thought Casca. "The little desert rat has more sense than I do."
The large door swung open on greased hinges and Casca slipped out looking to see if his horse was there. No luck. Staying close to the sides of the building, he kept to the shadows until he came close to a patch of boulders and brush. Bending low to the ground, he raced across and threw himself to the gravel behind the boulders leaving a skin mark running from his ankle to his knee.
He saw nothing. Only the dry wind whispered through the brush and the rocks. It was close to midday. Crawling backwards, he kept his eye on the temple until he was certain he couldn't be seen from that direction and headed for high ground. If Jugotai was anywhere around, that's where he would find him.
Climbing over rocks and boulders, he reached a small plateau and there lay flat on his stomach, letting his gaze run over the countryside, searching for any sign of movement. As far as he could see from his aerial perch, there was nothing but the wild country and the temple in the gorge below.
"There! A movement." Wiping a trickle of sweat from his eyes, he saw something move again. One man and then another and another, all in brown robes, their hands moving and bodies twisting, came into view. The man in front was carrying something on his shoulders. A log? The trail made a turn and Casca started. The man in front was carrying a cross. Distant sounds reached him, but they were too far away to make out. Watching their direction, Casca looked ahead and picked up the trail where it reached a small mound. Working his way carefully, he sped ahead of the group and found a sheltered spot underneath some brush that also provided protection. From this spot he could see where the trail stopped. Settling himself down, he wished for water or anything to quench his thirst.
For now he would have to wait and hope Jugotai was nearby; if he was, then they would have to figure out what to do next, especially about Casca's horse.
Chapter Eight - THE GUARDIANS
The column of hooded figures wound its way to the place of fulfillment. The devotees whipped themselves and their brothers with flails of thorns and cried out in ecstasy, the pain a drug to bring them closer to God, filling them with the pain of Jesus. They were as one with him in his agony.
They cried and wailed in fanatic fervor. The fortunate one chosen to represent Jesus as they relived his last moments, was the most ecstatic of all. His eyes glazed, he frothed at the mouth and spoke in tongues as he labored under the weight of the cross he bore on his shoulders, the wreath of thorns stuck in his forehead let trickles of blood run their sticky course down his cheeks and clotted in the hairs of his thin beard.
God was with him. The spirit of Jesus walked with him. He knew the glory of the Messiah's pain.
Laboriously, he carried his instrument of death to the crest of the mount and there lay his burden down as his brethren begged him to forgive their sins and transgressions. Placing himself on the cross, he stretched his arms, resting them on the crossbeams, the feel of the rough wood on his skin sensual. He opened his eyes wide and screamed in pleasure, the knowledge of his certain salvation was manifest when the first spike was driven through the space between the wrist bones into the roughened wood of the cross; then again and once more he screamed as the last spike nailed his feet together. He cried out to the glory of the Lord God and to the honor that was his, to be able to experience all that the Lord Jesus did on this Holy of Holy days, to ascend and sit at the feet of the master, to be one with God himself.
His brethren whipped themselves even more, many laying their backs open to the bone. They wailed as the cross was set into place. The scenario was almost complete. The crucified supplicant prayed not to die before the allotted time had passed. He must feel every second and minute, of the divine agony, until the final great
The large door swung open on greased hinges and Casca slipped out looking to see if his horse was there. No luck. Staying close to the sides of the building, he kept to the shadows until he came close to a patch of boulders and brush. Bending low to the ground, he raced across and threw himself to the gravel behind the boulders leaving a skin mark running from his ankle to his knee.
He saw nothing. Only the dry wind whispered through the brush and the rocks. It was close to midday. Crawling backwards, he kept his eye on the temple until he was certain he couldn't be seen from that direction and headed for high ground. If Jugotai was anywhere around, that's where he would find him.
Climbing over rocks and boulders, he reached a small plateau and there lay flat on his stomach, letting his gaze run over the countryside, searching for any sign of movement. As far as he could see from his aerial perch, there was nothing but the wild country and the temple in the gorge below.
"There! A movement." Wiping a trickle of sweat from his eyes, he saw something move again. One man and then another and another, all in brown robes, their hands moving and bodies twisting, came into view. The man in front was carrying something on his shoulders. A log? The trail made a turn and Casca started. The man in front was carrying a cross. Distant sounds reached him, but they were too far away to make out. Watching their direction, Casca looked ahead and picked up the trail where it reached a small mound. Working his way carefully, he sped ahead of the group and found a sheltered spot underneath some brush that also provided protection. From this spot he could see where the trail stopped. Settling himself down, he wished for water or anything to quench his thirst.
For now he would have to wait and hope Jugotai was nearby; if he was, then they would have to figure out what to do next, especially about Casca's horse.
Chapter Eight - THE GUARDIANS
The column of hooded figures wound its way to the place of fulfillment. The devotees whipped themselves and their brothers with flails of thorns and cried out in ecstasy, the pain a drug to bring them closer to God, filling them with the pain of Jesus. They were as one with him in his agony.
They cried and wailed in fanatic fervor. The fortunate one chosen to represent Jesus as they relived his last moments, was the most ecstatic of all. His eyes glazed, he frothed at the mouth and spoke in tongues as he labored under the weight of the cross he bore on his shoulders, the wreath of thorns stuck in his forehead let trickles of blood run their sticky course down his cheeks and clotted in the hairs of his thin beard.
God was with him. The spirit of Jesus walked with him. He knew the glory of the Messiah's pain.
Laboriously, he carried his instrument of death to the crest of the mount and there lay his burden down as his brethren begged him to forgive their sins and transgressions. Placing himself on the cross, he stretched his arms, resting them on the crossbeams, the feel of the rough wood on his skin sensual. He opened his eyes wide and screamed in pleasure, the knowledge of his certain salvation was manifest when the first spike was driven through the space between the wrist bones into the roughened wood of the cross; then again and once more he screamed as the last spike nailed his feet together. He cried out to the glory of the Lord God and to the honor that was his, to be able to experience all that the Lord Jesus did on this Holy of Holy days, to ascend and sit at the feet of the master, to be one with God himself.
His brethren whipped themselves even more, many laying their backs open to the bone. They wailed as the cross was set into place. The scenario was almost complete. The crucified supplicant prayed not to die before the allotted time had passed. He must feel every second and minute, of the divine agony, until the final great
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