Barry Sadler: The Barbarian

He lay back then and slept, as his stomach dispersed the life-giving wetness throughout his body, feeding the cells and bringing back suppleness to dried tissue that had shrunk under the hammer of the sun. Two days he stayed by his miniature oasis, gathering his strength. At night, he found that if he stayed away from the hole for a while, other creatures would come to it, drawn by the smell of moisture in the night air. Rodents, lizards, snakes, and other vermin appeared. All were food and he wasted nothing. What he didn't eat was sliced into strips and put into the sun to dry. There wasn't much, but it was a great deal more than he had eaten for some time and would be enough, he hoped, to see him through.

He used much of his time squeezing his rag to fill his water skin, controlling the urge to drink it dry, and contenting himself with his damp rag. The water skin would be needed when he left, for he didn't know how long he would have to go before finding more. The mountains rose over him. They were stark, craggy, uneven piles of raw rock that reached to the clear desert heavens. They seemed like Hercules, carrying the weight of the world on their granite shoulders.

Four days he stayed by his hole until he knew it was time to leave. He was as strong as he would ever be with the lack of real food. If he waited too long the hole might run dry and the few animals that came would disappear, and then he would be back right where he started.

He waited for the dusk and once more began his trek across the wastelands of the Persian desert. But now, the mountains were his travel companions, and the wind that came from them in the night talked to him of lost caravans and vanished armies that had once followed this path. Some had made it, but most lay forgotten under the shifting, whispering dunes behind him. Their stories were covered by the ever-changing sands that each year claimed a little more of the arable lands, until one day they would reach clear to the sea.

Several days passed as he made his way along the boundary of the mountains heading west. He knew he would have to come out of the desert at some point; it could not be much further. He found small springs in the shelters of the crags, which kept his water skins filled. And… where he found water, he found food.

At one such lonely watering hole he found two horses grazing on the brush. A man, who Casca presumed had been their owner, lay facedown near the waterhole. Rolling the body over, the cause of death was evident. The man's face was swollen to half again its normal size, and there was a purple color from the poison that had been injected into his face through the two puncture marks on his cheek. Probably a desert snake, lying near the hole, had struck him while he'd been drinking. And, Casca figured, it hadn't been too long ago. The body showed no signs of decay yet and the horses looked to be in fair shape.

He dug a shallow grave and covered the body with stones. He said a general prayer for the man's sake to whatever gods there were in this place, and thanked him for the gift of the horses.

He rode out from the spot that night after checking the packs. There was little in them but the things a lonely traveler would need on the trail. There were new clothes for him, though, and packets of food to insure his reaching civilization with at least a minimum of comfort. He followed the trail back the way the man had come, moving easily, letting the swaying of the horse rock him into a light sleep as the miles were covered.

He felt a tingling up his spine on several occasions after the first two days. It was a tingle that says one is not alone, that eyes are watching.

But he never spotted anybody and put it down to nerves. But the feeling still lingered, and from time to time he thought that if he could just turn around fast enough, he would be able to catch sight of the watchers.

At night, he would search out crevices in the rocks in which to build his lonely camp. A small fire and saddle blankets provided him with all the creature comforts he needed. The distant yapping of a desert jackal would punctuate his thoughts, and the isolation became almost a friend. He gathered it around him as he did his saddle blankets, often spending long hours sitting on a rise looking out over the panorama of deserts and mountains. The wind was shifting and the cooler nights spoke of the end of summer. More frequently now, clouds would gather and let loose in the distance some of their jealously hoarded, life-giving rain. The few times it rained where he was, the Roman would raise his face to the drops, letting them clean the grit from his eyes and face, making no attempt to seek shelter.

There, standing on a ridge in the rain, overlooking the edge of the world, he felt as if he were the only man left in all creation. Would he in fact be that one day? Would he be all that was left of mankind? Or would the Jew claim him before that time came?

He shook the thoughts away; they were much too complicated for his mind. It would be better if he used his time to try and find out who had been following him. He was sure now. The feelings were just too strong. He knew they were out there somewhere.

That night Casca made camp in the open. He could not take shelter among the rocks because the trail he had been following had swung out some distance from them. The day had been long. He made a dry camp and contented himself with what was available. That night he sat close to the fire, made of dried horse droppings and dead twigs from the surrounding brush. His mind was drifting, but he tried to keep one ear cocked for any sound that wasn't natural. The fire and a half-full gut, though, soon lulled him into a nodding sleep. It was a sleep that ended in a flash of lights and pain as a thrown club smashed into the back of his head, sending him down into darkness.

As consciousness slowly returned, he wondered why the constellation of the Hunter whirled so rapidly in the heavens. It took a moment to shake his head free of the flashing, whirling lights and let it settle down into a deep throbbing, reminding him of several really bad hangovers he'd had over the years.

He got his first look at the new owners of his horses and property. They were two wild, scabby looking creatures with dark, weathered faces and coal-chip eyes that gave them the look of the Asian.

Small in size, their hair hanging in knotted masses to their waists, they grinned at him through black, gapped teeth that had been worn down almost to the gums from years of eating sand mixed in with their food. One was playing with Casca's sword while the other grinned a slant-eyed, death's-head leer at his trussed-up captive.

The smaller of the two gave him a kick and turned his attention to devouring everything remaining in the saddle bags that was edible. Their speech, if it could be called that, was mostly a series of grunts and gestures. They quickly got into an argument over the spoils, meager as they were, though to them it was a great treasure.

From the gestures they were making and the repeated looks in his direction, Casca figured that they were trying to decide what to do with him. One kept pointing to him and then to the small stack of silver and copper coins they had taken from his pack. The smaller of them obviously was trying to talk the other into selling him into slavery. His companion shook his head in the negative and made slashing movements with the short sword. The one holding his sword went to Casca, gave him a kick in the side, and pulled the Roman up to His feet by the hair, poking and jabbing him with the sword point. The other came over and the two were quickly involved in a game of tug of war over the sword.

Casca figured he'd better do something. The idea of being sold back into slavery didn't particularly appeal to him. He'd already, to his thinking, spent entirely too many years in that miserable condition and didn't look forward to a repeat performance.