Casca 7: The Damned Read Free

take to Milan. They were kept under the watchful eye of a decurion with two squads of legionnaires to bring in the heretics. Once on the main road, they were joined by several hundred others who were guilty of the same offense.
    It was afternoon before they entered the gates of Milan to face the hurled abuse of the masses. Garbage as well as invective were heaped on them, along with taunts of "Pagan!" and "Idolaters!"
    Casca had seen that look on the mob's faces before; it was a combination of hate and pious superiority. Without ceremony, they were hustled through the streets to the galleries of the arena. It was not as large as those of Rome, or even some he had seen in Africa or Asia, but it was ample enough to seat most of the adult population which would fill the stands in the next few days.
    He had heard that gladiatorial combats had been forbidden, but then it was the prerogative of power to be able to change laws as they wished.
    Already in the pens were about a hundred other so called pagans; separated from them, in chains, were others considered more dangerous than the heretic villagers. Goths and members of several Germanic tribes captured on the frontiers and brought in for this occasion.
    It would please the masses to watch pagan Romans and barbarians destroy each other. That over half of the Goths were Christians of the Arian sect made no difference. They were all heretics in the eyes of the Mother Church.
    Casca knew one thing, the pagans would take up the sword more readily then would the Christians, who in the days of Imperial Nero had almost to a man refused to kill. They died in the belief that their death on the sands would make them martyrs and, as such, they would be guaranteed a place in their heaven.
    Casca wondered who had the most courage – one who would die without raising a hand for his gods or the others. He settled down in a corner of the cell after kicking a couple of others out of the way to make room. He had been separated from the villagers by the decurion who, once he saw the scars on him, knew he was a fighter and put him in the cells with the Germans and Goths.
    The stench of fouled straw covering the stones of the cells did nothing to make him feel any better; his stomach was growling and he had a hangover. He tried to make himself as comfortable as possible and get some sleep before the games opened on the following morning.
    He knew it would be vastly different from the last time he had fought in the arena. These peasants had no experience with weapons. They would simply hack clumsily at each other until they made a lucky blow or their opponent dropped from exhaustion. If they were lucky, they would be matched up against one of the barbarians who would more than likely put a quick end to their anguish.
    Casca thought back on his days in the arena. It had been brutal, true, but at least there had been a sense of professionalism among the combatants. The training style at the schools, where they entered at tyros and left as professional gladiators, at least gave them options either to die on the sands, find freedom with the gift of the wooden sword, or even a chance to acquire great wealth by betting on themselves.
    One of the Germans in the cage next to him spoke to him through the bars. His voice was rough, almost a choking whisper, as if he hadn't had water for a long time. Then Casca saw the reason. There was a fresh scar on the Barbarian's throat where the edge of a blade had almost opened the windpipe. The warrior was still fit looking, wearing the homespun red trousers of his tribe and a leather vest. The gray streaks in his fair hair said that here was one who had survived much and lived longer than most of his people.
    "Roman, are you ready to die in the morning?" A smile followed his throaty question.
    Casca merely nodded his head. "I've been ready a lot longer than you will ever be, Suevii," he answered the barbarian in his own tongue.
    The German was surprised. It was rare for