Sword of the Brotherhood

by Tony Roberts

  The men crowded eagerly together at the boundary of the skamma, keen to see a good contest between two obviously tough men.

  Pallos stepped back and clapped his hands together. “Start!”

  Casca stepped forward, hands splayed. He’d never done this before, but he’d seen it from time to time as an alternative to gladiatorial games or chariot racing. He’d done both of those in his time, but never Pale. Mathu turned with him, his eyes fixed on Casca’s.

  Suddenly the Nubian moved, grasping for Casca’s shoulder. Casca deflected the grab upwards but Mathu’s other hand sneaked in and seized him by the throat. Casca grabbed the Nubian’s wrist and started to pull it away from his throat. Mathu had stepped up close and was using his upper body to try to turn Casca so that he was off balance and would then be easier to throw onto his back.

  Screw this Casca thought and turned with him, rotating his body to the left. Suddenly Mathu turned, released his lock and grabbed Casca’s right arm, backing into the surprised Eternal Mercenary, pulling him up and over his arched back and Casca went flying to land heavily on his back. Before he could regain his breath Mathu had landed on him, sending any remaining air out of his lungs.

  “First point to Mathu!” Pallos announced delightedly.

  Amidst the scattered cheers from some of the onlookers, Casca felt Mathu get off him and he rolled painfully onto all fours. Cursing, he staggered to his feet, drawing in great lungfuls of air. He glared at Pallos who was looking like a cat that had just had a saucer of milk.

  How can I use Shiu’s old tricks if I’m not allowed to use my feet? Casca thought in desperation. Mathu was brushing dirt and dust from him and calmly awaiting the restart. Casca shook his head and waited for the signal to resume. It came quickly and he dashed in hard, head down. Mathu wasn’t expecting such a move that fast and took Casca’s head in the center of his chest. The force of the muscled man hitting him took him off his feet and Casca slammed the black man down hard, landing right on top of him.

  “Second point to Casca,” Pallos said with a groan. More cheers accompanied his words. Casca smiled at Mathu’s surprised and winded face before getting back up. He’d been lucky; the Nubian had been over confident. He wouldn’t be able to do that again.

  The deciding point took some time to resolve. Both were now wary and respectful of one another. They stood with legs splayed wide, locked in a tight embrace, arms seeking a purchase for some minutes. Grunting and slaps of hands on flesh were all that could be heard.

  Casca’d had enough of inhaling Mathu’s sweaty armpits. He sucked in breath deeply and began pushing against Mathu. He felt the Nubian tense and resist his force. Casca smiled inside. Shiu would approve of his plan. The Way of the Open Hand used an opponent’s force against him. Hissing through his teeth Casca strained hard to push Mathu back. He felt a slight movement of the Nubian’s leg against the ground to give himself extra strength, and Casca suddenly pulled, transferring his weight to his front leg which he’s planted alongside Mathu’s left side. Swinging his opponent over his hip, Casca pulled hard and Mathu came forward, unable to regain his balance.

  But he was fast. Even as he went tumbling he twisted, one leg turning in mid-air, bringing his hips round. Instead on landing over on his back he went onto his side, sending up puffs of dust. His legs splayed out wide, and Casca caught sight of a mark on the inside of one of his thighs. It was hard to make out because of the darkness of his skin but it looked like a tattoo.

  He turned and sprang at Mathu who was scrabbling onto his front, and Casca grabbed his head and locked his legs round his hips, pinning him hard. “Now you Nubian bastard,” Casca breathed into his ear, “time for you to lose.”

  Mathu grunted in effort, trying to break loose from the hold, but Casca had been shaped by his time in the Copper mines of Achaea, the arenas of the Romans and the slave galleys of the Empire. It had given him a grip that was second to none. Slowly, surely, Casca was turning Mathu’s head. The Nubian gritted his teeth, flared his nostrils and strained against the force Casca was exerting, all to no avail. Mathu tried to grab hold of Casca but the ex-Legionary was clamped to him like a limpet, slowly turning his head. Another few inches and it would break his neck.

  The Nubian raised one hand, paused, then slapped it hard onto the ground in submission.

  “Casca wins the third and final point,” Pallos said, disbelief in his voice. The onlookers cheered and clapped, and money and barter objects exchanged hands.

  Casca sprang back away from Mathu and looked down at him, his eyes straying to his legs. The tattoo was out of sight but he had seen enough the first time round to be reasonably certain of what he’d seen. A tattoo of a fish.

  Mathu was a member of the Brotherhood.

  “Right you cocky bastard,” Casca breathed hard, facing Pallos, “that prize if you please.”

  Pallos pulled a face, but as Casca held out his hand, flexing his fingers to encourage him, he reluctantly produced the arm guard and handed it over. Casca examined it, smiled and slid it up his own arm. “Mmmm, fits nicely thanks,” he said, slapped Pallos in a comradely way on the side of his face and made his way over to Demetros. “The necklace please,” he said.

  Demetros wordlessly passed it to him.

  Casca smiled once at him, then looked back at Mathu. The black was scowling at him. Casca smiled again. He was doubly pleased. Not only had he spat in the face of the cocky Pallos, he’d defeated one of the Brotherhood. One in the eye for them!

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The chanting of voices grew louder as Ayesha was dragged along the dark corridor towards the flickering light spilling out from the half open door at the far end. She was very weak and faint. Food had been denied her for nearly a week and although water had been given to her the lack of food was telling.

  The chamber that held the chanting group was quite large, and bare of any furnishings except for a lone stand upon which rested a solitary but large tome. Torches hung from wall brackets, illuminating the surreal scene of rows of figures dressed in brown homespun woolen robes. All were knelt, cowled heads bowed, facing the stand. They were chanting in a low, monosyllabic manner as one. Ayesha thought it was very eerie.

  The Elder was the only one standing and he turned as Ayesha was placed on her knees on the end of one of the rows. Her two escorts stood next to her, making sure she didn’t try to run. Not that she could; she was almost too weak to stand.

  The Elder came over and knelt next to her, his hood resting flat against his back so that he was bare headed. “This is our service. We raise our voices to the praise of Jesus. You will see that we are committed Christians wishing to serve Jesus and spread His glory to all on earth. You will hear our words and soon be able to repeat them. If you do, then you may share in our meal afterwards. Like all devout believers, we have fasted before attending this service.”

  “But not for…. a week,” Ayesha said with some effort. It was difficult to concentrate on anything, such was her weakness.

  “We pray every day, and fast until evening every day. This is our way. Now listen!”

  Ayesha was too immersed in her own misery to really take in much of the chanting but it was repetitive and it seemed there were but few words spoken, time and time again. The chanting began to increase in volume and pitch and some of the hooded figures began to sway as they chanted, becoming caught up in the words.

  “Jesus, Lamb of God, give us strength to pass on your servant Izram’s work so that we can pave the way for your return.”

  She thought it odd that they would pray for a name she had never heard of before. The language was Coptic, something she was used to, but surprised at. Mostly the services were held in Latin these days, or Greek. She shook her head and remained silent, head bowed. Then the words changed and her ears pricked up in surprise. “We work ceaselessly to obey the word of your servant Izram and bring pain and suffering to your killer Longinus.”

  The Elder nodded to her as she looked at him, her eyes
wide. “Indeed. Longinus. The man you know as Casca. The Killer of God.”

  “You’re mad,” she said.

  “We’ll see,” the Elder smiled. “Time for me to read to the brethren.”

  Ayesha watched as the Elder got up and walked stiffly over to the stand, opened the tome and began reading, in a tongue she did not understand. She frowned. Why speak in a tongue she did not understand?

  When the service had finished she was picked up roughly and taken to a hall where a long table and benches stood, and upon these were plates and piled on platters of wood in the center were bread, cheeses, olives and fruit. She groaned and eyed them longingly. The brethren seated themselves and waited patiently until the Elder took up his position at the head of the table. Everyone then stood, even Ayesha who was hauled up by her guards, and the Elder said grace.

  Then they all sat. Ayesha almost wept in frustration as all began eating and she was prevented from joining in. The Elder watched her, then signaled to the guards. Ayesha was picked up and dragged back to the chapel and set on her knees directly in front of the book stand. The Elder came in and stood before her. “If you wish to eat, you must repeat the words you heard here earlier.”

  She sobbed. Hunger tore at her being. Haltingly and slowly she began to speak. “Jesus, Lamb of God…..”

  “Give us strength,” the Elder prompted her.

  “G-Give us s-strength to p-pass on your servant…..”

  “Izram,” the Elder almost purred the word.

  So she repeated the lines. When she got to the name Longinus she stopped. She just couldn’t bring herself to say it. The Elder shook his head sadly. “Return her to her cell,” he said.

  “No!” Ayesha cried. She then completed the line, closing her eyes in shame. When she opened them again she saw the Elder smiling at her. It disturbed her the way he smiled. It was almost….sexual in nature. Her guards pulled her up and she was taken back to the hall where a plate of food was put in front of her.

  “You see it is nothing to gain our approval,” the Elder said from the head of the table. “Eat. Then you may sleep. Tomorrow I shall tell you of the tale of Longinus and Jesus.”

  Ayesha looked up at him, then returned her attention to her food.

  The Elder smiled again. Such a malleable child, he thought.

  * * *

  The army marched north. Having destroyed the only Persian army that had been in the heartland of the Empire, the Emperor felt safe to winter close to Armenia. Casca agreed with the tactical decision. Armenia had always been the subject of a tug of war between Persia and Rome, and Byzantium had inherited this dispute from the Caesars. Indeed, the Greeks still called themselves Romanoi and believed they were still the Romans. Casca guessed that was why he felt comfortable fighting for the Empire. It was the last link to his past.

  The days turned colder and the land began to rise. They marched along deep river valleys and the supply train had a difficult time keeping up with them. More guards were posted at night and along the route of march by day. Persians weren’t the only enemy here; bandits and brigands from the mountains preyed on the weak and vulnerable.

  As winter came they camped close to the border. A large wide valley provided shelter from the worst of the winds that swept across from the steppes and Asia, and the animals that came with the supply train could graze in peace. Casca did his share of guard duty, and shortly after they had arrived was patrolling his part of the perimeter, staring out into the dark, listening for any noise, when he caught sight of Pallos, also on duty, staring hard out into the night, spear leveled.

  “Did you hear it?” Pallos whispered, not looking at Casca.

  “Hear what?” Casca kept his voice low.

  “Someone is out there, I’m sure of it,” Pallos stepped up to the ditch and scanned left and right, trying to use his peripheral vision.

  Casca hadn’t heard anything but he strained to hear anyway. Nothing, except the sighing of the wind passing through the valley. What noise he could hear came from behind; snoring, fires crackling, low murmurs of men talking.

  Pallos stopped, lifted his head then turned to face Casca. “There! I did hear it again! Over there.” He pointed with his spear, out into the blackness of the Armenian night. He stepped up to Casca and threw out a hand, finger pointing.

  Casca peered intently but could see nothing. He cocked his head. Pallos looked grimly at the darkness, then slowly unfastened his axe from his belt. He had his spear in his left hand and the axe swinging lazily in his right.

  “What do you need that for?” Casca whispered.

  “This,” Pallos said and swung it hard, the flat of the blade striking Casca on the back of the head. Casca staggered, lights exploding in front of him, and a second blow came almost unnoticed and he plunged into blackness.

  He had no idea how long he was out but the shock of water being thrown over his head – ice cold mountain water at that – brought him round with a rude shock. He groaned, and tried to clutch his head but his hands were tied behind his back. He slowly sat up and opened his eyes.

  Dark figures stood in front of him, most were armed. He saw the leering face of Mathu holding the arm bracelet. “Thank you for returning this to me, Longinus. I shall wear it and remember the pain we inflicted on you.”

  “Piss off you freak,” Casca gasped, trying to ignore the pounding pain in his skull.

  “Such ungrateful behavior,” Pallos’ voice came through to him. “But what else would one expect of the Spawn of Satan? Now listen to me, you piece of evil filth. You’ve become too much of a problem to us. You’re to be locked up in a secure place until we can identify where the Spear is, and then we’ll arrange for your release and you’ll rejoin the army and go directly there. No diversions, no stupid heroics.”

  “Why don’t you drop dead? Pity the Persians didn’t wipe the lot of you out.”

  Pallos stood above him, looking down with an expression that betrayed disgust and hatred. “You think that’s an easy thing to do? You failed a century ago in Constantinople, and we survived. We survived the massacre in Jerusalem, and we continue to grow. You can’t stop us. We’re doing Izram’s work. We must pave the way for Jesus’ return and we can only do that by controlling the earth. All this is but one step towards our goal. One day we will command the entire world and then it will be plunged into such chaos that Armageddon shall come and then He will return.”

  “You’re all sick dogs that need destroying,” Casca snarled.

  “Silence. We’ve arranged for a local tribe here to, ah, look after you.” Pallos smiled. “No funny stuff or they’ll most likely cut bits of you off.”

  Casca looked up at him, gritting his teeth against the pain. “They part of your sick sect? No I bet they aren’t. So how are you going to persuade them?”

  Pallos sneered and fished out the medallion Casca had taken from the Persian camp. “Ironic isn’t it?” Pallos said, “you’re providing the payment to keep you under guard. I like that.” He turned to one of the figures standing behind and placed it in his hand. He switched to Armenian, which Casca understood perfectly. “Here. This man is our property. He is not to be harmed. But you may whip him from time to time if you see fit. My representative will return in the spring to take him from you.”

  “It shall be done,” a gravelly voice replied, and a shaggy haired bearded man stepped forward. “You, up!”

  Casca was grabbed by two men and pulled to his feet. Pallos smiled again. “Enjoy your stay. Mathu and I will return to Alexandria. We are known to you. Next year others will be amongst your unit, unknowns. They will not make themselves known to you until the time is right. Farewell Spawn of Satan.”

  “Rot slowly, you screwer of camels,” Casca replied before being pulled along in the wake of the hillmen. He had a collar of leather around his neck and a rope was attached to it. He was tugged along without ceremony, stumbling in the dark, always upwards. Spear toting guards watched him carefully, all of them dressed in goatskin tunic
s and leggings, most with shaggy hair and beards. Casca knew what they were. Wild hillmen, a tribe that existed in the wilderness, paying fealty to nobody and acknowledging no one as their overlord.

  He fell to his knees, and a shaft of a spear whacked him on the back, the owner cursing him to get up. The rope tugged hard against his throat and he stumbled to his feet. His skin tingled. He’d seen this happen to another, long ago. This is what Jesus suffered on his way to Golgotha, he thought. Could this mean at last I will meet him? It is too much of a coincidence? Can I finally know peace? He’d been disappointed too many times already to really believe it, but it fortified him on that dark, unsure journey up to the camp of the hillmen.

  The cold chilled his bones and he began to lose his footing on patches of ice. The dim light of the torches carried by a couple of the guards showed enough to make him realize they were above the tree line and into the high peaks of the mountains.

  At last they arrived. A rough collection of simple wood and stone huts and caves in a narrow ravine with at least two exits. Fires lit the narrow passage and Casca was dragged to a cave which had a wooden latticed barrier across its mouth with a door of the same type set off to one side. It was swung open, the rope removed from his neck and he was thrown roughly into the cave, the door – a gate really – being closed quickly behind him and the wooden latch slammed shut.

  It was dark in the cave and Casca couldn’t see too far into the interior. He decided to wait till daylight to see what else was there. It smelt of goat and a faint aroma of urine came to him. Obviously it was used regularly. A couple of goatskins lay flat on the floor of the cave and Casca rolled onto one of these. Two guards stood by the barrier, watching him closely. Dragging the other skin over him, Casca lay down and tried to relax. It was hard to do so, but time would give him the chance to turn the tables. His life had taught him that. The hillmen didn’t look all that bright, and maybe he’d be able to work out how to escape from this prison.