by Barry Sadler
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 a while 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. “Iugula” “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.
Chapter Five - ROME
Casca's steps led him through the same paths that he had taken to fight against Jubala in the arena of the Circus Maximus. Guards at the gateway gave him no more than a cursory glance as he melted into the flow of humanity. The sounds and smells were the same as he remembered, a babble of all the tongues of the empire merged into one distinct sound.
Dark closed over the City of the Caesars. The poor and the workers were in their homes behind shuttered doors. Over a million people crowded into the warrens of the city, driven here by the constant raids of the barbarians to the north or the free dole of grain. The odor of crowded humanity was intense and the smell brought the aura of fear. . . a fear that comes when the unknown walks the streets outside your home. Thieves and murderers owned the night. Only in the sections reserved for the wealthy merchants and highborn could a man or woman leave his home in the night with any semblance of safety and even here, the vultures waited and would strike and fade back into the crowded tenements and alleys.
In doorways and under the arches of the city, young people grappled and sweated, making frantic love, trying to find a moment's release from the fears of the day and the struggle to survive. Hot and eager for anything that could give them relief, they coupled, oblivious of the stares of the passers-by. Only the streets which catered to the tastes of those who had money to spend were lighted and patrolled by guards. The guards were made available through payoffs to the Commander of the Roman Garrison.
Whores of both sexes did a flourishing business. No sexual fantasy or deviation could not be satisfied if one could pay.
Casca ignored the pleas of whores and pimps, touts for taverns and others who offered the sickest of pleasures. Rome was rotting – the guts and pride of those who had made her great were being absorbed by leeches and parasites who fed on her weakened body.
"I may yet outlive the Empire. . ."
All that night Casca walked through the city; it had changed some since the burning. They used more brick but it was basically as before, just more crowded. He could see flickering flames of altar fires of the priests on the terraced, well-tended hills. The gods needed constant attention and reassurance.
He stopped outside one massive structure – the Colosseum, built after he had been sent to the galleys. A monument to depravity and brutality.
The Colosseum was a huge oval, covering six acres with eighty entrances of precious marble facings. In it 40,000 people could indulge their senses in the meaningless slaughter of the helpless. The games had deteriorated to nothing more than that. There was no time for expert fighters to compete against each other; only a few 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 passers-by 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.
Rounding 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. T
he 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 uncalloused 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...
Chapter Six - BYZANTIUM
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 glorious 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, where upon 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 diurnia.
"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 a city until Gallienus had the place sacked and looted. I used to know a couple of Armenian hookers – twin sisters they were – each would start at different points of your body and work their way to the center." Ortius sighed deeply and scratched his ass.
"Ahh. But I was younger then. It would probably kill me to try something like that now, still a man is tempted to always recapture something of his youth, even if there is a price to pay. Is that not so, my over-muscled friend?"
Casca merely grunted non-committedly and stuffed his face with fresh oysters from the bay. Rising, Ortius paid the bill and said, "I'm off for a massage and oiling. You finish up with the stevedores and make sure none of the bales are broken open." They set sail with the dawn tide and were out to sea by the time the day broke in fully on them. The group of tourists going to Carthage immediately started chanting and wailing while they conducted a ritual among themselves. Words drifted up through the open hatch. Casca was standing beside Ortius near the oar sweeps. Turning to him, he squinted as a beam of reflected light from the sea struck his face.
"They're Christians?"
Ortius nodded. "Aye, they're going to Carthage to escape. The word is out there will soon be another purge in Rome. In Carthage they are not bothered so much and even on occasions have been permitted to conduct their services openly. There are hundreds if not thousands there. Personally, I could care less what cult or gods they worship so long as their gold and silver is good. One thing about Christians – their god forbids them to cheat or lie." Laughing, he cleared his throat and spat phlegm over the side. "Did you ever hear anything so ridiculous in your life?"
After an uneventful trip, they docked at the inner harbor and tied up next to the storage houses used for transhipment of goods from the interior of the great African plains and mountains, most of which went to Rome.
The Christians were met by others of their sect and quickly left the harbor to find new homes and what they hoped would be safety from the coming persecutions.
Casca spent the day wandering through this miniature Rome where once the Carthaginians had challenged the power of Rome and were destroyed by the legions of Scipio. The city had resisted fanatically, the last survivors fighting to the death under the leadership of Hasdrubal in the Temple of Eshmun. With their death came also the death of the city as the conquerors pillaged and butchered. The stones of the buildings were broken and all human habitation of this place was forbidden on pain of death.
For twenty years only lizards and desert creatures lived in the rubble that once housed 700,000 men, women and children who were now no more. Mars is a vengeful god.
While Ortius attended to ship's business, Casca rented a piebald pony from a local stable and went for a tour of the city, glad to exchange the swaying of the ship for the bump of the saddle. On several walls he saw the symbols of old, of the hated gods of Carthage that the Romans detested so, for their savagery and rites of human sacrifice. Rome seemed to find no parallel between those who died in the name of a god and those sent to the arena to die for the amusement of the Romans. Casca wondered how the difference affected the enthusiasm of those to be killed. Passing a stone panel used to rebuild a wall enclosing the sumptuous domus of a retired senator who had taken up farming
, he saw the emblems of Tanith, the supreme goddess of the city. Properly called Tanit pene Baal, the Other Face of Baal, the carving was that of the disk and crescent moon. The other face of Baal . . . the one he showed was bad enough.
Passing a market place, Casca saw a small bronze figure of the insatiable deity who demanded the firstborn of every family to be offered to him and fed to his flames. The small figure still held an aura of sinister depravity in the shape of human lips above the beard; crowning the figure were the horns of a beast. Baal, Moloch, Jupiter, Quetza.
"Damn, what's the answer... what's the question?'' The African sun beat heavily on his back as he headed back to the wharves where ships lay in wait. Ortius was ready to put out to sea but had to wait for the tide on the morrow. That night was spent in a small inn near the waterfront. The morning found them cutting their way into the clear blue of the Mediterranean, heading northeast, carrying a new cargo of skins and ivory and amphorae of salted fish.
Casca cast one look back at the city founded by Queen Dido when she sought refuge on this hostile shore. It was said the king of the land offered her only the area that could be covered by the hide of a bull, but Dido (smart bitch that she was), held him to his word and cut the bullhide into thread thin lengths and from this encircled the area that was to be her city.
The sea trail leading to Byzantium was marked by only a couple of minor storms. Two sailors and a pilgrim saw the shrine of Athena on one of the lesser islands of the group between Crete and Achea. Perhaps he should have been a devotee of Father Neptune or Poseidon as the Greeks knew him, but what's in a name – a god by any other name is still s pain in the ass.