needing to be fed, combined with the need to reinforce his own image of himself, drove him to this act of murder. He had killed before in the dark, once even under very similar circumstances to this while working on a cargo ship out of Crete. There the seas, like these, had covered his deed forever.
No moon covered the dark sea. The only light came from the phosphorescent glowing of the ocean froth, flashing and disappearing, winking out like strange-shaped fireflies.
Despite the night chill, the face of the young man was covered in sweat. He could barely make out the Greek beside him. He touched the Greek's arm with a hand that was questioning, eager, trembling. The shadows of Casca and Shiu loomed indefinitely before them, but in the faint light of the phosphorescent sea it was obvious that their backs were turned, and the wind was covering any sound the two assassins might make. The time was now. The half-breed gave his comrade's hand a forward jerk, and simultaneously they moved forward, arms out, hands reaching to shove…
They were only two steps away…
Shiu tensed. A velvet shadow, he turned and caught the young one's outstretched hands, pivoting inside the young man's reach. Gently he set his hip against the thigh of the young man and with a smooth, turning lift threw the youngster flying over his head and out over the railing.
The next thought in the young man's brain was the feel of the sea reaching up to meet him. A large swell of the black waters seemed to open for his body. Near silence. Only a gurgling sigh. The waters took him down, closing over him, surprising in their warmth. His mouth was open for a scream that never came, for it was instantly filled with the Mediterranean. He had no sense of weight. In the dark, salty water there was no up or down. Panic began to touch his brain, but then was dulled as the sea flowed into his lungs and the warm, wet black claimed him forever.
His comrade was not as fortunate.
When Shiu turned, it alerted Casca, and he caught the Greek breed by the arm and throat. Casca's instinctive soldier's training took over. The lessons he had learned from Shiu came automatically. Without consciously willing it to happen, he used a forward leg trip and drove the Greek to the deck, still holding to the breed's throat. In the corner of his eye he sensed the flying shadow of the young man and Shiu turning into the basic defensive posture, feet set in a strong horse stance, hands positioned.
Holding the Greek down, Casca recalled a technique the old one had showed him-but not to completion. Shit, he thought, I might as well see if it works. Switching hands on the Greek's throat to keep him from screaming, Casca formed his free hand in the blunt extended finger striking attitude. Taking a deep breath, he compressed half into his lower abdomen, then let the retained air escape in bursts, giving a compressed hiss instead of the normalkiyi! Then Casca drove his fingers straight into the area just below the center and to the left of the solar plexus. As his fingers went deep, he turned them up to the heart. With a quick vibrating pumping action, he worked his hand back and forth, the action of his strike creating a shock wave that threw the half-breed's heart into convulsions.
The great muscle missed a beat… then another. It tried to correct itself, but another shock wave hit it, and the tissues tore inside. The heart ruptured. The Greek opened his mouth. The veins in his neck extended out of all proportion. His chest swelled. His back arched and his feet drummed a rhythm pattern onto the deck, momentarily waking one of the oar slaves from sleep. He died, face black, and a ruptured heart draining inside.
Casca rose, grunted as he picked the man up and let his body slide over the side into the deep. He turned to Shiu, his voice pleased.
'It works. By Hades, Shiu, it really works. When I hit him, I could actually feel his heart against my fingertips. That is really, really a great technique. Already you have given me something which could mean more to me than I could ever repay you for. You are a genius.'
Shiu's gentle smile was invisible in the darkness, evidenced only by his soft voice. 'Do not get overexcited, you great hulk. It is unfortunate that we were forced to use the art to kill, but, it had to be done; these two would have come to a bad end anyway. We have probably saved some innocents from their unkind attentions. As to being a genius-'
His grin spread wide enough for Casca to see it in the dark. His voice rose with his comic lilt 'As to being a genius, that's true, big nose, that's true.'
SIXTEEN
The slaves banked the oars, and the galley glided up to the stone wharf. Her lines were grabbed by waiting longshoremen, and quickly the vessel was secured in her mooring.
First to disembark were the passengers. The slaves were put under guard until their owners could pick them up, but Casca was taken immediately by Crespas to a waiting chariot with two horses hitched to it. As Crespas took the reins he called out for his steward to see to his possessions and hurry them on home. Casca's possessions consisted of what he had in his pack, a small bundle containing his bowl, his spoon, and a fire starter kit — a ball of lint, a piece of iron, and a small block of flint.
Crespas showed himself to be quite adept at handling his team of horses. He took a great deal of pride in his ability to handle both men and horses equally well. Apparently in his eyes the twowere equal. Slipping the reins so that they snapped the rear ends of the horses, he took off with a jerk and clatter. The metal-rimmed wheels rattled over the stone roadway, and they sped rapidly away from the great port.
The Via Ostia was the most direct road to Rome, but Casca was not to enter Rome this day. Holding to the sides of the car, he tried to keep his balance. Never before had he ridden in a chariot. The speed they ran at was breathtaking. At this rate they could cover the almost twenty miles to the outskirts of Rome in less than two hours.
As Casca had been hurried to the chariot, he had caught one quick last glimpse of Shiu giving a small wave to him as the yellow man was led off with the other slaves to wait for their masters to come for them. Inside his tough hide Casca felt for the second time a sense of loss. The first was leaving the overseer Lucius Minitre. He thought momentarily of Minitre, kindly, portly Minitre, not at all suited for the job of bossing slaves in the mines. Minitre had been his friend. And so had this man from the east, this Shiu from beyond even the Indus River who had come into his life and brought him more knowledge about feelings and life in just a few days than he had learned in all his years in the pits where life was a passing commodity.
Crespas was in his element, racing behind a pair of fine geldings on the road leading to the center of the world. 'All roads lead to Rome,' he shouted at Casca. 'Rome has built over fifty thousand miles of major roadways and a hundred thousand of secondaries. The Empire is united by these roadways. Every day the provinces are filled with the comings and goings of tourists and merchants. Since the reign of Tiberius there have been no serious threats to the Pax Romana, only occasional border skirmishes. Periodically Rome might suffer a setback and lose a battle or two, but only on the frontier. The heart of the Empire itself is inviolate.'
The harangue stunned Casca, not so much for the information, but that Crespas would choose this time and place for such a learned discourse. Had he misjudged patricians? He had always thought of them-Crespas particularly-as mere greedy exploiters of men below them in the social order. Could they really have an understanding- and concern-for the Empire? It was a side of Crespas that he did not expect to exist. Yet, even here there was a harshly brutal edge to the patrician. With anyone else such a long address might have implied a certain camaraderie. With Crespas there was an undertone of such implied aristocracy that left no doubt whatsoever as to Casca's place. Crespas could have been talking to cattle. So Casca wisely made no response.
Besides, the recklessly speedy chariot ride was scaring the hell out of him…
Just outside Rome, Crespas turned off to the left, heading into the small hills between the Via Ostia and the Appian Way. This road led to Lanuvian to the south where the presses made the fine Falernian for Rome. Within sight of the Appian Gate, a short stroll across the road from the temple of Mars, was the school. A school for death. This one was run by a fellow patrician of Crespas, one lictor Abascantus, who, like Crespas, preferred to leave the management of this particular business to his stewards and slaves. Business had been good.
Even though for the most part the control of gladiators in the schools was in the hands of the emperor, there were still enough privately owned and operated schools to show a good profit. But they had to be careful. Ever since Spartacus had raised such hell with his escaped gladiators and criminals the state kept a close eye on all
