Casca 1: The Eternal Mercenary (8 page)

Crespas and the little thief watched this display of strength in stunned silence. The thief was too much in shock to resist when Casca reached for him. As Casca's calloused hand went around his neck, the legionary said softly, "Nothing personal, you know, but no witnesses. Oh, and Lucius Minitre said to tell you that he was all paid up with you men now." Casca's fingers closed, and the little thief's neck crumbled under the crushing grip. His eyes bulged. His face turned black. And he died.

Crespas looked up at the slave who had saved him and saw the medallion. "Are you one of mine?" he asked.

Casca nodded.

Crespas raised himself up, looking Casca over closely. "Thank you, slave. You will be rewarded for this. By the gods, you're a fine specimen. Can you use a sword?"

Casca nodded again, unsure of what to say to the man who held the key to his freedom.

"Open your mouth," the governor said unexpectedly.

Casca did as he was told, and Crespas bent over close and looked inside. "The best way to check a man's health is to look at his teeth," the governor said, not so much in explanation as in the manner of a pedagogue lecturing scholars. "If the teeth are rotten, so is the man's health. And yours, my fine Hercules, are in excellent shape."

Minitre had by this time appeared and with the proper amount of bowing and scraping got the governor's attention. Crespas turned to him and asked: "Is this slave in your custody?" Minitre quickly affirmed that Casca was. Again Crespas walked around Casca, poking and prodding as if he were a horse he was contemplating buying.

"Good enough," he finally said. "Have him assigned to my household staff. I want him in new clothes and presented to me in my villa tomorrow evening. I have something interesting to propose to him. Enough. Take him and begone. Oh, by the way, have the local vigiles clean this carrion up
, before they start to stink."

When they were out of sight of the governor, Minitre grasped Casca's hand in joy. "We did it! He's going to set you free! Man, we have done it!"

Casca joined in the joy of the moment... but something dark in the caverns of his brain bothered him... he could not tell what it was.

Minitre did as the governor ordered, informed the vigiles where to pick up the bodies, and returned with Casca to the mines to prepare him for his audience.

"Lucius, do you think we did it? Will the governor set me free?"

Minitre smiled, content with the day's deeds. "Certainly, Casca. When you are presented to him tomorrow, he will most certainly give you freedom in recognition of your saving his precious hide and ridding his province of two desperate criminals."

Casca looked closely at the overseer. He had grown used to Minitre's liking for flowery speech, but it did seem that the man's answer had been just a little too long... almost as though he were trying to convince himself that there was no doubt.

"I don't know, Lucius. Did you see the way he looked me over? I think he has something else on his mind."

"What?"

"I don't know."

"Oh, don't worry about it. Just because he looked you over doesn't mean anything. Men like him think all the rest of the human race are cattle.
That's all there is to it." The contentment was genuine.

"Well, I don't know. Maybe you're right."

"Sure I'm right."

They made their way back to the quay where the rest of the slaves were involved with unloading supplies for the mines. Without being told, Casca joined in the job while Minitre played his role of supervisor. It was not that Casca was all that eager to work. The truth of it was that this was a good way to get his mind off the excitement of the possibility of freedom being so near.

The job was done in a couple of hours, and the slaves started back up the road to the mines. Casca and Minitre were silent, each lost in his own thoughts and interpretations of the day's events. Neither felt any remorse for the dead thieves.

They arrived in time for the evening meal. Each slave went to his assigned barracks, rinsed off, took his bowl and spoon, and ate from the communal pot. In his excitement, Casca tasted nothing that he ate and only vaguely acknowledged that his stomach had anything in it. When he went to his bunk and lay down, he fell asleep almost instantly, as if anxious for the coming dawn.

But his sleep was a troubled one. Several times that night he awoke, returning to a restless slumber that made the night seem longer than it was. Tomorrow would bring freedom. After all the years of being pushed around he was about to reap the reward of asserting himself, of setting in motion a chain of events that would change his destiny. He was tense, uptight. He didn't want to blow this one. The damn night would never end.

But the next day finally came. Casca was given a fresh tunic, ordered to clean up, and told to present himself at the governor's house. Now that the time for action was at hand, some of the tension left him. Besides, Minitr
e came and wished him luck. The man's round, cherubic face was aglow with pleasure.

"Vale, Casca. Fortune go with you this day..."

But once at the governor's villa, the uneasiness that had been hidden below the level of Casca's conscious mind surfaced. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was something about the whole deal that didn't feel quite right. For one thing, the villa was a very imposing place. Crespa had managed to turn this portion of Greece into a miniature Rome and had established a proper Roman domus complete with running water piped in from the hillside. The atrium was handsomely laid out with marble benches and copies of several classic Greek statues. Obviously Crespas was a man who enjoyed the creature comforts... and he was a patrician.

A patrician. Damn it, maybe that was it. Casca had not had what you might call your standard buddy-buddy relationship with the patrician class. And the last patrician who had played a part in his destiny was the snot-nosed son of a bitch Tigelanius who had booted him out of the legion and thrown him into slavery. Tigelanius was long dead now. Casca hoped the worms that had eaten him had died, too, of indigestion.

Careful, though.
This
patrician, Crespas, held the key to his freedom. He could not let Crespas know he had any prejudice against patricians. Hell, he'd swear before the temple of every god in the Empire that he loved patricians – if that was what it took to get his freedom.

So he followed dutifully after the old slave to whom he had presented himself, Crespas's steward, a slight and meek elder who had served
– he had told Casca – Crespas and his family for over forty years. There had been pride in the old man's voice then, but he was silent now as he brought Casca to Crespas's study. Casca could sense something more than deference in the old man. Fear?

It was obvious that Crespas was going over the progress reports from the mines and adjacent areas, probably for the last quarter, and apparently he knew exactly what he was doing. Casca decided that here was a man who knew how to turn a profit, and again the uneasiness haunted him. The study had an air of cold efficiency about it... inhumanity
...

Following the steward's example, Casca stood with bowed head, until Crespas motioned for him to approach closer to his desk. Reaching up, he took Casca's medallion from him and compared the number with a master list on the desk. When he found what he was looking for, he lifted cold eyes to Casca and studied him intently for an impossibly long moment. There was absolutely no expression on his face. To Casca, it seemed made of marble; the man's thoughts were as impossible to reach as those of a statue. But he had come this far for his freedom, and not even the gods themselves were going to make him back down. He returned the stone stare with one equally as impassive.

Still it bothered Casca. When he had taken the dead slave's medallion, he had not thought about the possibility of a master list. What if Crespas made something of it? He did not relish the possibility of being at the patrician's mercy.

But Crespas said nothing. Instead, he instructed the steward to go bring him certain files, and, while the old steward was out of the room, turned his attention to Casca.

"Your name, slave?"

The manner of speech immediately set Casca down off his anxiety high. The tone said, No freedom today. It brought up memory of the brutal efficiency Crespas had used in crushing the skull of the first thief with his cane. Casca let his voice become that of the, typical slave:

"Casca, master."

"Well, Casca, yesterday you did me a service, and I may be of a mind to reward you for it. By the look of you I can tell you are one who is familiar with violence. Several of those cuts on your hide look to have come from bladed weapons. Am I correct?"

"Yes, master."

"Good. You also know your place. That pleases me. We will get along. I am going to take you with me when I leave this pigsty and return to Rome. While there, I will enter you into a school for gladiators."

Gladiators? It took all of Casca's willpower to prevent any expression from showing on his face. But he lowered his head in submission.

Looking steadily at Casca, Crespas said, "You wish your freedom, do you not?" He did not wait for an answer but went on in the same cold, level voice: "Of course you do. Anyone can see that you are not cut out to be a good slave. And with those muscles of yours, some day you are going to give whoever owns you a lot of trouble
– if you don't end up killing him. So, Casca, what I propose is this. I will buy you from the state – as a province governor I have that prerogative – and I will take you to Rome. I will pay for your training in the school of my choice. You will fight for me for three years in the arena. At the end of that time I will grant you your freedom. And, of course, as you know there is always the chance you could be given the wooden sword. It doesn't happen often, but it does happen. Now, if you agree to this, I will put the terms in writing and have them so notarized and a copy given to you." He paused. His eyes, sharp and deadly as a gladius, went through Casca. But when he continued, his voice had the same level, flat tone... as though he were giving orders to an animal. "But if anything happens to me, and I should die before our agreement reaches its conclusion, you will not go free. You will be sold on the block to the highest bidder. By this action I am sure you can see that I am trying to provide myself with a little insurance against your trying to achieve your freedom early at my expense. Do you agree to these terms?"

Casca raised his head and looked directly into the eyes of Crespas. His voice hollow, he said, "Yes, master, I agree."

Crespas stood and straightened his tunic. "Good. It shall be done, then." The old steward returned with a box from which Crespas took several documents. "These are the legal instruments necessary for the transfer of your ownership to me." He quickly filled in the necessary information with his reed quill pen and signed them, affixing his seal. "It's done. You belong to me. I will have the other papers pertaining to our agreement drawn up by this time tomorrow, and we will be on our way to Rome within the month. Now you will return to your quarters and remove all of your personal possessions from there. You will come back here, and my steward will assign you quarters. Follow his instructions while in this house, and we will have no problems. In anticipation of your agreement, I have already prepared orders releasing you from the mines." Handing Casca a small, rolled scroll, he said, "Give this to your overseer, and he will release you. Do you understand everything?"

Casca nodded.

"Good. Then be about your business, and I will tend to mine."

Once the slave Casca was out of the room, Crespas allowed himself the luxury of a smile.
A nice piece of business
. He glanced at the master list of numbers lying on his desk.
Now, the name on those manumission documents
... It was, of course, most unlikely that Casca would survive three years in the arena. But, if he did...

Casca walked slowly back down the hill to the mine holding the scroll in his hand and trying to assimilate all that had transpired. He was still in a state of confusion when Minitre came up to him.

"Well, how did it go? Are those your manumission documents? Did he give you any money? What happened? Tell me, man."

Casca smiled his crooked grin. "I told you that son of a bitch had something up his sleeve. He bought me and is going to make a gladiator out of me."

"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.