man named Casey and periodically punctuated both with volleys of distant artillery fire crumping its way through the surrounding mountains in search of an unseen enemy.
A vague uneasiness troubled the doctor… as though there were apresence 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 rales slowed. Goldman focused on the sleeping man's face, and a stark clarity burst in the doctor's consciousness.
Iknow you, he whispered silently within his brain. Iknow 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 Mille 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-haired men, arms lifted in prayer, their voices becoming intelligible as they wailed the ululating prayers of the Hebrew…
'Hear, O 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 Rufio 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, O 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.
