Crysos's eyes filled with tears. He cleared his throat as the gag was removed, the taste of bile in his mouth coming from fear. He had run out his string. He opened his mouth.
Jubala waited, certain now that he had broken the little Sicilian.
Crysos cleared his throat again-and spit a chunk of phlegm directly into the face of his persecutor.
Jubala grinned. He made no effort to wipe off the spittle running down his face. He retied the gag.
"Good enough, little man. When you are ready to talk, just nod your head, and the hurting will stop."
Crysos groaned to himself and prayed to all the gods of everywhere to give him strength to hold out. Surely Casca or one of the guards would come by before much longer… surely they would…
Jubala went to work. First the arms. Then the legs. Bit by bit he worked through the dark hours, and only when the first glow of the predawn shown through the little window did he stop and release the body that had been Crysos the slave. Wiping his bloody hands across his chest, he regretted that he would not have time to feed on his kill… but there was always Casca. Soon now. I don't need what the little man could tell me anyway. I am the better man and the better fighter. Casca will fight me… soon.
When the body of Crysos was found, and Casca went to look at it, the moan that came out of him threatened to tear down the walls. Instinctively he knew that Crysos had been murdered because of him. "Jubala!" he screamed. "Where are you?"
The others backed away from him. Casca cried again for Jubala and headed for the barracks area where the black lived. But before he reached the door the world for him suddenly went dark in a flash of lights and dull pain…
Corvu stood over Casca holding a lead-weighted baton. Calling to his private guards, he ordered them to chain Casca up and also to bring Jubala to him in chains. This was all the bullshit he was going to put up with. Those who wanted a fight, well, he would let them have it, but, by Baal, they would do it his way and not disgrace his school.
Jubala stood, hands and feet manacled, his head erect. He was filled with pride… like a wild beast from the country where he was sired… the essence of primitive force.
"All right, you animal. You are going to get what you want, a shot at Casca. You two will be the featured event in the next imperial games. Until that time-and until this is all over-you will be chained every night in your quarters. Casca will be done the same. You will train and eat separately. Any attempt to even talk to each other will get you fifty lashes-and you know I can lay them on."
When Casca calmed down enough to talk, he received the same information and agreed.
The games came soon enough, and both men were ready for them. They had trained with greater determination than ever before. The blood feud between them had been widely advertised, and the bets were being made hot and heavy. Most were on the side of the monster black because his sheer size and ferocity seemed to give him an edge.
The games began as had most of the others, with the bloodless fights first, and then a special of women gladiators fighting to the death against dwarfs and other women. Then came the tubas and trumpets heralding the beginning of the mass fights. The gladiators marched into the arena escorted by their managers and trainers. The mob on the podium screamed their pleasure. The musicians played louder and louder but were eventually drowned out in the clamor. They continued to play anyway. After all, that was what they were being paid for.
The gladiators paired off. Some were in the ancient style of dress of the Etruscan Samnite with feathered, crested helmets and square, arm-length shields. Others wore the varied dress of the Gallic school or of Thrace. These were being harried by a team of retarii working together. The fights went on. From the crowd would come the mixed calls of" Hoc Habet!" (Now he's had it!) and" Vebera!" (Strike!). Once a gladiator was down he would raise a finger of his left hand and ask for mercy. It was seldom shown.
When the mass fights ended, the slain were dragged off by litter bearers dressed as Charon, the boatman of the River Styx, and the call went forth to Casca and Jubala to prepare themselves. There was a short intermission while the arena was raked and freshly sanded.
Casca's owner, Crespas, sat in the preferred section near the imperial box. He was amusing himself with some of the writings of Cicero, the prim person who had been such a pain in the ass to the divine Julius. This Cicero did have a way with words. Even he approved the games of gladiatorial combat as a way to build character and courage. Here in front of Crespas was Cicero's very statement on the matter, and Crespas hoped to make a present of this document to Nero. It was well-known that the emperor fancied himself a patron of the arts and literature. The scroll was quite explicit. Crespas read it again, feeling a certain reluctance to part with it, even though to do so would advance him with Caesar. Cicero wrote:
Look at the gladiators, who are either ruined men or barbarians. See how men who have been well-trained prefer to receive a blow rather than avoid it. How frequently it is made evident that there is nothing they put higher than giving satisfaction to their owners or to the people… What gladiator of ordinary merit has ever uttered a groan or changed countenance? Such is the force of training, practice, and habit.
Crespas sighed again. Tears of admiration came close to forming in his eyes. Such noble words! Cicero certainly knew his people-even if he was a republican…
The games master announced the Casca-Jubala fight as a grudge match between two champions of the same school. They had been kept apart until the time for their entrance. Now Corvu told the two to keep their distance from each other until they were given the signal to fight by the emperor. Jubala and Casca sized each other up, Jubala feeling pleased and confident of his victory, Casca feeling only dark black rage inside. Revenge. That's what I want, and that's what I'll have even if I have to tear this damned place down to get it…
The trumpets blared, and Corvu gave the signal to the new men to advance to the imperial box. Keeping a sideways eye on Jubala, Casca marched with him, but ten feet apart, to the position in front of Gaius Germanicus Nero. Once again they gave the salute: "Hail, Caesar! We who are about to die salute you." With raised swords they waited for the emperor's response.
Nero leaned over and looked closely at the two men. His light blond hair was crimped in the manner of the athletes he most admired, the charioteers. He was bull-necked, with a barrel chest and weak legs. The beginnings of a reddish-gold beard showed the inheritance from his father's side of the family, the Ahenobarbi. He had been adopted by Claudius and given the name of Nero at the adoption.
Running his eyes over the two protagonists, he smiled delicately. "You, Numidian. You are absolutely gorgeous. It would be a shame if you let this barbaric-looking person defeat you." He wagged his finger in warning. "Your emperor has wagered on you. Don't disappoint me." He sat back, straight in the curved chair and waved his handkerchief. "Go on with it."
Casca roared and threw himself on the black, his sword a blinding whirl of steel. He smashed with shield and struck with blade, beating the Numidian back and almost ending the fight in the first few seconds.
But Jubala regained his balance and locked shields and swords with Casca. Their helmeted heads rammed against each other, Jubala whispered in a voice that only Casca could hear: "Your little man Crysos died well enough for you. He told me nothing. But I still had the satisfaction of using him like a woman. In your name I told him I was doing it. He screamed like a woman, too."
A pain shot through Casca as he broke from the clinch and tried to hammer the Numidian down. Jubala slipped under the guard and sliced a thin red furrow along Casca's rib cage. "First blood to me, Roman dog," he sneered. "When I kill you, and they bury you, I am going to dig you up and eat your heart."