reverse, alone and without any stores of food or water to make it across the five hundred miles back. It would be stupid to have tried to make his way along the Euphrates or Tigris. He would have been sure to have run into patrols from the Gelions that had taken Amida and Europa, and he had no desire to have his carcass strung up and crucified for desertion.
The sun was up now, a massive red-gold orb slowly rising. He could see how the Greeks in the legends called it 'the fiery chariot of Apollo.' In these lands, the sun was everything-the giver of life, and the taker. The ground he would have to cover was bad enough, but to the south was the monstrous ocean of sands that the wandering Semite tribes of Arabia fought so fiercely to keep under control. As far as he was concerned, they could keep it all.
Casca rose from the sands and wiped the scanty remnants of his morning meal from his fingertips and face. The curds had left a sour taste in his mouth, but he resisted the temptation to wash it away with another drink of his scant supply of water. The advance of the sun was beginning to drive the chill of the night from his bones. He knew the day would be a bitch, so he had to try to find some shade before the worst of the heat came. He could see from his position on top of the dune a distant line of mountains to the northwest. They were delicate shades of rose and pink now, but with the rising of the day they would change into shimmering, distant, gray crags of barren rock, cracked and split into schisms from the endless heating and cooling of the centuries.
That was where he must go if water and food were to be found. What there was would be found in those inhospitable stones. He gathered his possessions and made them into a pack, using a couple of strips torn from his robe to sling them over his shoulder.
The soldier of Rome walked out onto the shifting floor of the desert. With every step the sand worked its way into his sandals and then spilled out again into thin streams. He settled down into the mile-eating, steady tread of the professional foot soldier, the sun on his back pushing him on.
He walked slowly but steadily, avoiding the desire to rush, knowing that that would use him up faster than his measured pace. He would have to make the mountains by the next day or run out of water. Even now the base of the crags could not be seen. The top half was floating over the floor, the desert shifting and riding on shimmering heat waves. The day found him crossing a field of stones with lizards and serpents watching his progress. His step was already slowing down, the heat a constant drain, drawing off his life's essence and strength. The water bag at his side sloshed continuously, tempting him to raise it to his mouth and drink, or wash his face to get rid of the caked-up dust and sweat and streaked grit around the corners of his eyes.
Stopping, he raised his head and looked out across the field of stones and serpents. He had to stop and wait out the worst of the heat. A single, darker object rose from the rocky floor. It was a large boulder that hadn't yet given into the remorseless efforts to wear it down to the size of its neighbors. It stood like a lonely sentinel, guarding nothing.
Casca sat down on the shaded side of the stone. It was about as tall as he was and five feet around, but it also had the only shade for miles. He scraped away the surface layer of rocks, knowing they would be the hottest. Sitting on them would have drawn some of his moisture. He pulled his robes over him, forming a tent, and leaned back against the shaded side of the boulder. He was a single lonely figure, waiting. The gray, once-white robe, which if seen from any distance would seem just another rock, was his protection and shelter. He would wait now until the sun chariot had almost completed its journey before drinking again. He would travel all the coming night, and if nothing unforeseen occurred, he should make the distant mountains by the next sunrise.
He slept fitfully, a waking sleep that came and went. The silence was complete; only the omnipresent heat was his companion, though not a friend. He dozed, head jerking up now and then as he tried to seek the comfort of unconsciousness. He was still sweating and knew that that was a good sign; if the sweating were to stop, he knew a heat stroke would not be far away. As long as he could sweat, he was all right.
The seconds were minutes and the minutes were hours. Time seemed to stop, his mind in a turmoil. He had no way of telling of the passing of the hours. It was too much of an effort to try and determine how long he had been sitting. He knew when the day began to cool, that would be the time to rise. Until then he would have to endure the dragging hours silently, helpless to speed them up.
Far across the desert and sea, another waited, silent and meditating in somewhat different surroundings. Marcus Aurelius, emperor of Rome, worried over how the Persian camping was progressing. Long ago, at the age of twelve, the emperor had embraced the teachings and severities of the Stoics. He had trained himself to place his body second to his mind, to resist passion in all forms, and to deal only in logic. For the Stoic, there were only two paths a man could take: the path to good or the path to evil. He regretted only that the office of state that he held so often forced him into unpleasant acts that he deemed necessary for the greater good. He personally had nothing against Christians, but they were a disturbing influence and preached a religion of weakness, which, if allowed to flourish, could sap the already vital strength of the empire.
Therefore, with a sigh of regret, he was now signing the order condemning another ten thousand of these followers of the crucified god to be put to death. He handed the instrument of death over to his chamberlain and took a drink of spring water. He avoided the use of wine or even eating to excess. In his mind, as the father of the Roman people, he had to set the example in everything. How else could he lead but by example, if he wanted the Roman people to return to the earlier state of nobility and virtue under which they had conquered most of the known world.
But, he sighed, he was sorely afraid that he was too late in coming on the scene. Still, one must try, and there was always the hope that his successor would be able to carry on with his work. Smiling, he thought of his son, Commodus-bright-eyed, brave, quick to learn, and the light of his father's eye. Yes, Commodus would carry on after him and lead the empire into an even greater age of prosperity and peace. Commodus would be the artist who would paint in the fine details of the future. He Marcus would now lay in the background with broad, sweeping strokes.
He rose and made his ablutions. It was time to preside over the college of priests and to perform sacrifices for the welfare of Rome and entreat the gods to grant them victory in all things. His wife, Lady Faustina, daughter of Antonius Pius, was waiting for him. She would not, of course, be permitted entry into the college. In her position, she would go to the Temple of the Vestal Virgins and make her own sacrifice and donatives.
Marcus Aurelius was blind to one thing, and that was the infidelity of his wife, who openly carried on with anyone she pleased and promoted her lovers to position of power. None dared tell the emperor otherwise, for to him, as he had written, she was the epitome of virtue. He would hear of nothing else. But his councillors knew, and indeed wondered if the boy Commodus had any of his father's blood in him. For the child, they knew, instead of being serious and gifted as was his father, was instead shallow of mind and purpose, taking on more the attitudes and directions of his mother than the rigid discipline of self-denial that the emperor espoused. The councillors dreaded the day Marcus would give the reins of the empire to his son.
The change in temperature brought Casca back from his dull, half-drugged sleep. He forced his eyes to open. The lids, dried and caked with grit and sweat, stung as he blinked to clear them. Rising from his shelter, he stood and faced the mountains, trying to lock the direction in his mind. If there was no moonlight tonight, and if there were no stars, there was certainly nothing else in the wasteland that he would be able to get a fix on to help guide him.
Long shadows were reaching across the plain of stones from the gentle rises and hillocks. The sole boulder became a sundial as its shadow reached out to twice its own length.
Casca shook his water skin. There was precious little left. He took one full, long swallow and held it in his mouth to let it soak into the gums and the membranes of his throat, cutting some of the buildup of phlegm and foul taste away. The bag would be empty this night. He rewrapped his burnoose about him and tied it at his waist.
The cooling of the evening was a balm to his heat-reddened and flushed skin. It even helped to ease the sore spots under his armpits and groins where the grime and sand wore against his skin. The dark closed around him like a soft, silent blanket. He walked, the cool air giving him a sense of renewed strength. The heat soon passed and there were a few miles of stumbling over smooth, slippery stones. Once, this must have been a lake or an ocean bed. Several times he walked over shining paths of salt that had collected into the low areas where the waters must have evaporated or receded back into the earth.
A few times he almost stepped on snakes, which hissed and stuck out their tongues to taste the air, then pulled back into sinuous twisting tendrils ready to strike.
All that night, under dear but moonless skies, he trekked toward the hoped-for shelter in the mountains. With
