form of Jugotai standing beside the pack horse stood out in marked contrast to this barren world of stones and rocky gorges. With every league into the wild lands, the boy seemed to grow taller. The closer they came to his tribal lands, the more his self-confidence increased.
Fourteen years old as near as he could figure, he was a wild mop of black hair handing in a wind-swept mane to his shoulders, and anthracitic eyes. The chill of the night did not seem to bother him at all; indeed, he breathed more deeply, filling his chest with the dry wind.
During the weeks with Casca, he had already started to put some meat on his bones, especially those sticking out from his rib cage and chest. He was going home, to the lands of the Yueh-chih. The boy had been caught and sold by nomads when he was ten, to the placid farmers of Armenia for two copper pieces and a bent sword. The farmers being no match for the wild-spirited youngster, breathed a sigh of relief when he ran away, taking only a donkey for transport. The Hsuing-Nu forced his people out of the Kansu corridor 440 years before and forced the tribe to flee to Bactria for safety. Not until the time of the Emperor Wu Ti and his general, Pan Ch'oa, were the Yueh-chi able to build a nation known as the Kushan. This was their destination, the gateway to the wall that ran forever.
Though Jugotai's tribe was wild, they had been heavily influenced by the envoys and trade with the Han Empire. They were also excellent horsemen, a fact easily demonstrated by Jogotai's ability to ride circles around Casca.
It was now time for the boy to return to his tribe. He was of the age to face the rites of manhood and nothing would stand in his way-save death itself.
The distant yapping of a pack of desert jackels came with the wind. The pack horse whinnied softly and was instantly quieted by his young master, a gentle hand and soothing hiss served to let the beast know all was well. Jugotai watched Casca with silent noncommittal eyes. The big man confused him. He had a blend of fierceness he had seldom seen equalled by the best of his tribe and a gentleness seen in some of the teachers who came to his people from the lamaseries to teach the words of Buddha.
With a nod, Casca indicated the path from the craggy hillside leading to the gorge where light was glowing and flickering. Ordinarily he would have bypassed the beckoning flame but as they were low on food and there was the chance the camp below might be friendly enough to barter for some of the silver denarii Casca had in the purse under his cloak, the two made their way down the hillside.
The horses picked their way gingerly through the rubble and stones, walking as if on eggs.
The night was clear and lit by a full moon. As the distance between them and the fire closed, the wind shifted and the sound of chanting, bouncing gently off the basalt walls of the gorge was heard. Slowly the lines of a massive building carved out of living stone became visible. The chanting ceased before they could make out the words or the language. The glowing light seemed to be coming from the interior of the main building. The doors were opened wide and inviting, but Casca's hair prickled on the back of his neck, making him shift his sword to a handier position. Jugotai drew back and stopped out of sight from the range of the light. With a shake of his head he indicated he would go no further and pointed silently to the hillside to the east. Casca nodded his assent as the boy took the pack horse and faded into the gloom.
Watching him go, Casca thought, 'Cautious little bastard, but maybe he knows more about this part of the world.'
Dismounting, Casca lost his footing for a moment and almost fell. As he straightened, a soft whispery voice broke the silence as a hand came forward taking the reins of his horse.
'Welcome, we have been expecting you, Latin.'
Regaining his balance, Casca took in the figure of his welcoming committee of one who spoke the language of Rome.
A tall thin figure in brown homespun robes reaching to the rocky floor of the gorge smiled at him. 'Welcome,' his host repeated. 'I am Elder Dacort, the senior brother of this refuge for the lost and weary.'
Casca looked at him, the hair on his neck still tingling. 'How did you know I was coming?'
The man calling himself Elder Dacort laughed easily, his voice stronger than his appearance. 'From the ridge you just crested to reach us. We could see you coming for a full day across the plains. This is the natural approach that one would follow after leaving the plains below. But where is your companion?' He looked about squinting at the darkness.
Casca shrugged. 'Gone. After we reached the crest he decided to go on his own. No great loss. We were just traveling together for convenience, but all trails end sometime.'
Elder Dacort smiled. 'Yes, they do. They most certainly do. But enough of standing out here in the cold. Come inside and make yourself welcome. As you can see, there is no danger for you from such as we.' He indicated his weaponless condition. Gently he took Casca's elbow and escorted him inside the confines of the building.
Casca still kept his sword at the ready. Then he saw the carvings on the door, the sign of the fish and the cross. He grumbled silently to himself, 'Oh, no, not more Christians. At least I know they are harmless always preaching about steal not, kill not, and whatever else the Hades they can think of not to do.'
Dacort noticed Casca's recognition of the symbols. 'Yes, my brother, we are followers of the way of the gentle lamb. Here we study his words and preserve them. Our years are spent in quiet meditation and prayer for the salvation of the souls of the world.' Escorting his guest to a side room from the hall lit with torches in iron brackets to a table laid with food and wine, he said: 'You see we have been waiting for you. We cannot perform the miracles of our Lord Jesus and turn water into wine or make one loaf of bread feed thousands, but we do have some small fields not far from here that provide enough for the brotherhood and the few guests who come this way.' He seated Casca at the head of a wooden table designed to seat some twenty or more, in a room projecting a feeling of great emptiness. Casca looked around, noting he had seen no one but Elder Dacort since entering the place.
Dacort observed Casca's look and replied, 'The rest of the brotherhood are at rest or at prayers. We rise quite early to say our devotionals, then go to the fields.' The smell of roast goat and fresh bread convinced Casca to sit. Elder Dacort handed him a plate piled high with food and sat watching. Casca started to take a drink of wine and then hesitated, putting the cup back on the table.
Dacort laughed gently and took the cup in his hands and drank. Smiling, he then ate a small portion of each of the foods on Casca's plate.
Casca smiled, embarrassed. Dacort halted his protestations with an up lifted palm. 'No need for explanations my son, it is a cruel world and there are many pitfalls awaiting the unwary.'
While Casca ate, Elder Dacort talked of Rome and the world. Casca found this gaunt man quite well informed on happenings in Rome, as well as what lay beyond to the east and other lands Casca had never heard of. The man's voice was soothing and soon Casca's limbs felt heavy, his eyes like leaden weights. He began to feel the first distant tinge of fear and tried to stand. His legs were like water. All the while, Dacort talked to him softly of the world and its happenings as if not noticing the wine being overturned and the wooden plates crashing to the floor as Casca fell, face first, into a left-over mess of goat and bread.
Dacort smiled to himself as he stood over the sprawled out figure of the former legionary. Reaching into his robes, he took out a small vial in the shape of an amphora and took the remaining fluid with a grimace of distaste. 'The antidote was bitter as green figs,' he thought. 'Prior planning pays off,' he smiled as he had when he had dosed himself long before Casca's appearance at the steps of the Temple of the Lamb.
The next day, Casca lay as one dead to the world. His host and the rest of the brethren were preparing for the most holy day of their year. Prayers echoed throughout the halls and chambers. Soon it would be time.
Dacort trusted no other than himself to watch over his unconscious guest. Casca lay on a skin-framed cot wearing only his tunic, his sword on a shelf nearby. Dacort knew well the strength of his potion. The Roman would sleep for yet another day, but it paid to be careful. Administering another dose to his guest that would guarantee his remaining in a comatose condition for another twenty-four hours, Elder Dacort went to prepare himself for the great day ahead. Giving Casca one last look and satisfied that the man would remain as he was, the elder left.
Casca's mind filled with images leaping across and then fading, images of ships and pyramids, Saxons and Parthians, mountains and deserts. His stomach turned inside out, spewing out the fluids given him. Consciousness returned by millimeters, Head aching, he rose to his elbow and ran his tongue over his gums. 'By Mithra, it tastes like a camel just shit in my mouth.” His stomach turned again and the last of its contents spilled onto the stone floor. Weaving on unsteady legs, he rose trying to focus. His sword. Where was it?
Stumbling to the shelf, he held the blade in his hand and pulled it from its scabbard, the feel of the familiar
