The Eternal Mercenary Read online

  Crespas showed himself to be quite adept at handling his team of horses. He took a great deal of pride in his ability to handle both men and horses equally well. Apparently in his eyes the two were equal. Slipping the reins so that they snapped the rear ends of the horses, he took off with a jerk and clatter. The metal-rimmed wheels rattled over the stone roadway, and they sped rapidly away from the great port.

  The Via Ostia was the most direct road to Rome, but Casca was not to enter Rome this day. Holding to the sides of the car, he tried to keep his balance. Never before had he ridden in a chariot. The speed they ran at was breathtaking. At this rate they could cover the almost twenty miles to the outskirts of Rome in less than two hours.

  As Casca had been hurried to the chariot, he had caught one quick last glimpse of Shiu giving a small wave to him as the yellow man was led off with the other slaves to wait for their masters to come for them. Inside his tough hide Casca felt for the second time a sense of loss. The first was leaving the overseer Lucius Minitre. He thought momentarily of Minitre, kindly, portly Minitre, not at all suited for the job of bossing slaves in the mines. Minitre had been his friend. And so had this man from the east, this Shiu from beyond even the Indus River who had come into his life and brought him more knowledge about feelings and life in just a few days than he had learned in all his years in the pits where life was a passing commodity.

  Crespas was in his element, racing behind a pair of fine geldings on the road leading to the center of the world. "All roads lead to Rome," he shouted at Casca. "Rome has built over fifty thousand miles of major roadways and a hundred thousand of secondaries. The Empire is united by these roadways. Every day the provinces are filled with the comings and goings of tourists and merchants. Since the reign of Tiberius there have been no serious threats to the Pax Romana, only occasional border skirmishes. Periodically Rome might suffer a setback and lose a battle or two, but only on the frontier. The heart of the Empire itself is inviolate."

  The harangue stunned Casca, not so much for the information, but that Crespas would choose this time and place for such a learned discourse. Had he misjudged patricians? He had always thought of them – Crespas particularly – as mere greedy exploiters of men below them in the social order. Could they really have an understanding – and concern – for the Empire? It was a side of Crespas that he did not expect to exist. Yet, even here there was a harshly brutal edge to the patrician. With anyone else such a long address might have implied a certain camaraderie. With Crespas there was an undertone of such implied aristocracy that left no doubt whatsoever as to Casca's place. Crespas could have been talking to cattle. So Casca wisely made no response.

  Besides, the recklessly speedy chariot ride was scaring the hell out of him...

  Just outside Rome, Crespas turned off to the left, heading into the small hills between the Via Ostia and the Appian Way. This road led to Lanuvian to the south where the presses made the fine Falernian for Rome. Within sight of the Appian Gate, a short stroll across the road from the temple of Mars, was the school. A school for death. This one was run by a fellow patrician of Crespas, one lictor Abascantus, who, like Crespas, preferred to leave the management of this particular business to his stewards and slaves. Business had been good.

  Even though for the most part the control of gladiators in the schools was in the hands of the emperor, there were still enough privately owned and operated schools to show a good profit. But they had to be careful. Ever since Spartacus had raised such hell with his escaped gladiators and criminals the state kept a close eye on all schools.

  Crespas drove through the entrance way to the walled enclosure, passing armed guards. Looking neither left nor right, he brought the horses to a sudden stop, nearly throwing Casca from the chariot.

  "Out," came the short order to Casca, and Crespas indicated for Casca to stand to the side.

  The dust had not settled before a house slave had the reins in hand and was standing respectfully by. The schoolmaster saw the approach of the chariot – and quickly moved to attend the drive. The master came wearing the dress of the Galli, heavy swordsman. Bringing his sword to the salute position across his chest, he called out:

  "Vale. I am the lanista of this school. I am Marcius Corvu at your service, sir."

  Crespas nodded in approval. Apparently he liked the man's looks ... tough... his carcass well-scarred from many fights... heavy- muscled... confident. His face contained several deep gouges and scars, and Corvu wore his hair cropped close to the head, the gray resting on his square-boned skull like a tight cap.

  "Greetings, Corvu. I am M. Decimus Crespas. I wrote to my friend Abascantus about my bringing a slave here for training. I presume you have been made aware of this?"

  "Indeed, sir. We have been expecting you anytime for the last week." He pointed his sword at Casca. "Will this be our new tiro?"

  Crespas nodded in the affirmative. "Because of his size and muscular development I thought that either the school of Galli or that of the Mirmillones would be best for him. And as my friend and colleague Abascantus owns this establishment, I have opted for your school of the Galli.”

  Corvu walked around Casca, looking him over closely. He ordered Casca to raise his arms, bend over, show his teeth, and flex. Then, without warning, he drove the pommel of the short sword into Casca's gut. Casca grunted with the impact, and the round butt left an imprint in his stomach, but he did not go down as Corvu expected.

  Turning back to Crespas, Corvu said: "You have made the right choice, noble sir. This one has the earmarks of a fighter, and he is tough. The guts are the weak point for most men, yet he took that blow well enough. You are right; he is much too large to be a Retarii or Thraces. No, he definitely belongs in the heavyweight class, and here we specialize. I myself fought for over ten years in the arena and have won the wooden sword twice as a Galli."

  Corvu was not above blowing his own horn. Besides, he wanted this potential client to be aware of his expertise.

  Crespas nodded. "Yes, I have seen you fight on more than one occasion, my good Corvu. That is the final factor in my determining to place this slave with you. Take him now so that I may be gone to my home. Remember, the slave is mine, and I will not have him crippled in training, and he is to be fed the best you have. You may, of course, beat him, but not to the point of crippling. He is mine, and I have an investment to protect. Train him well, and I will see that you do not lack for some form of appreciation from me."

  Raising his hand, Crespas mounted the chariot and gave one quick "Vale," turned the chariot around, yelled that his steward would drop by later to arrange the billing accounts, and disappeared in a clatter, heading with all haste to his home, only a mile away and like the school, outside the walls of Rome.

  "Your name, slave?"

  Casca caught Corvu's eyes, looking directly into them, his own blue-gray eyes seeming even lighter as they forced Corvu to look away. In irritation Corvu repeated his question and whacked Casca with the flat of his blade.

  "Speak, slave."

  Controlling himself, Casca replied, "I am Casca Rufio Longinus."

  "Were you a soldier?"

  “Yes.”

  "When and where, slave?"

  "It does not matter. I am here now. That is enough."

  Corvu looked closely at him. "Slave, you have a lot to learn. Here I am the master, and I hold your life in my hands."

  Casca said nothing, merely smiled.

  Corvu became angry at himself for, not being able to impress this insolent slave properly, but he held his rage.

  "Enough! You will learn before we are through who is the boss here."

  Thinking to himself that Corvu was probably right, Casca followed the lanista as he led the way across the enclosed compound and into the training area. Here men were fighting with both sharp and dulled blades. Most of the trainees were slaves, but Casca understood that there were a number of auctoratti, men who voluntarily put themselves in bondage to the school for a specific
period of time in exchange for being, trained – and fed while training –for the arena. All were big men, tough men. Most were in their late twenties or early thirties, hard men who had been around, and they looked good to Casca's professional eye. Whatever the schoolmaster Corvu might be, he was right about one thing – he did know his job.

  They walked across a miniature arena. Casca understood that here private shows were sometimes staged. Corvu would use these private affairs to thin his ranks of bad material. Those who couldn't cut it were culled here – and at a profit. Calling a gladiator, Corvu turned Casca over to him and told the man to show Casca the ropes and familiarize him with the rules of the school.

  So... this would be his home! Casca looked around him.

  Walls surrounded the compound, and on them were several men patrolling with spears and bows. Private guards to discourage escape. There were two sets of barracks: one for the slaves who had to be locked in every night, the other for the freemen who on their own took up the job of fighting for money. The latter – and a few special slaves –were granted the freedom to come and go. Casca was put in the locked barracks.

  He was here.

  Tomorrow he would begin to learn the trade of the arena.

  The word "arena" meant sand. Sand where men and beasts tortured each other and died for the pleasure of Rome.

  SEVENTEEN

  The days rolled by and became weeks. The weeks flowed into months.

  And Casca became more and more proficient at the fine art of slaughter.

  At the school, retiarii – the net and trident men – were brought in for mock battles so that the trainees could learn how to deal with them. The Thraces were lighter-armored, and not as heavy as those of the Galli school. The Thraces relied upon their greater speed to achieve victory. For the most part they wore winged helmets. Corvu knew his business, Casca acknowledged. Bringing different styles into the training activities did make a difference.

  As Casca progressed, he was moved to a different area of the barracks. Corvu kept his gladiators together by their degrees of skill. As a man progressed, he was advanced, and thus given more status in the eyes of his colleagues.

  Casca grew quicker and quicker and rapidly climbed the ranks. He trained constantly – and when no one was looking, on the rare occasions when he was alone – he went over the movements that Shiu had shown him. He repeated each of them every chance he could get until they became instinctive, requiring no thought, only action when needed.

  Unknown to Casca, one did watch him.

  Crysos, a Sicilian slave, tended to the needs of the gladiators, washed their clothes, brought them posca, a bitter mixture of vinegar and water, to rinse their mouths out with when they got overheated, cleaned up the barracks, and emptied the chamber pots. It was menial work. Crysos was a man who wanted more, but he had not the strength to make it for himself.

  In Casca, though, he saw someone different from the others. Instinct told him the big man might provide the answers to his own problems, so he studied Casca intently. The difference between Casca and the other gladiators was marked. As they grew in strength, they also grew in pride and meanness. Not Casca. He stayed to himself and tended to no one's business but his own.

  And there were those odd practice sessions on which Crysos spied.

  While too small to fight himself, Crysos was smart enough in the ways of combat to realize that the motions Casca went through practicing the art of Shiu Tze were not being done for fun. Casca was in deadly earnest. So... whatever the big man's secret, it meant power.

  Therefore Crysos gradually made himself helpful to Casca, at first in a hundred small things. He bided his time, not pushing. And bit by bit Casca grew friendly.

  When the prostitutes were brought in twice a month, Crysos would always select a nice clean one for Casca. He did not want Casca to catch anything, particularly the pox.

  Casca was not unaware of what Crysos was doing. Although he would never come out of his cell when the women were brought, when Crysos brought a sweet young thing to his cell he didn't have the heart to send her out to those animals. So in kindness he kept her for the night.

  He felt a small degree of gratitude for the consideration Crysos was showing. But why? That little greasy bastard is not doing this all for nothing, Casca said to himself this night as the last whore left for the walk back to town. He has a reason. One thing I have learned in this life anyway, if I have learned nothing else: men do not do anything for free. Even Tzu had his price of wanting to teach about his faith and code. There is always some kind of price to pay, and you can bet your ass Crysos has one in mind.

  He put the thought from his mind and concentrated on his training.

  Whack! Whack! Whack! repeated over and over – the constant chopping at a wooden post to strengthen the arm. Then came dodging and twisting between a series of swinging spiked steel balls, any one of which could smash his brains out if he were unwary enough to be hit; these taught the use of rhythm and of peripheral vision – seeing from the corners of the eyes. And on the agenda, were exercise and running, situps and pushups – constant training more intense than anything Casca had ever known in the legion. But, by Mithra, it felt good to be alive ... and the art of Tzu helped in ways he would never have imagined when it came to handling spears and sword. Damn! He owed the yellow man a lot.

  The other gladiators of the Gallic school were unsure of what to make of Casca. His refusal to associate with them they put down to being stuck up and arrogant. As for Casca, he figured that the less he had to do with people on a day-to-day basis the better chance he had of keeping his own condition a secret. Besides, he didn't particularly care for his current comrades in arms. Most were slaves who had been such troublemakers that their masters had sold them off to the school. A few were captured barbarians for whom the life of a gladiator was infinitely preferable to that of even the most pampered slave kept by some rich matron. They were warriors, so to them it was better to die with sword in hand under any circumstances. Besides, it still gave them the opportunity to kill Romans.

  The Gallic school also boasted a number of true professionals who lived inside the walls of the school with their families and children. Most were free men who had chosen this way of life for the money. These lived fairly well. Others, who could be free, still chose the sands of the arena as their place of employment simply because they liked to kill. No more, no less. Casca had seen their type in the legion, also. These were the ones who were always just a little too eager to start some trouble – or to finish off prisoners. They volunteered for the execution squads, and in the legion did the clean up work on the battlefields after the fighting was over.

  Killers pure and simple. Often with an exaggerated sense of their own importance, a conviction that they were the elite.

  One of these in particular really got under Casca's skin.

  Looking him over, Casca grumbled to himself in his normal manner, If that big black bastard bumps me just one more time in the chow line, I'm going to rip off that oversized piece of skin he is so proud of and shove it down his throat. I don't like Numidians, anyway. They may be people, but I have never had one for a best friend. I don't trust them.

  Jubala, the object of his attention, thought likewise of Casca. He was a huge man with shiny black skin, a shaved head, and filed teeth. His face was scarred with tribal markings, and his hide was so black there were purple undertones. He hated Romans, Greeks, Jews, and Scythians. As a matter of fact he didn't particularly like anyone very much, and the lighter their skin the more he hated each. Though he had won time and again in the arena the victories had never gained him acceptance as anything more than a big black animal. Even the oversexed Roman matrons who used him from time to time used him as a beast and let him know that he would never be anything else. They screwed him. He didn't screw them. He was the one chosen. He didn't do the picking. The wooden sword had been denied him time and again.

  In the world outside he was nothing, but here in t
he school he could do just about as he pleased with the tiros. The new students were in terror of this black monster with the filed teeth and shaven skull. The new students only. Jubala left the other professionals alone. He knew if he started any shit with them they would even up the score in the arena. But the new students were safe meat, and he made the most of his opportunities to harass them. Jubala had crippled a couple of tiros when he had been sent into spar with them, so Corvu only let him work against ones who could take it just those who were almost ready for the arena. And even they were in awe of Jubala and impressed with his magnificence.

  All, that is, except this loner Casca...

  But if Jubala watched Casca's progress with envy and hatred, Corvu watched with approval... and greed. Corvu knew the real thing when he saw it, and Casca had the makings of a great fighter. If Casca survived his first few matches, perhaps he would become one of the big drawing cards, those who fought only a few times a year for special occasions. The school's percentage on a fighter like that – even if he were owned by someone else – would be substantial. After all, the school normally received twenty percent for booking a fight, and with one like Casca he could get fifteen or twenty thousand sesterces a match with no problem at all. For that matter, maybe more, particularly if he could figure a way to get the public on Casca's side and rooting for him.

  The patrician Crespas had told Corvu that Casca had signed an agreement to fight for three years. Even if he were set free, he would still have to live up to that contract. So, at the worst, they had three years to work him – and they could make a lot of money in three years. But, who knew? Casca might well become one of the professionals who continued to fight in the arena as a way of life. Once he got a taste of success – and the money, fame, and women started coming to him – he wouldn't be too anxious to give it all up and go back to being a nobody. Corvu had seen it happen many times. Once a man received a little public acclamation and money he would be a rare bird indeed to trade the dangers of the games for a life as farmer with squalling brats. No. He had a good chance to make a very profitable deal on the former legionary.