Lucius Minitre thought for a moment. He was thrilled to be this close to one who had been touched by the gods-even a Jewish god. He told Casca of the growth of the Jew's cult… how it had spread. Even with persecutions and mass killings in the arenas they seemed to grow in numbers… and prosper. There were even followers of the Jew here in the mines. Not many, mind you, but there were several. You could tell them by their constant praying and singing which only stopped when they were given a touch of the lash. But, why couldn't the Jew be a god? After all, the divine Augustus was made one just after he died. And now, so even old Claudius had some worshippers. And what about Tiberius? He had made his mother a goddess, complete with a temple of her own and priestesses. Casca smiled. Thoughts ran through his mind: Gods and priests… blessings and curses. Well, if I am cursed, I'll make it pay. I have had enough of being pushed around. If live I must, then by all demons and foul spirits of this world, live I will.
TWELVE
"Minitre," Casca began, his voice low, his manner conspiratorial, "We have to get me out of here. There must be some way I can get my freedom and become a man again."
"All men want to be free."
"Yes, but I have had years to think about my condition. If all the things we think are true are as we see them then I have a lot to worry about."
"But why should you worry? Surely, all you have to do is wait. All things change in time-and in your case it appears you have plenty of that on your side."
Casca laughed bitterly. "Wait, you say. Man, my years weigh as heavily on me as they do on any man. But what I fear has more to do with something else than just time. Think what it would be like for me if I tried to escape and were captured. The punishment for an escaped slave is anything from crucifixion to being impaled with a sharpened stake run up the rectum. Think what that would be like for me if I am unable to die."
Minitre's face paled. He took another hasty swallow of wine, most of which ran down his windpipe. He choked, coughed, and his face turned red. Casca pounded him on the back until he could get his wind again.
Wheezing, he said, "I never thought of it that way. Of course you're right. We must set you legally free. But how?" He gulped a swallow of wine, then thought out loud: "There aren't many ways a state-owned slave may receive manumission. The province governor in whose charge the slave is assigned may grant freedom on special occasions for service to the empire. Then, of course, there are the periodic sales of government surplus slaves in those regions where they are overstocked. Somebody could buy you and give you your freedom. The only other way is for a gladiator to win the wooden sword in the arena-but you aren't a gladiator."
He pulled at the wine again. A light came into his eyes. "Suppose we got you to the surplus sales. If you were auctioned off, perhaps I would be able to buy you and set you free myself. That would be something to tell my grandchildren-how I was fortunate enough to give an immortal his freedom." Minitre fairly glowed with the thought. "Truly," he said, "the days of miracles and wonders are not over."
The sight of this round, red-faced little man's sincerity and eagerness to be involved in what he thought of as the business of gods touched a long-forgotten note in Casca, and he laughed. Not at Minitre, but for him. The sound of laughter was alien to his own ears.
"Minitre," he said, "waiting for a government sale may well take years to come about, and even then we couldn't be sure you would have the price. After all, I am a pretty healthy hunk of beef, and you would be in real trouble if they sold me by the pound." Laughing, he touched Minitre's shoulder gently. "No, my friend. We must find another way."
They sat thinking quietly. Minitre scratched absently at a flea. The damn things were everywhere and were just one of the curses of this goat-ridden peninsula.
Minitre sat up straight, his eyes sparkling in his cherub-like face. "I have it! The governor. You will save the governor's life, and he, in gratitude, will set you free. It is simple, is it not?" He swelled with pride at his solution.
Somewhat laconically, Casca asked: "And just how are we going to bring that about, my friend?"
Minitre looked long and seriously at Casca. His voice, when he spoke, implied that his feelings had been hurt a little.
"You may have lived here a long time, Casca, but while you were in the pits I was outside, and I have learned a few things. You leave the planning of this to me. I have it all figured out. You were a soldier, were you not? So you can use weapons. And you are certainly the strongest man I have ever seen. The years in the mines have turned you into nothing if not a great heap of twisted muscles lying on top of twisted muscles. We will use your training and your strength to set you free. Believe in me. I have found a way." His manner and voice strengthened with determination. "You go back to the slave barracks, and I will see you in the morning."
The look of confidence on the overseer's face spoke to Casca. Standing, Casca put out his hand, and the two shook in the manner of friends and equals.
Casca had found a friend.
That night, while the slaves slept, Minitre went into the port of Cenchrea. Visiting one den of iniquity after another, warding off whores and pimps, he finally found those he searched for, and, in muted conversation in the rear of a dingy tavern otherwise filled with the dregs of waterside humanity, he made his deal with those he had found. They talked and planned until cockcrow said it was time for Lucius to return to the mines. The day shift was coming on duty shortly, and he must be there.
Minitre had just arrived back at the mines as the slaves were being fed. He caught Casca's eyes and nodded slightly, smiling all the while. Casca felt a sudden surge of hope. Minitre had obviously found out something or done something to advance the cause of his freedom. He hardly even tasted the gruel and hard bread. His thoughts were on when he could next talk to his friend and find out what had transpired.
But there was work to be done. He checked in with the assignment supervisor and was sent to the surface pits as a waterbearer for the slave crews. The day grew long, but the sun felt good on his bare back as he went about his job carrying the goatskin bag of water to the thirsty slaves. It was a dull yet somehow pleasant routine: he went from man to man until the bag was empty, then made the half-mile walk up the hill to where the spring was. He would refill the bag and repeat the action over and over until the day ended. Casca steeled his mind against the misery of the slaves. Compassion was a commodity he could ill afford right now. Besides, he had never been a particularly sympathetic type to start with.
The sun of Greece continued to burn him darker and darker. Only his scars showed up in lighter color. While he worked his mouth was set in the semi-smirk that the whore's knife had left on him long ago.
The day passed. The endless worm of slaves continued to feed on itself until the whistle of the pit overseer sounded the shift change.
Casca returned to his barracks and waited his turn at the troughs where he could wash off the day's dirt. Then, alone, he ate his last meal of the day, lentil soup with just the hint of the taste of goat in it. And then, again, alone, he sat outside the barracks listening to the old men inside discuss the ways of the world and their viewpoints concerning the relative importance of the scheme of things. Casca savored this time to himself and waited for Minitre.
He let his eyes search the heavens while the cool air of the Mediterranean wafted over him. The constellation known as the Pleiades was clearly visible. After the years of being chained to somebody the luxury of being alone was something to be savored in full.