'Casca, you son of a bitch, I am going to rip your arms off and beat you to death with the bloody stumps. But first I am going to carve you up a little.' Sporus pulled out his hideout knife, a slick poniard-type blade, one meant for stabbing, not slicing.
Casca stood there in shock.
'Hey, wait a minute, Sarge. You don't want to cut me. Hell, there's nothing serious going on here. We're just friends. And you're supposed to be on duty.'
'Friends, my ass, you sneaky traitor. I got off early when I had to escort a prisoner to the stockade. The night officer said I could take off-and now I find you two taking it off. Well, right now, young soldier, you are going to pay for messing with my woman-and then I am going to slice her ears off so she won't ever listen to anyone else's bullshit.'
Sporus lunged, making a low upward slice to the belly.
Casca stumbled back, his feet caught in Rheza's clothing, and fell, Sporus on him like an enraged beast. Almost without realizing it until the pain hit, Casca knew he had been stabbed. The blade was sunk to the hilt in his stomach, and the pain was like fire.
Sporus let loose of the blade and stepped back.
Both of them knew it was a death blow.
Looking down at the handle of the knife protruding from his abdomen, Casca at first felt a sensation akin to embarrassment… then a rage came over him.
'Kill me, will you?' he screamed. He reached down with his right hand and pulled the blade from his gut, crying out in pain and rage.
Sporus stood there, stunned by what was happening, and then started to back out the door.
Casca leaped on him, and sank the blade into Sporus's throat, opening the esophagus. Sporus fell down to his knees, his hands around his throat as if he were trying to close the wound and keep from drowning in his blood, but his lungs filled with the red arterial blood from his carotid artery, and, eyes not really understanding, he slipped into darkness, the rattling sound of his death breath beating on his ears as he died.
And Casca fell down beside Sporus. He knew he was bleeding inside, that the blade had severed the great artery that runs along the spine behind the stomach. He was a dead man, and he knew it.
Lying there on the dark floor he felt the weakness coming over him. His mind said, I am going to die. But… a cold shiver of fear… and something else… raced through his veins. He heard a voice, the voice of the Jew:
So you shall remain until we meet again…
SEVEN
Rheza gave one short squeaking scream and sat down in a corner of the room, her hands over her mouth, in semishock.
Sporus lay dead, looking as though someone had given him another mouth.
Casca lay moaning and mumbling to himself, his hands over his gut as if trying to squeeze the pain out of his stomach.
Rheza's eyes clicked up in panic as a shadow entered her doorway, then another.
Verianus and the Syrian stood in the room.
In silence Verianus checked Sporus to see if there was anything he could do, but when he got a good look at the slit throat he turned to Casca, rolled him over, and pulled Casca's hands away from his stomach.
'You dumb shit. I told you to leave that slut alone. You knew how crazy old Sporus was for her. I tried. When Kleton here told me that Sporus had come back to barracks and changed into civvies, we got here as fast as we could. But too damn late. By Moloch, you're a greater ass than I would have believed. Did you have to kill him? Move your damn hands away. How can I see if you keep getting in the way?'
Casca gurgled something unintelligible about a crucifixion.
'Casca, old boy, I can't tell too much, but if the wound's not too deep, you'll be all right. If it is deep, you're a dead man. Which might be the best thing for you anyway. The CO's going to hit the roof when he hears about this. Kleton, go and get the vigiles and let's get this over with. Casca, you clot, if you live, the old man's going to burn your ass. You know he's been bucking for a promotion, and crap like this does not look good on his record. Goddammit, man, why did you have to kill him? I know you're a better fighter than that.'
Casca burbled something like '… till we meet again…'
'What the hell is that you're mumbling? I'm not going anywhere. But if you live to be court-martialed, you will be.'
The vigiles arrived, and, as most policemen would in such circumstances, the first thing they did was to search the girl. It should not have taken as long as it did, seeing that she was already naked when they started, but Rome demanded that its military police be efficient. The repeated handling brought Rheza back to her senses, and she began to enjoy herself a little. The senior MP pinched her on the butt and whispered in her ear, 'Later?' Rheza nodded and rubbed her ripe tits along his arm. After all, a girl needed a protector. Sporus was dead, and Casca was going to go to jail-or die — either way he was out of the picture. Besides, a Roman policeman could be very handy to have around when some customer felt he had not received his proper change…
Finishing the necessary search of the girl, the senior MP turned to Verianus. 'Okay, what's the deal?'
Verianus laid it on him in as few words as possible.
Checking Sporus's cadaver, the lawman made one short whistle. 'Really laid him open, didn't he? Reminds me of that stiff we found over by the Temple of Mars last week.' And then speaking to his buddy, 'Doesn't it to you, Toninus?' He explained to Verianus, 'Someone laid open a visiting politician from Sarmatia. He had the same look on his face, too. You know, like he was a little embarrassed… Well, enough of this bullshit.' He pointed to Casca and asked Verianus, 'Is this one going to make it?'
He got a noncommittal reply.
'Okay, then you two guys haul his ass out of here and over to the stockade. They'll take over there, and we'll get your statement and write up our report for the provost marshal in the morning.'
The Syrian and Verianus finally got Casca on the shoulders of Verianus after dropping him on his head once. They switched off, taking turns carrying him the three miles to the stockade where they turned him over to a not- too-sympathetic jailer. The jailer checked Casca over and told the two to toss him on a pile of straw in the orderly room, that he'd have the medics check on Casca when they came on duty in the morning. This was done, and the sweating and cursing Verianus and his Syrian helpmate were by this time regretting slightly that Casca had not died in the dancer's room.
Casca lay unconscious on the straw, the only thing alive about him an occasional groan… and his dreams… those haunting memories that kept returning. Storm clouds raced through his thoughts as they had in that cursed darkness during the crucifixion. The pain was almost more than he could bear. But inside his subconscious he knew something was happening that shouldn't happen- his body was healing. The bleeding inside had already stopped. The artery was growing back together. The spilled blood in his abdominal cavity was being absorbed into the thin walls of the mesentery and recirculated back into his system. But the pain was still there, though just now it was settling into a dull, throbbing ache.
He gave one long groan, which woke up the dozing guard with a jerk. The sleazy-looking jailer bore an amazing resemblance to a ferret-right down to the beady, bulging, red-rimmed eyes. He gave the wounded man one dirty look and dropped back off to sleep, oblivious of the new set of oversexed body lice that had just copulated their way up the long journey from his unwashed feet along the calves of his stringy, hairy legs and into the curly, matted hair of his pubic region, there to join a number of their relatives-including a few diehard fleas who would have rather been on a decent dog.
The night passed as all things must, and the dawn brought an enraged commanding officer to the stockade at the early hour of cock's crow.
The noble and ambitious commander of the garrison, one Tigelanius by name (who claimed a distant relationship to divine Julius on his mother's side), was pissed off. He roared through the orderly room and scared the hell out of the jailer when he kicked the stool the slug was sitting on out from under him.
'Where is he?' he bellowed.
