Casca 1: The Eternal Mercenary (13 page)

The audience roared with laughter as the Greek looked startled and tried to throw up even as he went down. The audience knew then that Casca had been playing with them and with his opponent, but the Romans had a good sense of humor and bore no grudges. Cheerfully they turned thumbs down on their previous favorite. The Greek was doubled up on the sand, holding his balls. Casca raised his blade and turned to the emperor for the signal. Nero was laughing so hard at Casca's trick that he nearly choked on a piece of pomegranate. Still coughing, he motioned for the kill.

Blade raised, Casca stood over the Greek. The man's eyes asked for nothing. He bared his neck for the blow. "Make it clean, Roman," came his choking voice. "Make it clean."

Casca nodded, his face shining with sweat. "Clean it will be, Greek. I give you peace." There was a whishing sound followed by a thunk! and the Greek's head was off. Arterial blood spurted on the much-stained sand. Casca then raced to where his teammates were still engaged and began lending assistance to them, getting them organized. As they cut a man down they would band together to finish off the next... until the Dacian school's team was no more. Only the dead and dying littered the ground. Some were permitted to live, even though defeated, if they had fought well. The victors were thrown money by those who had wagered on them. A few cried out for the wooden sword to be given to Ca
sca for his tricking the Greek, but not enough cried out for it, so the request was ignored by the Imperator who went back to playing with Acte's breasts while the Praetorians watched over him.

The survivors made their way back into the cool interior of the Circus, holding their wounds and calling for wine. The arena attendants were out dragging off the bodies of the fallen, using long poles with hooks.

Casca's teammates congratulated him on his victory. Crysos came to him and unlaced his greaves and the straps holding his armor on. "See, master," he said, "I told you that you would win the favor of the crowd. Freedom is not very far away. Even now they know your name and will be watching for you in future games. Fight well and use your brains and we may both be free from this house of carrion one day. We are fifty sesterces closer. I doubled our money." Sponging Casca down quickly, Crysos went about his duties tending to the others, bringing wine and posca to those who called for it.

Every, now and then a scream punctuated the heavy atmosphere as the physicians used their favorite remedies: cauterizing a wound with a red-hot blade, or, if there was a stump, smearing the open and raw wound with hot pitch. This gentle treatment always sent the patient into a fit of screaming until they passed out
– which was not long in coming. While they worked, the physicians would argue among themselves the various aspects of their profession ... and was the latest theory correct about laudable pus and the benefits that good healthy pus had on healing.

The men who could walk were marched in loose order back to the school. Those who could not were brought back in donkey carts. For them the games were over, but the roar of the arena followed their footsteps to the outskirts of Rome.

The games continued into the night, and Rome exhausted herself like some great whore on blood and slaughter.

Casca's first entrance into Rome on leave had been a moment to remember. For the preceding months he had been curious about the city behind the walls. He had heard tales, naturally, but once through the Ostian Gate the impact of the largest city on earth was almost more than his senses could take in at one time. True, he had heard that were it not for the grain ships bringing constant cargoes of food from the African provinces, it would be impossible for the great city to maintain her one million-plus inhabitants, but those had been just words to him. Now to see with his own eyes the great sprawl of the teeming city was to realize that it was impossible to imagine how many people one million were.
Damn!

He made his way through the winding streets asking directions now and then. The swarm of humanity was unbelievable... merchants selling goods that had come from as far away as Britain or Mauretania... jewelers in the Street of the Jewelers hawking wares that decorated the breasts and fingers of the rich with pearls and precious stones... butchers selling chopped lamb and goat for the tables of the city... There was no beef. It was seldom used for anything except the sacrifices.

He passed the Tiber wharves and saw stevedores shouldering the grain of Egypt into warehouses in preparation for the daily dole to those who possessed citizenship. He headed east toward the Forum, his well-muscled hide drawing more than one interested look from the Roman ladies, but right now he was too involved with the immensity of the city and its myriad people to take advantage of the obvious opportunities. He passed along the Agiletium, a street running just north of the most corrupt street of the city – and therefore of the world – the street called Suburra. He made a mental note to go back there later. A couple of the establishments might be fairly interesting ... That had been the first time. This day he knew where he was going. Resisting the entreaties of the barbers to make his face anew – they were known to intentionally dull good razors – Casca made his way finally to the baths of Sura. Here slaves were permitted to use the facilities as long as they did not make a scene and gave priority to the freeborn and the nobility. The hour was fast approaching midday. Wending his way inside, Casca found the steam baths. Removing his tunic, he put it in one of the small cubbyholes provided for such and entered the bath. There in the corner, sitting quietly, his slanted eyes closed in contemplation while he breathed deeply of the vapors, sat Shiu.

As Casca approached, he said, without opening his eyes, "Welcome, big nose. It has been a long time, and I have missed the sight of your oversized body trying to fit in normal space."

"Tze, you slant-eyed old viper, can't you ever say anything straight out?"

T
ze laughed. At the familiar tinkling sound Casca realized how much he had grown to like the yellow man, and how much he had missed him.

They were alone in the steam room. It was pleasant to let the vapors reach deep into their lungs, to enjoy the cleaning process of sweat. Shin Tze sat placidly, hands around his knees, slowly rocking back and forth, looking as if he had an eternity to do nothing but enjoy his thoughts and senses. For a long while the two were silent.

Casca had fought many times since last they met and had acquired some small measure of fame. It was satisfying in a way for the people on the streets to know his name and face, to come and touch him for luck. It was pleasant to see his name written on the walls of the city, but for how long? Shiu's presence here reminded him of the yellow man's teachings, that nothing is forever. Not even as the most famous gladiator of Rome could he continue indefinitely. For one thing, there were the problems he had with wounds that healed too fast. Fortunately he was very, very good with the blade and had not yet been dealt a blow that should kill, but one day he would be... and then what?

Lying down on his stomach on the stone benches, he turned to face his friend from the far land of Khitai. "Shiu. You wanted to know about me once. I think that now is the time. Perhaps you can help."

Shiu merely nodded, his eyes still closed, but Casca knew he heard. "Okay, my so-called ancient friend. This is it in a nutshell." And for the next three hours Casca unfolded his tale – to the delight and amazement of Shiu. Casca only stopped the telling when someone came into the room. He was able to run the newcomers off with an evil look and a hint that he was not above robbery or murder – nothing specific, just sinister innuendo.

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 Jubala 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."