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comforts... and he was a patrician.
A patrician. Damn it, maybe that was it. Casca had not had what you might call
your standard buddy-buddy relationship with the patrician class. And the last
patrician who had played a part in his destiny was the snot-nosed son of a
bitch Tigelanius who had booted him out of the legion and thrown him into
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slavery. Tigelanius was long dead now. Casca hoped the worms that had eaten
him had died, too, of indigestion.
Careful, though. This patrician, Crespas, held the key to his freedom. He
could not let Crespas know he had any prejudice against patricians. Hell, he'd
swear before the temple of every god in the Empire that he loved patricians,
if that was what it took to get his freedom.
So he followed dutifully after the old slave to whom he had presented himself,
Crespas's steward, a slight and meek elder who had served, he had told
Casca-Crespas and his family for over forty years. There had been pride in the
old man's voice then, but he was silent now as he brought Casca to Crespas's
study. Casca could sense something more than deference in the old man. Fear?
It was obvious that Crespas was going over the progress reports from the
mities and adjacent areas, probably for the last quarter, and apparently he
knew exactly what he was doing. Casca decided that here was a man who knew how
to turn a profit, and again the uneasiness haunted him. The study had an air
of cold efficiency about it... inhumanity..
Following the steward's example, Casca stood with bowed head until Crespas
motioned for him to approach closer to his desk. Reaching up, he took Casca's
medallion from him and compared the number with a master list on the desk.
When he found what he was looking for, he lifted cold eyes to Casca and
studied him intently for an impossibly long moment. There was absolutely no
expression on his face. To Casca, it seemed made of marble; the man's thoughts
were as impossible to reach as those of a statue. But he had come this far for
his freedom, and not even the gods themselves were going to make him back
down. He returned the stone stare with one equally as impassive.
Still it bothered Casca. When he had taken the dead slave's medallion, he had
not thought about the possibility of a master list. What if Crespas made
something of it? He did not relish the poss bility of being at the patrician's
mercy.
But Crespas said nothing. Instead, he instructed the steward to go bring him
certain files, and, while the old steward was out of the room, turned his
attention to Casca.
"Your name, slave?"
The manner of speech immediately set Casca down off his anxiety high. The tone
said, No freedom today. It brought up memory of the brutal efficiency Crespas
had used in crushing the skull of the first thief with his cane. Casca let his
voice become that of the typical slave:
"Casca, master."
"Well, Casca, yesterday you did me a service, and I may be of a mind to reward
you for it. By the look of you I can tell you are one who is familiar with
violence. Several of those cuts on your hide look to have come from bladed
weapons. Am I correct?"
"Yes, master."
"Good. You also know your place. That pleases me. We will get along. I am
going to take you with me when I leave this pigsty and return to Rome. While
there, I will enter you into a school for gladiators."
Gladiators? It took all of Casca's willpower to prevent any expression from
showing on his face. But he lowered his head in submission.
Looking steadily at Casca, Crespas said, "You wish your freedom, do you not?"
He did not wait for an answer but went on in the same cold, level voice: Of
course you do. Anyone can see that you are not cut out to be a good slave. And
with those muscles of yours, some day you are going to give whoever owns you a
lot of trouble----if you don't end up killing him. So, Casca, what I propose
is this. I will buy you from the state----as a province governor I have that
prerogative, and I will take you to Rome. I will pay for your training in the
school of my choice. You will fight for me for three years in the arena. At
the end of that time I will grant you your freedom. And, of course, as you
know there is always the chance you could be given the wooden sword. It
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doesn't happen often, but it does happen. Now, if you agree to this, I will
put the terms in writing and have them so notarized and a copy given to you."
He paused.. His eyes, sharp and deadly as a gladius, went through Casca. But
when he continued, his voice had the same level, flat tone... as though he
were giving orders to an animal. "But if anything happens to me, and I should
die before our agreement reaches its conclusion, you will not go free. You
will be sold on the block to the highest bidder. By this action I am sure you
can see that I am trying to provide myself with a little insurance against
your trying to achieve your freedom early at my expense. Do you agree to these
terms?"
Casca raised his head and looked directly into the eyes of Crespas. His voice
hollow, he said, "Yes, master, I agree."
Crespas stood and straightened his tunic. "Good. It shall be done, then." The
old steward returned with a box from which Crespas took several documents.
"These are the legal instruments necessary for the transfer of your ownership
to me." He quickly filled in the necessary information with his reed quill pen
and signed them, affixing his seal. "It's done. -You belong to me. I will have
the other papers pertaining to our agreement drawn up by this time tomorrow,
and we will be on our way to Rome within the month. Now you will return to
your quarters and remove all of your personal possessions from there. You will
come back here, and my steward will assign you quarters. Follow his
instructions while in this house, and we will have no problems. In
anticipation of your agreement, I have already prepared orders releasing you
from the mines." Handing Casca a small, rolled scroll, he said, "Give this to
your overseer, and he will release you. Do you understand everything?"
Casca nodded.
"Good. Then be about your business, and I will tend to mine." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]