Barry Sadler: The War lord

Thus, Casca was buried.

The procession re-formed itself and left quietly with dignity. The Lady Li Tsao being well-pleased made a mental note to use the same mourners when the Emperor died. Calling her attendant, she asked to which guild they belonged.

Casca awoke, the effects of the opiate having worn off; most men would have been unconscious for at least a full day and night. The procession had not yet reached the outskirts of the sacred city when the terror came over him. Unable to move his arms, the darkness enveloped him like some horrible placenta.

"No!" he screamed through muffled lips. "No!"

The terror of being buried alive washed over him. The same desperate fear he had felt as a slave in the mines of Greece returned. To be buried alive, unable to die. How long would the darkness last… one year… five… a hundred or for eternity?

He cried out through his gag, his mouth working at the bindings. He beat his head against the silken pillows in anguish. "Alive, the bitch has buried me alive." The horror settled on him giving vent to an icy chill that came from the surface of his skin, deep into his bones. "Alive, for how long? How can I find the Jew if I'm buried here forever." Casca's efforts to free himself slackened. He felt heavy, his arms and legs like lead appendages, his chest aching for air. The darkness came again, his eyes closed once more and the deep chill faded. Casca was still, his body unmoving. Then a tiny movement in the great vein of his neck. Minutes passed… then another quick twitch of the large vein. Once every twenty minutes his pulse beat and every forty minutes his chest would move slowly, taking a shallow breath. His system came to an almost complete halt. Like the great bears of the ice mountains, Casca slept.

The years passed, the business of the kingdom went on, babes were born, old men died and wars were fought. Occasionally a bundle of fresh incense would be lit at his grave by one with whom he had soldiered. Bowls of rice to feed his spirit were set with honor. The birds and rats appreciated the offerings. Occasionally one of the great plates of the earth shifted and tremors came to the surface as minor quakes, not severe or uncommon in this land. To the peasant, this was accepted like the seasons — some were good and some were bad-but all were part of their life.

Casca's tomb cracked open at the north seam, let-, ting in a tiny amount of air; not much, but enough for the sleeping one inside. With the crack came others. Smaller vermin and insects made homes in the robes of silk, families grew in the beard and chest hair of the sleeper. His hair still grew and in the growth were many colonies of worms, seeking the warmer spots in his armpits a small family of vipers chose the place between his crotch for their own. The insects and a minute amount of moisture weakened the fabric of the robes and bindings until finally, a great rat made his way in after gnawing for days at the crack. The rodent walked up and down the length of Casca carefully to avoid the snakes and after satisfying himself, took a bite out of Casca's big toe but immediately began to eat dirt and run his mouth and tongue over the ground trying to get the taste out. This was a large piece of meat and the rat prided himself on being able to eat anything, but not this-to eat this was death. In frustrated hunger, the rat nibbled and chewed the silk bindings away from Casca's arms and while trying to digest his silk meal, became a meal himself for a family of snakes in the sleeper's crotch.

The seasons came and went in their time. The sleeper in his bed of stone was unaware of the years passing. Only the endless weaving of the brown spider marked the passage of the years as she spun a gossamer web over the still form of the sleeping man, covering him from head to feet in a delicate pattern of webs in which she trapped smaller insects to feed her brood. When she died, others took her place, spinning their own silken threads until the sleeper appeared to be more of a giant embryonic larva waiting in his cocoon for time to hatch. Beneath the rocks, the earth periodically shifted and shuffled, causing tremors on the surface. The year's frost killed the blossoming cherry tree buds by the hillside and for another three weeks, the branches were bare, but spring finally came, as she must. The winds blew gently over the grass and the peasants in the fields labored planting; their backs bent early from constant stooping as they painstakingly strived to make the earth produce the necessities for their existence.

The planting of the peasants was broken by the sound of a bell ringing. They stopped, turning their heads to the sound from the hillside. A figure made its way down to the field, a staff in one hand, and in the other, a bell of bronze which he rang with every other step. An unintelligible chanting issued from the scarecrow caricature that came closer into view;. a foreigner and one touched by the gods, obviously mad and therefore blessed.

The peasants waited, their faces in the shadows of the woven straw conical-shaped hats worn by men and women alike, their legs encrusted with dried mud to above the knees. They waited to see what the stranger wanted.

"Peace and the blessing of the Messiah on you," spoke the stranger in Chinese. "Praise God, you heathen, for I bring to you the greatest gift of the world; the word of the living God and salvation awaits those who will listen and heed. Bow your heads you heathen dogs." The mad man pointed one gnarled finger at Wing Sung, the man in whose fields the others toiled: "Down you slant-eyed barbarian and I shall save your soul, though I don't know why the Lord has placed this burden on me." His voice rose to a moderate bellow: "Down!"

Startled, Wing Sung obeyed. After all one never knew about these mad monks who wandered the earth, for did not Buddha do much the same? It was considered unwise to offend those the gods had touched and unlucky, especially during the seasons of planting when all luck is needed. If he's just a madman, we will stone him to death later; for now, it's best to play it safe.

Wing Sung's laborers followed his action. All bowed low from the waist, wondering what was going to happen next.

The madman strode toward them, his clothes a nondescript mixture of castoff items from a dozen tribes; though just which, by this time, none could tell. His beard reached to his waist and a look of blind fanaticism was clear in his red-rimmed eyes.

"I am Peter. I have come to you at the bidding of the Lord Jesus Christ, for in my dreams he commanded me to go forth and save souls of those who have not heard his words. Fifteen years I have wandered and preached the gospel to the benighted heathen and always the Lord has provided, though not as well as I would have liked sometimes-indeed, I have lost more pounds than I started with, but I am well enough and if the Lord chooses to test me, who am I to Question Him?" The question was as much to himself as to anyone else and as it did not require an answer, he continued, "Now, you sloe-eyed idol worshippers, you are in luck today, because today and today only, I am going to bring to some salvation and eternal life in paradise. Those of you who are so ignorant as not to recognize the truth of my words will just have to go to Hell and that's fine with me. I will have given you a chance and it's your tough luck if you pass it up."

Wing Sung peered up through the epicanthic folds of his eyes. "Are you from the lands to the west?" he queried, still not certain if the stranger was blessed or just nuts.

"Indeed I am, you poor miserable idolater. I have come from a land called Dacia. There I heard the words of the Gospel and knew I was to bring the Lord's word to all within range of my voice," his eyes flashed as he recalled his own salvation, "I learned your tongue while living with a tribe of nomads in the great desert where I saved many souls for the Lord. Now, which of you wishes to be saved first? Step forward, don't be bashful. I don't have all day you know."