by Barry Sadler
Nature picked this particular time to let the mountainous rocky plates beneath the earth shift once more, the shock from below traveling to the surface like a stone in a lake rippling its way out in widening circles, cracking the granite boulders into splinters and changing the course of an underground hot spring; the one that fed the baths of the village of Feng Shang. The vibrating waves of the earthquake cracked further the stone tomb, letting the boiling waters of the hot spring flow into the interior, cooking all the assorted vermin that had chosen to make Casca and his tomb their home. Rats as well as spiders, died in a steam that would have driven Casca mad with pain had he been able to feel the heat. The waves of the earthquake reached the surface, the ground swaying as if at sea.
Peter, totally involved with orations, feeling filled with the power of the Spirit of the Lord, took the earthquake to be a manifestation of the Lord's power. He filled his lungs and bellowed even louder, while the peasants, terrified, scurried for higher ground, leaving the madman to his magic. Peter cried out in fanatic fervor: "And the earth shall give up her dead!"
At that moment, Casca's tomb opened. The huge covering stone split down the center, the sides buckled into dusty fragments as clouds of steam poured forth, the earth roared and stones shrieked as they were torn apart-the steam, shocks and air let into the tomb bringing Casca back to awareness.
Peter was really getting off on his sermon when in the center of the steam cloud issuing from the ruptured tomb, a figure stepped out.
Casca, back from the dead and mad as hell, came out of the steam and dust from his wrecked sarcophagus, hair past his shoulders and an even rattier beard reaching to his chest, dead insects in matted knots from his face and hair. The silken robes long since had turned into rotting fragments of their former glory and hung in web-matted shreds. A dead rat dropped from one of the sleeve folds. It had been parboiled and so was Casca, his skin a bright cherry red with pale blisters the size of wine cups standing out. His sword in his hand, Casca was ready to kick ass and take names. The steam and the air, along with the vibrations of the earthquake had restored him and with awakening came instant remembrance. Casca was pissed. The earth gave one more spasmodic surge, heaving several trees up by the roots and then was still.
Peter froze, his mouth hanging open at the apparitions that had come fortH at his words And the earth shall give up her dead.
"A. miracle," he cried, his eyes filling with tears that he should be blessed with power from the Lord Jesus Christ to restore the dead to life. He always knew that he would be rewarded for his piety, but this was more than he had ever dreamed of.
Holding his crucifix high above him, he rang the bell at Casca as he approached crying: "Blessed be the name of the Lord. On your knees and pray."
Casca ignored him.
"On your knees heathen," he repeated, "It isn't every day you're brought back from the valley of the dead."
Casca strode on, bits of cloth dropping from him leaving a trail of silk and bugs behind, and faced the mad preacher. Peter shook his cross in Casca's face and rang his bell even harder. Reaching over, Casca took the bell from Peter's hand and whacked him across the head with it, laying Peter out cold. The preacher lay spread out on the ground, his cross in the dust. Casca gave both a look of distaste and grumbled through cracked lips, "That damned bell was giving me a headache."
Ignoring the prone body of Peter, Casca moved off still grumbling to himself, and peeling strips of burned skin from his face and arms, stripping off his rags as he walked until finally he was naked, carrying only his sword… the sword that Lady Li Tsao had been gracious enough to place in the tomb with him. Spying the fields, Casca made for them and the village beyond.
"Food," he thought, "I need something to eat, anything." His scarred hide had turned almost fish-white during the years of his confinement; only the multitude of scars were lighter in color.
Walking through the deserted streets, there were some signs of minor damage from the quake, but nothing of any import. Wing Sung and the others had taken to their homes when they saw him approach. Whoever the preaching madman was, he certainly had some strange powers.
Smelling cooking rice, Casca entered the third house on the dirt street and walked in, scaring the crap out of the family living there. The mother hid her three children behind her while the father screwed up enough courage to face the pale, parboiled, bug-infested intruder. Performing Kowtow, he bowed low almost bent double in front of Casca and said quivering, "Please lord, we are poor people here and have nothing but the rags we wear and a few grains of rice to eat." Noticing Casca eyeing the cookpot where their dinner was simmering over a charcoal brazier, he hastily scooped out a large bowl and proffered it to the walking deadman.
Casca grunted his thanks between mouthfuls, choking the food down as fast as he could and swallowing water from a handy pitcher. The rice set like cement in his gut, but it was there and soon he began to feel more human. He smiled at the frightened family and spoke for the first time now that his throat was lubricated.
"Thanks and don't be frightened of me," he said in Chinese, "I am no devil or deadman come to life." Knowing the superstitions of the people, he thought it better to feed them a fairy tale.
"I was not dead when I was buried. No. A spell was put on me by a witch and I have slept until the earth set me free." Twisting the silver ring from his finger, he gave it to his host, "Here, this is for your food. Would you also find some clothes large enough to fit me?"
The excited peasant scurried away to do as he was asked, going immediately to the house of Wing Sung where he told him what had transpired. The only omission was the gift of the silver ring, now hidden in his waistband: That one piece of silver was enough to buy a young cow and make him a man of means.
Wing Sung quickly found a robe for the stranger. He wanted no part of him. He ordered the peasant to take the robe and go, saying when such strange things happened, this usually meant no good for the common people.
Casca's reluctant host brought him the robe which was a little snug around the shoulders and arms but would serve. Casca put a pack of food under his arm, thanked his host and left. The day was still young enough for him to get some miles down and besides… he had a score to settle.
The preacher, on regaining consciousness, nursed his aching head and wondered why, when he was given the power to raise the dead, the first person raised had to be crazy. Coming to a rapid decision, he decided to leave this land and head back to the civilized lands of Rome and the Empire where a saint would be properly appreciated. He couldn't wait to show his new power to some of those stuffy smart-ass hermits who felt so smug in their lousy holes and caves meditating and praying.
"By God, they would sit up and take notice now."
Picking up his bell, he rang it a few times tentatively and then stopped putting it in his belt. Maybe the resurrected one wasn't so crazy after all… that damned bell could give a person a headache.
Twenty-Two
PUNISHMENT
Casca stood before the king dressed in the robes of the Imperial Guard which he had worn for so many years-black and gold silk, a red sash around his waist-his sword hung from a halberd resting on his left side. Tzin, Emperor of the West Kingdoms, shook his head in amazement at the tale Casca related. Casca did not tell him all the details, only that the Lady Li Tsao sitting by his Imperial Majesty's side had given him a potion which feigned death and he had laid in his coffin for almost eight years.
Tzin shook his head sadly from side to side and looked at his still beautiful Li Tsao, her face like aged porcelain, almost golden with only a few lines to tell of the years. She alone knew the effort it took to keep her appearance youthful. Her body was still as firm as that of a young maid. Looking back, Tzin saw Casca standing in the uniform in which they had fought together, side by side against the Huns and other barbarian tribes beyond the wall. He remembered the times this blue-eyed stranger had saved his life and his kingdom. He straightened his back, ange
r beginning to rise, some of the old elan returned, for he had been a warrior and man of honor. Hissing between his teeth, he faced Li Tsao pointing a jewel-encrusted finger at her.
"Witch", his eyes narrowed to small slits of rage, "you dare to cast your spells on one of my men… one who has served me well." He stood holding his scepter in his left hand. Li Tsao cringed, never had he spoken to her in anger. She had always been able to control him with her body and her mind. "Witch, you shall pay," he turned to the audience in attendance, raising his scepter, "Li Tsao is no more. She is as one dead in dishonor. Let none speak her name henceforth on pain of death." Motioning to his guards, he ordered her confined to her rooms until he decided her punishment.
Li Tsao started to speak but was interrupted by a curt imperial, "Silence. Speak not, or I shall have your tongue torn out by the roots before you leave this room. You are dead to all here and the dead do not speak."
Li Tsao straightened, her head erect she shook off the hand of the house guard and walked alone ahead of him. She was still a woman of consequence and pride and would let none here say they saw her weaken. That was one satisfaction she would not give those who gloated over her tragedy. There was still a good chance she could bring the Emperor around if she could just have a moment alone with him. She knew the weakness he had for her body and used the arts of love to such great effectiveness that he only took a concubine as a replacement when she was in her moon.
Descending from his Peacock Throne, the Emperor of the West Kingdoms, conqueror of the Huns and Son of Heaven, put his arms around Casca and embraced him. The audience bowed to their faces; never had they seen such an honor given. It was unheard of, undreamed of.
"Hear me. This man is a friend and ally. All shall honor him as they would me. He is elevated to Keeper of the Throne, right hand to myself, the Son of Heaven and your master. Let all pay homage to the Baron of Khitai."
Kowtow was performed as all prostrated themselves again and again, hissing between their teeth at the honor being shown the foreigner. The Emperor continued, "I have been blinded by the witch myself and know of the evil she has done, but in my passion I paid no heed and that is my sin. Now old friend, what will you have as compensation? Name it. Anything that is in this land is yours and if it be your wish, I will adopt you and you shall succeed me on the Throne of Heaven, even before the seed of my loins, should I have a son. I am sure that the reason I have no son now is the work of the witch. Tell me, is it your wish to be King when I go to join my ancestors?"
Glancing around the room, Casca caught varying looks from the faces of the nobles present, ranging from pleasure to jealous hatred. Casca looked his friend in the eye: "No lord, I wish nothing other than a good horse and if you see fit, my back pay. I believe it is time for me to go on. To try to rule in your stead would be a mistake for I have not your ability to rule a great empire. I am no more than what I was when first we met. So, with your permission, I have a desire to see my homeland again. But what of Li Tsao? Even though she is evil, I wouldn't want to think of her dying under the executioner's blade."
Tzin smiled enigmatically, "Have no fear on that part my friend. She will not go under the axe; indeed, no hand will touch her in violence. She will be punished, but the punishment will come from herself and her own mind. Now, if you would leave us, the road is open and while you travel in my lands, all must give you every assistance that you desire. You are a Baron of Khitai and shall so remain so long as you choose to remain in our lands."
Summoning the palace steward, a wizened elder known for his niggardliness with the royal purse strings, the Emperor commanded, "Wu Chingwah, give the Lord Casca all that he desires and do not stint. Let him have the pick of an animal from our stables and see that papers are prepared to give him royal messenger status so that he may have fresh mounts from our stables anywhere in the Empire."
Wu Chingwah bowed his obedience and beckoned Casca to follow him. As they left, Emperor Tzin gave his old comrade one long look, "Live long and well, Lord Casca… live long.
The Roman bowed low and left the presence of the Son of Heaven. "Longer than you think old friend, much longer."
Li Tsao screamed repeatedly, covering her eyes. Kneeling on the carpeted floor, she screamed once more in terror… the terror of her own mind.
The Emperor's word was law and as he commanded, so it was done.
She screamed again, her sobbing racked with agony, remembering the Emperor's words: "No hand shall touch her. Her punishment shall be of her own making. Her beauty is the thing she values most and for this has tried to fight time and remain forever young. Long were the hours she spent in front of her mirrors, pleased with what she saw. Therefore, to her heart's contentment, she shall see herself.
Li Tsao struggled to her knees. Naked, her face streaked with tears, she saw herself endlessly, repeated a thousand times. Her image looked back at her from the innumerable mirrors surrounding her. Nowhere could she escape her reflection. The room was to be lit constantly; never in darkness. very waking moment she must look at herself without clothes and make-up, or dyes to keep the grey from her hair and every day she would see each tiny line and wrinkle grow longer and deeper with the passage of time. Unable to escape, Li Tsao screamed a cry that settled into an animal-like whimper and her reflections in their thousands cried also, an endless progression of images, forever.
The long ride from the heartland of the Empire of Tzin to the Great Wall was, even with the best of mounts the empire could offer, tedious. Everywhere the seal of the king was obeyed without question. Before the seal governors of provinces would bow low and perform obeisance, hissing between their teeth. As the Son of Heaven commanded, so it would be done. Casca was given the best of all the land had to offer. Sewn into the linings of his robes were two bags; one of gold, the other of jewels, the Emperor's parting gift to his loyal friend. In those small bags was enough wealth to last an ordinary man a lifetime. Feeling the bag of gems bounce against his leg he wondered, "A normal man a lifetime, but for me how long?"
Villages and cities became fewer as he neared the frontier until only the armed garrison outposts of the empire were to be found. The Wall stretching out as far as the eye could see and beyond, past the horizon, over mountains and-through valleys. In comparison, Hadrian's Great Wall in Britannia was the effort of a child. Winding his way through the rocky passes and gorges between twisted pines and brush, he came to what the people of Khitai believed to be the end of the civilized world. Beyond the wall was only terror and man-beasts who preyed on their own, brutes less than human.
Casca approached the garrison where there were two thousand men whose job it was to watch the wall and patrol its length until they joined the next garrison to the east of them and the west. They would stay on the wall two years and then be replaced by others. The wall, like many of the minds of Khitai, seemed to be the barrier between good and evil, culture and barbarism.
Sung Mi Hsiung, Commander of the Garrison of The Jade Gate welcomed his guest, anxious to serve and honor the friend of the Son of Heaven, but Casca was driven by an inexplicable urgency. With a fresh mount-Hsiung's own horse-the gate was unbarred and he stepped forth. The great plains were empty. For a thousand and more leagues there were no men. The eastern Huns had been destroyed in their last great battle with Casca and the Emperor. The remnants of the tribes were only a few sad nomadic villages that tried to keep as much distance between the Land of the Han and themselves as was possible; some had gone so far as the Land of Eternal Ice.
Kicking his steed in the flanks, Casca rode first at a trot, then a gallop and at last a run, spurring the bay gelding on, racing onto the plains until only common sense made him stop, else the animal's heart would surely burst from the strain.
The sun was beginning its period when the golden chariot would be given rest and Apollo would sleep until the dawn. The West. Where were the rest of the Huns? For many years there had been a trickle of them to the edges of the empire. Some were hired as mercena
ries by the Emperor of Rome, but where were the rest of the hoards?
The sun set red and huge, laying a rose-colored glow over the land bathing the endless prairies stretched before him. Somewhere out there… they are out there and have only one way to go. What was the saying, 'all roads lead to Rome." They will come one day-the Huns will come by the thousands and the tens of thousands-they will come and Rome will cry.
The last red glow of the sun slid off the plumed and lacquered helmet of the Baron of Khitai, conqueror of the Eastern Huns, defender of the Peacock Throne. The blackness set in as the last rays faded on the man riding west.
Darkness covered the scar-faced, blue-eyed Roman… CASCA, THE WAR LORD.
Goldman snapped out of it. Once more he had that feeling of being drained. Without looking, he knew that Casca had gone.
"God dammit, won't that bastard ever hang around long enough to answer a few questions?"
With a trembling hand, he poured himself a large shot of Jack Daniels Sour Mash Bourbon and swallowed the hot sweet whiskey, letting it settle into his stomach. The book of Machiavelli lay open on the table. Picking it up, he put it back into its place, on the shelf. Pouring another drink, he sat in the overstuffed leather chair and raised the glass in a toast.
"Here's to you, you miserable bastard… wherever you are."
He walked with the tread of a man infinitely weary… a taxi came by from dropping off a couple of late night party-goers and stopped for the man on the street-might as well get one last fare before heading to the barn.
Casca settled himself into the seat, huddled in his rain coat.
"Where to buddy?" The hack pushed down the meters.
"The waterfront, Pier Eleven. A ship called the Hiroshi Maru sails in an hour. Can you make it?"
"No sweat. We still got an hour before the morning rush starts."
The taxi splashed through a puddle of rain as it turned the corner.
