"The rest of the brotherhood are at rest or at prayers. We rise quite early to say our devotionals, then go to the fields." The smell of roast goat and fresh bread convinced Casca to sit. Elder Dacort handed him a plate piled high with food and sat watching. Casca started to take a drink of wine and then hesitated, putting the cup back on the table.
Dacort laughed gently and took the cup in his hands and drank. Smiling, he then ate a small portion of each of the foods on Casca's plate.
Casca smiled, embarrassed. Dacort halted his protestations with an up lifted palm. "No need for explanations my son, it is a cruel world and there are many pitfalls awaiting the unwary." While Casca ate, Elder Dacort talked of Rome and the world. Casca found this gaunt man quite well informed on happenings in Rome, as well as what lay beyond to the east and other lands Casca had never heard of. The man's voice was soothing and soon Casca's limbs felt heavy, his eyes like leaden weights. He began to feel the first distant tinge of fear and tried to stand. His legs were like water. All the while, Dacort talked to him softly of the world and its happenings as if not noticing the wine being overturned and the wooden plates crashing to the floor as Casca fell, face first, into a leftover mess of goat and bread.
Dacort smiled to himself as he stood over the sprawled out figure of the former legionary. Reaching into his robes, he took out a small vial in the shape of an amphora and took the remaining fluid with a grimace of distaste. "The antidote was bitter as green figs," he thought. "Prior planning pays off," he smiled as he had when he had dosed himself long before Casca's appearance at the steps of the Temple of the Lamb.
The next day, Casca lay as one dead to the world. His host and the rest of the brethren were preparing for the most holy day of their year. Prayers echoed throughout the halls and chambers. Soon it would be time.
Dacort trusted no other than himself to watch over his unconscious guest. Casca lay on a skin-framed cot wearing only his tunic, his sword on a shelf nearby. Dacort knew well the strength of his potion. The Roman would sleep for yet another day, but it paid to be careful. Administering another dose to his guest that would guarantee his remaining in a comatose condition for another twenty-four hours, Elder Dacort went to prepare himself for the great day ahead. Giving Casca one last look and satisfied that the man would remain as he was, the elder left.
Casca's mind filled with images leaping across and then fading, images of ships and pyramids, Saxons and Parthians, mountains and deserts. His stomach turned inside out, spewing out the fluids given him. Consciousness returned by millimeters, Head aching, he rose to his elbow and ran his tongue over his gums. "By Mithra, it tastes like a camel just shit in my mouth." His stomach turned again and the last of its contents spilled onto the stone floor. Weaving on unsteady legs, he rose trying to focus. His sword. Where was it?
Stumbling to the shelf, he held the blade in his hand and pulled it from its scabbard, the feel of the familiar grip restoring him. “Now I'll give those psalm singing, drink-dopers something to pray about. They better pray I don't carve all of them into legs of lamb." Breathing deeply through his mouth, he let his strength return, shaking his head from side to side to clear the fog from it, he moved to the door. Raising the latch, he stuck his head out and glanced down the hall. The lamps in the iron brackets were out; cracks of bright light told him it was day outside.
"Where in the Hades are they? Is everyone here mad? What do I mean by everyone?" He stopped and thought, "The only bastard I've seen is that damned so-called Elder and that sucker certainly doesn't behave in a Christian manner. Where are they?"
Making his way on still unsteady legs, he held his short sword ready, wondering if Jugotai was still on the loose.
"Probably,"
Dacort laughed gently and took the cup in his hands and drank. Smiling, he then ate a small portion of each of the foods on Casca's plate.
Casca smiled, embarrassed. Dacort halted his protestations with an up lifted palm. "No need for explanations my son, it is a cruel world and there are many pitfalls awaiting the unwary." While Casca ate, Elder Dacort talked of Rome and the world. Casca found this gaunt man quite well informed on happenings in Rome, as well as what lay beyond to the east and other lands Casca had never heard of. The man's voice was soothing and soon Casca's limbs felt heavy, his eyes like leaden weights. He began to feel the first distant tinge of fear and tried to stand. His legs were like water. All the while, Dacort talked to him softly of the world and its happenings as if not noticing the wine being overturned and the wooden plates crashing to the floor as Casca fell, face first, into a leftover mess of goat and bread.
Dacort smiled to himself as he stood over the sprawled out figure of the former legionary. Reaching into his robes, he took out a small vial in the shape of an amphora and took the remaining fluid with a grimace of distaste. "The antidote was bitter as green figs," he thought. "Prior planning pays off," he smiled as he had when he had dosed himself long before Casca's appearance at the steps of the Temple of the Lamb.
The next day, Casca lay as one dead to the world. His host and the rest of the brethren were preparing for the most holy day of their year. Prayers echoed throughout the halls and chambers. Soon it would be time.
Dacort trusted no other than himself to watch over his unconscious guest. Casca lay on a skin-framed cot wearing only his tunic, his sword on a shelf nearby. Dacort knew well the strength of his potion. The Roman would sleep for yet another day, but it paid to be careful. Administering another dose to his guest that would guarantee his remaining in a comatose condition for another twenty-four hours, Elder Dacort went to prepare himself for the great day ahead. Giving Casca one last look and satisfied that the man would remain as he was, the elder left.
Casca's mind filled with images leaping across and then fading, images of ships and pyramids, Saxons and Parthians, mountains and deserts. His stomach turned inside out, spewing out the fluids given him. Consciousness returned by millimeters, Head aching, he rose to his elbow and ran his tongue over his gums. "By Mithra, it tastes like a camel just shit in my mouth." His stomach turned again and the last of its contents spilled onto the stone floor. Weaving on unsteady legs, he rose trying to focus. His sword. Where was it?
Stumbling to the shelf, he held the blade in his hand and pulled it from its scabbard, the feel of the familiar grip restoring him. “Now I'll give those psalm singing, drink-dopers something to pray about. They better pray I don't carve all of them into legs of lamb." Breathing deeply through his mouth, he let his strength return, shaking his head from side to side to clear the fog from it, he moved to the door. Raising the latch, he stuck his head out and glanced down the hall. The lamps in the iron brackets were out; cracks of bright light told him it was day outside.
"Where in the Hades are they? Is everyone here mad? What do I mean by everyone?" He stopped and thought, "The only bastard I've seen is that damned so-called Elder and that sucker certainly doesn't behave in a Christian manner. Where are they?"
Making his way on still unsteady legs, he held his short sword ready, wondering if Jugotai was still on the loose.
"Probably,"
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