Barry Sadler: The War lord

The long ride from the heartland of the Empire of Tzin to the Great Wall was, even with the best of mounts the empire could offer, tedious. Everywhere the seal of the king was obeyed without question. Before the seal governors of provinces would bow low and perform obeisance, hissing between their teeth. As the Son of Heaven commanded, so it would be done. Casca was given the best of all the land had to offer. Sewn into the linings of his robes were two bags; one of gold, the other of jewels, the Emperor's parting gift to his loyal friend. In those small bags was enough wealth to last an ordinary man a lifetime. Feeling the bag of gems bounce against his leg he wondered, "A normal man a lifetime, but for me how long?"

Villages and cities became fewer as he neared the frontier until only the armed garrison outposts of the empire were to be found. The Wall stretching out as far as the eye could see and beyond, past the horizon, over mountains and-through valleys. In comparison, Hadrian's Great Wall in Britannia was the effort of a child. Winding his way through the rocky passes and gorges between twisted pines and brush, he came to what the people of Khitai believed to be the end of the civilized world. Beyond the wall was only terror and man-beasts who preyed on their own, brutes less than human.

Casca approached the garrison where there were two thousand men whose job it was to watch the wall and patrol its length until they joined the next garrison to the east of them and the west. They would stay on the wall two years and then be replaced by others. The wall, like many of the minds of Khitai, seemed to be the barrier between good and evil, culture and barbarism.

Sung Mi Hsiung, Commander of the Garrison of The Jade Gate welcomed his guest, anxious to serve and honor the friend of the Son of Heaven, but Casca was driven by an inexplicable urgency. With a fresh mount-Hsiung's own horse-the gate was unbarred and he stepped forth. The great plains were empty. For a thousand and more leagues there were no men. The eastern Huns had been destroyed in their last great battle with Casca and the Emperor. The remnants of the tribes were only a few sad nomadic villages that tried to keep as much distance between the Land of the Han and themselves as was possible; some had gone so far as the Land of Eternal Ice.

Kicking his steed in the flanks, Casca rode first at a trot, then a gallop and at last a run, spurring the bay gelding on, racing onto the plains until only common sense made him stop, else the animal's heart would surely burst from the strain.

The sun was beginning its period when the golden chariot would be given rest and Apollo would sleep until the dawn. The West. Where were the rest of the Huns? For many years there had been a trickle of them to the edges of the empire. Some were hired as mercenaries by the Emperor of Rome, but where were the rest of the hoards?

The sun set red and huge, laying a rose-colored glow over the land bathing the endless prairies stretched before him. Somewhere out there… they are out there and have only one way to go. What was the saying, 'all roads lead to Rome." They will come one day-the Huns will come by the thousands and the tens of thousands-they will come and Rome will cry.

The last red glow of the sun slid off the plumed and lacquered helmet of the Baron of Khitai, conqueror of the Eastern Huns, defender of the Peacock Throne. The blackness set in as the last rays faded on the man riding west.

Darkness covered the scar-faced, blue-eyed Roman… CASCA, THE WAR LORD.

Goldman snapped out of it. Once more he had that feeling of being drained. Without looking, he knew that Casca had gone.

"God dammit, won't that bastard ever hang around long enough to answer a few questions?"

With a trembling hand, he poured himself a large shot of Jack Daniels Sour Mash Bourbon and swallowed the hot sweet whiskey, letting it settle into his stomach. The book of Machiavelli lay open on the table. Picking it up, he put it back into its place, on the shelf. Pouring another drink, he sat in the overstuffed leather chair and raised the glass in a toast.

"Here's to you, you miserable bastard… wherever you are."

He walked with the tread of a man infinitely weary… a taxi came by from dropping off a couple of late night party-goers and stopped for the man on the street-might as well get one last fare before heading to the barn.

Casca settled himself into the seat, huddled in his rain coat.

"Where to buddy?" The hack pushed down the meters.

"The waterfront, Pier Eleven. A ship called the Hiroshi Maru sails in an hour. Can you make it?"

"No sweat. We still got an hour before the morning rush starts."

The taxi splashed through a puddle of rain as it turned the corner.