Then it stopped.
The Germans were pulling back, leaving a thick, stacked-up mass of bodies behind them. They had had enough. They were retreating toward the river.
Relief was evident in the face of the Roman commander. Q. Matinius Corolioni knew that his men could not have held out much longer. With a great sense of satisfaction he raised himself up into the saddle of one of the few surviving horses, waved his sword over his head, and cried out:
"Let loose the legion!"
Now the real slaughter began.
The legion ran for the Suevii, cutting them down. Many of the barbarians begged for their lives. But none were spared this day. The memory of the young men of the cavalry was still too fresh for the Romans to take prisoners. They killed Germans all the way back to the river.
Casca struck and struck until he thought his arm would drop off. Then he dropped his shield and switched to his left hand, cut and cut, slicing down every fur-garbed body and horned helmet head that came his way.
One, a beautiful boy of no more than sixteen, went on his knees and begged for his life with clasped hands. Casca felt nothing more than a sense of dullness as he grabbed the boy by his shoulder length blond hair and forced his head back, exposing a throat not unlike that of a maiden. He drove his short sword completely through the neck and out the back, the blade slicing between the spinal vertebrae. The boy's head almost fell off. Only a single strand of meat held it onto the body. The boy warrior lay on the earth, his body twitching in the uncontrollable response that comes from sudden and violent death.
And for just a moment time stood still for Casca. The thought ran through his brain: If I had lived out my life in Tuscany… If I had married and had a son… like this one…
But only for a moment. He raised the bloody sword and went after more Germans.
Then they were at the river, and Casca ran waist deep into the water to continue the slaughter until there were no more to slash and only the archers were continuing to make kills, sending their arrows into the backs and heads of the swimming and wading barbarians.
Casca backed up to the edge of the river and lay down face first to drink, unmindful that the water was turning red around him. That burning thirst, that only men in combat know, was not to be denied. A German's body floated by him, and the dead hand gently nudged his face, but he paid no mind. He drank the deep drink of exhaustion.
Fifteen thousand Suevii had crossed the river that morning. Less than three hundred returned to their home villages that night. Before the women even could begin in earnest their death wails and cries for vengeance, many of the widows were offering themselves to any of the surviving warriors that would have them so that they could have more babies who would grow into men and avenge the fallen warriors of the Suevii. Before the next several dawns another thousand barbarian soldiers were being carried in their mothers' bellies, growing for their turn at the Roman wall…
TEN
Casca awoke, his body wet with sweat. He was back in the cell at the stockade in Judea, but time was still confused for him. He remembered the three rats, but the dreams had come upon him as reality. There was the taste of fear in his mouth.
How much time had passed since the stroking had taken place? The tribune had said he would see him when it was over. Pulling himself across the floor, Casca looked out the cell door to where a ray of light was coming in from one of the apertures that provided what little air there was in this place of horrors. From the angle and intensity of the light it must be almost dusk. Then he had slept for hours.
He looked at his feet. The swelling remained, but, surprisingly, the pain was almost gone. Surprisingly? "…until we meet again… " The words of the Jew haunted him. What has happened to me?
He got to his feet, found he could stand, and limped back to the bed of straw against the farther wall. But before he lay down he looked at the skin of his feet again. Though the light was now dim, it seemed that even the battered flesh was now healing. Impossible!.. Taking the index finger of his right hand, he dug his strong nail into the tender flesh of his left forearm, dug it in deeper until the blood flowed freely. The pain was as nothing compared to what he had been through. He dragged the nail halfway up the arm… and stopped. His mouth dropped open as he saw…saw in the part darkness… the bleeding cease before his eyes, the pain leave, and a scab form.
Casca cried out, "No! No!" and he beat his head against the cell wall in terror and confusion.
The jailer, hearing the outcry, rushed to him. Seeing Casca apparently trying to beat his brains out, he called for help, and, with the assistance of two guards, was able to get Casca put into restraints that would keep him from doing any further harm to himself.
If the bastard died before Tigelanius judged him, there would be hell to pay.
Casca slept all that night, a troubled and uneasy sleep, a dark time that alternated between despair and mental agony.
But the night ended.
In the morning he was trussed and cleaned and brought before Tigelanius, Commander of the Garrison of Jerusalem.
Tigelanius sat in day dress, not wearing his uniform. He was wrapped in a toga of state, one with the purple border to show his touch of royal blood. His sword was beside him. Beside him, also, a scribe stood, with the charges written down. Two other officers of the Tribuni Militarium stood as advisers to the court.
Turning his cultured and sensitive face to the accused, Tigelanius looked at the prisoner in distaste. Making a wrinkle in his nose, he said, ascetically, "You still stink" and ordered the officer of the day to have the jailer given ten lashes. Turning his attention back to Casca, he called for the scribe to read off the charges…
This done, Tigelanius asked Casca if he had anything to say in way of defense before sentence was passed.
Casca said nothing. He stood motionless, his mind full of wonder. Today the scab on his arm was gone, and only a thin pink line showed where he had dug out enough meat to fill up a thimble.
Tigelanius made a motion to the scribe. "Note that the accused has nothing to offer in his defense." Rising to his full height, the tribune stood in front of Casca. "You, Casca Rufio Longinus, are hereby relieved from the rolls of the Tenth Legion, and your name shall be stricken from her rolls of honor. Your awards for valor are taken from you and do not exist. As of this moment, you are no longer a person. You are the property of the emperor and are to be sent to the copper mines in Achaia. There you will be permitted to serve your emperor, and Rome, for whatever time you have to remain on this earth. You are dismissed."
And, turning away from the prisoner, he made the comment to one of the witnessing officers: "Now, let's get on to some important matters. Mettelius, how many will you be bringing to dinner tonight beside yourself and your lovely lady?"
Casca was stripped down and issued a loincloth and robe in place of his legion dress. His manacles were replaced by simple leg irons, and the medallion with the likeness of Tiberius on it was put around his neck. To be caught without the medallion being worn as it should be was to be killed immediately.
He was hooked up into a coffle of some twenty other slaves who were to be sent to the same copper mines in the distant northern provinces of Greece. There they would dig the greenish red ore from the side of the mountains until they died.
They were marched the fifty kilometers from Jerusalem to the port of Joppa. There they were loaded on a bireme, a twin-banked coastal ship that would take them to the port of Cenchrea.