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 the 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.
So Corvu took no chances. He worked Casca harder and harder, giving him no break at all, constantly harassing, constantly training. He was determined that Casca would be a winner. When they took the troupe on tour for several fights in the provinces, Corvu had Casca do some of the warmups, fights with dulled swords and not to the death. This was to give Casca a chance to get over any stage fright he might have had otherwise. In addition, the games in the provinces served to give the tiros a chance to work as a team and to watch the professionals at their trade. Soon they would be ready for the games at Rome. That was where the real money was…
Casca worked and hacked that damned post until he thought his arms were going to break off. But if that weren't bad enough already, Corvu fastened strips of lead wrapped in leather around his forearms to strengthen them, ten pounds to each forearm. The first few days of working out with these left Casca with spasms of shooting pain racing through his arms, neck, and shoulders. But after a week the pain was gone, and the weights felt natural. When he took them off, it felt as though his fists could fly, they were so light.
Crespas came to several of the small fights in the outlying towns to watch. Pleased with Casca's progress, he queried Corvu on when the slave would be ready for the big time.
"Soon, lord. Soon. A few more of these warm-ups, and he will be ready for a main event. You picked a good one there. Would you consider selling him?"
Crespas shook his head. "Not just yet. But speak to me after he has had a couple of fights. Then I may have a better idea as to his real value. We can talk more then."
Jubala watched the treatment Casca was receiving with growing envy and deepening hatred. Once he, too, had received the same attention. Now he knew that Casca was being groomed for high things, and it ate at his soul. He had received the same grooming and had failed to reach the heights where he could spit on all these puny pale-skinned jackals who had dared to treat him as an animal. If this one did…
Like a beast of the desert or jungle, Jubala watched and waited. Patience was a necessary virtue for survival in his tribal lands. He waited and prepared. He made sacrifice to his gods, those terrible beings of the night and the jungle. Two days before, when he had been permitted to go out on the town, he had cornered a young blonde prostitute of no more than fourteen years.
He felt a shiver of pleasure run over him as he relived the moment when after he had taken his pleasure of her and she lay at his feet whimpering and bleeding she had looked up through tear-streaked eyes and asked for the denarius he had promised. Jubala felt a sexual thrill run over him as he remembered picking her up from the floor of her dingy room by the Tiber and covering her mouth with his hand while he took his knife and slowly slid it into her stomach, savoring her pain and death spasms as he drew the blade up slowly, ever so slowly, her back arching so that her intestines spilled out on the floor. He sacrificed to his gods, and in the ritual of his people he had ripped out her still-beating heart and eaten it while she still trembled…Good, he thought, good. And, Roman dog, before our time is through I will eat your heart, too… even if after killing you, I must…
Today he had bumped Casca while in the food line, but instead of Casca backing away, he had jabbed his elbow in Jubala's solar plexus with a force that had almost knocked the black man down. He would have responded immediately, but he was out of breath from the blow. Casca had merely said, "Sorry about that," and gone on as if nothing had happened. If Jubala's face hadn't been so black, Casca would have been pleased to see the rush of blood to it as Jubala fought to contain his rage. But there was nothing to be done about it at the moment; Corvu had just come in and was watching.