Rasheed grinned, his thin face sweaty from the self-control he'd inflicted on himself in this moment of triumph. He left the raised dais and walked to Casca, the sound of his minister's robes rustling over the cold stones. He stopped in front of the Roman, snapped his fingers, and Casca's escort pinned his arms to his side. Rasheed took from the folds of his sleeves a long, thin razor-sharp dagger and held it high for all to see. Slowly, carefully, he slit the bindings that held Casca's coat of chain mail together and exposed the bare chest beneath. As a surgeon would, he laid the point of the knife on Casca's flesh. The metal of the polished blade felt like ice to him.
TheMobed and one of his acolytes joined Rasheed to witness whatever it was that was to take place. The priest had the look of the fanatic about him, a full white beard and burning eyes that were strangers to compassion or mercy.
Rasheed forced the point into the flesh of Casca's bare chest. Slowly it sunk in until blood flowed freely. Casca said nothing nor did he make any expression of pain. He had felt pain a hundred times worse than that pinprick.
Rasheed then angled the edge of the blade downward slightly and began to draw the steel across his chest laying it open, a cut several inches long and about a half-inch deep.
Rasheed knew what would happen, as did Casca. Blood flowed freely for a moment down into the metal links of chain mail. Rasheed removed the knife from the wound. The bleeding had already stopped and the blood was clotted and dark.
Rasheed called for a basin of water. It was brought to him along with a clean white rag. The Vizier soaked the rag in the fluid and then washed the blood from Casca's chest, cleansing away the new scab from the cut. Casca closed his eyes. He knew what was going to happen.
TheMobed-mobedan and his assistant examined the spot where Rasheed had sliced into his chest. TheMobedan let out a low hissing sound between his teeth. The acolyte moved a brazier closer to them. TheMobedan looked again, then backed away, making a sign to ward off evil.
TheMobed-mobedan cried out, his voice thin, and wavering in barely controllable rage and hate,"Evil.. Evil!"
The cut was already closed and turning pink, as both Casca and Rasheed knew it would. Shapur himself stepped forth to examine the evidence.
Venom dripped from his words. "Foul beast of darkness. You tried to trick me, but thanks to the wisdom and learning of Rasheed, he knew how to recognize the evil within you. You have proven your guilt. Let the priests make their judgment."
Casca said nothing. The shock of the rapid change of his circumstances had left him feeling lightheaded and numb. There was nothing he could do.
The priests conferred for a short moment and spoke into the ear of the King.
Shapur nodded his head in agreement and turned to the entire assembly to pronounce Casca's sentence.
"There is only one way that true evil can be destroyed, and that isby fire. You shall burn beast! Burn! And your ashes shall be spread into the wind. Take him! Let the judgment be carried out this very day, that he may have no time in which to make additional charms of evil against us. Burn him! Burn him, and do it now!"
Shapur returned to his throne and sat upon it, his hand pointing with the bared sword.
"I have spoken. Let it be done…"
FIFTEEN
Casca was stunned by this unexpected turn of events. His mind hadn't really had time to register what had happened to him. Before he could voice any protest, he was surrounded by members of Shapur's Immortals, their lances aimed at his chest to restrain him while being chained, both hand and foot. A rope was tied about his neck and he was led from the hall. An escort of fifty Immortals were his companions as they left the palace and began the long walk to the square.
The reality of his sentence was beginning to register. Burn! I am to be burned. He had seen burnings in many places. He'd always thought that it was the most horrible of deaths. To be thrown to the beasts was bad enough, but at least it was quick and no comparison to the searing flames.
When they entered the streets, a drum began to beat, calling the people of the city forth to witness what was to be done. A court scribe, carrying the scroll that listed his offenses against the people, now joined their procession. He called out loud these offenses to the people as they marched forward to the place of execution.
Step by terrible step, he went on, the chainsdragging at his ankles as he walked. The mob gathered, the streets filled with leering faces, faces that mocked him and spat at him. Some were filled with expressions of religious fervor at seeing a heathen go to his just reward. Others bore the look of patriots who wanted this traitor punished for betraying their king. There were a few whose faces had the look of sexual excitement in their eyes, glassy and wet lipped. They were going to the burning to enjoy another's pain and suffering. He knew that they all, in their own ways, wanted him dead and individual motives didn't matter.
The abuse, filth, and spit being heaped on him as he stumbled his way forward, was familiar. Where had he seen the likes of this before? It came to him suddenly, and he thought of the irony of it. He tried to laugh, only to have it choked off by a jerk on his leash. Jesus! They'd done this same thing to Jesus as he walked to his crucifixion at Golgotha.
Is this to be my crucifixion? Jesus said that I must live until we meet again. Is He in the crowd somewhere, watching and waiting? Will he come forth just before they set the flames?
It was nearly three miles to the square reserved for special occasions such as this, occasions like festivals, parades, and state executions. A long three miles.
The crowd continued to grow as they walked, until finally becoming one giant, heaving organism. No individual faces now, but a mass mind that swarmed around him and his escort. A rock struck the side of his head and glanced off to hit the shoulder of the escort commander. The commander put an immediate end to the rock-throwingwhen he himself was hit. He bellowed out that all were to keep their distance. If anyone threw anything they would find their own heads on the road. This was, he said, by the command of the Great King. The torment eased; the only things being thrown at him now were invectives and curses.
The day was warming up as the sun rose. It was going to be a beautiful day, a fine day for any kind of celebration.
Casca didn't know it, but he was not to be alone in his suffering this day. Before he'd been summoned to the court, riders had gone forth across the Empire, carrying with them Shapur's written command. All that had served too closely with the Roman, or were suspected of loyalty to him, were to be put to the sword. This also had provided Rasheed the opportunity to include a few names of his enemies. Although he knew that they had never had any dealings with Casca, the opportunity to eliminate them was too good to pass up.
As for the Roman's woman, she was of no importance and would merely be driven from their domain back to her own savage lands in Armenia. Shapur also used the event to rid himself of those he thought might prove troublesome in the future. It was a perfect pretext. For the people would have no sympathy for treason or those that followed the ways of Ahriman. But, Shapur would have to admit, he had been stunned when Rasheed had made the cut on Casca's chest. The Roman was surely aligned with the spirits of the world. How else could he have healed the wound before their eyes, unless through sorcery? Rasheed, Shapur thought. That sly one. He had found out the Roman's secretand had been correct in his suspicions. Shapur was more than relieved that Casca had proved to be evil. It made all his decisions and actions proper and just.