"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.
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.