Free Casca 3: The Warlord by Barry Sadler

matter a few more moments. For three centuries they had been waiting at this, the only bastion of the true faith. Every stone had been made by the hands of the brotherhood. They knew their duty, to keep the true faith of God. Only a chosen few were recruited to take the place of those who died, either by infirmity, accident, age or were blessed enough to take the supreme part of the act of Golgotha.
    Dacort stroked his thin beard with gnarled fingers, the nails worn down to the meat from the hours he had spent on his knees scrubbing the floors of the sanctuary. The Roman uniform was back in its place, waiting for the next holy day; now, like the others, he wore his robe of homespun rough brown wool.
    Casca stirred. Elder Dacort clapped his hands and two brothers appeared dressed the same as he, carrying a length of timber. They tied Casca's arms to it keeping them outstretched. Dacort would take no chances. The Roman heretic was dangerous and must not escape his punishment.
    Casca awoke, his head throbbing, spots flashing before him, until his eyes finally focused upon the Elder smiling at him from his chair. Trying to rise, Casca fell back, noting for the first time that his arms were tied.
    Dacort motioned for the two brothers to raise him to the kneeling position, one on each side, they obeyed. Almost gently, they placed Casca on his knees before the Elder. The elder rose, standing gaunt and skeletal, his whole demeanor was that of a man with a sacred mission.
    Pointing his finger at Casca, he said: "We have waited long for you to come, Casca Rufio Longinus."
    Casca jerked.
    "Yes, we know you and know you well. Through the ages you have been watched. When you slaved in the mines of Greece those long years, Brothers of the Lamb were there; when one died, another was sent to take his place. In the arena, the men who served your food were of our order, even on the benches of the warships of Rome we were there. We lost you for a time when your ship wrecked on the shores of Greece, but found you again in Parthia; lost yet again when you crossed the Rhine, but we knew you would return. Always we have waited and now, Praise the Lamb! You are here." Dacort's voice almost a whisper, he hissed: "You are the greatest defilement to ever exist, you are an abomination, but you are the road that leads to God. Jesus said to you... As I go now to my father you must one day come to me... you are the trail that will lead one day to the coming of the Messiah and we shall be there with you. We know you, Casca Longinus, better than you know yourself. We will not try to kill you after all; we both know it would be useless and neither shall we confine you, for how else can you lead us to Jesus?
    "No, spawn of Baal, you must go free, but you shall be punished. You dared to touch the most sacred relic with your filthy hand. You performed the sacrilege and as the word says, if thine eye offends thee, cast it out... surely that must also apply to other portions of the body."
    The hatred in Dacort's voice washed over him: "Thy hand offends me!" Swifter than Casca would have believed the elder capable of moving, he saw the flash of an axe come from the elder's robes and cold burning as the blade of the axe sunk into the wood of the cross beam. There was a dull thump and Casca looked down to see his hand lying in front of him on the stone floor, draining. Then the pain began and Casca screamed as the stump of his wrist was washed in the flames of a torch held by one of the brothers, the smell of his own cooking flesh, clotted in his nostrils and the dark took him once more, mercifully.

Chapter Nine - JUGOTAI
    The Brothers of the Lamb tossed Casca's unconscious body on the rocks, tying his horse to the brush nearby. A fly walked over his eyelids, sucking up the salt moisture that had collected there and then, satisfied, flew off.
    Elder Dacort stood alone, looking down at what to him was the vilest piece of filth the world had ever known. Reaching into a