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.