Turning from the two Syrians, Casca went outside and put on the rest of his gear. The trumpeter was just sounding reveille, and the legionnaires were being called to form the ranks of their centuries, each century being broken down into ten squads of ten men each. Casca liked the orderliness of the Roman army. Every man and everything in its place. One hundred men to a century, two centuries to a maniple, three maniples to a cohort, and 3,600 men to a legion with two centuries per legion as service troops. When Augustus became emperor, there were sixty legions, but now, after his long and efficient reign, there were only thirty-eight active legions watching over the Pax Romana. The legion was the queen of battle; any legion that lost its eagles was forever disgraced until the eagles were returned. Had not Augustus forced the Parthians to return the captured eagles of Crassus and Antony?
So, as Casca stood in the ranks, he felt the unity surrounding him, the sense of strength from being part of something great and powerful. His commander stood in front and called them to attention and gave his orders. The standards were raised. Casca's century drew swords and beat in time against the shield faces, repeating the cry, 'Ave, Augustus Imperator! Ave!..'
It was a glorious moment.
Casca almost forgot the words of the Jew.
Almost.
FIVE
For Casca, the memory of the day of crucifixion faded into the routine of garrison life. The days were full, but uneventful. His hours were busy with the regular training cycles of his unit. Their commander had lately got a bug up his ass, and the general consensus was that the old bastard was bucking for a promotion; he had the troops out constantly, doing facing maneuvers and close order drill.
Casca didn't mind. He enjoyed the routine of it all. The century's morale was good, and it was pleasant to work up a good sweat in mock combat, hacking at each other with lead-weighted wooden swords. That, and a couple of hours of chopping at a wooden post to build up your sword arm, pretty well wore a man out. But he wasn't so tired that he couldn't enjoy a few of the gentler pleasures of life. After all, he was a fine figure of a man… in his prime… not yet thirty. His light brown hair and gray-blue eyes had brought him something of a reputation as a ladies' man among his comrades. Even the wife of Pilate, the beautiful and cultured patrician, Lady Procla, had smiled at him more than once.
His body was smooth and well-muscled, with only enough scars to show that he was a veteran and thereby to be treated with respect by his peers. The most obvious scar was one that ran about the length of a lady's little finger from the side of his right eye to just above his mouth. It gave him a slightly sinister look that had turned on more than one seemingly reluctant maid. And if the darling ladies chose to think it was a wound of valor, who was he to disillusion them and hurt their feelings by telling them that a whore from Achea had sliced him up when he tried to short-change her after she had done her best for this noble hero of Rome?
No, it was certainly better that he let the little dears think of him as a brave and valorous soldier brutally scarred in battle against the barbarians of the dark German forests. Definitely better. He had gotten no complaints about his amorous capabilities. Perhaps his body was a little too thick and heavily muscled for the patricians, but it served him well enough when the fight got thick. He was glad to have those extra pounds of muscled-up beef. They gave him power and had helped him more than once to cleave the helmet of an enemy of Rome-and in the process save his own ass. Casca was never exactly sure which was the more important: his duty to the legion, or his concern for his own hide. He suspected the centurion would have a different opinion from his own on that, but on one thing he knew all the soldiers in the legion would agree-what it was like in combat.
There was something about battle that meant the same for every soldier. When the blood started flowing hot in your veins, and the legion formed the square and began to march against the enemy… like a juggernaut of flesh and steel… you lost yourself in the feeling of the whole, you became part of a thing separate from yourself, and yourself became less important than the belonging. And the belonging was awesome and great.
You were caught up in the movement and surge of battle. Then the killing rage and lust for blood that came when your leaders gave the cry, 'Let loose the legion!'… The order to break ranks and pursue the retreating and faltering foe… That was the time of the blood lust and the slaughter… when one might strike down a dozen — nay, even two dozen of the retreating, demoralized foe.
For some reason, when the barbarians felt the battle was lost, they usually just gave up, giving only minor resistance even when they knew they were doomed. Strange…
Yes, Casca felt good. Life was good. Tonight he and his squad would be a guard of honor for King Herod's party. Guard of honor, he chuckled inwardly. Honor? The only reason Pilate would send any of his men to Herod's palace was to remind the simpering degenerate who was the boss.
Not even Achron's news that the body of the crucified Jew was missing from its place of entombment disturbed him. Casca was a reasonable man and had a bit of formal education. He could even read-something which would guarantee him a soft spot in the orderly room if he had too much trouble with Sporus the decurion.
No, if the Jew's body was missing, it just meant that his followers were trying to keep the cult alive. It's no big deal.
There was nothing to disturb the tranquility of Casca. He had even escaped the bout of dysentery that had struck down most of his century for several days earlier this week. The latrine was for a while the most popular place in camp-and the hardest to get into. Only Casca had been untouched.
Tonight, when he stood guard at Herod's palace, he would look striking in his new cloak and cuirass — chest armor. He had just bought a new set off a recruit whose rich merchant father had made a payoff and had gotten his darling child out of such rough company after the silly shit got drunk and enlisted. Casca had helped the boy a time or two, so the youngster let him have the cloak and armor for next to nothing-which was about how much money Casca normally had, unless he did a little moonlighting now and then as bouncer at several of the local wine shops.
The legion didn't think much of Herod, but if things went well tonight, Casca could leave the palace with a few extra shekels. Herod was known to be a big spender and to tip well. Casca's squad had the early duty. They should be relieved before the party got really rolling and everyone got stoned. That was the time to get out. The new guard mount would have their hands full trying to keep the noble ladies from ripping their armor off and screwing them right there. That was no place to be if you had any sense at all. The legion commander would flay the skin from the back of any of his men who let themselves be compromised. That old fart had about as much compassion and sense of humor as a pit viper with hemorrhoids.
Casca was after safer game tonight. That hot little dancer from Armenia had promised to dance for him alone after she got off from work. The memory of her flashing body whirling faster and faster as her stomach sucked in and out… undulating and twisting… her breasts set high and glistening with sweat and perfumed oil… made him almost drunk with anticipation. Tonight's the night… He hummed a familiar popular song to himself. The only fly in the ointment was Sporus, his squad leader. That tough old fart had the hots for the little dancer, too, and had been paying part of her rent. But what the old boy didn't know couldn't hurt; Sporus would be sergeant of the guard for the late shift tonight while Casca was sampling the wares of that luscious little she savage.
The guard mount began making its way up to the hill upon which the palace of Herod was built. As they left behind the narrow streets of Jerusalem, the smell of food cooking in the palace wafted over the dusky air, making their mouths water. After enduring the less-than-exciting menu of their company cook-boiled barley and rye and stewed pig did little for the taste buds, but it was filling, and where so many starved that was not a small thing- they anticipated the rich food of the palace banquet as though it were the fare of the gods.
And yet…
As the unit marched up past the villas of the rich and titled, disturbing thoughts nibbled at Casca's mind. Here were the lavish estates… with gardens… and many slaves to keep away anything unpleasant. For the rich, it was the best of all lives. Anything could be had if you could pay. Women, slaves, palaces, power were all on the auction block to go to the highest bidder. For the poor soldier, none of these things. Unless…
There was always the hope of war taking place, in which case the soldier's lot could be loot and spoils. One lucky break, and a man could be set up for life. That's all it took, one lucky break. Until then…
