Casca 9: The Sentinel (16 page)

The guard took a quick look left and right down the street to make sure there was no one out to tell of this later; then he moved quickly to what he thought was the body. Reaching over to remove the bracelets from the wrists of the corpse, he felt a hand grasping his own wrist, holding it in a vise, as a weak trembling voice came from the dead man: "Help me, please."

The guard tried to pull away, standing back up. As he did, he pulled the plague victim to his feet with him. The weight of the sick man leaned against him, forcing him back against the gate. The guard tried to move his hand to where he could draw his sword, but the power of the diseased man's grip threatened to break his wrist. The two stumbled against the gate, and the guard called for his friend inside to come and help him.

"Get this crazy son of a bitch off me! Kill him!"

There was no need to ask his comrade to come out; Casca was ready to go in. He stuck his sword blade in the small opening remaining in the gate to prevent it from being closed. He shifted his grip from the wrist to the throat, placing the thumb down low on the esophagus, the fingers sinking deep into the thick muscles of the broad strip of meat that ran from the base of the head to the shoulder. Twisting, he forced the man's head back into an off angle, forcing the sentry's body around until it lost balance, forcing him to his knees, where his face met the knee of the man he had come to rob. Casca dropped him and hit the door with his shoulder, forcing it open, driving back the man who was holding it.

He shouldered his way through, one hand grabbing the guard's throat to choke off any outcry, the other driving the sword into the belly between the scaled plates of armor, entering the large artery running along the spine. He let the body drop to drain on the earth.

He was inside. Now to find someone who could tell him where his woman and child were being held. Then he would tend to Brother Gregory. Gregory's palace was of two stories, surrounding a central park with fountains and Greek statuary. Twice he heard the voices of sentries patrolling the grounds in pairs. Laying low in decorative bushes, he let them pass.

Moving to a window that had been left open to allow the night air to circulate, he climbed over a low balustrade and dropped down to a long hall, wishing he knew more about the layout of the house. But if it went according to plan, the master's rooms would be on the second floor, where he could take advantage of the night breeze, with his aide or secretary in a room close to him. That's where he would go: the second floor.

Staying close to the walls, he tried to blend in with the shadows in the darkened interior of the palace. At junctions, there were lamps of oil swinging from censures overhead, but not many. The master was a frugal person, and oil was expensive.

He paused at each door, listened, and moved on to the next. At the room next to the end of the hallway, a rustle came through the carved oak door. He waited, trying to hold down the pounding of his heart in his ears. He wondered where the rest of the household guards were. There had to be more of them around than he had seen.

Gingerly, he tried the latch. To his relief, it turned easily. Holding his breath, he opened it enough to permit entry and slid sideways inside, sword to the front. Nothing other than the thin grumbling of someone in a troubled sleep reached his ears.

Silently, he moved into the interior of the room. A light breeze rustled curtains by an open window, letting a dim glow seep through to cast a pale light by which he saw a figure in sleep on the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes, knees drawn up nearly to the chest. He moved closer, careful to make no sound to wake the sleeper before he was ready. He looked down on the face of the fair-haired man. Timoteus rolled over to his side, straightened his legs, and mumbled in his sleep. Casca hoped he was having an unpleasant dream so that what was going to happen to him in the next few minutes might not prove to be too much of a shock.

He exchanged his sword for the dagger. It was handier when working in close, though he knew it was unlikely that he would need it to handle the sleeper. His hands were able to do the job, with the strength in the fingers that grasped the oars of a slave galley for longer than this sleeper had lived.

One hand covered Timoteus's throat. Casca squeezed; it was a gentle squeeze, but it was enough that no sound could issue from the sleeper's mouth when his eyes opened and tried to focus in terror, not really certain that he wasn't still dreaming. If this wasn't a nightmare, it deserved to be one, especially when he caught a look at the face of the man holding him pinned to his bed.

Casca eased the pressure on the throat. He didn't want Timoteus to pass out. Moving his grip so that he had a thick finger dug into the tender nerves under the ear, he whispered, "Your name?"

Timoteus started to call for help, but a warning squeeze that threatened to crush the cartilage of his throat made him think better of it. He changed in mid
-voice from a would-be yell to a thin, tiny whisper. "Timoteus, secretary to the-"

Casca was pleased at the answer. He jerked the man out of his bed.

Timoteus nearly screamed when his face hit the floor. A crushing weight on his spine and the point of a dagger at his throat reminded him that he wasn't to make any noise.

He couldn't see his attacker, but after the first question, he had no doubt about
who it was.

"Where are my son and wife?" the voice hissed. "Tell me the truth and live. Lie to me, and I'll rip your heart out."

Timoteus tried to answer but found that his throat had suddenly gone as dry as the desert. Desperately, he tried to salivate. This was assisted when the point of the dagger sunk an eighth of an inch into the flesh behind his ear.

Bleatingly, he came to a decision. "You promise that you'll let me live if I tell you the truth?" he whined.

Casca cursed him and agreed to the terms. “Tell me where they are and you'll live. This I promise."

Timoteus held his breath a moment, trying to figure out the best way to tell the story. "Remember," he wheedled, "you promised."

Impatient, Casca prodded him with the point of the dagger. "Keep stalling much longer and you won't live long enough to keep your end of our bargain. Tell me now!"

The acolyte realized that he had no choice in the matter and was convinced that if he lied, he would die. "Your woman is in a room to the rear of the master's. There is no way to reach her without going through his chambers first. She is unharmed."

Casca prodded him again. "And my son; where is he?"

He took longer to answer this, but the feel of blood running down the back of his neck from his punctured mastoid made his mind up for him. "He is dead." Spurting the words in a rush, he blurted, "The Elder killed him to see if he was the same as you, to see if he would truly die."

Pain struck Casca's chest, stopping the beat of his heart as the shock of the words took effect. The blood drained from his face, leaving him cold inside. He pushed the point of the dagger in a bit farther, resisting the urge to rip open his prisoner's neck. "Do you mean that Gregory has killed my son, or did one of you pieces of shit do it?"

Timoteus squealed in terror. "It was Gregory. I swear by the sacred blood of Jesus, it was Gregory who killed him. No one else touched the boy."

The cherubic face of Demos swam before his eyes, the bright smile and soft gentle lips of his child.

He rolled him over to look at the man's eyes. The hate in his voice came from deep inside his chest, exhaled with his every breath. "You have killed my son for no reason!"

Timoteus saw his death in Casca's eyes as the dagger was raised over him.

Tears burst from his eyes as he sobbed out, "You promised I wouldn't die. You promised me if I told the truth, you would let me live."

Casca cut off his protests with a death grip around his throat, holding him firmly to the stone floor as his knife descended. He responded to Timoteus's pleadings just before the knife entered the acolyte's chest: "Sometimes I lie." He ripped him open from the navel to the sternum. Rising from the body, Casca stumbled against the wall, resting his head against the marble facing.

Pain, anguish from the guilt he knew was
his, that Demos had died because of him, drove him to the brink of madness. Tears flowed unchecked down his face. Only the thought that Ireina still lived and needed him kept him from turning into a screaming maniac. Ireina! She was still alive. He had to save her. That came first; then he would punish every member of the Brotherhood who crossed his path. He would hunt them down until they were exterminated. There would be mercy shown. No plea of innocence would be heard. They had condemned themselves by their words and actions. They would die!

He had to step over the body to reach the door. The acolyte's face would be buried with the look of terror that was already indelibly impressed on his features.

Stumbling, Casca returned to the hallway, moving to the next large room at the end of the hall, where large double doors of hardwood, embossed with castings of copper in bas-relief, stood between him and Gregory. Sucking in a deep breath, he took several steps back and hurled his body forward. The double doors burst open as the lock broke inward.

Gregory rose from behind his desk at the crash of his door. Startled, he knocked his chair over, rising to his feet. His bodyguards reacted swiftly to the intrusion, moving to place themselves between the intruder and their master.

Gregory froze everyone in place with an imperious command: "Stay!" He'd recognized his unannounced guest.

Casca stood still, face pale and sweating, every fiber of his body trembling in rage.

Gregory was quick to regain his composure. "Welcome, Casca Longinus. I have been expecting you. You have made good time." He saw the knuckles of Casca's sword hand turn white on the grip of his sword, a contrast to the brighter stains of blood covering much of his arms and tunic.

Stiff-legged, Casca stepped forward till he was halted by Gregory's upraised hand.

"Please remain where you are. Come at me, and your woman will die. My men will slit her throat from ear to ear. Surely you wouldn't want that on your conscience?"

Casca believed him as he saw the door indicated by Gregory's pointing finger open a crack and then close, followed by the sound of strong bolts being rammed shut.

Confident, the Elder moved nearer to face the man he had sought for such a long time.

"I see that you have been busy living up to your reputation." Casca didn't respond.

"Well, never mind. We have more important things to consider. I know that you are consumed with burning curiosity to know why I have gone to such extremes to bring you here. It is really very simple and the essence of logic." Gregory paused for effect and returned to his desk, sitting back down. He braided his fingers under his chin before continuing. "You have by now of course realized that I am the Elder of the Brotherhood, and as such, I have certain duties to perform. One of these is to keep track of you. In the last century, that has been exceedingly difficult. I propose to change that. You will stay with us, or if you do go anywhere, you will be accompanied by a member of our order. By this means we shall be assured that when the day of the return occurs, we shall be there to greet the master."

Gregory carefully refrained from making any reference to Demos. "In return for your cooperation, we shall keep your woman and the child safe and in comfort."

Casca tried to think clearly. He shook his head to clear the blood film from his mind. "How do I know for certain that you have Ireina and she is alive? You know what I am, and if you can't prove what you say, then you also know that I will kill every one of you I can get, too. For the first time I can think of, the curse of Jesus is to my advantage. Show me my wife now, or I will accept it as a fact that she is dead, and all here shall join her."

Gregory hadn't expected this turn of thought. Casca did not have a reputation for being much of a thinker. The child was dead, true, but he could keep that a secret and use the child's whereabouts as
a lever to keep the beast in line. It was also true that they couldn't kill Casca, but he could be chained and in that manner controlled once he submitted.

Gregory nodded his head. "I agree. You will be shown the woman, but not the child just yet. Not until we have reached an agreement about your future conduct." He called out loudly enough for the men in the next room to hear. "Bring the woman out to me."

Casca held his breath, waiting for the door to open. When it did, a sweaty chill ran over him. What could he say? Did she know about Demos? He didn't know if he had the strength to tell her that their son was dead. He feared that it would drive her mad.

The door swung open. Ireina was escorted into the larger room by two armed guards. The first was armed with a javelin, the other with a dagger held to her back, his other hand holding a thin leather leash about her neck. She didn't look as if she had been hurt.

When she saw Casca, she cried out to him, "I knew you would come and free us."

"Free us," she had said. That meant she didn't know about Demos. The guard jerked her leash to silence her. She started to move instinctively but was halted by the dagger in her captor's hand, now moving to touch her throat.

Casca pointed his own weapon at the castrate. "Touch her and I'll rip your am off." He directed his next words to Gregory. "You know I can do it, and you can't stop me." His words lowered to the point where they were barely audible, spoken from the back of his throat with such hate that it startled even Gregory. "I know what you are, and I know what you have done. Do you really think that I could let you go on breathing?"

Gregory stuttered, confused by the turn of events. "What do you mean? What I have done?"

Casca moved a step closer, his face pale, the pores open, letting the sweat of hate collect to run down his face.

"You have killed my son. The only chance I will give you is if you free my woman now. I'll take her away, but then I'm going to come back and butcher you as I would a hog."

Gregory was suddenly very frightened by what he had brought into his home. It took some effort to face the absolute loathing in Casca's eyes and manner. "You wouldn't dare do anything to me while I hold your wife."

Casca grunted harshly. "
That's true, but remember, she won't live forever. Then what?"

That was another thing Gregory hadn't thought of. What would the beast do when he no longer had his wife as a hostage?

Ireina couldn't make out all the words clearly, but she did hear them say something about her son. She struggled against the guard holding her, causing him to nearly lose his grip and in anger push the point of his dagger a bit into her throat, causing her to give a cry of pain.

Casca screamed at the guard, taking a step toward him and raising his sword. "I told you what I would do." His advance was halted by the guard with the javelin, who panicked when Casca moved.

Ireina saw the man's hand draw back, preparing for a cast at her man. She stamped her heel against the instep of the guard holding her, breaking free of him to rush between the javelin and Casca. The barbed head took her squarely between the shoulders, piercing the lungs and heart. She was dead before she hit the ground.

That was the final straw. Casca broke. He rushed at the brave member of the Sparthos-cublicar, his sword splitting the man's chest open as if he wore no armor.

Gregory screamed like a panicked woman. “What have you done?" he cried. He shouted for the other guard to stop Casca as he threw himself into the doorway leading to his bed chambers and bolted it behind him. He had to get away.

Casca cried out to him, "It will do you no good to run. I'll find you no matter where you go. I will kill you and those with you. There is no place for you to hide from me."

Gregory missed the last of his words, as he was already out of his rooms and heading down a passageway to the outside, where he could reach the rest of his household guard and get away.

Casca
stopped, chest heaving, eyes swollen red, the muscles in his chest and neck swollen near the bursting point. He moved close to the guard who had held his dagger at Ireina's neck. "I told you what I would do to you," he whispered.

The castrato in gilded armor knew that he was going to die. Terror turned his legs to water. The dagger dropped from his hand to the floor. He tried to find his tongue to beg for mercy but couldn't; the words stuck in his throat. He was going to die, and there was no escape for him. Casca's sword dropped to the floor.

The guard whimpered as scarred hands connected. Twisted, heavily muscled arms took him, raised him from the floor, and hammered him down against the cool marble. He couldn't breathe. The air had been forced from his lungs, and his head had nearly cracked open. He was confused, terrified, unable to do anything. What was happening? His right arm was held by the hands of the man who was killing him, pulling it up. A foot held against his shoulder provided the leverage Casca needed. He began to twist and turn the arm at the shoulder. First it dislocated, the tendons tearing as the muscles separated, stretching. The guard found his voice long enough to scream. Then he fainted when he heard the flesh tear as Casca twisted the arm around and around, jerking at it, using all the strength in his back and shoulders. At last the flesh and skin gave way. In long, stringy, red and white strands the meat shredded as Casca pulled the arm from the guard's shoulder.

Casca usually tried to do what he said he would. He tossed the limp stump into a corner. Now he had other prey on his mind. Gregory was outside somewhere. It was time to pay the rest of his bill. He looked at the small body of Ireina and wept in misery, accusing himself aloud: "I knew that I should not have taken you with me. I bring nothing but death and pain to those I love. Forgive me."

He left her where she was; there was no more he could do for her. Now he had to do something for himself. He wanted the Elder, and he was going to have him if he had to kill a thousand men to reach him. He would have the Elder of the Brotherhood, and all who stood in his way did so at their own peril. He at last had good reason to live. He would live so that he could kill!

Gregory had thrown himself onto the saddle of a horse when he'd heard the guard upstairs scream. He knew that Casca was living up to his word. Panic-stricken, he whipped his horse out of the gates, riding blindly to the nearest exit from the city. There was only one place he could go where he might get help. He had to reach Narses at his camp in the Valley of Olives.

Casca was detained for only a moment by another of Gregory's guards who'd rushed in when he heard the sound of screaming. The guard had lousy timing. Casca left him spitting blood from a punctured lung on the stone staircase. He reached the walls surrounding the palace in time to hear the hoof beats of Gregory's horse heading east. He didn't waste time returning to the gate he had entered through. This time he went straight over the wall on the east side and dropped down into the street. He ran after the sound of the fading hooves.

Near the Hagia Sofia, he ran head on into a mounted patrol of four imperial sentries. Jerking the nearest of them off his animal, he put himself in the seat without stopping, racing on in the direction Gregory had taken. He would find him. It was just a matter of time, and for once that was to his advantage. He knocked out the guard at the east gate when he rode over him. The man's back was turned to him as he wondered what was so important to cause the magister to ride out in such a hurry.

Gregory whipped the flanks of his horse to get every last ounce of speed out of him. It was dawn when he reached the camp of Narses, who tried to talk him in to staying with him and his Sparthos-cublicar. They would protect him. But Gregory would have none of it, crying that Narses didn't know what he was talking about. They weren't dealing with an ordinary man. He was being chased by Satan himself. The only chance he had was to run.

Narses gave in to his master and assigned him an escort of ten of his Sparthos, who were all members of the Brotherhood. They would protect him till he reached safety. And if Gregory didn't get away, who could say how far he, Narses, would advance in the ranks of the Brotherhood and the empire?

Casca was in a grove of olive trees when he saw Gregory and his escort ride out of the camp of the eunuchs, still heading east. His stolen horse was not good for much more, but that didn't matter. If he had to travel every yard on foot, he knew that he would one day catch up to the Elder. He would follow him to the most distant reaches of the world and beyond. He had to. The blood of those who had loved him forced him on, calling to him in the night, crying out to him to avenge their deaths.

"Run, Gregory, run."

"Death is not far behind. Just look over your shoulder and I'll be there."

He followed after them, never able to catch up to Gregory, but he did take care of the members of the Sparthos whom Gregory had left behind to slow him. They were nothing, merely an appetizer before the main course. The only direction he wouldn't go was back. There was nothing for him there.

His trail was marked by the bodies he'd left behind. The questions he asked at villages and farms were always answered. No one refused him anything. The madness that lay in his eyes loosened reluctant tongues. He looked much like the madmen of the desert, who care not whether they eat or drink, taking only enough to sustain them, no more.

There was no pleasure for him in anything. Neither was there any pain, save for the voices of Demos and Ireina that walked with him through the deserts and rocky valleys of his path. They whispered to him on the wind, and in his few hours of sleep, they would come to him to relive the brief moments they'd had of sharing. Demos's childish laughter rode with him on the barren sands. Several times he would stop and look around to see where Demos was. He knew from the laughter that the boy was near him, just out of reach or sight. Perhaps over the next hill he would find him playing and laughing, waiting for Casca to come and put him on his broad shoulders, where he would giggle and laugh when they ran and played together.

Several times in the next weeks, when Casca did look back the way he had come, he saw a distant figure on horseback, always keeping his distance, never coming too close. He knew it was always the same one behind him, but it didn't matter. As long as his shadow stayed to the rear, it wouldn't slow him. After he finished Gregory, he would take care of the one following him.

He lost track of time and distance; only the trail of Gregory drew him back from the borders of madness.

When he had ridden his horse to death, after missing the last waterhole, he went on another ten miles before passing out. When he woke, there was half a skin of water lying by his side. The tracks of a horse leading to and from him meant that his shadow was still with him, and it was not an enemy. He thanked his benefactor silently and drank from the skin. Now he could go on.

From a hill, he looked across the valley of the Chazari. The other side led to the heartlands of Persia. Once more he would have to go east, into lands that were hostile and filled with memories of things best forgotten. But he would go, for that was where Gregory was.

Below, in the valley, a great storm was gathering, rolling across the barren floor of scrub brush and stone, a white cloud, its fringes touched with blood from the setting sun. The cloud advanced. Under normal circumstances he would have waited it out before going on, but not now. He could let nothing stop him; somewhere in front of him was Gregory. He had to go on.

Tying a scrap of cloth around his face to filter the sand, he pulled the hood of his burnoose over his head as he began the descent to the floor of the valley. Walking straight to meet the advancing cloud, head down, eyes on the ground, he met the first blast of wind. He ignored the small bites of whipping grains that had ridden the wind all the way from the endless sands of Arabistan.

The cloud rolled over him. The small stinging bites changed suddenly into a raging storm that tried to strip the meat from his body, leaving only bare bones to mark his passing, as they had already done to several hundred others who had been caught in the path of the winds.

He fought through drifts that suddenly appeared from out of the cloud to drag at him, pulling at his feet like dry quicksand. Cursing all the gods of creation, he pushed forward one step at a time, detaching his mind from all else, thinking only of the next step, always one step more. He knew that as long as he faced the wind, he was heading in the right direction. His mind pulled away as it
narrowed its concentration onto those two factors. One more step and face the wind, head down, body hunched over.

He didn't feel the raw spots opening on the exposed portions of his cheeks as the sand wore away the skin to the raw meat. There was no bleeding; the heat of the wind and sand clotted the wounds as fast as they were made. He was aware only of a distant burning sensation in his face. He didn't care if the sand ground its way clear through the meat of his face and head, leaving him only a white polished skull, as long as he could keep moving.

Insidiously, individual grains worked through the threads of his robes to gather in hard grinding knots in his armpits and groin till each separate movement of his arms joined with the distant burning of his face. He knew he was hurting, but he had known greater pain than this. It wouldn't kill him. If he'd had any humor left, he would have laughed at this last thought.

The storm rolled over him, passing on to some unknown infinity where it would disappear without any trace of ever having been. Rising from his knees, he stood covered with dust. A ghostly figure in the evening sun, eyes nearly glued shut, face, hands, every pore caked and covered with the white dust. Spitting on his fingers to clean them, he wiped his eyes clear enough to focus on the scene below.