned his gear.

The decurion had said there would be an inspection today; his gear looked like

crap from having slept in it without cleaning it before he went to sleep. He

wiped and oiled his leather chest armor, working the oil in it to keep the

leather supple and easier to wear. The familiar task comforted him. He dropped

into the routine of polish and rub, not thinking, and it was pleasant not to

think. When he had finished his chest coverings, he did his sandals, noticing

with a slight sense of wonder that the sore spot between his toes was gone.

Examining the spot more closely, he saw that already the flesh was completely

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摘要：

"Soldier,youarecontentwithwhatyouare.Thenthatyoushallremainuntilwemeetagain.AsIgonowtomyFather,youmustonedaycometome."Thewindscreamed.Cascastoodinshockandfear,theJew'sbloodonhishandminglingwiththefallingdropsofrain.Unthinking,Cascawipedhishandacrosshismouth,andonedropofbloodtouchedhistongue,andCasca...

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Barry Sadler - Casca 01 - The Eternal Mercenary.pdf

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Barry Sadler - Casca 01 - The Eternal Mercenary

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