Casca 35: Sword of the Brotherhood

by Tony Roberts

  “No way, Bakhtiar. You think I’m that simple? I’m keeping that info to myself until I retrieve it personally. You probably planned to leave me here while you reported back to your Elder the location of the Spear and went and got it yourselves. Well tough. You’re dying. I’ll work out how to get out of here after I get what I want out of that general, then it’s up to your unlovely comrades to come to some agreement with me. You’ve never been interested in keeping up your side of the bargain. My only chance is to stop your lot from getting to the Spear first.”

  Bakhtiar laughed, blood dribbling out of his mouth. “You’re not as stupid as I was told. Still, getting out of here with a room full of corpses is going to be hard to explain.”

  Casca sneered at the man. “Leave that to me, Brotherhood slave. Don’t take this personally, but this is long overdue.” Casca slid his sword into the heart of Bakhtiar. He retrieved the keys from the jailer and then dragged the half conscious Murtzak over to the bench he’d recently been pinned to and locked him in.

  The other problem was the translator. The grey-haired man pleaded for his life, on his knees, and Casca slapped the sword he had against his thigh, deep in thought. “You will see something that you will never repeat to anyone.” He drew the blade across his arm, causing his blood to flow down to his hand. “Look.”

  The translator stared in horror as the wound closed in front of his eyes. His lips trembled in terror and he clasped his hands together in entreaty. “Please! Please spare my life!”

  “Then listen to me, servant of Zoroaster and Ahura-Mazda. Your god cannot save you – he could not save these people from me. I am the dread everyone fears. I am Ahriman himself.” He loomed over the terror stricken man. “You will have seen nothing nor heard anything. When you are able, you will flee this city and never return.”

  The man nodded eagerly, then Casca bashed him around the head with his sword and left him lying in a heap, out cold. He found a bucket against one pillar and filled it with the water from the pool, then threw it over the general. Murtzak spluttered and shook his head and looked up at Casca fearfully. “What do you want with me?”

  “I’m told, General, that you were part of the force that took the Christian relics from Jerusalem and brought them to Persia. I’m particularly interested in the Spear. Like to tell me where it was put?”

  “I can’t,” Murtzak shook his head, “I was charged by my Shah never to reveal its location to anyone!”

  “Oh, General, I’m not just anyone. You can tell me. And just to help you, I’ll inflict on you what was recently done to me.” He donned the gauntlets from the corpse of the torturer and placed the branding iron in the brazier once more, smiling at the wild-eyed Persian. “You will tell me. I promise. Shall we try again?”

  The screams rang out in the chamber, but nobody came to investigate, for such sounds had echoed up to the top of the stairs on many previous occasions, and nobody thought that anything was amiss.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  For Casca the next few months were tedious. There had been some excitement initially when the Persians finally thought something was amiss when nobody came up from the dungeon, and the guards came down to investigate. What they found shocked them to the core. The guards, jailer, interrogator and the general and his aide dead in the torture chamber and the five prisoners still locked in their cells. Oddly, so was the translator.

  The keys were lying close to the door of one of the cells and the Persians opened all of them to check the occupants were still there. Casca had been lying on his bed when the door had opened and two very angry men had burst in, demanding to know if Casca had seen or heard anything. Casca had shrugged and said there had been some screaming and shouting and noises of banging and so on, but he’d assumed it was a very robust bout of interrogation going on. The translator couldn’t say anything; he was gibbering in fear and he was taken away for further examination by the priests of the temple. Perhaps he had been inhabited by a demon, or Ahriman himself.

  None of the other prisoners had seen anything either. They all had heard the fighting but since they were still locked in their cells none of them had taken much interest, and anyway it soon died down apart from some particularly horrible screaming. The guards looked at each other. They had heard that too.

  Their examination of the bodies aroused their professional curiosity, and the next in command down from General Murtzak came to oversee the investigation. The guards all agreed that the new officer, Captain Bakhtiar, had killed at least two of the guards, and they assumed the others had died at his hands too. The two oddities were the jailer and General Murtzak. The jailer had clearly been killed by the interrogator, and General Murtzak had been horribly tortured.

  The new commander, a lifelong subordinate, found the task of making a decision too much to handle. He sent a letter to Dastagird, where the Shah was, to report on the situation and to appoint a new district Satrap. In the meantime the bodies of all were taken out and left in a cold cellar in the town. The mystery was who had killed whom and why. The interrogator must have gone mad, it was theorized, and killed General Murtzak and the jailer, and then he’d been killed by one of the guards who had then been killed by the interrogator’s accomplice Captain Bakhtiar. In the final fight the loyal guards had all died but not before Bakhtiar had received a fatal wound.

  Casca heard all this from the gossiping guards and grinned to himself. He’d gotten from the General the location of the Spear and then had locked himself back in his cell and thrown the keys as far from his door as possible down the dark corridor and then lay back down in his cell and awaited the guards to arrive.

  In the event the Shah, Kusrau, threw the problem back in the lap of the new commander. It seemed there were far more pressing problems for the Sassanid ruler than a minor fight in one of the frontier dungeons. His armies needed rebuilding after a series of disastrous defeats and all competent generals were being put in charge of the armies. He had nobody to spare for a small town and its relatively minor district.

  The commander did precisely what he thought was best. Nothing. The dead were burned and offered to Ahura-Mazda, except the interrogator and Bakhtiar, who were given to Ahriman, the dark face of Zoroastrianism. The translator was declared mad and released out into the countryside where he was allowed to roam as he wished. His mind had deserted him. The amused guards watched as the man fled as fast as his aged legs could carry him away from the town.

  Thereafter all the prisoners were taken out of their cells, one by one, and questioned in the chamber. Casca’s turn came soon enough. The new interrogator was a temporarily assigned one from the garrison. The others were also military, including the jailer, a man who had been the bottom of the pecking order and had always gotten the awful jobs as he was the smallest and ugliest of the garrison. Now he was given a job that nobody wanted, and was precisely the best one for him. He took to his new assignment with relish.

  “You are a new arrival here,” the army interrogator stated, looking up from under his eyebrows. Casca was sat on a stool, his hands tied behind his back. Two men stood close by, armed with whips. “But we don’t seem to have a record of what you’re here for. Can you tell us? All those who brought you here are dead. Our commander would like everything made official and you are, ah, an anomaly.”

  “Well,” Casca shrugged, “I’m a prisoner of war, captured near Armenia. I was brought here to be interrogated by your general before he died. He wanted the Greek army movements for the rest of the year. As for that, I’m afraid I don’t know much; the Emperor keeps much to himself. We were burning your temples but after that – sorry I know little.”

  The army men looked to one another. Casca certainly looked like a soldier. He even had scars of battle. The officer in charge of the interview sighed. “I think for the immediate future we continue to hold you here. Your knowledge may come in use but for the moment there are other problems to be addressed. Don’t think you’re going to be released. You may have value to
us yet.”

  With that he had been returned to his cell and spent the next few months kicking his heels there. Nobody cared much for him or the other prisoners, and so apart from their daily food – which Casca found barely palatable – and the changing of the soil bucket, they were left alone.

  Naturally, he kept his ears open to the gossip from the guards. They talked about a lot of things but whenever they got to discussing the war, it was always gloomy and with worry. It seemed two Persian armies had closed in on Heraclius but the Emperor’s army had taken on the first and smashed it, then turned on the second as it came up to stop the rout and was in turn defeated. Only one of the two generals had survived, Shahin, and the men talked as if he was the only Sassanid leader who had any idea of how to defeat the Greeks. They certainly didn’t think much of their own Shah.

  He guessed he must have been in the cell for over a year, judging by the passage of the sun. His clothes rotted and tore, and his beard grew long and matted, and his hair became knotted, filthy and grew down his back. Nobody cared for his appearance and the jailer grew more callous and indifferent.

  Casca worried about one thing only, and that was Ayesha.

  * * *

  The last few months for Ayesha had been humiliating. First there had been the enforced cutting of her hair. They’d said it was because of the lice that infested her. That might have been true to a point, but she had the feeling there was another reason that they weren’t telling her.

  Then there were the punishments for not cleaning the floor to their satisfaction. She had been beaten almost daily. It wasn’t so much the beating that humiliated her; it was what form it took. She had been stripped and then her arms held by two of the acolytes, and then a third had whipped her back, or once or twice just her buttocks. But they had always stopped before it had gotten too much to bear. Her screams had echoed down the corridors at those times.

  But then strangely they had left her alone for a few days until the whole procedure had begun all over again. She simply didn’t know what they would do next.

  She made every effort to clean and scrub the floors to the Elder’s satisfaction, but he was a severe taskmaster. It got to a point where she expected a beating, and was surprised on the occasions he nodded to her and led her to the eating hall and sat her down where she was allowed to join in the supper. She couldn’t tell whether the floors were any cleaner or not on those occasions; they looked the same to her.

  But one day early in the year just when the coldest days of winter were fading, she was taken from her cell and marched smartly down to a room she’d never been to before. The new room was a long narrow chamber with a stone lined bath along one side and steps leading up to it.

  The Elder and many of the chief priests were there, flanked by junior members all holding torches in front of them. It was a ceremony of some sort.

  “Ayesha,” the Elder began. “It is time for you to progress. You have passed the standard I expect from all of my followers, and now it is time for you to be cleansed of all your sins.”

  “What do you mean, cleansed?” Ayesha asked, frightened.

  The Elder stepped forward and clasped his hands before him. “All of us are born with sin, child. As Elder of this Religious Order, I have been imbued with the ability to cleanse the sinners who come to me of their stain of sin. But it is a long and sometimes painful process. To belong to this Order one must be utterly clear of what sins they have fallen foul of previously. And you, child, have sinned far more than most!” he pointed an accusing finger at her.

  Ayesha felt a pang of fear shoot through her. “Wh-what do you mean?”

  “By fornicating with the Spawn of Satan himself, Longinus!” The Brotherhood members growled in anger and Ayesha shook, terrified. The Elder stepped forward again so that he was very close to her. “Your sin is very great and so you must be cleansed in order for your soul to be saved. It is my sacred task to ensure this is so.”

  “I love him and he loves me!” she protested. “Why do you hate him so? He’s just an ordinary man!”

  The Elder shook his head. “Oh, no, child, he is not an ordinary man, as you wrongly state. He was the Roman who speared the gentle lamb, Jesus, on the cross. For that, he was cursed to forever walk this earth until the glory of the Second Coming. As he is to meet Jesus on that Holy Day, we must also keep Longinus in our sights so that we can join with Jesus, our Savior, and sit with Him in Heaven!”

  “You’re out of your minds, all of you!” Ayesha sobbed.

  “No, child. We have found salvation. It is those who deny the word of the Blessed Lamb who are out of theirs. How will their souls be saved on the Day of Resurrection? Only we, the Brotherhood, are guaranteed of that salvation. Our sins have been washed away and we are pure in mind and body. Jesus will recognize us as His most devoted and dedicated servants, and welcome us with open arms on that glorious day. Amen, brothers!”

  The assembly responded with ‘amen’ and bowed their heads briefly.

  The Elder touched Ayesha’s head. Her hair had grown again so that it now reached her neck. The Elder pulled her hair so that her head was forced back and she had to look into his eyes. “Now, child, we shall begin the long process of saving your soul. We are doing this for you own sake, not ours, for we are already saved.” He stepped back, releasing her. “Brothers. Begin.”

  Ayesha tried to struggle but she was held fast. Her robes were pulled off and she was naked again in front of them. But they showed no interest in her nakedness. And that disturbed her in a way; she had expected lust and leering and maybe being touched, but these men ignored her femininity. She had always thought of herself as attractive to men, and Casca had always told her she was beautiful, so the attitude of these people was difficult to accept.

  She was dragged unwillingly up the steps to the rim of the bath. The water shimmered in the torchlight and she tried to hold back, but she was pushed in and plunged up to her waist. She shrieked. The water was cool, but not shockingly so. The brethren now stood by the bath’s edge and began chanting in some language she didn’t understand. Then her neck was grabbed and she was plunged under the surface and held there for a few seconds.

  When they pulled her out she whooped in a deep breath and panted in panic. More chanting, and then she was dunked in a second time. This was repeated again and again, until she had been plunged under the water for thirteen times. After that she was led out and she dumbly followed, all the fight having been taken out of her.

  She stood in the chamber, shivering. The torch holders now circled her and chanted more words, while the Elder spoke in an unknown tongue and made signs above her head. It was all very weird and she endured it, wondering what would happen next.

  She was then wiped down by two senior brothers and then her robes put back on her. The assembly then left the chamber, Ayesha in the middle, and they walked to the prayer room.

  She was forced to kneel in front of the book stand and the Elder stood behind it and began addressing the assembly, who all knelt and began listening eagerly to his words. Ayesha couldn’t understand a word and looked bewildered, but then she recognized the name ‘Longinus’ and the assembly repeated the name, hate in their voices, and whips came out and they began striking their own backs. Ayesha was horrified and shrank back from the mass flagellation. Indeed, they were now removing their robes and, naked and without shame, were whipping themselves. She wondered whether she would be violated this time, but no, they were more interested in hurting themselves.

  One of the assembly stood and walked over to her and knelt down, presenting his back. He then passed her his whip. She held it as if it would turn into an asp. The Elder spoke. “You are to strike him, child. See how the brethren do it? That is the way. Proceed.”

  “I won’t!” she said and threw the whip down.

  “Then, child, you are to experience the pleasure of the Pain of Longinus. It is another form of releasing sin from the soul. Brethren.”

  She was held an
d her robes removed once more. This time two men held her arms, two more her legs and another, her hair in his fist, forcing her to bend over at the waist. She sobbed for mercy, but she knew none was forthcoming. The man she had refused to whip now began striking her across the back, sending shafts of pain through her body. She cried out. But then something else happened. Another of the senior priests came and knelt directly behind her and began probing with his fingers in between her legs, in her most private place. She fought hard to push him away but the men holding her were too strong.

  The man behind her found her most sensitive spot and began working on her and no matter how much she tried to ignore it, soon a feeling of warmth was spreading through her and the pain of the whipping was joining with it, and she stopped crying out in pain and began moaning. The Elder, watching from his place behind the book, nodded in satisfaction and signaled to the man whipping her.

  This man now switched to her buttocks and the others chanted in time to the whipping. Ayesha now cried out each time a sharp feeling of pleasure went through her. She was getting terribly wet down below and a very very big climax was approaching. It was frightening but she couldn’t stop it. With a scream she shuddered and shook as her orgasm shot through her.

  Suddenly everything went silent and the hands left her. She sank to her knees and curled up into a fetal ball. The Elder stood silently, regarding her for a moment. He flicked his fingers, dismissing most of the Brotherhood.

  Ayesha brought her breathing under control and slowly raised her head. The Elder leaned forward across the lectern. “You see the pleasures of releasing your sins? What Longinus brought you, we can bring something much greater. And at the same time expunge the terrible sins he gave you. Such is the path to purity with the Brotherhood. You may dress, child.” He walked past her and left without another comment.

  Ayesha sobbed in shame and now she was coming down off her high, felt cheap, used and dirty. Her back and buttocks were also hurting from the whipping. She threw on her robes and was then escorted back to her cell. Once alone in her locked room she curled up and cried herself to sleep.