The rules of the arena were simple. You followed orders. If you were fighting someone from an opposing school you had the option once he was defeated of taking his life or sparing him. Only when the emperor was present did that right of life or death pass to him. The mob would try to influence the gladiator's decision by crying out 'Mitte!' (Let him go!) or 'lugula!' (Jugular!). However, the decision not to kill a downed opponent when you had the chance was considered foolhardy. When next you met, he might be the one to finish you off.
Jubala had developed his own ring of admirers and fans-and never did he spare a victim. His followers knew that they would always be treated to a climactic ending. Jubala would stand nearly naked, his black hide gleaming with sweat as his great muscles rippled. When he himself was wounded, many of his fans were driven to ecstasy by the sight of him licking his own red blood, so much in contrast to his black skin… licking his blood from his wounds like an animal. Jubala killed as most men make love, with passion and need.
And his almost insane hatred of Casca continued to grow. Every time they met now, or locked eyes, he tried to put all his hate out… like a tidal wave that would drown the big Roman. Yet Casca only laughed, mocking the black man's strength and refusing to recognize Jubala's greatness. Jubala knew better than to have a fight within the confines of the school, for, though he was popular with the crowds, he was still the property of the school. Corvu had warned him that if he started any shit Corvu would personally see to the castration of the offending party and let the beasts of the game feed on him while he was tied.
The only thing more important than owning a profitable fighter was maintaining order and discipline. If just once the gladiators thought they could get away with making decisions, who could tell where it would lead? As a businessman, Corvu would much rather finish off one of his own men himself as an example than to have a troublemaker around who could cause him grief later. Old Crassus had been right when he had six thousand slaves crucified along the Appian Way from Capua to Rome. They had revolted and had been led by gladiators. Corvu would not let that kind of shit happen from his school-and Jubala knew it.
But if Jubala could not get at Casca, he could get at Crysos.
The Sicilian was a worthless slave, Corvu might have him whipped for killing a house Slave, but that was all that would happen-and he would not be whipped badly enough to be crippled. Did not every man have a weakness? Whatever Casca's weakness was, would not Crysos know? Jubala knew that Casca went through strange exercises alone in his cubicle when no one but Crysos was present. Were the rituals magic? Did he use Crysos as some kind of training aid. It must be working because Casca won, time and time again.
So…
Jubala cornered Crysos.
Crysos felt his breath cut off. His lungs jerked as he tried to breathe, but whatever was covering his mouth and nose was too tight. He felt his eyes roll up on his head… and all went dark.
Jubala took Crysos from the interior hallway where he had caught him to the enclosed training area that was used on rainy days. Here none could see what was going to transpire. Gagging his now-unconscious victim, he tied Crysos to one of the chopping stakes. He knelt, nearly invisible in the dark. The only light was from a high-set window, the pale, weak glow of the outside moon.
Crysos stirred, then woke. Confusion and panic hit him. Where was he? And why? Why am I hanging here?
Jubala waited, giving Crysos's fear of the unknown time to work before making his presence known.
Crysos tried to yell, but the rag in his mouth reduced his efforts to a choking cough, almost inaudible despite his frantic strain. He closed his eyes, trying to hold down the panic. When he did open them, he almost fainted. The first thing he saw was the pointed teeth of Jubala only inches from his face, glowing in the dim light.
Jubala reached up and took Crysos's arm in one black hand and released it from the bindings.
'Little man,' he demanded softly, 'what is the weakness of Casca? What is it you do in his cubicle? What are the tricks he uses to achieve victory? Tell me, and you live. Refuse, and there are worse things than death.'
The heaviness of Jubala's speech, the steady pounding of the words, left no doubt as to his intent. Crysos shook his head up and down until Jubala untied the gag.
But Jubala kept his hand on Crysos's throat in order to stop any cry for help before it began. Again he demanded: 'Are you going to tell, little man?'
Crysos was jellied with fear. In the past months Jubala had missed no chance to intimidate or abuse him. Time and again he had been cornered by the black and threatened with everything from being maimed to worse-or offered a bribe of money. Up to now he had somehow always found the stregth of will to refuse Jubala's demands, or had been able to break away and run to where Casca was, or to a spot near some of the other professionals. He had friends among them, and had made it a point to do favors for the toughest. But now… now Jubala had him.
'Will you talk, little man?'
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
