With the hood removed, the glow of the torches accented the weariness in his face. A young acolyte came to him; it was time for prayer.
Elder Imheptwent to his knees on the stone floor and prayed before the altar of The Spear of Longinus.
SEVENTEEN
He left the boat shortly after passing Babylon and made his way further upriver. From this point on he avoided the company of others. He'd walked the last two hundred miles, his sandals kicking up puffs of dust to keep him company. At night, he would seek shelter wherever he could curl up out of sight and where he could protect his body from the elements. His face and body were ever hidden beneath his burnoose; there was always the chance that he might meet one who knew him on sight.
Each step took him closer to the boundaries of the Roman Empire and away from that of the Persians. Most of the distance yet to be crossed was arid and parched. It consisted of dry marsh beds where the mud caked and dried under the heat, cracking into a maze of interlocking clay fragments. God, how he hated the desert. It would be a long time before he ever set foot in dry lands again.
He saw the last Persian outpost and avoided it, taking a circuitous route around the town. He'd had enough of the Persians. What was it that the old merchant Samuel had said to him when he'd first set foot inside the walls of Nev-Shapur? 'Persia was not for the likes of him.' He laughed bitterly. Then where in the hell was there a place for him? Never had he found anyplace that he could call home, at least for any length of time. Always, it seemed, time and circumstances drove him on endlessly to someplace else where he knew he didn't really belong.
It had been thirty-three days from the time he left the shelter of the cave near Koramshar until he laid eyes on the first Roman city, lying below him now in a gentle valley. It was, he knew, Calinicium.
Before starting down, he stopped and looked back toward the direction from which he had come. His eyes reached far behind him, back over the lands of the Sassanid kings, Persia…
From beneath the shelter of his hood, his remembering eyes visualized the faces of those he'd left behind. He saw the faces of friends and enemies alike. He was weary with the miles and years of his existence and wondered what would have happened if the Egyptian, Imhept, had not saved him from being completely consumed by the flames at the stake. If there had been nothing left of him but ashes and pieces of charred bone to be scattered over the earth, would he then have found peace? If so, then the pain of his burning would have been worth it all. But he hadn't burned and the Egyptian had saved him. Therefore, his way was open again, open to whatever the forces or gods of creation held in store for him.
One thing he knew-even with the prospect of true death, he would never allow himself to be burned again. It was too great a pain to bear.
He turned his face from the past and from Persia. In the valley below was his future. He heaved his pack straps up a little higher and started down the gentle slope to the first of the Roman cities on the Persian borders.
Involuntarily, his back straightened up, his stride lengthening into the mile-eating tread of the professional soldier.
It was late the next evening when a knock on his door brought Goldman up from where he'd been lying on his bed, his jacket off, reading. He was still tired from convention activities but had been unable to sleep since. Grunting with the effort, he rose to answer the repeated knocking.
'Just a minute, I'm coming.'
He opened the door to find Landries standing in the hall, the manuscript in his hands. Without waiting to be invited inside, he entered and laid the story on the small found table in the corner of Goldman's suite. He helped himself to a glass of Goldman's Scotch and drank it down neat, making a slight face.
'That poor miserable bastard!'
Goldman agreed with Landries' statement. He had used the same description for Casca's predicament himself a couple of times in the past. Landries poured another.
'But what now, Julie? Where will he go next?'
Goldman picked up the manuscript and placed it inside his briefcase, smiling grimly at Landries.
'That's another story, Bob. Another story completely.'
