Barry Sadler: The Eternal Mercenary

Tonight, when he stood guard at Herod's palace, he would look striking in his new cloak and cuirass — chest armor. He had just bought a new set off a recruit whose rich merchant father had made a payoff and had gotten his darling child out of such rough company after the silly shit got drunk and enlisted. Casca had helped the boy a time or two, so the youngster let him have the cloak and armor for next to nothing-which was about how much money Casca normally had, unless he did a little moonlighting now and then as bouncer at several of the local wine shops.

The legion didn't think much of Herod, but if things went well tonight, Casca could leave the palace with a few extra shekels. Herod was known to be a big spender and to tip well. Casca's squad had the early duty. They should be relieved before the party got really rolling and everyone got stoned. That was the time to get out. The new guard mount would have their hands full trying to keep the noble ladies from ripping their armor off and screwing them right there. That was no place to be if you had any sense at all. The legion commander would flay the skin from the back of any of his men who let themselves be compromised. That old fart had about as much compassion and sense of humor as a pit viper with hemorrhoids.

Casca was after safer game tonight. That hot little dancer from Armenia had promised to dance for him alone after she got off from work. The memory of her flashing body whirling faster and faster as her stomach sucked in and out… undulating and twisting… her breasts set high and glistening with sweat and perfumed oil… made him almost drunk with anticipation. Tonight's the night… He hummed a familiar popular song to himself. The only fly in the ointment was Sporus, his squad leader. That tough old fart had the hots for the little dancer, too, and had been paying part of her rent. But what the old boy didn't know couldn't hurt; Sporus would be sergeant of the guard for the late shift tonight while Casca was sampling the wares of that luscious little she savage.

The guard mount began making its way up to the hill upon which the palace of Herod was built. As they left behind the narrow streets of Jerusalem, the smell of food cooking in the palace wafted over the dusky air, making their mouths water. After enduring the less-than-exciting menu of their company cook-boiled barley and rye and stewed pig did little for the taste buds, but it was filling, and where so many starved that was not a small thing- they anticipated the rich food of the palace banquet as though it were the fare of the gods.

And yet…

As the unit marched up past the villas of the rich and titled, disturbing thoughts nibbled at Casca's mind. Here were the lavish estates… with gardens… and many slaves to keep away anything unpleasant. For the rich, it was the best of all lives. Anything could be had if you could pay. Women, slaves, palaces, power were all on the auction block to go to the highest bidder. For the poor soldier, none of these things. Unless…

There was always the hope of war taking place, in which case the soldier's lot could be loot and spoils. One lucky break, and a man could be set up for life. That's all it took, one lucky break. Until then…

Oh, the hell with it. Wonder what Herod's palace is like inside?

Casca was properly impressed. One hell of a place to stand guard duty…

This palace of Herod Antipas was all that the mind of an Asian despot with almost unlimited wealth could wish for. The richness of the decorations and the brilliance of the dress of Herod and his guests made the few Romans present look lackluster and dull by comparison, for the Roman evening dress could in no way equal the splendor of Herod's finery-or even that of his personal guards. His bodyguards were all dressed in matched sets of armor, the expensive brass fish-scale kind that looked like liquid gold when they moved. Their helmets were of steel, with a chain-mail mesh of brass covering the back of the neck and the shoulders. Damn prettyboy types. They were all mercenaries from Greece. Herod was shrewd enough to understand the degree of affection in which he was held by the indigenous populace; as foreigners, the Greek mercenaries would give their loyalty directly to him.

Envious of the Greeks, Casca waited out the time.

The entertainment progressed through the evening. Jugglers and clowns performed through the first eight courses of food. As the evening wore on and the wine took effect, several of the guests made use of the vomitorium, some because they were sick, others to empty their stomachs so that they could eat more. The tempo picked up. Performers from Numidia and Egypt danced; they seemed more insane beings than dancers as their oiled bodies writhed over the marble floor and twisted into the semblance of monster serpents with human features. Casca and his troop stood firm, trying not to be too obvious in their distaste for the parasites and sycophants for whom this gaudy display was intended. The troopers were legionnaires. They would maintain their proper attitudes, reflecting the discipline of the Roman army. Damn all civilians.

The time approached for the relief to come on duty, and Casca sighed mentally, impatient for his relief. He was ready. A hot spot from the rigid attention position had settled into a burning throb just below his left shoulder blade. That, along with that bitch niece of Herod's, was beginning to make things a little tough for him. The niece, Salome, had been in there showing the guests how to really dance. One thing about her, she could throw that ass around faster than anything he had ever seen… and then pull her stomach in until it looked like her navel was going to rub up against her spine. Casca could feel the pressure building in him. Tonight, he promised himself, that little Armeman of Sporus's I've got lined up is going to get more than she bargained for… Damn. He was about to burst with frustration.

Damned right. That Salome slut is one hot piece of goods… and she is driving Herod crazy. The fat fart was on his knees, begging her to lay with him. Said he'd make her a queen. The fool actually slobbered in frustrated passion. That bitch had her hooks in the old boy, but good. During one part of her dance she had used Casca as a support to twine herself around-and also to aggravate Herod. She had rubbed up against Casca, trying to get some reaction out of him. Casca felt a certain degree of satisfaction out of his maintaining his cool so well under duress,

Casca would have felt a lot more satisfied with himself if Salome hadn't snuck a feel on him and found out exactly how much she had worked him up. That slut was an accident waiting to happen, and Casca was glad to be getting out of there before the party got real rough. You could feel that it was going to get worse before it got better.

Good! Here comes the relief. The changing of the guard mount took only a moment, and Casca, as assistant squad leader, formed up his troops and took them out as rapidly as possible. Now for that little Armenian dancer.

The night was in full swing by the time Casca had been released from duty for the rest of the evening. Although Verianus, Sporus's assistant, had warned him about messing around with the Sarge's girl, Casca paid no heed. After what Salome had done to him he was not about to let something like Sporus's hurt feelings interfere with his getting some of that good Armenian pussy. That luscious thing had one of the prettiest heart-shaped asses he had ever seen…

The tavern was crowded with a blending of the humanity to be found in this region… legionnaires from around the world… merchants from Asia Minor… and even some of the desert dwellers with their flowing robes and wrapped headdresses. The Arabians gave the Roman Casca an unfriendly glare, but they were smart enough not to start anything. The Tenth Legion had a reputation for kicking ass and killing, a reputation that was well-deserved. The troopers of the Tenth were all around about as tough a group of men as you could hope to have in any army. Most of them were tough guys and troublemakers who had been shipped out here to get them out of their original outfits.