Barry Sadler: The War lord

Stopping at the door, he listened for any sign of life inside. Hearing nothing, he carefully drew his sword and opened the massive doors engraved with stylized emblems of the fish and crucifix. Slipping in, he closed the door behind him facing the interior, a room of not more than forty feet wide but over two hundred feet long. The stones were polished smooth from the endless tread of bare feet and knees crawling over them in supplication to reach the sacred object enshrined over the carved wooden representation of Jesus crucified. The spear, no other ornamentation was there, only bare stones which seemed to amplify the pleadings of the loyal followers of Izram, the thirteenth disciple.

Walking as if hypnotized, he saw only the spear before him, drawing him like a magnet; here was the beginning and ending of his life. His sword grip grew sweaty in his right hand and the blade increased in weight with every step, the sound of his own heart beating drummed in his ears like thunder, his breath began to come in short gasps and his feet became as lead.

The spear drew him until after what seemed like an eternity, he stood before it. The face of the crucified Christ seemed to mock him. The brass spikes through the wrists made Casca's own wrists ache as if they too were nailed to the cross. Light from the torches bounced off the spearhead, revealing traces of blood still visible, having dried to a dark stain on the blade and shaft. The spear rested on a silver bracket over the Christ. Climbing the three steps, his left hand went out slowly and fearfully, reaching, his fingers shaking.

"My spear, almost three hundred years and it is here," his fingers touched the wooden shaft and like of old, they gripped the weapon and lifted it from the silver brackets, his eyes never leaving the blade. The shaft seemed to twist and squirm in his hand, or was it his own trembling that seemed to give the weapon a life of its own? Casca's lips formed one soundless word: "Mine."

A blinding flash of pain and darkness claimed him…

Elder Dacort stood over Casca's body and motioned the brother with the club to move back, and bending over, took the spear from the fingers of the killer of his God and reverently placed it back into the silver bracket.

Smiling to himself, the Elder Dacort had Casca carried from the sanctuary to a smaller room to the left of the main hall and laid him on the floor after first taking his weapon and placing it in a cupboard. He then sat and waited, his blood-flecked eyes never leaving the Roman's face.

Content to wait, for after all, they had waited for the last three centuries, what matter a few more moments. For three centuries they had been waiting at this, the only bastion of the true faith. Every stone had been made by the hands of the brotherhood. They knew their duty, to keep the true faith of God. Only a chosen few were recruited to take the place of those who died, either by infirmity, accident, age or were blessed enough to take the supreme part of the act of Golgotha.

Dacort stroked his thin beard with gnarled fingers, the nails worn down to the meat from the hours he had spent on his knees scrubbing the floors of the sanctuary. The Roman uniform was back in its place, waiting for the next holy day; now, like the others, he wore his robe of homespun rough brown wool.

Casca stirred. Elder Dacort clapped his hands and two brothers appeared dressed the same as he, " carrying a length of timber. They tied Casca's arms to it keeping them outstretched. Dacort would take no chances. The Roman heretic was dangerous and must not escape his punishment.

Casca awoke, his head throbbing, spots flashing before him, until his eyes finally focused upon the Elder smiling at him from his chair. Trying to rise, Casca fell back, noting for the first time that his arms were tied.

Dacort motioned for the two brothers to raise him to the kneeling position, one on each side, they obeyed. Almost gently, they placed Casca on his knees before the Elder. The elder rose. Standing gaunt and skeletal, his whole demeanor was that of a man with a sacred mission.

Pointing his finger at Casca, he said: "We have waited long for you to come, Casca Rufio Longinus."

Casca jerked.

"Yes, we know you and know you well. Through the ages you have been watched. When you slaved in the mines of Greece those long years, Brothers of the Lamb were there; when one died, another was sent to take his place. In the arena, the men who served your food were of our order, even on the benches of the warships of Rome we were there. We lost you for a time when your ship wrecked on the shores of Greece, but found you again in Parthia, lost yet again when you crossed the Rhine, but we knew you would return. Always we have waited and now, Praise the Lamb! You are here." Dacort's voice almost a whisper, he hissed: "You are the greatest defilement to ever exist, you are an abomination, but you are the road that leads to God. Jesus said to you

… As I go now to my father you must one day come to me… you are the trail that will lead one day to the coming of the Messiah and we shall be there with you. We know you, Casca Longinus, better than you know yourself. We will not try to kill you after all; we both know it would be useless and neither shall we confine you, for how else can you lead us to Jesus?"

"No, spawn of Baal, you must go free, but you shall be punished. You dared to touch the most sacred relic with your filthy hand. You performed the sacrilege and as the word says,"… if thine eye offends thee, cast it out…” surely that must also apply to other portions of the body."

The hatred in Dacort's voice washed over him: "Thy hand offends me!"

Swifter than Casca would have believed the elder capable of moving, he saw the flash of an axe come from the elder's robes and cold burning as the blade of the axe sunk into the wood of the cross beam. There was a dull thump and Casca looked down to see his hand lying in front of him on the stone floor, draining. Then the pain began and Casca screamed as the stump of his wrist was washed in the flames of a torch held by one of the brothers, the smell of his own cooking flesh, clotted in his nostrils and the dark took him once more, mercifully.

The Brothers of the Lamb tossed Casca's unconscious body on the rocks, tying his horse to the brush nearby. A fly walked over his eyelids, sucking up the salt moisture that had collected there and then, satisfied, flew off.

Elder Dacort stood alone, looking down at what to him was the vilest piece of filth the world had ever known. Reaching into a pocket from under his robes, he withdrew the claw-like stump of Casca's hand. Throwing it to the ground, he spat upon Casca's unconscious body.

Dacort walked slowly down the hillside, his sandals kicking up small clouds of dust, his head bowed and hands folded together, and prayed.

Casca woke to the throbbing in his wrist. Squirming he tried to fight his way back to awareness. The pain burned and spread up his arm.

"I can't move… why can't I move?"

A jolt brought his eyes open. He was tied to the saddle of his horse. In front, the small wiry form of Jugotai was leading the horse. Casca tried to take the reins in his left hand and felt awkward when he felt the fingers move, but nothing happened. Looking down, the sight of the seared stump brought it all back.

"Those bastards have cut my hand off!"

Indignation followed by anger which faded as another jolt bumped his stump against the side of the horse brought an involuntary groan. Jugotai's head turned.

Stopping the horses, Jugotai unstrapped Casca and eased him to the ground, taking his own jacket of goatskin, he made a pillow for the Roman's head and laid him down. Taking his skin of water, he washed Casca's face and let a few drops fall into the mouth slowly; too much water when a man has been wounded could make him worse… this his father had told him.