by Barry Sadler
"A gladiator?"
"We're going to Rome next month when he is relieved of his duty here. But I do have a chance for freedom if I serve him well and kill enough people in the arena." He chuckled softly. "Well, one thing, little friend. I am leaving the mines, and that is a definite improvement. Right now I am to get my things and go back to his domus and work there until we leave Greece."
Minitre was stunned. His face screwed itself up, and Casca thought, for a moment the little overseer was going to cry.
"Damn it! It's not fair. He should have set you free. Anyone with a smidgeon of honor would have."
Minitre's concern touched Casca, and he put his arm around the little man's shoulders. "Don't worry. It will all work out. As you said, I have time on my side. Go home to your wife, Lucius. You have done well by me, and I will never forget it. You are the first friend I have had in fifty-five years. That is not a small thing. Go home, friend, and do yourself a kindness and beat your wife."
The month passed uneventfully. Casca was well treated in the household of Crespas. The old steward was kind, and the other slaves were afraid of him because of his size and great strength. Minitre came often to sit and talk with Casca. Minitre brought Casca up to date on all that had happened in the Empire since he had been enslaved. Casca had come to the conclusion that such knowledge would help pave the road to his freedom. He had to be current on items of everyday knowledge. If he slipped, and his true age was discovered, the game would be over and the punishment unthinkable. During the days Casca spent his time limbering up his sword arm in the courtyard back of Crespas's house. There he would spend hours hacking and gouging against make-believe enemies, the warmth of the sun on his back pleasant, the feel of the sword in his hand giving him confidence. This was something he understood – and it was his way to freedom.
Unseen by Casca, Crespas often watched, grinning in self approval. Yes, he had the man figured out all right. With any luck at all the slave would make him a nice piece of change in the games. This one had all the earmarks of a winner. He had the skill, and the deep look of determination that came across the brute's face as he hacked at the wooden posts, evidence of the intense desire of Casca for his freedom, told Crespas that he had the motivation. Yes... a nice piece of change.
They sailed. Minitre was at the dock, waving farewell, pleased with himself. After all, he had participated in a great adventure. Even better, he had taken Casca's advice and beat the hell out of his wife with a stout rod. Surprisingly, instead of counterattacking, she had become instantly meek and anxious to please. Yes, life was indeed more bearable... and interesting.
Casca looked forward to the voyage. The galley they were sailing on was a military bireme, twin-oared, a lot different from the trading ship that had brought him to the mines. Here all the rowers were slaves and chained to their oars; if the ship went down, so did they. The hortator who beat the time looked to be a Gaul from the size and coloring of him. He beat the time on his log drum with a smooth precision that spoke of years of practice. The measure was given. The beat began. Smoothly the oars of the slaves sliced the gray green waters, and the galley put out to sea. The steady thumping of the hortator's gavel beat a rhythm that Casca felt echoed in his own pulse. The slaves would pull until they were in the open sea and the wind could take over.
Casca was put with Crespa's other personal slaves in a forward hatch. There they made beds as best they could.
It was a fair day, and clear, with the wind coming in from the deserts of Arabia across the Mediterranean, the wind that blew straight toward Rome. It would be an easy voyage. For Casca, the sea road to Rome – and the arena – was clear.
FOURTEEN
Twelve to fifteen days the journey would take, depending upon the winds and the weather. Time enough for rest, Casca thought. He watched the myriad islands of the Cyclades slide by to port and starboard as the galley pushed its ram-fitted nose through the wine-dark sea. It was pleasant to watch the islands and breathe the fresh air of the sea they covered from horizon to horizon. They were like an enormous convoy of strange ships floating on the dark water under the clear blue sky. Like an honor guard of vessels the gods had sent to speed him off on his voyage to freedom.
He smiled inwardly at the childish thought. It had been so many, many years since the images of a child's imagination had played in his brain that this one nonsensical conceit was like a lonely stick of driftwood bobbing on the enormous sea. Well, then. A good omen. Somewhere deep in his mind something was telling him that freedom would come. But he did wonder what the hell the other slaves would think if they knew what had been – however briefly – in his mind.
He would keep to himself during the voyage. Again, as when he was first brought to Seriphos, he felt no trace of seasickness, though, even in these calm waters, the malady had struck many of the other slaves. The gentle roll and slight pitch of the galley served only to give his mind an ease of thought as he rested.
They left the islands. By dawn of the second day at sea, when he went on deck, he could just make out astern the outline of Achaia, the southernmost tip of Greece. They moved out into the islandless waters of what the Greeks called the Ionian Sea, a four-hundred-mile expanse of ocean separating Greece from her conqueror and student, Rome.
The wind failed only twice in ten days. Then the sound of the hortator's gavel pounded the measure and the slaves fell to the stroke. The lash was used sparingly on this ship. The captain had a good set of oarsmen and intended to keep them in good health as long as he could. Only two died on the voyage. One got it from a bleeding disease that loosened his teeth until they fell out. The other casualty resulted from the captain's trying to knock some brains into the head of an oarsman who kept fouling up the stroke; instead the captain knocked the brains out of him when he rapped the fellow's head firmly with his baton. A slight miscalculation concerning the thickness of the slave's skull. It was thinner than the captain thought. Of course, the baton was of hardwood and capped with a silver knob...
Casca had determined to keep to himself during the voyage, but that did not prevent him from observing the other slaves. In the hold where the privately owned slaves were kept there was the usual blending of peoples and races. But one slave was unusual and specially interested him.
He had never seen the like before. The slave was a small man of indeterminate age. He could be anything from forty-five to sixty-five; a wispy gray moustache and beard accented his features. It was hard to tell because of the color of his skin which had a gold cast to it under the sunburn. His eyes were similar to some Casca had seen among travelers from the east who had come to the markets in Jerusalem, except that they seemed more slanted, giving the man a sleepy look. His body was lean and well-muscled.
But it was as much what the man did as what he looked like that made him so damned odd. Every morning and evening he went through a strange ritual of exercises, weaving his body about like a serpent, taking on odd positions and then holding the positions for long periods of time while he performed strange breathing exercises – letting the air hiss out between his teeth and then inhaling and sucking his abdomen in and holding the breath.
Even odder was the way he acted around the other slaves. The little man was quiet and well-mannered, never giving offense when he did not get the choice bits from the pot and even smiling and thanking the bastard who gypped him for being so good as to leave him what he did. Damned curious. Maybe there was something to that bit about a man's brain being touched by the gods.
As the days wore on, Casca watched the other slaves bit by bit take greater and greater advantage of the yellow man until he could no longer contain his curiosity. That night, after the evening meal, he moved to the side of the little man and asked:
"Why do you let them treat you so, yellow man?"
The brown eyes in the slanted epicanthic fold looked steadily at Casca. There was no trace of fear in the man. Whatever was done to him was not done because he was afraid.
The y
ellow man smiled, his even white teeth shining in the dim light. "Not tonight, my monstrous barbarian. Sleep tonight. Tomorrow I will answer your questions, for it is as the Lord Confucius said that to teach is to learn. Tomorrow we will both learn more."
As he lay on his pallet that night, Casca thought about the strange little man with the flashing eyes, but he finally gave up trying to fathom what the yellow slave meant and, giving a grunt, rolled over on his right side and let the creaking of the ship's wooden sides lull him to sleep.
And when the new day came with its sameness to all the other days of the voyage he had practically dismissed the yellow man from his mind.
Until the evening meal, that is.
The slaves' rations were lowered down to them in a large black kettle, one that – from the look of it – had seen service in the fleet for at least a hundred years. All meals were prepared at the only place on the ship where a fire could be lit, an open area covered with sand, a brass brazier serving as stove. Fire was the single most feared disaster on board the galleys.
With the kettle lowered, the slaves stood in line to dip their rations out of the pot and into their personal bowls. Naturally Casca took his place in the front of the line. He was the strongest, and the strongest always feed first.
He took his bowl of meaty fish stew to his bunking area and sat cross-legged and ate, dipping the pieces of fish out with his fingers, occasionally smacking his lips over a morsel.
A commotion by the pot drew his attention. The yellow man was having problems.
He had awaited his turn at the pot patiently, content to be the last in line, even to the extent of giving an elderly slave a spot in front of him – and bowing politely while he did it.
When he had taken his own serving – and there was precious little left at the bottom of the pot – two of the younger slaves decided to have some fun with the little man. One was a young man of perhaps twenty, fair-haired and with pleasant enough features – though a close look would show a mean set to the mouth. The other was of mixed blood, perhaps Greek and Persian. The half-breed was large and strong, and had more than once thought about challenging Casca for the first position. He had, however, apparently seen something in the legionary that told him to leave well enough alone, so Casca had not had the pleasure of whipping his ass. But the yellow man was something else – and fair game.
When little slant-eyes had taken his bowl and started back for his area, the blond young slave tripped him, knocking his food to the floor. The blond and the breed thought this great fun and suggested that the yellow one eat his food from the floor like a dog, seeing as how he was obviously an animal of some kind, perhaps even a new type of monkey.
The yellow man arose from the deck. Smiling, he wiped the stew from his saffron-colored robe and turned to face the two men. Bowing, he asked politely:
"Honored sirs, is it your intention to continue harassing me? Have I done anything to offend you? If so, I regret it most sincerely as it was unintentional. I wish you no harm. I only wish for you a joyous life filled with harmony."
The breed couldn't believe his ears. Then he began to laugh.
"Harm? You wish us no harm? You yellow toad, I'll teach you what harm means."
Casca had started to get up and put a stop to the action when the yellow man caught his eyes and motioned for him to sit back down. Well, it was none of his business if the little man wanted to get his head broken open by those two thugs. Casca shook his head and went back to eating, but he watched.
The Greek breed continued to talk to the yellow man. Liking the sound of his own voice, he began describing the type of parentage it must have taken to sire such as little slant-eyes.
The yellow man sighed as if weary and reconciled to this defilement and any others the two might wish to heap upon him. But he did lower his hands into one of the strange positions Casca had noticed when he exercised.
It got the breed's attention. "What is this?" he demanded, reached out one long arm and grabbing the little man on the shoulder. But before he could register what was happening he was flying through the air. He landed on his back on the deck a full ten feet away, with an audible Thunk! as the air blew out of him.
The yellow man had barely changed position. Now he turned to face the downed man, bowed, and asked in the politest of tones:
"Will you please do me the great service of letting this unfortunate one be left in peace? I wish you no harm." His yellow face showed no trace of mockery. The man was completely sincere. "Please do not force me into that which is unpleasant."
The half Greek lay on the deck for a moment, stunned. Then his breath returned, he got up, and with a growl threw himself at the yellow man, hands extended, going for the throat.
The slant-eyed one pivoted on one foot, turned his body away as if to run, and with a twisting motion swung his rear leg up and kicked the Greek in the throat, setting the man back down on the deck trying to breathe. When the breed came at him, so did the young blond. While the yellow man's foot was still in the air, the fair-haired youngster swung a fist at the yellow man's face – only to find it wasn't there. Slant-eye's hand made a pass, and the youngster's body did a complete turnaround, facing back the way he had come. By the time the Greek had hit the deck the yellow man had the youngster on his knees from the rear. With a sigh of regret, he formed a strange fist and tapped the youngster just behind the ear. The young man fell forward onto the floor, unconscious. He would probably have broken his nose in the fall had not the yellow man caught his head and gently lowered him to the deck.
Slant-eyes turned to the other slaves. "I apologize for this unpleasantness, but it was unavoidable." Kneeling down, he put the scraps of food back in his bowl and, taking a scrap of rag, began meticulously cleaning the floor where his food had fallen. When he had finished, he stood, faced the others, and bowed.
Casca's mouth was hanging open. What the Hades was that? I have never seen anything like it. Gulping the rest of his food down, he wiped his mouth with the back of one hairy hand and made his way to the side of the yellow man.
Thumping himself down beside the yellow man, he asked: "What kind of man are you, anyway? I know I asked you that yesterday, but you didn't answer, and after what I just saw you do to those two bravos I think I would like to know more about you. Will you tell me?"
The little man looked long and steadily past Casca before he spoke. "I am Shiu Lao Tze." His voice was soft and gentle and lying in its undertones was a feeling of being pleased with himself that was oddly pleasant to hear. But abruptly his voice sharpened. "Why do you concern yourself with me, soldier?"
"I am no soldier!" Casca spat back. "I am a slave like you."
"You are a soldier... regardless of what your present state may be. We are what we are from the time of birth and cannot escape it. You are a soldier. You may be many other things also in your life, but, as the great wheel turns, you will return to what you really are." The gentleness was back, a timeless gentleness, yet he looked deep into Casca's eyes.
The gaze of Shiu Tze made Casca uneasy, and his own voice took on a sharp edge. "And what are you, little man, if not a slave?"
"I am a humble follower of the great sage Kung Fu Tsu, Kung the Philosopher – or, as your learned men call him, Confucius. I follow his teaching and rules of living."
"Not another religion," mumbled Casca. "That's all this world needs, another group of gods to finish driving man crazy."
Shiu Tze laughed gently. "No, my big-nosed barbarian. Kung Fu Tzu – or perhaps I should call him Confucius; that will be easier for you to say with your uneducated tongue – Confucius is not a god. He is a way of life that can bring peace and joy to all men.
Curiosity settled in on Casca. The little man had a magnetic appeal for him. "And what is that way, Shiu Tze?"
"It is the path of enlightenment. My master, the sage Confucius, has only one primary law to live by and that is not to do to others what you do not want them to do to you."
"Is that
all there is to it?"
"There are the Analects and five Ching of his teachings, but it is not a religion as you have with your panoply of gods. The great sage lived and walked the earth over five hundred years ago. He is no god, but his teachings can give you peace of mind. My religion as such is that. The members of my order believe that the soul lives on as long as a man's descendants remember him, so as I honor my father, my sons must honor me until the time of my rebirth. And then, if I have achieved merit, I shall be born again as a man. If not, it will be as a lesser being, or beast, until I pay enough penance."
"Religion," Casca grumbled. "Enough of religion. I want to know how you did what you did to those two dummies over there." He indicated the two toughs who were even now consoling themselves with the idea that Shiu had hit them with a club when they weren't looking. In another hour they would believe their own lie.
Shiu laughed, a tinkling sound, as of wind chimes. His voice had a surprisingly lilting quality to it.
"Very well, O mighty warrior. What you witnessed was no more than the way of the open hand. It is an art many of those in my brotherhood practice. You see, our code forbids the use of weapons, but we are not so stupid as to believe that absolute passivity will solve every situation. So, when all else fails, we go the way of the open hand. It came to us from across the great mountains along with the teachings of another great sage, Siddhartha Gautama, called the Buddha. Many of his followers were masters of this art, and we learned from them and have changed it to suit ourselves."
"But," Casca broke in, "How does it work? You're so much smaller than those two, yet you handled them as if they were babes. How?"
Shiu laughed again... "I like you, barbarian. And because I like you and believe that basically you are a good man, I will tell you of the way of the great circle. For every movement there is a counter movement. You use your opponent's strength and weight against him. While this journey lasts I will instruct you in the Way, but in exchange for this, you must also let me tell you of the way of Confucius in the hope that I may attain greater merit for my efforts. Agreed?"
