Read Online Casca 3: The Warlord by Barry Sadler - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Barry Sadler
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had scourged themselves. They moaned and sobbed crying out,
"Longinus, Longinus, Longinus......”
Taking the body of their brother from the cross they washed and cleansed it and reverently carried it away sobbing; the act was complete. Elder Dacort disappeared from sight while Casca watched the others at their grisly chore.
Moving from his place of concealment, he worked his way back to the shrine area and the main temple. Sand in his sandals gritted against his skin, giving him the feeling of walking on needles. Dark was coming and the horizon was bathed in a red glow that gave him the feeling of being immersed in a strange aura.
No one was present. No disciples were to be seen. Only silence, the silence of the Asian wind, blowing into the interior and whispering against the cut stone wall making the torches in their brackets dance and sway. instinctively staying close to the side of the hall, Casca moved down the corridors following the trail of lit torches to the inner sanctum of the Brothers of the Blood of the Lamb. He could now hear clearly the singing and chanting and fanatical preaching of Elder Dacort. "It must be here . . . my spear," he thought. He knew the best action he could take would be to place as much distance between himself and these fanatics as possible, but a compulsion to see the weapon closer drove him on.
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 hail 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
"Longinus, Longinus, Longinus......”
Taking the body of their brother from the cross they washed and cleansed it and reverently carried it away sobbing; the act was complete. Elder Dacort disappeared from sight while Casca watched the others at their grisly chore.
Moving from his place of concealment, he worked his way back to the shrine area and the main temple. Sand in his sandals gritted against his skin, giving him the feeling of walking on needles. Dark was coming and the horizon was bathed in a red glow that gave him the feeling of being immersed in a strange aura.
No one was present. No disciples were to be seen. Only silence, the silence of the Asian wind, blowing into the interior and whispering against the cut stone wall making the torches in their brackets dance and sway. instinctively staying close to the side of the hall, Casca moved down the corridors following the trail of lit torches to the inner sanctum of the Brothers of the Blood of the Lamb. He could now hear clearly the singing and chanting and fanatical preaching of Elder Dacort. "It must be here . . . my spear," he thought. He knew the best action he could take would be to place as much distance between himself and these fanatics as possible, but a compulsion to see the weapon closer drove him on.
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 hail 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
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