Spartacus: Morituri

XII

When the men staggered out into the yard the next morning, groggy after another night of broken sleep, they found Oenomaus, whip in hand as always, standing with his arms folded, waiting for them.

“Form up,” he ordered. “Dominus desires a word.”

The men looked at each other, blinking and rubbing the sleep from their eyes. This was highly unusual. Dominus usually only appeared-if at all-after breakfast, once the day’s training was well underway. For him to show his face with the dawn light still streaking the sky overhead must mean that he had something of great importance to tell them.

“If he announces more games,” Varro muttered to Spartacus as he trudged beside him, “I may hurl myself from cliff to save opponent the trouble of cleaving my head from shoulders.”

Spartacus smiled.

“I don’t expect it, Varro. I feel dominus has news to impart that will cheer us all.”

Varro looked at him curiously.

“You know of dominus’s intended words?”

Still smiling, Spartacus said, “We will discover soon enough.”

The words were barely out of his mouth when slaves pushed open the double doors above, and Batiatus strode out on to the balcony. Despite the early hour he looked well-rested and happy-happier, in fact, than he had looked for some considerable time. Resplendent in a maroon tunic edged with gold beneath his toga, he raised his hands, not for silence but in a gesture of expansiveness, even celebration.

“I greet you this glorious morning,” he cried. “Excellent news dances with anticipation of its revealing. News that will enable you to step from recent darkness back into glorious light of the arena.

“Recent events test us all. Ailments of body and mind fashion rumors of dread-of spirits and sorcerers despatched from the underworld. Even murmurings of curse laid upon the House of Batiatus peck at brains like nagging vulture.

“Such rumors can now wither and come to rest. Gratitude is owed your champion, Spartacus, whose wisdom in the matter matched only by his prowess in the arena. The House of Batiatus uncovers the truth.”

He paused as a rumble of speculation rippled among the men, as heads turned to regard Spartacus, whose face remained impassive, his blue eyes fixed on Batiatus alone.

At last, nodding sagely, Batiatus continued, “There is no curse upon us. You gladiators have been dosed not with measure of sorcery-but with poison!”

This time the ripple became a rising babble, the men gaping up at Batiatus and at each other in amazement. Doctore stepped forward and cracked his whip, his face like thunder.

“Silence! Dominus did not grant leave to speak!” he bellowed.

Instantly the men quietened, glancing apprehensively up at their master, realizing that they had overstepped the mark. Batiatus, however, raised his hands once again, clearly still in an expansive and forgiving mood.

“Your agitation well founded,” he said. “Indeed, I share it. Heart is saddened and enraged upon discovery that a fellow lanista has soiled honorable profession. He uses means of advancement better fit for those who dwell in gutter among shit and rats.

“I thought Hieronymus an honorable man. I invited him to house, to partake of wine and hospitality. My own gladiators provided entertainment.” He raised his voice in outrage, jabbing a finger at the sky. “Despite this extension of hand in courtesy and friendship, he spits in my face. And seeks to snatch glory from my noble warriors not by sword and spear but by foul concoction wrought from exotic herbs, secreted in food we eat and water we drink.” He shook his head, as if he could not conceive of such villainy. “Are these the actions of an honorable man?”

Roused to anger by his words, the men below clenched their fists and punched the air, shouting out their denials.

“I agree they are not,” Batiatus agreed. “These are not honorable actions. But be assured, the House of Batiatus will have vengeance. Hieronymus will wish eyes never laid on gates of Capua. He will pay for attempting to infect blood and sand we hold dear with stinking filth of his vile machinations.”

As the men roared their approval, Batiatus looked down at them, a benevolent god, nodding in accord. At length he raised his hands once again.

“From this moment we partake only of pure water and untainted food. And we train as never before. When next we face Hieronymus’s morituri-as we shall soon-we will destroy them, leaving nothing but butchered meat fit for feeding fucking pigs!”

More cheering, more clenched fists. Batiatus indulged it for a minute or so and then adopted a somber expression.

“It pains heart that not all who serve the House of Batiatus will enjoy the teaching of this lesson. There is one among us who turned hand against us, choosing betrayal above honor, for mere glint of coin. If not for this snake, many of your brothers would still stand alongside you today. Let his punishment serve as example of reward for dishonor. And with it, conclude dark moment that fell upon this house to set upon new path to glorious victory!”

With that a man was dragged out on to the practice square and thrown to his knees on the sandy ground. Naked but for a filthy loincloth, his torso was scored with cuts and blotched with ugly purple-black bruises. He looked around in a daze, his bottom lip split open and the plum-colored flesh around his left eye so swollen that the eye itself was nothing but a narrow sliver of red in its center. Blood ran down the right-hand side of his face from an ear that appeared to have been chewed, as if by a wild animal.

The man lowered his head and spat a black crust of blood on to the sand.

“Get up you unfaithful cunt,” Batiatus snarled down at him.

Raising his head, which wobbled unsteadily, as though about to topple from his shoulders, the man looked around, trying to pinpoint the source of the voice. Finally he spotted Batiatus on the balcony above.

“I give no fuck for this house,” he slurred.

Batiatus gave a single sharp nod to Oenomaus, who strode forward and grabbed the man by his hair. The man yelped as he was hauled to his feet, eliciting a ripple of guttural laughter from the watching gladiators. He tried to claw at Doctore’s hand, but the African’s grip was immovable. Only when the man was standing upright, on his own two feet, did he let go of him.

“Give the traitor a sword,” Batiatus ordered.

A slave hurried out of the refectory with a sword-not a wooden practice one, but a real one-and handed it to Doctore. With a sneer of contempt the veteran gladiator threw it at the man’s feet.

“Pick it up,” Batiatus said.

The man again looked up at him, tilting his head so that he could see Batiatus clearly with his good eye.

“What for?” he replied defiantly.

Batiatus shrugged.

“There is no obligation to do so. The choice yours. But note in the giving of choice that, unlike your master, I am an honorable man. And offer opportunity to walk free from the house you shit upon.”

The man stared at him for a long moment, and then he looked down at the sword at his feet. With a sigh he picked it up, but held it loosely, as though already resigned to his fate.

“Your decision to serve Hieronymus for selfish gain has grieved my gladiators,” Batiatus said. “Several of their brothers lie dead, glory denied by your actions. For this they would see justice done. But so great is their honor that it dictates giving you a chance.” He smiled a slow, grim smile. “You will face our champion in combat. Prevail and walk free. Lose…” He shrugged. “… and your ravaged body will be discovered on lower slopes, regrettable victim of accident.” He twisted his features into a mockery of sadness. “A terrible tragedy befallen innocent man.”

Spartacus stepped forward and was handed a sword by a slave. He took it without a word, his stance relaxed, his face implacable. The traitorous guard glanced at him warily, but his voice when he addressed Batiatus was still defiant.

“I am Roman and demand fair trial. I will not be made to brawl in dirt like common slave.”

Batiatus spread his hands and said in a reasonable voice, “Judgement is given, along with choice. Now yours to make alone. Fight and perhaps live. Or receive certain death.” He glanced at his champion. “Do you stand ready, Spartacus?”

“Yes, dominus.”

Batiatus gave a sharp nod. “Then begin.”

With a smile of satisfaction, Batiatus re-entered the villa, the slaves pulling the double doors closed behind him. He found Lucretia bathing, Naevia gently rubbing warm oil into her shoulders and back to bring the dirt and sweat to the surface, before scraping it carefully off with a strigil.

Perching on the edge of the bath, Batiatus dabbled his fingers in the milky water. He dried them on a cloth proffered by a slave, then helped himself to a fig from a wooden bowl.

“Has the deed been done?” Lucretia said.

Batiatus nodded.

“The treacherous dog has had yelp forever silenced.”

She arched an eyebrow.

“Did he fight well?”

The question made Batiatus laugh so hard that the fig he was eating flew out of his mouth and spattered on the floor, where it was quickly cleared away by a slave.

“He fought like whipped mule, and crawled as one too. Spartacus saw more of his ass than face. The men chomped at bit to see the traitor’s heart borne aloft by the champion’s sword. It was joyous spectacle.”

Lucretia’s smile was thin and cruel.

“I wish I had seen it.”

“The sight would have brought flame to cheek.”

Her eyes flashed dangerously.

“You don’t think wife’s skin pallid do you?”

Batiatus’s response was immediate.

“Your skin is finest porcelain. Venus herself shamed by it.”

Apparently mollified, Lucretia said, “How will you avenge against Hieronymus and his vile creature?”

Batiatus’s smile widened, relishing the prospect of it.

“Plan is in motion as we speak, messenger already despatched.”

“Does wily husband lay trap?” Lucretia smirked.

“One laced with honey. Temptation that clenching Greek cunt will find impossible to resist.”

“Good Hieronymus!” Batiatus exclaimed, his arms spread wide in greeting, his face wreathed in smiles. “And noble Crassus in addition! How does the day find you both?”

“The day finds me in rude health,” Hieronymus replied, the familiar grin stretching his face. Crassus mumbled something which Batiatus didn’t quite catch.

“And you, good Batiatus?” Hieronymus enquired. “Fortune favors, I hope.”

“As never before,” replied Batiatus, but he allowed a small cloud of doubt to pass across his features-one that he fully intended Hieronymus to see.

“It gladdens heart to hear it,” the merchant said, humor flashing in his dark eyes. Behind him the ever-present Mantilus stood in silence, a shade from the underworld lurking always at his shoulder.

“Let us take refreshment while we await further company,” Batiatus said, ushering them into the atrium with a small wave of the hand. “Would you care for water to assuage thirst on such hot day-or wine perhaps?”

“Wine,” Hieronymus said quickly. “This will be cause for celebration after all.”

“All good sport is celebration,” Batiatus said, waving forward a slave bearing a jug of wine, “though this occasion will have somber cause-the passing of much-loved citizen of Capua.”

“Ah yes,” said Hieronymus sadly. “In whose memory do games honor?”

Batiatus gestured vaguely.

“The editor will arrive soon to furnish answer to that.” He glanced at Crassus. “Do you care for wine too, good Crassus?”

“A little early to be absent wit,” Crassus replied with rare, though grim, humor. “Water will suffice.”

Hieronymus looked momentarily alarmed, the grin almost slipping from his face. Restoring it quickly as Batiatus glanced guilelessly at him, he said, “Come my friend, let’s not stand formal. Share wine in recognition of bond between good friends who favor the arena, ever strengthening.”

Crassus frowned. “I am sure the offer well meant, but I desire only water.”

“The quench of water it is then!” Batiatus exclaimed. Beaming, he said, “I think you will relish its flavor, good Crassus. Lucretia and I import from Rome for our own use.”

Hearing this, Hieronymus looked relieved.

“Wise decision. I understand taste of local waters stands a little … brackish.”

Batiatus dismissed the question with a wave of the hand.

“A thing I cannot answer, as it passes only lips of slaves.” He beckoned a slave forward to provide Crassus with water, and then said, “Ah! Further guests arrive. I must excuse presence but a moment.”

Every inch the genial and generous host, he moved across the atrium to greet Solonius and the man who accompanied him as they were shown into the house. This second man, though younger than Batiatus, was portly, balding and red-faced. He dabbed sweat from his rosy cheeks as Solonius introduced him.

“This summer oppresses intolerably, does it not?” the newcomer said by way of greeting.

“Days too hot and nights too cold,” Batiatus agreed, nodding in sympathy. “But occasional rains do bring welcome relief.”

The man’s eyes twinkled.

“Rains bestowed by the gods in payment for your champion’s defeat of Theokoles.”

Batiatus inclined his head modestly.

“Modest service to good citizens of Capua. Come and allow introductions to other guests.”

He led Solonius and the portly man across to where Hieronymus and Crassus stood sipping their drinks.

“Good friends,” he said, “may I present Gaius Julius Brutilius, renowned noble of Capua. He imparts honor to all our houses with request to stage games in memory of revered father. Good Brutilius, allow me to present Leonidas Hieronymus, lanista of Capua, and his patron, Marcus Licinius Crassus. Yet in its infancy, good Hieronymus’s ludus is already talk of the city.”

Hieronymus smiled modestly.

“You flatter.”

“I speak blunt truth,” Batiatus replied.

As though finding all the mutual sycophancy tiresome, perhaps even nauseating, Crassus said tersely, “What is your proposal, Brutilius?”

The portly man drew himself up to his full height and puffed out his chest. The Capuan seemed a little overawed at being in such exalted company.

“My beloved father, Titus Augustus Brutilius, was loyal servant to city of Capua. Magistrate and supplier of slaves for many years to the houses of Batiatus and Solonius among many others, his was hand that guided and shaped lives. A hand that dealt wisdom and good fortune to all who encountered him.”

“A man of true greatness,” Solonius murmured, and Batiatus nodded sagely.

“In recognition of such greatness,” Brutilius continued, “I would stage noble contest between the three finest gladiatorial houses from the city he loved. I would honor glorious memory with blood and spectacle, in knowledge that his name will remain forever on lips of the citizens of Capua.”

“A noble sentiment,” Batiatus breathed. “What do you say to it, good Solonius?”

Solonius was nodding, blinking hard as though his brimming emotions had momentarily rendered him lost for words. Finally he said, “The House of Solonius would consider it great honor to fight in recognition of father’s honored name, Brutilius.”

Brutilius nodded graciously.

Batiatus cast Hieronymus and Crassus an almost casual glance.

“Does proposal also please good Hieronymus?”

“It does indeed,” Hieronymus said.

“I would not force you to feel obligation,” Batiatus said generously. “Both good Solonius and myself recognize great demand placed upon ludus of late. Replenishment of stock and the pause to do it essential to health of thriving ludus. If you must decline Brutilius’s generous offer, I am certain our esteemed editor would understand …”

He looked at Brutilius, who nodded.

“Of course.”

Hieronymus waved a hand.

“Gratitude for concern, good Batiatus, but recent games see prosperous times.”

“Only if you carry certainty,” Batiatus said. “It would stand no inconvenience to locate less prominent lanista eager for elevation.”

Solonius smiled thinly.

“It seems Batiatus makes attempt to persuade for reasons beyond simple kindness.”

Batiatus frowned.

“I do not take good Solonius’s meaning.”

“I’m sure you do,” Solonius countered silkily. “Were it not for victory in primus at most recent games, House of Batiatus would have seen itself much reduced in fortune.”

Batiatus reddened, but tried to sound dismissive.

“A common peril of dangerous occupation.”

“But a peril that on this occasion would have had catastrophic effect, with recovery difficult to find. If Spartacus found head removed from body, such defeat would have perhaps stood as final one for ludus of Batiatus.”

Aware that all eyes were on him, Batiatus laughed, albeit a little too loudly to be convincing.

“Opinion spewed forth with fountain of ignorance,” Batiatus said.

Solonius smirked.

“I am sure you are right, Batiatus.”

“I am right,” Batiatus almost snarled. Then, recovering himself with an effort, he smiled again. Lightly he said, “Surely prattle in street speaks not just of the House of Batiatus? I have heard it that your own was brought to knee by recent…” He hesitated, then continued pleasantly, “… Would I be off the mark if I were to offer ‘annihilation’ as description for what befell it?”

Solonius’s smirk became fixed. He gazed at Batiatus for a long moment, his expression unflinching. Then, finally, he said, “I do not deny the loss a … severe one. But one accepts such trials with grace, in hopes that the gods will be kind enough to see forthcoming games provide opportunity to recoup recent losses.”

“Indeed,” Batiatus said pointedly. “May all of us find prosperity in them. Will your men be primed for challenge on next occasion? Previous match saw them out of depth. It would make heart bleed to see them return to sands in similar state.”

“Past experience of victory and blood will fortify them,” Solonius muttered.

Batiatus reached out and clapped him on the shoulder with enough force to make Solonius’s eyes flicker.

“I am certain you are right,” he said earnestly.

There was silence for a moment, Brutilius looking a little bewilderedly from Batiatus to Solonius, as though unable to understand how the jovial atmosphere of just a few minutes before had become so laced with tension. In an obvious attempt to break the mood, he declared, “Prospect of laying eyes upon your fearsome Thracian stirs the blood.”

Solonius looked at Brutilius, his eyes hooded, lizard-like, and then he turned his attention back to Batiatus.

“Yes,” he said softly, “how does your valiant Champion stand in condition?”

“Never better,” Batiatus declared.

“Then market gossips prove mistaken.”

Batiatus frowned.

“What is it such ignorant minds spill carelessly in the street?”

Solonius shrugged as if it was of no consequence.

“They speak ill of performance in recent primus. Capua whispers that his was merely fortuitous victory, that he stood mere shadow of the gladiator who bested Theokoles.”

Batiatus matched Solonius’s shrug with one of his own.

“Each opponent dictates manner of combat employed to defeat him. Spartacus’s strength lies in his cunning, his ability to adapt to circumstance. Some opponents require less effort spent than others.”

Crassus took a sip of his water and sniffed.

“I confess I found impression made was rather light.”

Brutilius seemed fascinated by the exchange of conflicting opinions.

“If Batiatus will permit…” he began hesitantly.

Batiatus gestured for him to continue.

“… I would wish to see your Champion.”

Batiatus looked for a moment as if he was about to refuse Brutilius’s request, and then he smiled.

“I will summon him presently.”

“Do not trouble yourself,” Brutilius said. “I would see him in action. Do your men train today?”

“And every other,” Batiatus confirmed.

“Then perhaps we could observe him in his natural enclosure.”

Batiatus hesitated.

“Unless good Batiatus has something of note that requires hiding,” Solonius suggested silkily. “Perhaps he fears his Thracian may disappoint?”

“Or perhaps he suspects we seek advantage by observing his champion’s preparations?” Hieronymus added, the wide smile never leaving his face.

“I hold no such notion,” Batiatus blustered. ‘The House of Batiatus is averse to tricks and concealment. You are most welcome to witness preparations.”

“Might we do such a thing now?” Crassus murmured.

Batiatus looked momentarily trapped, but then he nodded.

“If you desire it.”

He led his guests to the double doors, which opened on to the balcony overlooking the practice square, nodding curtly to the slaves to push them open. As soon as they did so, the shouts of the men and the clatter and clash of weapons drifted up from below.

Batiatus grimaced as Oenomaus’s voice rang out, accompanied by the crack of his whip: “Hasten movements or invite death in the arena. Varro, you stand fixed to earth as though roots sprout from feet. Are you tree or gladiator?”

“The men tire …” Batiatus murmured, and gestured up at the sky, from which the white disk of the sun blazed down. “The heat intense at this hour.”

“As it will be upon the sands in the arena,” Solonius pointed out.

Batiatus clenched his jaw and said nothing, merely gestured his guests forward with a flick of his fingers.

Hands curled around the balcony rail, all five men looked down on to the flat, sandy area below, where the men of the ludus were going through their daily paces. What was immediately evident was how tired they looked, how sluggish. Despite Oenomaus’s threats, and the frequent crack of his whip, they stumbled and blundered ineffectually about, as if half-asleep.

Clearly nonplussed, Brutilius asked, “Which is Spartacus?”

Batiatus pointed. “He spars with Varro, the blond fighter.”

“Where is Spartacus’s shield?”

“He requires no shield. His defense lies in swiftness of movement, his shield hand employed with second weapon to double effectiveness in combat.”

No sooner had Batiatus finished boasting of his Champion’s agility than Spartacus stumbled, tripping over his own feet. He desperately tried to right himself, but succeeded only in ramming one of his swords in to the ground with such force that the wooden blade snapped in two, pitching him sideways. He crashed to the ground, blinded and choking as a cloud of sand billowed up and coated his sweat-covered face. With a cry of triumph, Varro leaped forward, pinned him to the ground by planting a foot on his chest and jabbed his throat with the point of his sword.

“Your life is mine, brother,” he cried.

There was laughter and ironic applause from above. Varro and a still-spluttering Spartacus looked up. Solonius stood with his head thrown back, laughing uproariously. To the right of Solonius stood Batiatus, his face puce with fury. Standing to his right were three other men-Hieronymus, who was grinning widely; Crassus, who wore an expression of insufferable smugness; and Brutilius, who looked as though he couldn’t make up his mind whether to be amused or disappointed.

Still laughing, Solonius’s voice echoed across the suddenly silent training ground.

“Majestic display, good Batiatus. Your champion appears as legend that precedes him, to be sure.”

Tight-lipped, Batiatus muttered, “I admit recent period of illness has left many of the men laid low as result.”

“If you wish to withdraw from contest …” Hieronymus suggested.

Vehemently Batiatus shook his head.

“And deny good Brutilius the presence of Capua’s champion? Unthinkable.” He waved a hand airily. “The men are strong, proven resilient from hard training under firm hand. Current malaise will pass, and the men will restore to full strength.”

Hieronymus laid a hand on his arm. His eyes were nothing but kindly.

“I don’t doubt the truth of it,” he said.

Lucretia wrinkled her nose at the pungent reek of incense.

“Does the House of Solonius now retain stable of whores in addition?” she muttered. “The vulgarity of the man astounds.”

It was the night before the games, and Solonius had invited Batiatus and Lucretia to a lavish party at his home to mark the coming contest. As the lanista and his wife entered the villa, its ostentation immediately apparent in the excessively elaborate wall friezes and the over-use of gold leaf to enhance everything from the abundance of statuary to the exposed breasts of the female slaves, they were assailed by music that was too strident, and a succession of tables groaning too heavily with heaped platters of food to be considered anything other than capriciously wasteful. Additionally, in Batiatus’s opinion, the zeal with which slaves thrust goblets into their hands and insisted on keeping them topped up with wine that tasted of bull’s piss bordered on the insolent, thus rankling him further-so much so, in fact that by the time Batiatus spotted their host, through a bacchanalian display of over-endowed female performers fingering their cunts with such enthusiasm that he felt certain they were about to produce floods of gold coins from between their swollen labia, he was scowling with ill-temper.

Solonius saw him advancing through the crush of sweating, cavorting bodies and raised his hands in greeting.

“Good to lay eyes, old friend!” he cried.

“A welcome sight indeed,” Batiatus replied with rather less enthusiasm.

“Made more so by vision of ravishing wife. You look radiant this evening, Lucretia,” Solonius said, his gaze crawling like an insect over Lucretia’s creamy decolletage. “All around reduced to drabness by comparison.”

As soon as he was within touching distance, his hand, bedecked with jewelry, flashed out like a striking snake and grabbed Lucretia’s wrist. He lowered his head, his over-pampered golden locks tumbling forward, and planted unpleasantly wet lips on the back of her hand. She forced a smile.

“Your attention as focused as ever, dear Solonius,” she murmured.

“The task not an onerous one,” he replied, as though she was suggesting that it was. “Would that the gods could fix eternal gaze on your beauty.”

Nostrils flaring, Batiatus muttered, “Perhaps Lucretia would care to pull hers away and rest it upon nourishment?”

Solonius glanced at him, uncomprehending.

Batiatus swept a hand toward the laden tables.

“I refer to spread of excellent feast of course,” he said tightly.

Lucretia nodded.

“I confess eagerness for it.” She looked down pointedly at her hand, which Solonius was still gripping in both of his. “If good Solonius would release grip …”

“With great reluctance,” Solonius said, his fingers springing apart.

Lucretia smiled prettily and tried to resist the urge to snatch her hand away and wiped Solonius’s spittle on the tunic of a passing slave. Touching Batiatus’s sleeve lightly, she excused herself and drifted away. Solonius watched her go with an avaricious expression.

“You appear thin of sustenance yourself, Solonius,” Batiatus said coldly.

Solonius blinked, and then laughed.

“Merely light with excitement at prospect of tomorrow’s games.”

“Do Crassus and Hieronymus present themselves this evening?”

Solonius nodded. “Brutilius as well. Come, let us join them.”

He led the way through the shrieking throng, many of whom, thanks to the enthusiastic ministrations of the slaves, were already drunk. The journey was a slow one, hampered by numerous delays, which irked Batiatus greatly. Solonius was intercepted so many times by guests wishing to compliment him on his wonderful hospitality that Batiatus began to think they would never reach their destination. One woman, whom Batiatus did not recognize, but whose jewelry alone was advertisement enough of her wealth and status, all but fell into Solonius’s arms with a howl of laughter, before groping with more enthusiasm than skill at his cock and planting a slobbering kiss on his lips.

“You do us great honor, sweet Solonius,” she slurred, hand still clawing at the lanista’s nether regions. “We will be forever in debt.”

“The honor is mine,” Solonius assured her, gently removing her hand and kissing it before urging her tactfully back into the throng. She turned and staggered away as though oblivious of the rebuff.

“Who was that creature so free with hand?” Batiatus asked, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

“The wife of Brutilius,” Solonius replied.

Batiatus arched an eyebrow.

“He has my condolences,” he murmured.

Hieronymus, Crassus and Brutilius were in one of the chambers branching off from the atrium, standing in the shadow of a thick column, as though attempting to distance themselves from the wild revelry around them. They were talking with a trio of younger men, all of whom were laughing at something that Brutilius was saying.

However, it was not the group of men who first drew Batiatus’s attention, but the woman standing against the wall. It was Athenais, who Batiatus had not seen since the evening of the party which had been held in his own villa to welcome Hieronymus and Crassus to Capua. Back then the bruises on the Greek woman’s thighs had unsettled him-and he found himself equally unsettled on this occasion too. Athenais’s creamy skin, previously so flawless, was once again marked with patches of bruised flesh, this time not only on her thighs, but also on her wrists, as though she had been gripped with some force. She also had marks around her exquisite, swan-like throat-the unmistakeable purple-red imprints of fingers. Batiatus was frankly appalled. He was no saint, but to see a woman so graceful and so perfect-slave or not- reduced to this battered and brow-beaten state, turned his stomach.

Realizing she was being stared at, Athenais’s blue eyes flickered to meet his. Instantly Batiatus was struck by the stark fear and misery displayed there. Instinctively his lips turned upward into a smile of reassurance and he gave a small nod. Athenais did not respond, her gaze skittering away in a manner that reminded him of a timid animal retreating into its burrow. Releasing a long breath, Batiatus suddenly became aware that someone, standing beyond Athenais, was regarding him with the same level of intensity that he was staring at the Greek woman. More than that even, he had the impression that he was being regarded with candid indifference-or perhaps even open hostility. He shifted his gaze, and was not surprised to see Mantilus standing against the wall, framed-and, in fact, almost wreathed within-the dark folds of a richly elaborate Persian drape that hung behind him.

The rat forever seeks out the darkest places, Batiatus thought, staring hard at Hieronymus’s attendant in the hope of unsettling him enough to make him turn his head, thus betraying the fact that, as Spartacus had theorized, he was not blind, despite the absence of color in his eyes. However, if Mantilus had been staring at Batiatus before, he was not doing so now. Instead he was looking straight ahead, unblinking, his body as still as a statue. Batiatus stared at him for several seconds more, and then Solonius, in front of him, turned back, a questioning look on his face. Batiatus acknowledged him with a nod and moved forward to join the group by the pillar.

“… sword snapped clean in half and he tumbled to sand like performer seeking to rouse merriment of crowd,” Brutilius was saying loudly, his face red and wine slopping from the goblet he was holding as he guffawed loudly at his own tale.

The three younger men began to laugh along with him-and then one of them caught sight of Batiatus, and his eyes widened. Immediately he threw his colleagues a warning glance so obvious it was almost pitiful, and then turned back to the approaching lanistae.

“Our friend Solonius returns with noble Batiatus,” he declared, with a distinct lack of subtlety. “Welcome to you!”

Brutilius had been in the process of raising his goblet to his lips and tipping wine into his throat, but at the young man’s words he jerked, as if at the touch of a cold hand on the back of his neck, and then immediately began to choke and splutter.

“Do you find yourself unwell, good Brutilius?” Batiatus said icily, appearing beside him. “Perhaps the wine too harsh for such refined palate?”

Brutilius, now bent over double, continued to choke. One of the young men stepped forward and half-heartedly patted him on the back. When the portly man finally straightened up, his face was almost the same color as the wine in his goblet and tears were streaming from his eyes. He opened his mouth to reply, but only a thin croak emerged.

“Apologies,” Batiatus said, leaning forward and cupping his ear. “Your words are lost in enveloping clamor.”

“I fear good Brutilius overcome with mirth,” Crassus said drily.

Batiatus stared at him, his gaze unwavering.

“For mirth is it? What brings it on? I would share in the benefit of such amusement.”

The three young men shuffled in embarrassment. Hieronymus, who had yet to say a word, simply grinned at Batiatus, as if a show of overt friendliness was enough to absolve him from responsibility. Crassus alone returned Batiatus’s gaze without flinching. His reply too was blunt and without apology.

“I confess we were finding merriment at expense of your champion. Tell us, does condition of stumbling Thracian improve?”

One of the young men, unable to help himself, snorted laughter.

Batiatus turned his cold gaze upon him, and the man seemed visibly to wither.

“His condition is robust as usual,” he said.

“Good to hear that recovery from recent … misfortunes, arrives absent long delay,” Hieronymus said.

Batiatus hesitated a moment, and then finally said, “Quick enough that appearance in tomorrow’s primus will not be affected.”

“Surely his strength has not fully returned?” Crassus pressed.

Batiatus sighed as if he considered confessing the truth of that, then seemed to think better of what he was about to say, and shook his head almost angrily. “Spartacus will raise himself for the games-as will all my warriors. If they do not, then they stand unworthy of the house they serve.”

“Words boldly spoken,” Solonius murmured.

“It is not boldness but certainty of victory,” Batiatus said.

“You intend slight upon opponents with claim that their warriors stand inferior, though your ludus still flows with sickness,” Crassus goaded, looking almost as if he was enjoying himself.

“I intend no insult, good Crassus,” Batiatus replied. “It is not the way of the House of Batiatus to raise fingers in submission before commencement of games.”

“I am sure good Crassus meant no such offense,” Solonius said smoothly. “His words prompted merely by concern for fair contest.”

Batiatus glared at him.

“And how fares Solonius’s own ludus?”

Solonius smiled and shrugged, though the look in his eyes betrayed his uncertainty.

“Quite healthy. Why does Batiatus ask?”

“All talk that assails ears is of impending fall of Champion of Capua, due to diminished prowess-but good Solonious should not find comfort behind street gossip in hopes of concealing weakness of own ludus.”

Solonius looked momentarily lost for words. Brutilius, all but recovered now, frowned at him.

“I trust my father will be truly honored by tomorrow’s contest,” he said.

Solonius bowed. “There is nothing to fear in that regard, Brutilius. His glorious name will stir the hearts of all our gladiators, such that their skill and ferocity will spill boundless into the arena.”

“And you will witness my champion stride into it absent stumble,” Batiatus promised. He glared at the young men, who cowered beneath his wrath. “He will rage as storm in human shape, sweeping all before him.”

“Bold words become rash ones,” Solonius muttered. “Your champion is not the gladiator he was. Storm, yes — but I fear it one that has blown itself out.”

Batiatus shook his head.

“False gossip deceives ear my friend. Spartacus’s crown will not slip tomorrow. Additional laurels will be laid atop it, I am certain of that.”

Brutilius narrowed his eyes shrewdly and poked a fat finger in Batiatus’s direction.

“Certain enough to wager all that you own-coin, villa, ludus … everything?”

The arrogance slipped from Batiatus’s face-but only for a moment. He looked at the visages around him-at Brutilius and Solonius; at Crassus and Hieronymus; at the three young men whose names he still did not know, and had no particular wish to. All seven of them were looking at him with expressions ranging from wide-eyed curiosity to supercilious contempt. He shrugged with exaggerated casualness.

“Surely, yet who would see such wager proposed?”

Brutilius raised his eyebrows gleefully and looked at Solonius.

“Good Solonius? Words of doubt towards the Thracian’s chances were expressed with eloquence. Do you weight them with enough conviction to add coin to the scale?”

Solonius looked alarmed. Holding up his hands he said bluffly, “I do not wish to see friend ruined by careless boasting.”

Batiatus grunted contemptuously. Brutilius pouted in evident disappointment.

“I will take the wager,” Hieronymus said.

All eyes turned to him. The Greek merchant was smiling at Batiatus, as if doing him a favor. Brutilius giggled like a child, his eyes shining.

“The contest begins to soar to great heights of appeal,” he said. “You understand the nature of agreement?”

Hieronymus nodded. “If my gladiators win the primus, Batiatus forfeits all-”

“All that he owns,” Crassus interrupted with a sudden and terrifying wolf-like grin that caused the three young men to each take an involuntary step back at the sight of it, “to leave him destitute.”

“And if Batiatus’s men prevail,” Hieronymus continued, “then I shall match the value of his entire fortune with equivalent sum.” He shrugged. “A simple wager.”

“And if Solonius should take the primus?” one of the young men asked.

Brutilius shrugged. “Then the wager is forfeit. Neither man wins-but Solonius takes the glory.”

The young men all nodded eagerly, clearly excited by the prospect of Batiatus’s ruination, but Solonius’s face was a mask of exaggerated concern.

“Do you still stand certain, beyond reappraisal of such agreement?” he said to Batiatus. “The risk of it stands great. To venture possibility towards losing all that you possess, on the back of ailing Thracian…”

Batiatus looked pale, but at Solonius’s words his face set hard.

“Spartacus will prevail,” he said stubbornly. “His victory assured by the gods.”

“One hopes decree of gods as solid as good Batiatus’s confidence,” Brutilius said gleefully.

“If not, then he falls with his Thracian,” Crassus purred.

Lucretia slipped through the reveling crowd, every few moments catching a glimpse of her husband and the group of men he was talking to, an unmoving tableau within the mass of weaving bodies. She was moving toward them, but did not want to be spotted by them, and was therefore grateful that both Solonius and Hieronymus had their backs to her, and that Crassus was half-hidden by the column beside which he was standing.

Around her the party was becoming wilder, many of the drunken attendees-those that weren’t passed out in a stupor or throwing up in the atrium pool, that was — having sex with slaves or each other. One very young man, who looked barely old enough to wear the toga virilis, fell against her, pawing at her breasts and trying to stick his tongue in her mouth. In different circumstances Lucretia might have dragged him in to a quiet corner for a little mutual fumbling, but right at that moment he was nothing but an irritation. Struggling free of his clumsy embrace, she lifted her arm and elbowed him smartly in the face. She heard a satisfying crack, but was moving away from him without looking behind her even as he was tumbling backward into the crowd, blood gushing from his broken nose.

Someone else she didn’t want to be seen by was Mantilus, who was standing motionless against the wall a little way beyond her target, the girl with the frightened eyes and the bruised wrists. Finding out that Hieronymus’s creature had laid their ludus low not with magic but with poison, and that-in the opinion of her husband-he was not in reality blind, despite his milky-white pupils, had reduced him greatly in her eyes. Now he seemed no longer a fearsome spirit of the underworld, beholden with terrifying powers, but merely a withered, ugly brute, a scarred and scuttling monkey despatched by Hieronymus to carry out his dirty work. Lucretia would have liked nothing more than to stick a knife in his gut and twist it, to see the shock on his hideous face and feel his thin, hot blood splash out over her hands and form a spreading pool on the floor. But Batiatus had warned her to contain her wrath, that their ultimate satisfaction would come from taking their time, and playing the long game. Lucretia knew that he was right, but even so she itched for blood. And if she could be the one wielding the blade that released it from his body, then so much the better.

Still eyeing the knot of men by the pillar and the goblin-like figure of Mantilus standing close by, she continued to edge forward through the crowd until she was within earshot of the girl. Quickly she finished the wine in her goblet and waved away a slave who scurried forward to replenish it. Hoping that Mantilus’s ears would not be sharp enough to pick out her individual voice among the clamor of the crowd, she hissed, “Slave! I would have words.”

The bruised slave-Batiatus had told her that her name was Athenais-continued to stare straight ahead, as if in a trance, clearly unaware that she was being addressed. Lucretia was not used to being ignored by slaves, but fought down her irritation. Raising her voice as much as she dared, she tried again: “Attend when I speak at you!”

This time Athenais blinked and looked at her. She wore a terrified expression, as if she lived in constant fear of such a summons. Her lips moved but her voice was so low that it was lost among the laughter and the raucous conversation.

Lucretia raised her arm, thrusting her goblet toward the girl.

“Fetch wine,” she commanded.

The girl looked trapped. Her eyes flickered toward the thick white column several feet away, behind which her master and his friends were deep in conversation. Then she looked back at Lucretia and raised an arm, pointing with a trembling finger.

“I beg that there are other slaves present-” the girl began tentatively, her voice barely audible.

“I don’t want sour piss pressed from rotten grapes by diseased feet of slaves,” Lucretia interrupted impatiently. “I desire good wine, from Solonius’s private stock. Fetch it.”

Athenais was shaking now, torn between complying with a direct command and obeying the strict instructions of her master to stand in attendance until required.

“Please, my dominus-” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the column.

“If your dominus asks of whereabouts, I will tell him of errand. Now hurry before I arrange flogging for insolence.”

The threat of physical violence was enough to spur Athenais into action. Bobbing her head, eyes downcast, she hurried forward to take Lucretia’s proffered goblet. With an expression of utter fear and misery on her face she scurried from the room. Lucretia hesitated for a moment, and then, with a final glance at Mantilus and the group of men clustered around the column, who had not even noticed the girl’s departure, she hurried after her.