by Barry Sadler
Casca finished the tale, bringing Shiu up to date on everything from Crysos and his arrangement to the deal that had been made with Crespas the patrician.
Shiu sat silently for a moment. Then, for the first time since Casca had started his tale, he locked his merry, ever-questioning eyes on his muscle-bound friend. Hissing between his teeth in the manner of his race when an important thought passed or came to them, he performed kowtow, the bow of obeisance.
Straightening up, Casca said a little irritably: "Now, what the crap is that about? Is that all you can do? Can't you say anything?"
Smiling, Shiu raised his head. "Big nose, I was honoring you for your long life. Remember that in my land age is greatly respected. You are one of the oldest men that I have ever met-especially to look so young."
"Don't you believe me?"
"Yes. Of course I do, my friend. But your condition makes for some very interesting questions."
"What questions, you yellow weasel?"
"Ah! Weasel is it, you monstrous pink ape? So be it. Listen to the weasel, and it may be we both may learn more. You say your condition is a gift from the Christian's demigod, Jesus. One must look closely at gifts from gods. They are not always what they seem. Consider, my friend. What will be the long-range effect on your development? Your crucified god said ‘As you are, so shall you remain.’ In what way? Will you always be as you are in tastes and temperament? Or will you, like the silkworm that turns into a moth, become more than your beginnings? I have believed for some time that men change in their attitudes as their bodies change with age, that the aging process causes certain things to happen inside that make us different at different ages. For example, an old man does not like loud noises while a child cannot get enough of them. Our tastes in food and – ah! – our tastes in women change with age.
"But apparently you do not age physically. Will that apply also to your other senses and assets? It is fascinating. I must give a great deal of thought to your problems before I dare make any suggestions.
"But one thing I will leave you to think on is this: Go to the East one day. Beyond the Indus, to Khitai, to my land. There you will find wisdom that has been saved for centuries and passed from one scholar to the next, each adding his small contribution to the total. You will find there men to help you ease your burdens, and you will help by adding to the knowledge of the world. What you have told me now demands that I must return home after these many years. This knowledge of you must not be lost. When I leave, come with me, for while you are older than I, I feel as a father to you, and I have an embarrassing amount of concern for you and your well-being. Indeed, big nose, it might be said that even with all your ugliness, your pale fish skin, your oversized muscles and monstrous nose, I love you like a son. Come with me to Khitai, to the monastery of my brothers. Perhaps with all our minds together thinking on your condition answers may come."
Casca turned his head and wiped his eyes. "Damned sweat makes the eyes water," he grumbled. Putting one arm around the shoulders of Shiu, he said: "When I am free, I will come with you. Wherever the road leads, little father, I will go with you to your homeland. Maybe you are right. Maybe we can learn more about myself and others in the process. For example, right now I am not sure I would want to change my condition if I could. Life is beginning to look pretty good for me. If I am not maturing in the manner of a man of age, at least now I have enough money to be able to afford some things I never could before.
"You know what I mean: good wine, good food... and a lusty assortment of wenches, eager to render unlimited services to my poor body." He smiled. "And I don't think I am over muscled. Also, my nose is not too big. It's just that yours is too small, and your face looks like someone had slapped you across your nose with a shovel. There! I have been wanting to say something to get back at you for all that ‘big nose’ crap for months."
Shiu smiled, then chuckled, and finally the two were laughing as though both were totally mad in the steam-filled room.
They were dressed and left the baths by way of the caldaria. On the street, Shiu made his farewell and disappeared into the crowds. Casca decided to reward himself. Hailing a passing litter, he had himself carried back to the school as if he were of the blood royal. By the gods! Life could be good. Perhaps things weren't all bad. After all, l have only a little over two years to go, and for a man of my longevity, that's nothing. I just have to be careful, that's all. Just be careful...
Casca's fortune continued to ride high. One victory in the arena followed another. One by one, the great champions of the games fell to his blade. Soon his was the name that was scrawled most on the walls of public buildings and houses. Women sighed for him and his embrace, sent their slaves with gifts to entice him to their villas. Some he accepted, but mostly he preferred wenching on his own. The highborn ladies were a little too strange in sexual fantasies for him. He was pretty much a straight-ahead type of person, and those damn group activities they were always trying to get him into were a little too much for a country boy's taste. Not that he was averse to such things as a little healthy ass slapping in the heat of passion when he was well-mounted in the saddle. And even a good bite wasn't all bad. But. . . about all he got from diddling Rome's leading ladies was the fun of watching them go through their routines trying to excite him, to get him all worked up. Shit! They were pathetic. They had no idea at all of what it took to get him aroused. If Salome were still alive she could have made a fortune teaching these high- class whores how to use their equipment. But then, the ladies of the East – Asia Minor in particular – always seemed to have an edge over those from the North. Indeed... those tantalizing beauties of Syria and Persia knew their tricks all right... Just thinking about them was enough to set him off and running for one of the better whorehouses that specialized in imports.
Crysos was ecstatic.
Their winnings were mounting to a small fortune. True, the wooden sword had so far eluded Casca's grasp, but the money was rolling in. Already they had over twenty thousand sesterces set aside at a local banking house. If you had to be a slave, it was better to be a Roman slave. You could at least have your own money – even have slaves of your own. Now, if Casca would agree, he would approach Corvu and ask how much it would take to buy his freedom. Surely Corvu would let him go for a couple of thousand.
There was no way to deal on Casca yet. His owner was making a killing at the games, and there was no way to get him to let Casca go before the agreement ran out, but, as a freeman, Crysos would be better able to advance both their positions in the outside world and be ready for the day when Casca was set free.
The only fly in the ointment was Jubala...
That big Numidian watched them closer than anyone. Not even Corvu had kept a closer eye on the two than had he. There was something strange about Casca, and he was going to find out what it was even if it meant tearing off Casca's limbs one by one like he was a fly. Strange... For openers, why did Casca never show the weakening effects of wounds?
Jubala had not fought, of course, in the same contests as Casca. At the moment he was being saved for a particular special where, in the fanciful costume of Africa, he would fight against mounted Arabs. For this he had chosen his favorite weapons, the light lance and the long curved sword of the desert. He would have looked forward to the special in anticipation, but Casca's victories continued to be bitter in his mouth. When he thought of the big Roman his lips drew back in a sneer, showing his pointed white teeth in a shark's grin.
Every time Casca fought, Jubala's hate for the white-skinned devil grew more intense. In frustration he would leave the school to seek another victim to feed himself and his gods on. The Tiber was capable of holding and hiding an almost limitless number of bodies in its whirling waters and eddies. No one looked too close at a corpse. If one washed up close to a residence, the owner just had his slaves push the remains back into the mainstream where the currents would take them on past Ostia and out to sea.
But the dark looks Jubal
a gave Casca were not unnoticed. Crysos was aware of them. And several times Jubala had tried to get him to speak of his partner. No dice. One thing Crysos knew – and knew for certain – was how to spot a con, especially a bad one. He kept his distance from Jubala and tried to stay close to Casca when the big black was around. But it made things somewhat awkward for him. He had repeatedly warned Casca about Jubala, saying there would come a time...
Casca grinned in agreement. "No sweat, Crysos. I know what's happening, and so does Corvu. Me and the black will settle things before much longer. For now, just keep away from him."
TWENTY-ONE
Casca continued his run of good fortune in the games, fighting not only in Rome but going also on several tours to the surrounding cities, as far south as Neapolis and as far north as Bononia. His fame gathered fans and admirers. He was becoming one of the great gladiators.
The rules of the arena were simple. You followed orders. If you were fighting someone from an opposing school you had the option once he was defeated of taking his life or sparing him. Only when the emperor was present did that right of life or death pass to him. The mob would try to influence the gladiator's decision by crying out "Mitte!" (Let him go!) or "Iugula!" (Jugular!). However, the decision not to kill a downed opponent when you had the chance was considered foolhardy. When next you met, he might be the one to finish you off.
Jubala had developed his own ring of admirers and fans – and never did he spare a victim. His followers knew that they would always be treated to a climactic ending. Jubala would stand nearly naked, his black hide gleaming with sweat as his great muscles rippled. When he himself was wounded, many of his fans were driven to ecstasy by the sight of him licking his own red blood, so much in contrast to his black skin... licking his blood from his wounds like an animal... Jubala killed as most men make love, with passion and need.
And his almost insane hatred of Casca continued to grow. Every time they met now, or locked eyes, he tried to put all his hate out... like a tidal wave that would drown the big Roman. Yet Casca only laughed, mocking the black man's strength and refusing to recognize Jubala's greatness. Jubala knew better than to have a fight within the confines of the school, for, though he was popular with the crowds, he was still the property of the school. Corvu had warned him that if he started any shit, Corvu would personally see to the castration of the offending party and let the beasts of the game feed on him while he was tied.
The only thing more important than owning a profitable fighter was maintaining order and discipline. If just once the gladiators thought they could get away with making decisions, who could tell where it would lead? As a businessman, Corvu would much rather finish off one of his own men himself as an example than to have a troublemaker around who could cause him grief later. Old Crassus had been right when he had six thousand slaves crucified along the Appian Way from Capua to Rome. They had revolted and had been led by gladiators. Corvu would not let that kind of shit happen from his school – and Jubala knew it.
But if Jubala could not get at Casca, he could get at Crysos.
The Sicilian was a worthless slave. Corvu might have him whipped for killing a house slave, but that was all that would happen – and he would not be whipped badly enough to be crippled. Did not every man have a weakness? Whatever Casca's weakness was, would not Crysos know? Jubala knew that Casca went through strange exercises alone in his cubicle when no one but Crysos was present. Were the rituals magic? Did he use Crysos as some kind of training aid. It must be working because Casca won, time and time again.
So...
Jubala cornered Crysos.
Crysos felt his breath cut off. His lungs jerked as he tried to breathe, but whatever was covering his mouth and nose was too tight. He felt his eyes roll up on his head... and all went dark.
Jubala took Crysos from the interior, hallway where he had caught him to the enclosed training area that was used on rainy days. Here none could see what was going to transpire. Gagging his now unconscious victim, he tied Crysos to one of the chopping stakes. He knelt, nearly invisible in the dark. The only light was from a high-set window, the pale, weak glow of the outside moon.
Crysos stirred, then woke. Confusion and panic hit him. Where was he? And why? Why am I hanging here?
Jubala waited, giving Crysos's fear of the unknown time to work before making his presence known.
Crysos tried to yell, but the rag in his mouth reduced his efforts to a choking cough, almost .inaudible despite his frantic strain. He closed his eyes, trying to hold down the panic. When he did open them, he almost fainted. The first thing he saw was the pointed teeth of Jubala only inches from his face, glowing in the dim light.
Jubala reached up, and, took Crysos's arm in one black hand and released it from the bindings.
"Little man," he demanded softly, "what is the weakness of Casca? What is it you do in his cubicle? What are the tricks he uses to achieve victory? Tell me, and you live. Refuse, and there are worse things than death."
The heaviness of Jubala's speech, the steady pounding of the words, left no doubt as to his intent. Crysos shook his head up and down until Jubala untied the gag.
But Jubala kept his hand on Crysos's throat in order to stop any cry for help before it began. Again he demanded: "Are you going to tell, little man?"
Crysos was jellied with fear. In the past months Jubala had missed no chance to intimidate or abuse him. Time and again he had been cornered by the black and threatened with everything from being maimed to worse – or offered a bribe of money. Up to now he had somehow always found the strength of will to refuse Jubala's demands, or had been able to break away and run to where Casca was, or to a spot near some of the other professionals. He had friends among them, and had made it a point to do favors for the toughest. But now... now Jubala had him.
"Will you talk, little man?"
Crysos's eyes filled with tears. He cleared his throat as the gag was removed, the taste of bile in his mouth coming from fear. He had run out his string. He opened his mouth.
Jubala waited, certain now that he had broken the little Sicilian.
Crysos cleared his throat again – and spit a chunk of phlegm directly into the face of his persecutor.
Jubala grinned. He made no effort to wipe off the spittle running down his face. He retied the gag.
"Good enough, little man. When you are ready to talk, just nod your head, and the hurting will stop."
Crysos groaned to himself and prayed to all the gods of everywhere to give him strength to hold out. Surely Casca or one of the guards would come by before much longer... surely they would.
Jubala went to work. First the arms. Then the legs. Bit by bit he worked through the dark hours, and only when the first glow of the predawn shown through the little window did he stop and release the body that had been Crysos the slave. Wiping his bloody hands across his chest, he regretted that he would not have time to feed on his kill... but there was always Casca. Soon now. I don't need what the little man could tell me anyway. I am the better man and the better fighter. Casca will fight me... soon.
When the body of Crysos was found, and Casca went to look at it, the moan that came out of him threatened to tear down the walls. Instinctively he knew that Crysos had been murdered because of him. "Jubala!" he screamed. "Where are you?"
The others backed away from him. Casca cried again for Jubala and headed for the barracks area where the black lived. But before he reached the door the world for him suddenly went dark in a flash of lights and dull pain...
Corvu stood over Casca holding a lead-weighted baton. Calling to his private guards, he ordered them to chain Casca up and also to bring Jubala to him in chains. This was all the bullshit he was going to put up with. Those who wanted a fight, well, he would let them have it, but, by Baal, they would do it his way and not disgrace his school.
Jubala stood, hands and feet manacled, his head erect. He was filled with pride... like a wild beast from the country where he was si
red... the essence of primitive force.
"All right, you animal. You are going to get what you want, a shot at Casca. You two will be the featured event in the next imperial games. Until that time – and until this is all over – you will be chained every night in your quarters. Casca will be done the same. You will train and eat separately. Any attempt to even talk to each other will get you fifty lashes – and you know I can lay them on."
When Casca calmed down enough to talk, he received the same information and agreed.
The games came soon enough, and both men were ready for them. They had trained with greater determination than ever before. The blood feud between them had been widely advertised, and the bets were being made hot and heavy. Most were on the side of the monster black because his sheer size and ferocity seemed to give him an edge.
The games began as had most of the others, with the bloodless fights first, and then a special of women gladiators fighting to the death against dwarfs and other women. Then came the tubas and trumpets heralding the beginning of the mass fights. The gladiators marched into the arena escorted by their managers and trainers. The mob on the podium screamed their pleasure. The musicians played louder and louder but were eventually drowned out in the clamor. They continued to play anyway. After all, that was what they were being paid for.
The gladiators paired off. Some were in the ancient style of dress of the Etruscan Samnite with feathered, crested helmets and square, arm-length shields. Others wore the varied dress of the Gallic school or of Thrace. These were being harried by a team of retarii working together. The fights went on. From the crowd would come the mixed calls of "Hoc Kobet!" (Now he's had it!) and "Yebera!" (Strike!). Once a gladiator was down he would raise a finger of his left hand and ask for mercy. It was seldom shown.
When the mass fights ended, the slain were dragged off by litter bearers dressed as Charon, the boatman of the River Styx, and the call went forth to Casca and Jubala to prepare themselves. There was a short intermission while the arena was raked and freshly sanded.
