Barry Sadler - Casca 06 - The Persian.pdf - Barry Sadler - widez2

CASCA 06:

THE PERSIAN

BARRY SADLER

CONTENTS

ONE .6

TWO ..12

THREE .17

FOUR ..25

FIVE .28

SIX ..30

SEVEN ..33

EIGHT ..42

NINE .44

TEN ..46

ELEVEN ..49

TWELVE .53

THIRTEEN ..59

FOURTEEN ..64

FIFTEEN ..67

SIXTEEN ..72

SEVENTEEN ..74

PROLOGUE

Julius Goldman wandered among the booths and stands of the purveyors of medical supplies and goods.

Stethoscopes and enema kits mingled with the latest in medical technology, while ma-chines that could

represent a three-dimensional scan of the human body were displayed alongside films demonstrating the

use of laser beams to seal off tiny bleeders in the eyes.

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This annual gathering of the American Medical Association was always interesting and exciting to him.

He knew many of those present and a lot of them were close colleagues, but Goldman's eyes were

searching for one face in particular.

He finally found him in the maze of booths and slick presentations. He was leaning over the coun-ter of

one of the booths talking to one of the bright-faced, pretty young girls, hired to attract the attentions of

the doctors to a particular booth.

Goldman worked his way through the crowd and touched the man he'd been looking for on the

shoulder.

"Doctor Landries?"

The former Army colonel, and Goldman's onetime commanding officer, turned around. He was still

tanned and lean, extraordinarily healthy look-ing. His hair was thinner now and completely sil-ver, but his

eyes and manner were quick and sure as ever; so was his grasp of Goldman's hand in a sincere display of

pleasure at seeing his old com-rade again. He laughed pleasantly.

"Goldman! The Hebraic hero of the Eighth Field Hospital, and terror of all nurses. How in the hell are

you, son?"

He took Goldman's arm, completely forgetting the sweet young thing he'd been talking to. She was

pouting a bit now, Goldman could see, at losing the attention of Bob Landries, but another, younger

neurosurgeon was moving in to replace him.

He guided Goldman out of the convention cen-ter and they boarded one of the buses that made regular

runs to the hotels servicing the center.

Goldman was genuinely happy at seeing his friend again. It had been a long time. Landries ran his hand

through his thinning hair and looked out the window of the bus, watching the streets of At-lanta pass by

as they pulled on to Peach tree, head-ing to the downtown area.

"Have you heard any more about our mutual friend?"

Goldman knew who Landries was talking about. He smoothed down the vest of his conservative

three-piece pinstripe suit, a little uncomfortable at the tightness of the vest at the midriff. He would have

to lose some weight.

"Yes!" He started to continue but Landries stopped him.

"Wait until we get to the hotel. We'll settle down with a drink and talk. I always have a need for one

when the name of Casey Romain comes up."

Goldman agreed and the two talked of things doctors talk about: new techniques, prices for ser-vices,

and, naturally, the good old days when they were some years younger.

Landries was seven years Goldman's senior, but looked about the same age, with his tanned face and

lean body. He'd always been an exercise nut, Goldman remembered, feeling a little guilty at let-ting

himself go to pot over the past few years. After looking at his old boss he made himself a promise

—knowing he more than likely would not keep it— that he would try and put himself back into shape.

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Taking their turn, they exited the bus and en-tered the air-conditioned enclosure of the hotel. It was a

modern inn with elevators of glass chutes and an open-air restaurant and lounge in the lob-by. They

found a table with a degree of privacy beside an indoor pond where goldfish swam with studied

unconcern.

Drinks were ordered. Landries, as usual, had a double Blackjack and water; Goldman ordered Scotch

and soda. The two men waited until their drinks were served and their waitress with the air-line smile had

left them before they commenced talking about that which both knew was the main reason for their

meeting.

Goldman began first, after taking a sip of his drink.

"Casca ... or Casey, as you and I knew him..."

The names called to Landries' memory the time they'd first met the man Romain, who'd been brought to

them as a casualty in Vietnam. Gold-man continued his story, and Bob Landries was slightly envious that

Casca had chosen Goldman to tell his story to. But then Goldman had been the one who'd spotted the

strange healing process of a wound that should have been fatal, and had heard the beginnings of the

weird tale of the man who'd killed Jesus at Golgotha, and of the punishment that Jesus had given him. To

wander the earth un-able to die until the Second Coming, forever a sol-dier—condemned to a life of

endless wandering and war. He smiled a little, recalling how he and Goldman had had the man's medical

records de-stroyed after Casca, or Casey, had disappeared from the hospital. No one would have

believed them.

A few years after the Vietnam debacle had ended, their patient had shown up at Goldman's house and

begun telling him the full story of his odyssey through the ages. He had the power to take Goldman into

his life and enable him to expe-rience all that he had done. Since then, Goldman had developed a

compulsion to put down the words and story of Casca Rufio Longinus, soldier of Imperial Rome, whose

travels and adventures over the face of the earth made the journey of Ulysses seem no more than a mild

weekend ex-cursion in the country.

Landries half emptied his glass and called for an-other. He coughed, clearing his throat.

"I suppose the reason you came to this gathering of the entire medical world is that you've had an-other

visit from our friend?"

Goldman nodded his head in the affirmative. "Yes, and I have the story in my room. Do you want to

read it?"

Landries gave a short laugh, almost a snort.

"That is a dumb question, Goldman. You know that I would travel halfway around the world to read his

story. But doesn't it exhaust you to be the sounding board for him? How can you stand living through all

his pain, his suffering and disappoint-ments?"

Goldman shook his head. "I don't know, but I have to finish what we started. It's like being hooked on

drugs. I have to complete it, and the worst of it is, I know that I never will. He has out-lived the Roman

Empire, the Persian and British Empires and I see no indicator that he will not out-live the both of

us—that is, unless the Second Com-ing of Christ arrives sooner than we expect." Meet-ing Casca had

left Goldman with a few questions. He was fast doubting the teachings of his faith about Jesus not being

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the Son of God. He contin-ued.

"Let's finish these and go up to my room. I'll give you the manuscript to take back to your own room and

read."

Landries agreed and paid their tab. They took one of the glass-cocooned elevators up to Goldman's

room. Inside, Goldman handed the manuscript to Landries and they returned to the lobby. He escorted

Landries to the doorway, where the heat of the Atlanta streets was being restrained outside.

Landries was anxious to get started on the read-ing of the next story of Casca and asked Goldman,

"Where is he this time?"

Goldman smiled. "Be patient, Bob. After all, Casca has been patient for years, hasn't he?"

Landries agreed, and after he'd made Goldman promise to mail him all the manuscripts from there on,

they shook hands and said goodbye.

Landries exited the hotel into the midday heat, hailing a cab to return him to his own hotel. He didn't feel

like waiting for the buses that came by every thirty minutes. He had to get back, relax, and see what had

happened to Casca.

In the cab, and in spite of himself, he opened the manuscript and peeked at the cover to see the title.

Perhaps it would give him a clue as to Casca's loca-tion in this particular segment of his history. His eyes

fell upon it—

CASCA, The Persian. . . .

ONE

Hot, boiling, shimmering, the sun broke over the rim of the world, sending spears of flaming light across

the clear skies of the high steppes. By mid-day it would be hot enough to cook a brain in its own pan.

But for now there was still enough chill left over from the night air to make the breath of the horse and its

rider visible in the small clouds of vapor that were whisked away by the freshening morning breeze.

That cool breeze would soon change into a moisture-sucking blast furnace. Before then, the man and his

horse would have to find shelter, as had the snakes and lizards. Shelter from the killing rays of the

life-giving and-taking sun of high Asia.

To the west, the lifeless, barren, sky-reaching peaks known as the roof of the world, with their eternal

caps of ice and gale-swept snow, seemed terribly distant and aloof from the sufferings of those who

ventured to cross the desolate wastes of the desert in its shadow.

The rider raised his eyes, red-rimmed and sore from the ever-present grains of sand that invaded every

pore and opening of his body, and even the food he ate. He understood now why the men of this region's

tribes nearly always had their teeth worn down to stubs before their beards turned gray.

There was sand in everything they ate from the time of their birth to their death. Every day the grit

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ground their teeth down a little more until there was nothing left but smooth stubs resting against the gums.

The thought of it made his own teeth ache.

His horse stumbled, then caught itself on wobbly legs. It scarcely resembled the fine-blooded,

pam-pered animal it had been when Sung mi Hsiung, the commander of the garrison at the Jade Gate,

had given it to him. Its rider was scarcely in any better condition. His posture told of the weary, lonely

miles they had come. He doubted that if he tried to trade in the animal right now, he could re-ceive even

a couple of sick goats in exchange.

But they had come far from the wall that runs forever. He had chosen not to take the Suget pass trail

back to the Capital of Kushan on the banks of the Indus. No, this time he followed the silk road, but now

was the wrong time for such a crossing. The last two waterholes had been dry; even when he dug down

a depth of several feet he could find no trace of moisture.

The rider raised his eyes to the sky, the pale blue of them almost washed out by the gray of the dawn.

Deep lines crinkled at the edges of them gave him a slightly Oriental look. From a distance, he could have

passed for a nomadic tribesman as the skin that was exposed was as dark as a mongol's.

Nowhere had he heard such silence as that of this region of the great wastes, where it was said, made on

the winds was the howling of the lost souls, as dunes of sand were shifted from one spot to another, one

grain at a time. For months, that was the only sign of movement until the wind de-mons came in their full

fury. The force of the wind, carrying the sand with it in sky-darkening clouds, would strip the flesh from a

man's body in a few minutes and leave nothing but bare bones and rags as silent testimony to the

vengeance of the wind demons.

The lands of Chin lay a thousand and more miles behind him. He had lived there longer than he had in

any other place in his life and felt as if he were leaving a part of him behind. But his own personal demon

was driving him, back to the land of his birth, back to Rome.

For all of his life, he had thought that Rome was the center of the world and the only real barrier against

the hordes of barbarism. But in the lands behind the Great Wall, he had found out that in comparison to

the culture and refinements of Chin, Rome itself was only a few steps ahead of the barbarians. Still, Rome

was the place of his birth and sometimes, no matter how a man may have been treated, he has to go

back to his source. He was still Casca Rufio Longinus, a soldier and sometimes even a slave of the

Empire.

Ahead of him, he knew, still lay the lands of Sogdiana and Parthia, which he would have to pass through

before reaching the first of the Roman cominions. Parthia! It still held a bitter taste for him. He had

fought there under the Eagles of Avidius Cassius and participated in the sacking of the city of

Cestiphon—where forty-five thousand had died in one day.

Pulling his horse to a stop, he dismounted, took the reins, and led the animal to a cluster of tall brush and

withered, leafless trees. There he care-fully doled out a slim measure of his precious water supply to wipe

the muzzle and moisten the delicate membranes of the horse's nostrils to keep them from bleeding. A

handful for the horse to taste, and he licked the remaining moisture from his own fingers, careful to waste

nothing. Taking what had once been a fine cloak of red silk, he spread it over the branches of the

withered trees to make a sheltered spot to protect them from the sun that would soon be over them.

Placing the horse where he could have some ben-efit from their meager shelter, he stripped down to the

skin in order to shake out his tunic and the loose trousers he wore. His body was crisscrossed with

uncounted scars of various degrees of severity. Some he had received as a slave in the war galleys of

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Barry Sadler - Casca 06 - The Persian.pdf

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