aficionados appreciated the fine use of weapons. The masses wanted only blood. They delighted in the pain of those being torn apart by beasts or used as living torches to light the interior of the arena while old men were made to beat each other to death with clubs, the crowd roaring in laughter at their feeble efforts.
Several times he saw the mark of those calling themselves Christians scratched on walls and fences; somehow they seemed to be impossible to exterminate despite the best efforts of the Roman emperors who used them as scapegoats for every evil that befell the city. They continued to multiply and grow. Deep in the catacombs they held services and no matter how many were brought to the sands of the Colosseum or Circus Maximus, there were always plenty to be had later on for whatever special occasion might present itself.
Shaking his head in wonder, he grumbled to himself, drawing the curious looks of a couple of merchants being escorted by their private guards as they went to visit the district of whores.
How can a cult which preaches passivity survive when its followers are ruthlessly persecuted and killed, despised by everyone in power. Yet they continue to grow in numbers every day. Surely more people have died in the names of their gods than for any other purpose or reason. What good does it do?
The questions in his mind were too much for him to answer. Stopping to get a skin of wine, he made his way to the Tiber and sat on the banks wrapping his cloak about him and leaning back against a retaining wall. He watched the water and drank, washing the wine around his teeth and gums, feeling the cleansing quality of the vin ordinaire.
Several times he heard passersby laughing and quarreling, going to or coming from some form of pleasure. His mood was as black as the swirling waters that covered a thousand crimes. He felt a sense of loss, of betrayal. Rome had done nothing for him except to send him into slavery. Still, this was Rome, the only chance for stability the world had; without Rome civilization would be set back hundreds of years. What could take her place? Perhaps kindness would be a quick death rather than this lingering rot.
The grey of predawn crept slowly into the dark and drove the shadows back. Mists rose from the waters of the river and the barge men were readying their vessels for the day's labors. Slaves were preparing food in a thousand kitchens and babies suckled on their mother's breasts. Another day was coming, another day closer to the end which was surely approaching.
Grunting, he rose and pissed on a wall which he had. been leaning against. He tossed the empty wineskin away and climbed back to the street leading to the Via Ostia.
Rome stank.
It was time to leave. There was nothing here for him.
He hitched his sword belt up a little higher, took a deep breath and with the mile-eating stride of the foot soldier, squared his back and marched down the deserted streets.
He had come, he had seen, and there was nothing here to conquer.
Hounding a corner past the temple of Claudius, he bumped into two men returning from their night's revels. Foul-mouthed and swaggering they cursed him for bumping into them. The loudest was a young man who still affected the close-cropped curled coiffure of the Julio-Claudian times. Facing Casca, the slender young man drew back an un-calloused hand and slapped Casca across the face.
Stunned for a moment, Casca did not move. He had been hit harder by sick children. Then his own hand responded in like manner, breaking the youngster's jaw, laying him out cold.
The young fop's companion stepped in front of Casca to bar his passage. This was no dilettante. The man had the look of blood about him. He stood approximately Casca's height and size with square shoulders. Close cut black hair hung to the nape of his neck and two silver bracelets encircled his thick and muscular wrists. Beneath the expensive cloak, Casca could see the hilt of a sword.
Confidently and arrogantly he pushed Casca back a step with an open palm.
'You really shouldn't have done that old boy. Now I'm going to have to put you in your place.'
Tossing his cloak into the street, he stepped back drawing his blade, one a little longer than the old fashioned Roman short sword Casca wore. 'I see you are wearing a sword. Take it out and let's see if you can entertain me for a few moments.'
The broad man made a couple of passes in the air with his blade, flickering the point under Casca's nose.
Sighing, Casca stepped back a pace and drew his own weapon. He tried to hold down his growing anger but the pulse in his temple increased its beat and his breath began coming in short spurts. He looked the other over, his grey-blue eyes black in the predawn light.
'I'll do my best to provide you with a little amusement. Now get it on, or get out of my way.'
His opponent struck, expecting a quick kill, only to find his weapon blocked and an instant repartee that almost laid his guts open. He stepped back.
'Well, old boy, this may be better than I thought, but before I kill you, you should know you have the honor of dying at the hands of Marcellius Aelius.'
He waited for the shock of his name to strike fear into the heart of this common trash that dared oppose him.
'Who gives a shit, you faggot.'
Astounded at Casca's retort he said, 'You mean you don't know who I am?'
'No, loudmouth, and frankly, I could care less. Now get on with it or get the hell out of my way. I won't tell you again.'
Marcellius shook his head sadly. 'So be it, you clod, but know this, I am the premier gladiator of Rome; I have fought and killed eighty-three times.'
'Oh, fuck you,' Casca swore and launched an attack that left the other stunned and retreating. Casca's blade was a silver serpent, dashing and darting, flickering and flashing. He struck, beating the pride of the arena to the side of the temple wall. The man rallied and with a strong rush forced Casca back a couple of steps, then stood still breathing hard.
Fear was making its insidious way into his bowels. No one had ever done this to him.
Casca regained control of his temper. 'Now, will you let me pass?'
Casca's question restored the other's confidence and he came on again with a high sweep that would have taken Casca's head off, only to feel a deep burning in his stomach. Astonished, he looked down to see Casca pulling the foot of the blade out of his gut. Still unbelieving he dropped his sword which clattered to the stones.
Casca wiped his blade off on Marcellius's cloak, looking at the fallen man squatting on the street holding his stomach, he gave a gentle shove with his foot.
'You amateur, you wouldn't have lasted three weeks at the school of Corvu. He would have fed you to the dogs.'
The dying brain of Marcellius found time for one last wondering thought: 'Corvu? He died over a hundred years ago…'
Six
Casca stayed close to Ostia until the time for sailing. From Rome came the news of the death of the favorite of the masses-the glorius Marcellius- who had been set upon by at least ten thugs in the dark, according to his young companion who had his jaw smashed by a wicked blow from a club. According to the young gallant, Marcellius slew at least seven of the brutes before a blow from behind knocked him unconscious, whereupon the savages had finished him off and stolen away in the dark, taking their dead with them. It was indeed a tragedy for such a man to be struck down unfairly in the dark by thugs.
Ortius commented on the case as he read the daily report in the acta diurnla, 'I saw him fight a couple of times, Casca, old wart hog, and I do believe he might have given you a run for your money. But enough, we sail on the dawn tide. First port of call will be Naxos and then onto Carthage with a group of travelers and tourists. I made them a good rate on a package deal, but they supply their own meals. From Carthage, we cut back across, making stops at several other ports for whatever cargoes we can get and then on to Byzantium. Now, there was one hell of
