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.
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
