Casca 18: The Cursed (7 page)

His right arm ached from the wound in his back to the wound in his arm, to the fingers that held his revolver. And he felt the wounds in his rump open afresh.

A pikeman appeared in his path, his weapon pointed directly at Casca's gut, the man resolutely standing his ground as the distance between them diminished.

Casca held out his throbbing right arm and, pointing along the length of the pike, pulled the trigger.

The man went over backward, a bullet in his heart, his weapon sticking straight up in the air.

He died in an instant and his hand released the pike, which fell forward to take Casca's horse squarely in the chest, the butt of the weapon being braced against the man's dead body and the ground. The weight and speed of horse and rider ran the pike deep into the horse's body and it crashed to its knees.

As he flew into the air one more time, Casca thought: "That's the third fucking horse I've lost today so far."

"He lives."

Casca heard a voice that he thought he could recall from somewhere.

"Ah, yes," another voice said, "he is not badly hurt."

In an aching fury Casca forced his eyes open to see who this was who decided he wasn't badly hurt.
Not badly hurt?
he thought.
I am hurt almost unto death
.

An elderly Chinese squatted beside him where he lay naked on a bench. The walls of the room were covered with what appeared to be anatomy charts. The old man was manipulating a long silver needle that was inserted in the right side of Casca's neck.

A great weariness assailed him and he swooned back toward oblivion. Consciousness hurt. Casca tried to avoid it, seeking the darkness where the pain was blurred, if not softened.

But the doctor pushed the needle deeper, and spun its shaft between his palms. Deep within him Casca felt a tingling that spread throughout his body, gradually replacing the pain.

His head cleared and he felt the pain diminishing as the doctor continued to twirl the length of the needle. Against his will his eyes opened again.

Baron Ying
– so it was his voice he had heard – stood over him. The baron spoke. "For now you are going to live, Hu Wei, or whatever your name is. We will know presently, and then I will think on your punishment."

"I am not Hu Wei. My name is
Cas Ca Sho."

"
Sho? Long life? Then you are wrongly named. You have not yet had a long life, and I assure you, you are not going to live much longer."

In spite of his predicament Casca chuckled faintly as he looked up at the baron.
"I have already lived longer than you could dream, Baron, and I will yet outlive you and your grandchildren and their grandchildren."

The baron looked at him in some puzzlement.
"You talk in riddles, Cas Ca Sho. But you have cost me many men today. And you will pay for those with your life after I have learned from you what I need to know."

He turned to leave, saying to the doctor over his shoulder, "Poon Fong, kindly let me know when he is strong enough for questioning."

Casca could feel his body rebuilding itself even faster than he had ever previously experienced as the old doctor worked on him with the silver needle. His broken wrist had been set and bandaged, and the pain from his arm, as if the bones were slowly breaking apart, came, he knew, from the reverse process of the bones putting themselves back together. But, never since the curse of Jesus had first caused his body to go through this process, had it happened so fast.

The pain was already diminishing; the swelling was noticeably reduced. And Casca was feeling stronger and stronger by the minute.

The doctor removed the long needle and moved to insert it in another position.

Casca didn't intend to wait around to be tortured. Now was the time to go, or never.

He came up quickly from the bench, his right hand moving for the doctor's neck to immobilize him.

But Poon Fong wasn't there. He had swayed just out of Casca's reach, and as Casca's fingers closed on air the doctor struck him in the throat with the tips of two fingers, knocking him back onto the bench, gasping for air. Without speaking the doctor inserted the needle in the new place as if nothing had happened.

Casca lay quiet, recovering and thinking. Clearly the old man had been studying the way of the open hand as long as he had studied medicine. So, he was going to be a tougher nut than Casca had reckoned on. But then, Casca could be a lot tougher, too. He put aside the thought that this Fong might match him at his best. After all, he had not lived one tenth as long as Casca had, and Casca had devoted much time to the way of the open hand since the sage Lao Tze first introduced him to the philosophy and practice of K'ung Fu tzu, the wise man Marco Polo had called Confucius in Latin.

But now the old man was using the needle differently, tapping gently on its head, each tap sending a pleasant tingle through Casca's body, and even through his mind. The urgency of his need to escape, the fear of his impending torture, receded into the pleasant glow that was enveloping him. Even the mental torture of the prophet's curse that rarely left his mind, while awake or asleep, slipped away from
him, and his consciousness faded into a quiet sleep.

He awoke refreshed, alert, and hungry. He tried to sit up, but found that he was restrained.

His head was wedged in a wooden block and a leather strap across his eyes and nose prevented any movement of his head; a broad leather strap secured his arms and chest to the bench, and another strap secured his legs.

He heard a movement beside the bench, then footsteps leaving the chamber.

Well, dammit
, he thought,
I'm alive, and I feel much better. But I guess there's some sort of rough time coming.

He heard returning footsteps and guessed
two men. He heard Baron Ying's voice: "Well, Hu Wei or Cas Ca Sho, or whatever you care to call yourself, do you care to talk to us?"

"I do not like to be tortured, and if I could think of something that might interest you, I would tell it freely. My name I have already told you. I went to
Shou Chang village to sell silks and satins and ran into trouble with Zhang Jintao's tax collector and had to kill him. My horse stumbled while I was escaping, and it seems you arrived while I was unconscious. What else can I tell you?"

"Something true would be satisfactory. I have known many merchants who lie as stupidly as you do, but I have never known one to fight as well.

"Be warned, big man. Our method of interrogation never fails. But those who resist too long suffer permanently impaired minds.

"Start the treatment,
Tian Yuanlong. Call me when he starts to babble."

Footsteps receded. Casca sensed that the man he had called
Tian had stayed beside the bench. He could hear him doing something above his head.

Babble? Why should I start to babble?
Casca wondered.
So I can’t move. Well I can stand that. I can stand that forever
. He closed his eyes under the strap and concentrated on emptying his mind of all thoughts and sensations so that he might enjoy this confinement, even profit from it.

A drop of water struck him on the forehead.

Damned nuisance
, he thought.
Is there condensation dripping from the ceiling? Did they move me to a dungeon while I slept?

Another drop seemed to confirm this idea, and Casca's mind shrugged. Not important. He renewed his concentration.

But transcendence eluded him. He could not empty his mind. The drops of water fell intermittently, each one jolting him back to an awareness of the strap across his eyes, of his confinement, of his captivity. He would determinedly put all of this away from him, focusing his closed eyes inward, concentrating all of his being on the single point between his eyebrows, the location of the third eye that looked into the mystic realm.

Which was exactly where these damned drops were hitting.

Not a coincidence
. The thought came to him strikingly. Not a casual accident. Wherever the drops came from, he had been carefully placed so as to receive them at just this point.

Chinese water torture.

Well, so what? I can stand a little rain. I can stand this forever
. He spoke aloud to the person beside the bench. "Can I have some water?"

"Of course."
He had not heard the voice before. So the tough old doctor had been replaced by some sort of torturer. Well, the voice was pleasant enough.

He felt a cup at his lips and sipped a little water, then resettled his mind to handle the small problem of the drops falling on his forehead.

Hours passed and Casca was almost enjoying the game. The drops came not quite regularly, defying all Casca's attempts to count the time interval. Well, it made the game more interesting. Regular drops would have bored him unmercifully.

His torturer sat immobile beside him, breathing quietly, making no attempt to question or worry him.

"One, two, three, four, five, six ... " Splat. "So, that one was early. Two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight ..." Splat. "Ah ha. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, where is it? nine, where ..." Splat. "Okay, one, two, three, four, five ..." Splat. "Real early that time. Two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, come on, ten ..." Splat. "Of course. Two, three ..."

Casca continued the count. It ceased to be amusing, but there was nothing else to do. Perhaps he could bait his jailer?
"You think this crap is going to make me talk?"

"Of course."

"Horseshit. I can take this forever."

"Really?"
The voice was interested.

"Sure I can. What's the theory behind this torture anyway?"

"No theory. Only practice. Everybody talks."

"Well, meet the first who doesn't. Oh, and by the way, I don't have anything to tell."

"Not important. Many think they have nothing to tell." Then he heard the footsteps leaving the room and he was left alone.

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, where is it?
nine, ten, eleven, oh come on, twelve ..." Splat. "One, two, three, four, five ..." Splat. "What a stupid game.

Three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, come on dammit, eleven, what no drop?
thirteen ..." Splat. "One, two, three ..." Splat. "One, two, three, four, five, six, drop? eight nine not yet eleven twelve, longest yet, fourteen ... " Splat.

The sound of the returning footsteps was welcome. He heard the baron's voice: "Has he said anything of interest?" And the answer: "Soon now."

Soon? Not likely
, Casca thought.

He heard the scraping of wood on stone and guessed the two men had sat down, but neither of them spoke.

"Six, seven, eight, can't be much longer, ten, eleven, where's that drop? thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, what?" Splat.

"One, two, three listen to me you dumb bastards. This primitive fucking crap is not going to work on Casca Rufio Longinus. Let me tell you, you're not going to get one fucking word out of me. You hear me? Not one ..." Splat.

"Okay, where were we? Three, four, five, six if you think I could withstand Torquemada's rack and can't stand a little water ... " Splat.

The baron spoke quietly. "Leave us now,
Tian. I would hear his confessions alone." Casca heard the other man leave.

"One, two, three, four, five, six if you imagine this is
tough, you've never done cookhouse fatigue in the British army. Or a full dress ceremonial parade in the noon sun. Or .....” Splat.

"Doesn't this fucking water ever stop!?" The scream sounded strange in Casca's ears. Was it
his own voice? He went determinedly back to his count.

"Five, six, seven, eight let me tell you, this isn't torture, this is just fucking boredom, twelve, their
…" Splat.

"One, two, three if you keep me here for a month, I've got nothing to tell you. What is there to tell? The British are worried about an uprising. That's hardly news to you. The consul..."
Splat.

"Fuck. Two, three, four, five and another thing, if I babbled my head off for days, it wouldn't help you. If I told you the truth about myself, you simply wouldn't believe..." Splat.

"Stop that fucking water." His screech seemed to come right out of the top of his head.

"Don't think it's getting to me. I took more punishment in the Roman legions for having an untidy bunk. This water crap is only a minor nuisance. Look at the scars on my thumbs..." Splat.

"Oh, shit. Three, four, five, six, I'm not going to Break, nine, ten, don't care if it never comes, thirteen, four…" Splat.

"Okay. One, two,
three..."

The baron sat impassively while Casca resolutely counted away the seconds between the drops. He neither questioned him nor spoke at all, nor answered Casca's attempts to provoke him into conversation until Casca suddenly shouted: "
Nunco Deco nihil, not correct."

"Eras, not correct," said the baron, and the conversation continued in that Latin.

The baron sat and listened, only speaking quietly in Latin when Casca spoke in that language.

Casca told of his early life, his time in the Roman legions, and of the day on Golgotha when he put the Jewish guru out of his last misery. The stunned baron heard the dying Christ's curse and understood why Casca had adopted the name
Sho long life. Now, for the first time, Ying could understand how one body could have collected Casca's multitude of scars.

Then Casca's ravings changed to languages that the Cambridge educated baron recognized but did not speak
– Norse and German. Then Casca spoke for a long time in Chinese, then Japanese, then in the strange, guttural tongue of the Aztecs, then the harsh, percussive Mayan language.

Hours passed and Casca talked on. He spoke in French and in Spanish and in some of the melodic lilts of the South Pacific.