The single-banked trading galley of Ortius crept gingerly along the coast turning northwards to the first port of call, Nova Cargegena, then on to the Messina, where Casca had first enlisted in the legions and received his basic training. From there he had been sent to join the Seventh Legion in Gaul. Messina had not changed much. They still made the best fish stew in the Empire.
On the voyage, Casca often took his turn at the oars when the wind failed, falling into the rhythm of the stroke and beat that spoke of the years in the slave galleys of Rome. The exercise did him good and helped keep his arms and back strong and muscled. The sweat that flowed down into the hairs of his chest was welcome. Ortius was a good friend and would have had him do nothing but drink and eat and tell lies about their amorous adventures, but a man needs to work, to strain to be alive. At least now he rowed because he chose to. There was no cracking flash of pain from a slave master's lash to rip his back into shreds of hairline cuts. The nights were cool and Father Neptune smiled on them, keeping his storms away and sending only gentle winds to aid them on their way. The creaking of the planking served as a sirens' song to lull the mind and put the body to rest after a long day on the oars.
Somewhat to Casca's chagrin, Ortius promised him an even more fantastic night than the one he had had in Dubrae when they reached the port of Ostia. With Ortius, one could never be certain when the chubby little sailing master was going to do a number on you.
The wind was coming from Africa and the last days were spent tacking slowly back and forth with a greater amount of time spent using the oars, but at last they heard the call of the lookout.
"Ostia! Ostia lies ahead!"
Eagerly Casca climbed up the mast to join the lookout. The red tiled roofs and white buildings shimmered in the afternoon sun. He was almost there. The tide swept them into a smooth docking at the stone wharves of the gateway to Rome.
Leaping onto the wharf, Casca felt a rush of de'ja vu, but knew it was memory of long ago when he first set foot on these very stones as the property of the patrician proconsul, M. Decimus Crespas, his owner and master who brought him to Rome to fight for the pleasure of the masses and jaded nobility. Now, as then, the city swarmed with life. Grain ships from Egypt and beyond, others like Ortius' stout trader came from Gaul or Brittania and across the straits of Sicilia from Carthage, Ortius. told Casca to stay put while he presented his papers to the cargo master, again using the tried and true method of honorable bribery to make sure his cargo was not too closely inspected.
Bureaucrats were all the same.
While waiting, a squad of Legionaires marched by. To Casca's eye, they were disappointing; the troops in distant Dubrae looked much sharper. These were sloppy in their dress and manner; the old razor-sharp discipline of his day was vanishing. Even the uniforms were not all the same and two carried swords other than the Gladius Iberius, a sure sign of internal rot.
Ortius and Casca spent three days tasting the pleasures of Ostia and coming up-to-date on the happenings of the empire. It was not too good. Gallenius had been removed while they were at sea and the empire was in sad disorder on every frontier. The Legions had been pushed back until they held only central and southern Italia. Most of the north was ravaged at will by marauding bands of vandal Goths and any others who chose to rape and pillage. Gallenius had been replaced by two of his own calvary commanders, members of the equestrian order who quickly reduced the professional politicians to a state of abject obedience, Claudius and Aurelian.
The military had control of the empire. Whether it would do any good or not was yet to be seen, but for now, the generals ruled. Walking the streets of Ostia with Ortius on one side of him they ignored the pleadings of the whores to come in and be given endless delights for only a few coppers.
They stopped in a wine ship that boasted a good collection of rare vintages from as far away as Parthia and Egypt; making their way to a table, they sat talking of the world and politics and, naturally, women.
Ortius still gloated over the gambit he pulled on Casca in Dubrae and fell into a fit of laughter when he related how Paetius had come to him, wounded to his soul, and described the death grip of the Egyptian whore on Casca's big toe, tears of laughter rolling down his cheeks until he fell into a coughing spasm and spilled the table over, knocking a couple of sailors off the stools next to them.
The two tough looking Corsicans scrambled to their feet cursing and wiping a mess of spilled wine and food from their tunics. The shorter of the two reached over and gave Ortius an open-handed slap that knocked him to the floor, his face burning from the blow and head ringing where the man's hand popped his ear. Leaning over, the short man reached to grab the portly ship's master and pulled him up for another blow when a grip like steel wrapped itself around his wrist and froze him.
"Enough. It was an accident." Casca rose, trying to control the beginning surge of anger. The short sailor tried to twist out of the iron grip only to feel it tighten until he thought the bones would snap. Years on the galleys of Rome had given Casca a grip few in the world could equal. The pressure increased…
"Enough. Go back to your seat and we'll buy you another round."
Before the short man could voice his agreement, a stool smashed across Casca's back and spun him over a table to meet with a boot in the mouth. He felt his lip split, letting the warm salt taste of blood into his mouth.
So much for trying to be reasonable, thought Casca. With a bellow, he dived into the legs of the large sailor and drove him over three tables and onto the tavern floor. Quickly he was swarmed by half a dozen sailors, raining blows on him with everything from wine pots to table legs. His head ringing, he grabbed a table leg for himself and began swinging, roaring out, "Odin," a habit he had picked up in the northlands, and began to crack skulls and ribs, ignoring returning blows. He cleared an area around himself and Ortius who had now come to his senses and was bellowing in glee, begging Casca to let him at them. The stubby balding man had no lack of guts and threw himself into the center of the remaining sailors and was just as quickly knocked out and thrown back like an unwanted fish. The remaining three sailors rushed Casca and buried him beneath them, pounding and pummeling with their hands and feet. The tall one made the mistake of trying to grapple with Casca on the floor and came up screaming in agony. Casca had reached under his tunic and given the sailor's balls one long strong squeeze that ended all thoughts of further hostilities in the fellow's mind and also any idea he might have had about love making for the next couple of weeks. Jumping up, Casca made short work of the two remaining sailors with a snap kick to the throat of one and back knuckle to the temple of the other that dropped him like he was pole-axed.
Gathering Ortius up, he tossed him over his shoulder and backed his way out of the tavern and into the dark where he quickly lost himself in the maze of streets. Finally finding his way back to their rooms, he set about waking Ortius with a combination of wet rags and gentle slaps. The Sicilian came to swinging and nailed Casca a good shot in the eye which immediately swelled shut.
"Where are they?" he cried. "I'll teach them to mess with Ortius, the terror of the Saxon coast."
Another gentle slap put Ortius back into the land of Nod and Casca just looked at him, touched his sore eye and said piss on it. He hit the sack, but felt good. It had been a great fight and dear Paetius, he felt sure, would have approved of the love squeeze he had given the sailor's balls.
Yes, indeed, Paetius would have envied him that moment.
Leaving Ortius to nurse his sore ear, the next day Casca told him he was going to Rome for awhile and that if he didn't get back before he sailed, then Hale and Farewell. The road had been good. Ortius was too sore and hung over to more than voice a feeble protest at his abandonment, but wished him well saying they sailed in two weeks for Byzantium if the weather permitted.
Casca left him holding his head between his hands vowing to forsake the worship of Dionysius and his grapes and devote himself to a life of piety and devotion. Paying his two coppers fare, Casca caught a ride in the morning on one of the wagons that hauled tourists and visitors to the capitol. It was early afternoon when they reached the outskirts of the city. Casca got off to walk the short distance to the school of the Galli where he had worn the armor of the Mirmillone and trained for the arena.
The walls were overgrown with vines and signs of decay were obvious from a distance. Pushing open the gate, the rusted squeaking hinges welcomed him. Gone. All were gone. Only ghosts of the hundreds who learned the fine art of slaughter were left. Open doors and litter left by bands of beggars who occasionally stopped and lived for awhile in the school of slaughter were all that remained.
The chopping posts were still there, gouged and scarred from the endless line of men who chopped them for hours to strengthen their sword arms and as a light wind blew small whirlwinds of dust, Casca thought he could hear Corvu again cursing and correcting, calling to low strike for the gut, try it again; over and over, the dust whirled and in it he saw familiar faces. Crysos who had died for him and Jubala, the insane savage black from Numidia, who feasted on his victims. All were gone and only dust remained. Casca. The only one left.
His sword felt heavy on his belt, weighing more than he knew. Perhaps it was heavy with the lives of the men he sent to their gods and ancestors. Entering the small arena where private shows were held for the rich, he noted that weeds now grew in thick clumps in the remaining sand. Perhaps the blood of those who had fallen here gave them sustenance. Kicking a patch of weeds, melancholy swept over him with the wind in this sanctuary of death.
"I have lived so long with the stench of death that sometimes I cannot tell it from my own breath… or are they the same?"
Climbing the steps to the box where the rich would sit eating while the men below died for their pleasure, he could even hear the whisper of the roar of the crowd in the great arena of Rome.
“Jugular! Go for the jugular! Give it to him!"
Below, the forms of men swirled in his mind as they fought, a wounded Thraces, his winged helmet slashed open held up a finger to the crowd asking for mercy which was seldom given. Useless, useless. What purpose did it all serve? But there was an excitement. Perhaps it's the animal that lives in all of us. We know what we do is wrong but still when lust comes on us, we revel in our ability to triumph over one another, even though it serves no purpose in the end. Man, the fighter, the killer of his own kind as no other beast on the face of this world is. Sighing, Casca rose to make his way out of the haunted mausoleum.
We are what we are. He left the school and walked to the gates that would let him into the city of the Caesars.