Jesus opened his eyes and looked on the Roman's face.
Fear ran through the bowels of Casca. He had never seen a face like this. The intent and tremendous power of the Jew swept over him as though it were a part of the raging storm.
"Soldier, you are content with what you are. Then that you shall remain until we meet again. As I go now to my Father, you must one day come to me." The Jew's voice blasted its way into Casca's mind. The two Syrians did not appear to hear or see. "Soldier. You are content with what you are. Then that you shall remain… until we meet again…"
The wind screamed. Casca stood in shock and fear, the Jew's blood on his hand mingling with the falling drops of rain. Unthinking, Casca wiped his hand across his mouth, and one drop of blood touched his tongue, and Casca screamed. He doubled over in cramps. What felt like liquid fire raced through his veins to his brain, setting his whole being on fire. And still the others noticed nothing.
Casca fell to the ground and lay there whimpering while his whole body was racked with sobs. Slowly the pain ebbed away, leaving him weak and frightened.
What was it the Jew said just before he died?
"Until we meet again…"
FOUR
The pain slowly flowed from Casca's body, like great draining off of his essence. He pulled himself to his knees and looked into the face of the man Jesus.
"Dead?" he asked. "Are you dead?" Pulling himself erect, his mind not understanding what had transpired, Casca knew fear, deep fear of the primeval kind that lives within the manbeast of all human beings, elemental fear. A woman came to him, her face in shadows, a wisp of brown hair showing as the storm winds blew her garments about. "Soldier, may I have my son? Can we take him now?"
As Casca drew himself together the fear slowly faded, flowing out with his pain. The Jew was dead, and dead men harm no one.
Croaking out the words, Casca told the woman, "He is yours. Take him and be damned."
The woman looked questioningly into his face, and a subtle change which frightened Casca came into her voice. "Damned, did you say? You will learn the meaning of that word a thousand times over, Roman, conqueror of the world. You will surely learn what it means to be damned."
Casca turned from her. A cold river of uncertainty raced through his bowels, leaving him chilled. But he was what he was.
"Take him, witch, and begone!"
The woman motioned to her friends. Gently they removed the body and the man they called Josephus began the death wail of the Hebrews.
Casca called to the Syrians to get their things and move out. While they were doing so, the decurion returned bitching. "What the hell are you up to?" he asked Casca.
"I had to stay and see this job was done properly."
"Properly, my ass. What's to do with crucifying a couple of thieves and a madman? Is everything all right?"
Seeing the men and women wailing over the body of Jesus, the squad leader took a close look for himself. Catching Casca's eye as he straightened up, he said, "Just checking. You got to make sure. You know how sneaky these people are." Turning to the Syrian legionnaires, he barked, "Are you two still shooting dice?" Seeing the Jew's coat under the arm of the darkest Syrian, the decurion took the cloak from the Syrian, grumbling to himself. "If I have to come all the way back up here, I'm not leaving empty-handed." Ripping the cloak into quarters, he handed a piece to each of the soldiers, saying: "Here's your wages for the day. Maybe you can clean some of the crap off your gear with these. Because there's going to be an inspection tomorrow by the garrison commander, so let's get the hell out of here. Our job is over."
The wind mounted another blast as they faced down from the north side of the hill and started back, not making any effort to get in step. Casca turned his head for one last look. The Jew's followers were cleaning the body. Cataclysmic bursts of lightning and thunder rolled over the city, shaking the very ground as though an earthquake had struck. Even the curtains covering the entrance to the Temple were ripped by the wind. With the rain beating at his face, Casca, keeping his own counsel, followed the others back to the barracks, dripping wet, the taste of fear still coppery and bitter in his mouth. The night beat at him, seeming to follow him purposefully through the narrow streets.
Only when he entered the familiar surroundings of his barracks was he aware that the real night had not come yet; it was what should have been late afternoon. That was why there had been no smell of cooking food. The storm had turned day into night. But why? These thoughts are too much for me. I'm only a simple soldier… But why didn't the others see the Jew talking to me, hear what he said to me? And what did he mean?… Too much to think about.
Casca lay on the straw-filled cot, not even taking his wet gear off. And he slept.
Outside, the stone wall surrounding the Roman encampment presented a bulwark against the hostile elements of the local population, but there was nothing to protect Casca's mind from the hostile waves of thought that assaulted him. Over and over, he saw every moment of the crucifixion. Over and over, he saw the Jew's face, terrible in its intensity and power."Until we meet again…" Over and over, he heard the Jew's words. They etched themselves into his brain, like acid."Until we meet again… "
The storm passed with the night. Dawn came, cool and clear. A breeze blew in from the unseen and seemingly very distant ocean, rustling through the fronds of the date trees outside the barracks. Casca was pulled from his restless sleep by the curses of the barracks chief rousing the men for breakfast. It was the hour of the dawn, and day was upon them. While the others went for food, Casca stayed behind and cleaned his gear.
The decurion had said there would be an inspection today; his gear looked like crap from having slept in it without cleaning it before he went to sleep. He wiped and oiled his leather chest armor, working the oil in it to keep the leather supple and easier to wear. The familiar task comforted him. He dropped into the routine of polish and rub, not thinking, and it was pleasant not to think. When he had finished his chest coverings, he did his sandals, noticing with a slight sense of wonder that the sore spot between his toes was gone.
Examining the spot more closely, he saw that already the flesh was completely healed… with no trace of redness remaining. Odd!.. But he dismissed it from his mind, and returned to cleaning the rest of his gear, using the scrap of cloth from the Jew's cloak that the squad leader had given him to clean his sword and spear.
Casca was proud of his abilities with the sword, especially with the Gladius Iberius as some called the Roman short sword. Personally, Casca did not think that it came as a modification of those long butcher knives so popular with the Spanish Iberians. He had a theory that it came from the gladiators' use of short swords. The spectators at the Arena liked to see their favorites fight at close range. Only for special contests were long swords such as the Germans used permitted. For the legionnaire, the short sword was best. When the legion locked shields and formed the square, the short sword made it easier to stab under your shield, over it, and around the sides when the barbarians were crowded up against the living wall of the legion. The long swords of the barbarians just got in their way. When they got too crowded, there just wasn't enough room to swing them properly.
Casca laughed mentally at the remembrance of one monstrous German at least six feet in height who in his battle rage killed at least a half dozen of his own tribesmen swinging that long sword-the size of a tent pole-and bellowing for Odin to give him strength. He had been killed by the legion company cook who had crawled between Casca's legs and stabbed the big German through the navel with a kitchen knife and then scurried back to his pots, content to leave the glory to the combat elements of the century.