Archiwum
- Index
- Roberts Nora Miłość na deser 01 Miłość na deser
- Hilari Bell Goblin Wood 01 The Goblin Wood v2
- Giovanni Guareschi [Don Camillo 01] The Little World of Don Camillo (pdf)
- Anthony, Piers Tarot 01 God of Tarot
- Christine Young [Highland 01] Highland Honor (pdf)
- 398. Gerard Cindy Dzikie serca 01 Ni srebro ni złoto
- Carter Ally Dziewczyny z Akademii Gallagera 01 Powiedziałabym ci, że cię kocham ale
- Ciara Lake [Xihirian Shifters 01] Xihirah [Siren Classic] (pdf)
- Janrae Frank Journey of Sacred King 01 My Sister's Keeper
- Sandemo Margit Saga o Królestwie Światła 01 Wielkie Wrota
- zanotowane.pl
- doc.pisz.pl
- pdf.pisz.pl
- lafemka.pev.pl
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sword. The children were loaded into carts for the long journey to the slave
markets of Syria where they would be auctioned off.
The Parthian commander, surrounded by his dead followers, lay on the field,
his mouth filled with dirt. The noble had died in spasms, biting at his wounds
and the earth like a mad dog. At this moment his favorite wife was opening her
legs and letting a squad of legionnaires take their pleasure with her in the
hope that she and her children would be spared. The king's sons had already
been quickly put to the sword-even to the babes. The best way to stop a royal
line from cropping up to give trouble later was to wipe it out completely-and
the Romans were practical men.
Four thousand surviving warriors were chained together and were even now
passing over the horizon, the cries of their women still ringing in their
ears. Ctesiphon burned. The Roman eagles were triumphant. Only a small
detachment remained behind for mopping up operations and to occupy the capital
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for a while. What remained of Ctesiphon would serve as a forward base and
headquarters. The bulk of the army was already on the march for the glory of
its general.
While the city burned, another flame was born in the brain of its conqueror.
Warmed with pleasure over the victory, Avidius Cassius considered his worth as
a senator and leader of Rome. He reflected the true value of Roman honor; it
seemed only natural that the thought would come: Ave Avidius, imperator! The
spark caught in his mind ... Imperator!
There were no sparks in Casca's mind. He turned his eyes upon the forty-five
thousand dead men littering the field of battle. Other battles, other dead.
How many scenes like this had he lived through? How many more could he face?
Dead men ... their corpses littered the ground as far as the eye could see.
Horses .. . they screamed like women, their shrieks rising in the stormy air
until, one by one, a member of the mop-up squad would mercifully slice the
beast's throat, letting its rich blood join that of its human master in
feeding the hungry soil beneath. Scavenging soldiers... Romans walked over the
field below him, looting the bodies of the vanquished enemy. Parthia was no
more. Killing the wounded was the final act of this dreadful scenario.
Forty-five thousand men... eyes wide and staring... accusing the gods and
forces that drove them... their mouths black gaping holes filled with silent
screams... hands frozen in the act of clawing to reach the heavens... or
digging into the torn earth as if seeking comfort. Dead. Dead. Dead!
Dead... dead.. . all could kill, all could be killed
-all but me! The thought came screaming into Casca's mind.
Enough!
Taking his torn and bloody armor from his chest, he raised his voice to the
now-thundering skies above. The memory of another day and another storm washed
over him.... How long ago? Two hundred years? Fat drops of rain fell to the
ground. Distant thunder rumbled its way clpser.
Tears streaked Casca's face, and the years of his anguish rushed up into his
throat and burst forth in a soul-ripping cry. Drawing his gladius from its
scabbard, the blade notched and dull from the day's slaughter, he cried out:
"Yeshua! Jesus! Jew! God or devil!"
His own voice seemed to be one with the thunder. Raising himself erect and
holding the sword to the heavens, he cried:
"In the name of pity, let me die! What I did to you those long years ago in
Jerusalem was as nothing to what you have done to me. I have been punished a
thousand times over. You are the one without pity or compassion. The love your
followers preach is a lie. You are far more cruel than me or any man. You have
died-let me do the same!"
With one final great inarticulate cry Casca turned the blade to his chest. His
muscles straining, he doubled over and drove the two-foot blade straight
through his heart, and a foot of the Roman short sword stuck out his back, the
soldier's blade almost cutting his heart into two pieces within his chest. The
pain screamed through his nerves.
He called for death to take him, to give him peace, and, as he felt his life
force ebbing, draining from him, a sense of gratitude warmed his brain.
"Death," he whispered through blood-flecked lips, "welcome. . . welcome."
The sword moved in his hand. No!
No! came the panic-stricken thought, no!
The blade was being forced back out from his body and from his heart.
"No!" he screamed.
Silently, slowly, irresistibly, the blade was forced out of his body. He
fought as he never had to keep the blade inside him, but he was losing the
battle.
He was losing his death.
Now the blade was completely out of him. He could feel the torn heart already
mending itself.
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Casca stood, his face to the now-thundering skies, rain breaking over him in a
torrent, and cried out, sobbing in grief:
"Let me die! Damn You, let me die! How long must I endure?"
A cold shock grabbed his brain. The voice of the Jew came from the thunder and
struck his consciousness with the words:
until we meet again.
TWENTY-SIX
Goldman opened his eyes, and the blur between dream and reality vanished.
There was no mistaking where he was; the click of the air conditioning coming
on and beginning its interminable throbbing was familiar enough proof he was
sitting in a hard, government issue chair in the hospital room at Nha Trang,
Vietnam. Yet, his clothes were soaked with sweat, and a chill went through him
as the cold air moved in the room.
And there was another, more important, detail that was not right.
The hospital bunk was empty.
Casey-Casca-was gone...
A cold wash of fear ran over Goldman. Momentarily his mind filled again with
the sights and sounds and smell of that last great battle on the Parthian
plains.
Or was it the smell of blood coming from the hospital morgue next door? There
were, of course, rational ways to rule out hallucinations. After all I am a
doctor, forcing the emerging panic back to the dark where it came from. He
made a controlled unhurried visual survey of the room. It was precisely as he
had remembered it. Nothing whatever had changed except that Casey was no
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