Casca 6: The Persian

by Barry Sadler

  Inside the cave, Imhept unwrapped Casca's body carefully. Peeling back the carpet slowly, he tried to hold back the rush of nausea that assailed him as pieces of blackened skin came loose with each touch.

  In the manner of his ancestors, he treated the body for five days. He washed the shriveled thing gently, then bit by bit wrapped the body in long windings of linen soaked with oils and rare herbs. Unlike the usual custom of removing the brain by pulling it through the nostrils with long tweezer like devices and placing it in a special container, in Casca's case he did not eviscerate the body. He was content to just use the wrappings, well soaked with oils, to protect what remained of the Roman.

  He spent the next ten days in prayer, burning incense and carefully watching over the remains in his care. On the morning of the tenth day, he was finally finished with the ceremonial services. He'd done all he could do. He began to pile rocks around the remains. When this was finished he would seal the entrance to the cave to keep out scavengers, both human and animal.

  Imhept tired easily from the effort of moving the heavy stones alone and his burned hands had not yet healed and were giving him some trouble. He sat resting beside the half covered, mummy wrapped corpse, his old body shaking with fatigue. Suddenly a rock moved under his hand. He thought he'd imagined it. Then another moved, and another. He was still trying to figure out if his mind was playing tricks on him when he heard a deep broken sigh from beneath the half-finished tomb. Apprehensive and fearful, he put his ear closer to the stones and listened. The sound came again.

  With trembling fingers, he started to remove the stones from the body beneath them. As the weight of the stones lessened from the chest of the corpse, the sounds of breathing were more pronounced.

  Imhept removed the last of the rubble from around the linen wrapped figure and saw clearly that the dead man was breathing. The bandages he'd placed around the mouth moved ever so slightly as Casca inhaled, then breathed out. Imhept placed his ear close to Casca's mouth and listened. He heard one word being repeated several times. Choking, whispery, and dry, yes but clear and distinct.

  "Hurt ... hurt ... I hurt."

  He moistened the wrappings around the mouth with water from a jug beside him, then removed enough of the cloth covering the mouth to see the cracked, peeling, and charred lips. Gently, he used his fingers to pry the lips open and carefully poured a small measure of water into Casca's mouth. He moved closer to Casca's ear, whispering, "Do not fear, I am with you. I will take care of you. You will live."

  Imhept left the cave an hour later, making his way back to the city, whipping the donkey into its fastest gait. He returned before nightfall, bringing medicines with him. He entered the confines of the cave and heard no sound. For a second he thought he had imagined it all, but then came the same long shallow breathing from the mummy at his feet.

  The exhalation brought with it the same words that had driven Imhept to the city for medicines: "Pain ..."

  He removed a vial from his pack and carefully poured a draught, distilled from the yellow flowers of the highlands, into the seared maw.

  For the next several weeks he stayed in constant attendance of his patient, spooning nearly equal portions of broth and opium down Casca's throat. He cleansed the body as well as he could, finally daring to remove the wrappings. His patient had slowly returned to full consciousness, for a few moments at a time at first, and then increasing in time spans, staying awake for hours at a stretch. Every movement that Casca made was one of agony. Imhept's deft fingers moved the cloth bindings from Casca bit by bit and, at times, pieces of charred flesh came away with the linens, often taking good flesh along with the bad.

  It was three weeks before the last of the bandages could be removed. New pink skin showed fresh and moist where before there had only been seared tissue. Imhept had seen burn victims before but none had ever healed like this man. According to all knowledge, Casca should be irreversibly crippled and scarred, but his skin and damaged flesh was merely sloughing off, the heavy burn scars being replaced by new, pink, babylike skin. He knew he must be witnessing magic. Or perhaps a miracle. Were they not both one and the same?

  Casca was awake during most of the healing process, and fully aware of what was happening to him. He knew that he was still not to be permitted to die. When the smoke at the stake had filled his lungs and he'd plunged into darkness, away from the pain, he'd been thankful in his last conscious thought. He'd believed that finally it was over. The end of his trials and tribulations had arrived and he was going to be permitted to die. He thought he'd finally beaten The Jew and that not even Jesus could put a man back together who had been turned into charred ashes. But now he knew that fate was against him. Imhept had interfered before the burning had been completed.

  He said nothing of this to Imhept. He agreed that his miraculous cure must have come about from the herbs and oils Imhept had used on the wrappings. It was lame reasoning, but Imhept didn't pursue the matter.

  The first thing Casca had inquired of Imhept, when his senses had returned, was what had happened to Anobia? He told the Roman that the girl had gotten safely away and by now had reached her people. Casca was relieved. He didn't want her to be punished on his account. He was content that she probably thought him dead and wished her, and the man who was fortunate enough to claim her in the future, good fortune and good luck.

  For some time, Casca was forced to go naked inside the cave. The touch of anything against his skin was like acid. But the skin began to thicken and soon he was able to even stand the light of the sun for short periods of time.

  During most of this time, Imhept was ever at his side, leaving him only long enough to report to his superior. He made excuses to them for his absence, knowing that they were actually unnecessary. Most of them thought the little Egyptian was strange anyway and didn't really care where the man from the Nile went, or for what length of time, as long as his reports were sent in periodically, satisfying the bureaucratic processes.

  Imhept was finally able to leave Casca alone and return fully to his duties. Still, he remained in the close vicinity of the cave and was able to check on his patient now and then.

  For Imhept, everything was coming to an end at the same time. Soon, his contract with Shapur would expire and it would be time for him to return to where his real work was.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Casca stayed in the dark of the cave by the sea for four months, going out only at night to lie in the healing salt waters. Ever so gradually, the red, wrinkled skin sloughed off, first in flakes and then in strips, leaving new, bare, red tissue exposed. Hair and eyebrows returned to cover the bald patches of his scalp and brow. By the end of the third month, Casca resembled an oversized newborn babe more than he did a grown man.

  Imhept was the only one who came to this desolate region and his visits were few. He came only often enough to bring fresh supplies.

  Casca's strength had returned. He spent the days inside the cave exercising, stretching out the tight skin and twisting the muscles until flexibility and ease of movement returned to them. Often the sores on his hands would break open and bleed from the strain, but Casca knew they would heal fully in time. His wounds always did, the curse of it!

  Imhept was astounded at his patient's recovery, but Casca told him nothing. The less Imhept knew of his capabilities the better. Let everyone find explanations that pleased them. From him, they would get nothing.

  At last, Casca felt ready to go. For the last few weeks he had ventured out into the light of day for increasingly longer periods of time, letting his skin grow dark under the Arabian sun. As far as he could see, his one and only benefit from the burning was the fact that some of his lesser scars had come off with the dead skin, leaving the total carcass slightly less scarred on the whole.

  Imhept agreed that it was time for Casca to strike out on his own. Every day that they spent in the land of the Great King was one of danger. He provided Casca with a sum of money, enough to provide him for
some time to come if he was careful. Imhept had never had much use for money or wealth to any degree. Though he had acquired great amounts of it in his time, he never kept it for himself. He gave it instead to those that hungered, not only for bread but also for his kind of knowledge.

  The last time Casca saw the Egyptian was as his thin frame jogged uncomfortably up and down on the back of the ass he used for transport. The two of them had disappeared from Casca's view and over a hill, heading back to Koramshar. As for Casca, he hitched his pack a bit higher on his shoulder, wincing a little as the straps rubbed his still tender skin, adjusted his sword belt, and struck out, heading west. He had a long way to go. He would again follow the old road along the banks of the Tigris and Euphrates and through what once was known as Babylonia, now known as Asuristan. He would follow the Euphrates past Firus Shapur until reaching the borders of Syria; then on to Calinicium, the first Roman city of any size, and from thence to Barbalissus. At that place, he would leave the river and strike out straight across the hundred odd miles to Antioch.

  He wrapped his robes around him and adjusted the turban. Wearing this clothing and carrying his sword and spear, he looked to be no more than a lone wandering nomad, which was his actual intent.

  But he still had over a hundred miles to go before he came to the twin rivers and could leave the nearest city to this place behind. He had no desire to enter the confines of Bisshapur. Casca wondered if the King himself knew exactly how many cities had been named after him.

  He walked the first fifty miles, then decided to part with a portion of his hoard and purchased a spavined mare at a village near Biramkubad. It was true that the beast had not the strength nor grace nor the attractive appearance of the mounts of the Imperial stables, but it sure beat the hell out of walking every step over heated rocks and sand. As long as he didn't push the animal too hard, it would surely take him at least as far as the rivers, where he could perhaps arrange passage on a ship heading up river.

  At Ahvaz he sold the horse and managed to book passage on a trader headed in his desired direction.

  The boat was a shallow draft affair built of reeds, and had a single sail. Its only advantage was that it was light enough to use the favorable winds and sail upstream against the river.

  Casca stayed to himself, avoiding any contact with the three crewmen other than to take his share of their meager meals of fish and millet. They, for their part, were content to leave their taciturn guest alone. If the fellow chose not to converse with them, then that was well enough. He had paid for that privilege, and he just might be one of the King's inspectors, out doing surveys on the rates charged for passenger services by the independent boatmen.

  He stayed with the small craft until they'd bypassed the fabled city of Babylon, now no more than a deserted series of mounds and decaying ruins, showing little of her former glory.

  Other eyes watched Casca's small craft as it sailed past the city. They were eyes that were hidden under a dark robe of homespun wool.

  The Brotherhood was having a special meeting this night. A serious mistake had been barely prevented.

  It must not have a chance to happen again.

  Rasheed, head bowed, stood before the Elder of the Brotherhood of The Lamb. The rest of the Brethren, gathered here for this occasion, stood in two silent rows along the walls of the cavern, their faces hidden in the shadows of their hoods. They all wore the same rough homespun robes of brown wool, tied about the waist with a cord, from which suspended the sign of the fish.

  Rasheed waited for the Elder's words. He was certain he would be promoted to the inner circle of the Brotherhood, for his accomplishments were great. Then there was the manner in which he'd had the bestial killer of the beloved Jesus punished for his sins.

  The Elder sat upon a plain wooden chair. Behind him, hanging from leather straps, was the Holy of Holies, the Spear of Longinus, the instrument that had plunged unmercifully into the side of the living God, and had taken Him from this world before His work had been completed. The Elder himself was not pleased with the efforts of Rasheed and could show no emotion for the fool's error. If Casca had died, then the trail to Jesus could be lost forever. For had not Jesus said to the Roman, "As you are, so you shall remain until we meet again?" Surely this meant that one day the Roman would come face to face with the Messiah once more. He was the road. To punish the beast, as the Elder Dacort had done years before by cutting off his hand, that was one thing, but to turn the Roman into dust that could not move was plain stupid. They, the followers of the thirteenth disciple, Izram, must know patience and good judgment. Rasheed had exceeded his authority.

  The Elder spoke softly, nearly whispering. "Brother Rasheed, I have decided how to honor you for your service. On the next holy day you shall be the one blessed, the one permitted to feel the pain and suffering of our Lord, Jesus Christ. As He did, you shall carry the cross and be placed upon it. Then, when the time is right, you shall experience the blessed agony of the Christ, and the Spear of Longinus will send you to join the others who have gone before you. You, as they, will sit at the foot of our Master."

  Rasheed was ecstatic. This was a greater honor than being admitted to the Inner Circle. He was to be one with Jesus. He wept tears of joy at this honor that was being bestowed upon him.

  The Elder merely looked upon him as a fool, but this was the easiest way out of his quandary. Let the fool die.

  Rasheed was taken from the chamber, escorted by two acolytes. At his signal, the rest of the Brotherhood filed out of the chamber, leaving the Elder alone.

  His face still hidden by the folds of his hood, he sighed deeply. He was tired and old, and soon it would be time for another to take his place and continue his work.

  He'd been frightened when he'd heard of Rasheed's actions, and for a time had thought they'd lost Casca. It had been the worst moment of his life. But now, all was well. The spawn of Satan was still alive. He was not lost to the Brotherhood.

  The Elder wearily raised his aged body from his chair and pulled back the hood of his robe. His hands were delicate and finely shaped; the hands of an artist.

  With the hood removed, the glow of the torches accented the weariness in his face. A young acolyte came to him; it was time for prayer.

  Elder Imhept went to his knees on the stone floor and prayed before the altar of The Spear of Longinus.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  He left the boat shortly after passing Babylon and made his way further upriver. From this point on he avoided the company of others. He'd walked the last two hundred miles, his sandals kicking up puffs of dust to keep him company. At night, he would seek shelter wherever he could curl up out of sight and where he could protect his body from the elements. His face and body were ever hidden beneath his burnoose; there was always the chance that he might meet one who knew him on sight.

  Each step took him closer to the boundaries of the Roman Empire and away from that of the Persians. Most of the distance yet to be crossed was arid and parched. It consisted of dry marsh beds where the mud caked and dried under the heat, cracking into a maze of interlocking clay fragments. God, how he hated the desert. It would be a long time before he ever set foot in dry lands again.

  He saw the last Persian outpost and avoided it, taking a circuitous route around the town. He'd had enough of the Persians. What was it that the old merchant Samuel had said to him when he'd first set foot inside the walls of Nev Shapur? "Persia was not for the likes of him." He laughed bitterly. Then where in the hell was there a place for him? Never had he found anyplace that he could call home, at least for any length of time. Always, it seemed, time and circumstances drove him on endlessly to someplace else where he knew he didn't really belong.

  It had been thirty three days from the time he left the shelter of the cave near Koramshar until he laid eyes on the first Roman city, lying below him now in a gentle valley. It was, he knew, Calinicium.

  Before starting down, he stopped and looked back toward the directi
on from which he had come. His eyes reached far behind him, back over the lands of the Sassanid kings, Persia...

  From beneath the shelter of his hood, his remembering eyes visualized the faces of those he'd left behind. He saw the faces of friends and enemies alike. He was weary with the miles and years of his existence and wondered what would have happened if the Egyptian, Imhept, had not saved him from being completely consumed by the flames at the stake. If there had been nothing left of him but ashes and pieces of charred bone to be scattered over the earth, would he then have found peace? If so, then the pain of his burning would have been worth it all. But he hadn't burned and the Egyptian had saved him. Therefore, his way was open again, open to whatever the forces or gods of creation held in store for him.

  One thing he knew even with the prospect of true death, he would never allow himself to be burned again. It was too great a pain to bear.

  He turned his face from the past and from Persia. In the valley below was his future. He heaved his pack straps up a little higher and started down the gentle slope to the first of the Roman cities on the Persian borders.

  Involuntarily, his back straightened up, his stride lengthening into the mile eating tread of the professional soldier.

  It was late the next evening when a knock on his door brought Goldman up from where he'd been lying on his bed, his jacket off, reading. He was still tired from convention activities but had been unable to sleep since. Grunting with the effort, he rose to answer the repeated knocking.

  "Just a minute, I'm coming."

  He opened the door to find Landries standing in the hall, the manuscript in his hands. Without waiting to be invited inside, he entered and laid the story on the small round table in the corner of Goldman's suite. He helped himself to a glass of Goldman's Scotch and drank it down neat, making a slight face.