Barry Sadler
The Barbarian
Preface
My name is Doctor Julius Goldman.
For some years now I have been involved with the fate of a man known only to a few and believed by the majority of those to be no more than a myth from the distant past. Yes! a myth… like the hero of the Epics of Gilgamesh or the Kulkulkan of the Mayan legends, and even the story of the wandering Jew. The man I know came to me with a wound that should have been fatal, but he did not die. From that first meeting our lives have been intertwined.
For some reason, he has a compulsion to finish the story of his life. A story that for me began in the hospital at Nha Trang, in South Vietnam, over ten years ago. From time to time we have met, and each time a force comes over me, as it did in that hospital. I am drawn again into the past of the man I first knew as Sergeant Casey Remain-a man who the rest of the world only knows dimly… as the man who killed Jesus on Golgatha.
He is the Roman legionnaire, Casca Rufio Longinus.
And, as Casca has his compulsion to finish what he began with me, I have the same drive to put down his story. I know most won't believe me, but then, that doesn't really matter; I know it's real, and even today…
Casca lives to walk the earth until the Second Coming… Casca Lives!
Prologue
Stinging sand whipped at his eyes as the wind howled about him, trying to blow his robes free to sail over the desert with the sandstorm. His horse whinnied and shied away from the wind, trying to turn around and put its rear to the cutting bits of grit.
Casca finally agreed and took shelter on the leeward side of a dune. Tying his horse to a bush, he pulled his robe over his head and sat with his back to the wind. Feeling the sand slowly begin to pile up against him, he kept his head down and pulled his precious goatskin of water closer between his legs. There was nothing to do now but wait. His horse whinnied again. The beast didn't tike this region of whirling, biting sand devils and screaming winds. As far as that went, the horse didn't particularly like his new master. The man didn't have the smell of those who had owned him before. But Casca really didn't give a damn whether the horse liked him or not. As far as he was concerned, he would rather eat one of the damn things than ride it, and if he didn't come across some food soon, that would probably not be far in the future. The horse's previous master was beyond any complaint.
The Arab's body lay two days behind, the sun and wind drying it into another of the thousands of shriveled, desiccated husks of humanity that littered the floor of the Persian desert. The former member of the victorious legions of Avidius Cassius felt no remorse. If the bastard hadn't thought Casca was easy picking, he wouldn't be lying back there with the large blue flies trying to suck out the last remaining bits of moisture from his body.
A sand lizard, blown from its shelter under the dune, crawled between his legs and sat looking up at him. Casca smiled through cracked lips. 'Welcome, little friend, to what protection I can give. We'll just have to wait this thing out, and if you don't bite, neither will I.'
Back on the battlefield of Ctesiphon were forty thousand that would never bite or do anything else again. He had no sense of guilt for deserting the Eagle standards of Rome. Avidius Cassius had promised the warriors of Parthia that he would spare the city and its people if they came out to do battle, but even now Casca knew that thousands were on their way to the slave pens of Syria and that the city was still burning. It took a long time for a city to die-much longer than it did for a man.
He had had enough of slaughter and wanted no more than to get away to some place where the stench of death didn't fill the nostrils. But even that was to be denied him. If that stupid Arab hadn't tried to take him on, the man would still be living, feeling the blood course through his veins and the beat of his heart.
The sand had reached up to his waist and began to flow around him; he knew that if it didn't stop soon he would be buried. He wondered how his horse was faring-for some time now he had heard nothing save the keening of the wind over the dunes.
He pulled the stopper from the goatskin and took a pull of the strong-tasting, brackish water. The lizard watched him, its eyes moving independently from one another; it missed nothing. Casca ran his tongue over his lips, put his hand down in front of the small creature, and poured a couple of drops into his palm, holding it still. The lizard twitched its tail, looking as if it were thinking about running, then, making up its mind, moved onto the man's palm and drank, its mouth opening and closing like a fish trying to breathe air. Then, finishing quick as a blink, it flashed back to its place between Casca's legs.
Casca wiped the remaining damp spot across his lips. The heat of the sand on his back was drugging him, making his eyes feel heavy and gritty. He sighed and pulled his robe closer about him. Looking at his guest, he spoke, eyes red rimmed and dull from heat and fatigue.
'Well, little friend, I'm going to crap out for a while. You keep watch for me and I'll see you later.' His eyes closed and the darkness set in-the kind that eats up the hours and rests the soul. He slept, not knowing when the storm passed by and the night sky shone clear and stark in its brilliance, the stars each set perfect in the firmament of the heavens.
Some time during the storm the horse broke free and followed the course of the wind.
The silence woke him. Slowly, stiff-jointed, he moved. The sand, which had built up to his shoulders, slid off in slow waves. The lizard blinked once, twice at the disturbance, and was gone, burrowing back into the shelter of the dunes to wait for the warmth of the next dawn to start the blood flowing through its veins. Casca wished him well. Rising, he looked for his horse, which he knew was long gone. Well, he thought, that's about normal. If it wasn't for bad luck, I wouldn't have any. He pulled his burnoose closer about him. The insulating sand had kept him warm, but now the night chill of the desert made itself known. It always amazed him, the contrast between the burning sun and heat of the day, which could kill a man without water in six hours, and the chill of the night. He climbed the nearest dune and looked out over the open expanse, ghostly lit by the clear night sky. There was nothing, not even the howl of a desert jackal; it was empty. He had hoped perhaps to see his horse, but knew there was little or no chance. Sighing, he went back down the slope. Sliding and kneeling, he dug himself a small pit in the sand and lay down, pulling the sand back around him to serve as a blanket to keep the worst of the cold out. He closed his eyes again and slept in the small, shallow grave.
Just minutes before dawn, Casca pulled himself out of his cocoon and rose, stretching his arms to the sky. He straightened, cracking the sore bones in his back and neck. He took a deep breath and exhaled. Moving to the bush where he had tied his horse, he dug in the sand and pulled out his pack, searching the meager content. Finding out a small, hard, rancid horse curd and a chunk of ten-day-old bread, he climbed back up the crest of the dune to await the coming of the sun.
Taking another small swig of tepid water to wet his throat before attempting to eat the rock-hard and rancid curds, he hunched down in the sand, waiting, his eyes toward the East. The thin, predawn glow lay on the horizon. The sun would be rising soon, and with it would come the brain-cooking heat of the desert.
He put the taste of the food out of his mind and concentrated on chewing the hard bread. Eating slowly, he would let each bite soften and turn sweet in his mouth before swallowing. Careful of how much he ate, he saved most of the curds for later, knowing he would need the strength they could give him then. A light breeze was beginning to pick up with the coming of the sun, as it usually did in the desert. There was no trace of moisture in the air. He was still a long way from the ocean, and the waters of the Tigris and Euphrates lay far behind him.
Before the storm had hit, he had been staying fairly close to the same route he and the legions of Gaius Avidius Cassius had taken in their invasion of Parthia when they had left their staging area at Damascus. It was one thing to cross the desert as part of a great army with supplies laid in along the way, and quite another to try it in
