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 schools.
Crespas drove through the entrance way to the walled enclosure, passing armed guards. Looking neither left nor right, he brought the horses to a sudden stop, nearly throwing Casca from the chariot.
"Out," came the short order to Casca, and Crespas indicated for Casca to stand to the side.
The dust had not settled before a house slave had the reins in hand and was standing respectfully by. The schoolmaster saw the approach of the chariot and quickly moved to attend the drive. The master came wearing the dress of the Galli heavy swordsman. Bringing his sword to the salute position across his chest, he called out:
"Vale. I am the lanista of this school. I am Marcius Corvu at your service, sir."
Crespas nodded in approval. Apparently he liked the man's looks… tough… his carcass well-scarred from many fights… heavy-muscled… confident. His face contained several deep gouges and scars, and Corvu wore his hair cropped close to the head, the gray resting on his square-boned skull like a tight cap.
"Greetings, Corvu. I am M. Decimus Crespas. I wrote to my friend Abascantus about my bringing a slave here for training. I presume you have been made aware of this?"
"Indeed, sir. We have been expecting you anytime for the last week." He pointed his sword at Casca. "Will this be our newtiro?"
Crespas nodded in the affirmative. "Because of his size and muscular development I thought that either the school of Galli or that of the Mirmillones would be best for him. And as my friend and colleague Abascantus owns this establishment, I have opted for your school of the Galli."
Corvu walked around Casca, looking him over closely. He ordered Casca to raise his arms, bend over, show his teeth, and flex. Then, without warning, he drove the pommel of the short sword into Casca's gut. Casca grunted with the impact, and the round butt left an imprint in his stomach, but he did not go down as Corvu expected.
Turning back to Crespas, Corvu said: "You have made the right choice, noble sir. This one has the earmarks of a fighter, and he is tough. The guts are the weak point for most men, yet he took that blow well enough. You are right; he is much too large to be a Retarii or Thraces. No, he definitely belongs in the heavyweight class, and here we specialize. I myself fought for over ten years in the arena and have won the wooden sword twice as a Galli."
Corvu was not above blowing his own horn. Besides, he wanted this potential client to be aware of his expertise.
Crespas nodded. "Yes, I have seen you fight on more than one occasion, my good Corvu. That is the final factor in my determining to place this slave with you. Take him now so that I may be gone to my home. Remember, the slave is mine, and I will not have him crippled in training, and he is to be fed the best you have. You may, of course, beat him, but not to the point of crippling. He is mine, and I have an investment to protect. Train him well, and I will see that you do not lack for some form of appreciation from me."
Raising his hand, Crespas mounted the chariot and gave one quick "Vale," turned the chariot around, yelled that his steward would drop by later to arrange the billing accounts, and disappeared in a clatter, heading with all haste to his home, only a mile away and like the school, outside the walls of Rome.
"Your name, slave?"
Casca caught Corvu's eyes, looking directly into them, his own blue-gray eyes seeming even lighter as they forced Corvu to look away. In irritation Corvu repeated his question and whacked Casca with the flat of his blade.
"Speak, slave."
Controlling himself, Casca replied, "I am Casca Rufio Longinus."
"Were you a soldier?"
"Yes."
"When and where, slave?"
"It does not matter. I am here now. That is enough."
Corvu looked closely at him. "Slave, you have a lot to learn. Here I am the master, and I hold your life in my hands,"
Casca said nothing, merely smiled.
Corvu became angry at himself for not being able to impress this insolent slave properly, but he held his rage.
"Enough. You will learn before we are through who is the boss here."
Thinking to himself that Corvu was probably right, Casca followed the lanista as he led the way across the enclosed compound and into the training area. Here men were fighting with both sharp and dulled blades. Most of the trainees were slaves, but Casca understood that there were a number of auctoratti, men who voluntarily put themselves in bondage to the school for a specific period of time in exchange for being trained-and fed while training-for the arena. All were big men, tough men. Most were in their late twenties or early thirties, hard men who had been around, and they looked good to Casca's professional eye. Whatever the schoolmaster Corvu might be, he was right about one thing-he did know his job.
They walked across a miniature arena. Casca understood that here private shows were sometimes staged. Corvu would use these private affairs to thin his ranks of bad material. Those who couldn't cut it were culled here-and at a profit. Calling a gladiator, Corvu turned Casca over to him and told the man to show Casca the ropes and familiarize him with the rules of the school.
So… this would be his home! Casca looked around him.
Walls surrounded the compound, and on them were several men patrolling with spears and bows. Private guards to discourage escape. There were two sets of barracks: one for the slaves who had to be locked in every night, the other for the freemen who on their own took up the job of fighting for money. The latter-and a few special slaves-were granted the freedom to come and go. Casca was put in the locked barracks.
He was here.
Tomorrow he would begin to learn the trade of the arena.
The word "arena" meant sand.
Sand where men and beasts tortured each other and died for the pleasure of Rome.