Spartacus: Morituri

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As the medicus applied a herb poultice to the deep gash in Varro’s arm, the big Roman winced. Lying on the slab on the other side of the room, Crixus let out a contemptuous snort.

“Does Crixus have something to share?” Varro asked pointedly.

“A true gladiator does not whimper at pain, like infant with grazed knee. He bears it proudly, embraces it,” Crixus replied.

“Do you embrace yours while howling like wolf at night’s moon, keeping us all from sleep?”

Sitting on the stone ledge that ran along the back wall, Agron, the elder of the two German brothers, sniggered. His body had been slashed in a dozen places, the skin swollen and purple around the coarse black stitches that had been used to seal the wounds. His right hand was a fat white glove, his three middle fingers, which had been stamped on and broken by his opponent during the games, bound tightly together. He had numerous other cuts and bruises on his body-but his injuries were minor in comparison to his brother’s.

Like Crixus, Duro was stretched out on a slab. However, the younger and smaller of the two brothers was unconscious, which for the moment was undoubtedly a mercy. He had been stabbed twice in the groin, once in the thigh, and once in the shoulder. He had lost a great deal of blood, and for an hour or two his life had hung in the balance. But the medicus had staunched and stitched his wounds, and fed him beef broth to restore his blood and a concoction of healing herbs in hot water. Now his previously irregular heart had resumed its normal rhythm and he was sleeping peacefully.

Crixus narrowed his eyes at the German, and then at Varro.

“I hold no account of sounds made while in the grip of fever. If you stood as injured from battle in the arena you too would find world between waking and sleep one absent reason.”

“Fortunate I do not stand as such. This ludus could not endure both of us shrieking as women.”

This time Agron laughed out loud, and then instantly seemed to regret it, his bandaged hand going to a particularly long and ragged wound in his belly as his face twisted into a moue of pain.

The medicus, who was grinding various herbs into a paste using a mortar and pestle, looked round at him with a sour expression.

“Keep to yourself idiot, lest you wish to undo good tending already done.”

Agron acknowledged the scrawny man with a wave and a grimace, and then settled back against the wall with a deep groaning sigh.

Crixus glanced at him, and with a less combative tone to his voice, he muttered, “It fills heart with sorrow to see the brotherhood reduced. To state the truth of it.”

“It is always difficult to witness a brother’s fall,” Doctore said, entering the room with Spartacus close behind, “but the few victories gained today provide proof that the gladiators favored by the scarred fiend Mantilus are not absent weaknesses.”

Crixus frowned.

“Mantilus is the man Tetraides believed creature of Hades?”

Spartacus nodded.

“Not only Tetraides believes it.”

“And what does the new Champion of Capua believe?” There was a challenge to Crixus’s voice, as there almost always was when he spoke to Spartacus.

Spartacus glanced at him. He was here to be examined by the medicus, one of whose tasks it was to ensure that any cuts or grazes picked up in the arena were clean of dirt and free from inflammation. The Thracian sat on a stone bench as the medicus hovered around him, applying a white paste from his pestle to one or two minor wounds.

“In things other than evil spirits,” Spartacus said.

“You have laid eyes on this Mantilus?”

Spartacus nodded.

“Once. His attempt to unsettle was not successful.”

“This was at the games?” Crixus said.

“In the villa.”

Crixus looked surprised.

“He has been here?”

“He accompanied Hieronymus to feast honoring Crassus’s arrival in Capua,” Varro explained. “Lurking by his master’s side like shadow.”

“A shadow,” Crixus murmured, looking thoughtful.

“Like the apparition your eyes claimed to see in this ludus on that very night,” the medicus cackled.

Crixus scowled at him.

Narrowing his eyes at the medicus, Oenomaus said, “Of what do you speak?”

With undisguised relish the medicus replied, “Crixus roused me from slumber to claim witnessing of shadow moving past doorway.”

“It was no shadow,” Crixus growled. “It was a man. As real as you or I.”

“Yet I could find no such intruder,” the medicus said. “And the gate was locked, as always.”

“Why did you not speak of it before?” Oenomaus asked Crixus.

Crixus glared at the medicus.

“Could I have, absent ridicule upon the hearing of it? I lie feverish of late, senses absent. The gods fill head with all manner of visions. You would have called this another such.”

“Perhaps it was,” Spartacus suggested.

“No,” Crixus barked. “Mind was sound and thoughts clear.”

“And yet the gate was locked,” Varro said, and shrugged. “A deception of light perhaps?”

Crixus shook his head stubbornly.

“I am certain of what I saw.”

Spartacus lay on his bunk, unmoving, staring up at the ceiling. Yellow light lapped the rough stone, giving the illusion that it was drawing in air and breathing it out again, like something alive. However, it was not this that he was staring at. His thoughts were turned inward, mulling over the events of the past few weeks. Suddenly he sat up and crossed to the door.

“Doctore,” he shouted, pounding on the thick, coarsely hewn wood. “Doctore.”

There was the clump of hobnails on the other side of the door, and the snarling voice of a house-guard.

“Silence.”

Spartacus ignored him.

“Doctore,” he shouted again.

“Still your tongue or-”

“You will do nothing,” interrupted Oenomaus’s rich, deep voice. “Open door.”

There was a moment’s pause, in which Spartacus imagined the guard staring in defiance, and Doctore staring back, his eyes like chips of ice, his gaze implacable. Then there was a muttered curse and the jangle of keys, followed by a scrape of metal in the lock. Next moment the door swung open and Oenomaus stepped into the cell.

He glanced quickly left and right, as if half-expecting an ambush.

“What plagues you?”

“I desire audience with dominus.”

Oenomaus’s eyes narrowed.

“Impossible. The hour is late. Ask again tomorrow.”

“I prefer to ask now,” Spartacus insisted.

Still Oenomaus regarded him suspiciously.

“What is urgent that cannot wait till morning?”

Spartacus took a deep breath.

“I have given thought to Crixus’s words. I believe I possess solution to recent difficulties.”

The villa was quiet and dimly lit. Spartacus was escorted to Batiatus’s study and shown inside.

Batiatus was sitting at his desk, studying scrolls which Spartacus guessed from his dour expression were household accounts. However, his face brightened when Spartacus entered the room. He stood, extending his arms in greeting.

“How fares my champion?”

“I am well, dominus.”

“You fought well today. Like a lion choosing moment to strike.”

“A tactic born of necessity, dominus. I fear it less pleasing to a crowd seeking spectacle.”

“Fuck the crowd,” Batiatus said dismissively. “Perhaps it was not single most glorious day for the House of Batiatus, but your performance averted disaster. I am grateful, Spartacus.”

“Well received, dominus,” Spartacus muttered with a curt nod.

Batiatus beamed, and took a moment to regard his champion, looking on him with the same acquisitive smugness that a man might regard a prized possession-a rare jewel or a much-revered piece of statuary. Then he waved his hand in a flourish, indicating that Spartacus should speak.

“Doctore informs that you desire audience for discussion of recent afflictions.”

“Yes, dominus. The men are reduced by weakness and illness, as you saw evident in today’s games.”

A frown appeared on Batiatus’s face, briefly darkening his good humor.

“It does plague mind and cast cloud over future. Is there still talk of sorcery among the men?”

Spartacus hesitated and then shook his head.

“They do not speak of it openly. But the notion may yet reside in thoughts. And if the mystery lingers …”

“It will fester like open wound,” Batiatus said darkly.

Spartacus nodded.

“You come with proposal?” Batiatus said. “Break open head and share thoughts.”

“The truth of it stands difficult to embrace,” Spartacus replied.

“Arrive at it before the night is over.”

“I have extended thought on this, and come to one conclusion.”

Batiatus’s face was grim.

“I wager it is one that will put sour taste upon palate.”

“I fear so, dominus.”

Batiatus rolled his eyes wearily.

“Spill unpleasant words. The absence of other recourse demands it.”

Spartacus took a deep breath.

“The night Crassus and Hieronymus were honored in your house, as your gladiators labored to entertain guests in the villa, Crixus spied intruder in the ludus.”

“What kind of intruder?”

“He glimpsed figure but momentarily. A dark shape, he said. Moving past door of infirmary. Crixus called out, thinking it the medicus, but received no reply.”

Batiatus shrugged. “Doubtless a vision plucked from fevered head. It is not uncommon to witness self-made phantoms when humors in the body burn and scorch.”

“A thing I considered as well, dominus. But Crixus assures his mind was banished of fever.”

Batiatus waggled his head from side to side as though weighing up the argument.

“Continue the telling.”

“Crixus called for medicus, who appeared after a moment, dazed with sleep. Crixus urged him to seek the intruder but he found none, the gate still locked.”

Batiatus’s eyes narrowed.

“The hour is late and I do not wish weary ear to hear claim that phantom passed through locked gate.”

Spartacus shook his head.

“That is not my belief, dominus.”

“What then?”

Despite the fact that they were alone, Spartacus dropped his voice.

“I believe Mantilus was aided in fiendish endeavors from within the villa. By someone who allowed access to the ludus.”

“Someone from within fucking house?” Batiatus exclaimed, and then a shrewd look crept across his face. “Hold a fucking moment. If Mantilus is not sorcerer, but mere man hampered by blindness how could he come to creep about unfamiliar house at night? The man can’t overcome restrictions of sight absent some manner of power.”

“Perhaps the man is not as blind as he appears,” Spartacus said. “Perhaps the man is not blind at all.”

Batiatus looked at him for a long moment.

“Truth could be found in what you say,” he admitted. “But suggestion remains of the creature aided by a holder of keys within my own villa.”

Spartacus nodded.

Batiatus frowned. “Only villa guards are entrusted with means to move freely about the ludus. Surely entire force of guards don’t plot against me.”

“One only, dominus,” Spartacus said hastily. “Perhaps tempted by glitter of Hieronymus’s coin.”

Batiatus’s jaw clenched.

“You realize nature of words that spill from mouth? You are the Champion of Capua, Spartacus, yet you remain slave. To cast suspicion on Hieronymus, elevated citizen of Capua, is to cast it all the way to Rome. You realize risk of flogging for such a thing, if not more dire punishment.”

“Yes, dominus,” Spartacus said earnestly. “I would not make such accusation with light manner.”

Batiatus stared at him for even longer this time, his expression suggesting that he was barely able to countenance the thought of treachery within his own household.

“To what purpose would Mantilus seek access to ludus?” he said eventually.

Spartacus’s reply was instant.

“To poison the food.”

Batiatus blinked.

“Poison?”

Nodding, Spartacus said, “Poison not to kill, but to rob sense and sap strength from limbs. My belief is that Mantilus entered ludus the night of festivities to taint food with noxious preparation. No doubt sacks of barley and lentils his targets. Some of the men were affected more than others, Felix falling the most infirm. A bare mouthful was sufficient to fill his head with dire vision, pushing him to nearly take leap to his death.”

He fell silent. Batiatus glared at him, as though uncertain whether to direct his fury at perpetrator or messenger. Finally he shook his head savagely.

“Bold theory lacking substance. This lethargy among the men was evident before Mantilus materialized within walls with disturbing presence.”

“An inconsistency which has occupied mind,” Spartacus admitted. “And to which I now bear solution.”

Batiatus raised his eyes to the ceiling, as though addressing the gods themselves. Half in jest and half in exasperation he said, “The Thracian tires mind with strain of thought when he should direct efforts to training and fighting.” Then he dropped his eyes and fixed Spartacus with a steely gaze. “Speak.”

“Where is the origin of the ludus’s water supply?” Spartacus asked.

“A pool serviced by spring further down the mountain, collected each new day-” Batiatus abruptly fell silent, his eyes widening, as he realized what Spartacus was suggesting.

“And the water that serves villa?”

Now Batiatus looked thoughtful. “We bathe in water that the men below drink, but drinking water supplied to villa is imported from particular source outside city walls.”

Spartacus nodded, clearly satisfied by Batiatus’s reply.

“This would provide explanation for why you have not suffered the same ill effects.”

“You think Mantilus was set to task by Hieronymus to taint stream?”

Spartacus nodded again.

“If true then that which sustains the lives of the men has instead been robbing us of it.”

Batiatus’s features twisted suddenly and he smashed his desk with a clenched fist.

“Fucking Greek cunt! I’ll have his bowels plucked out with fish hooks.” Then abruptly his rage vanished as a thought struck him. “What of the house slaves?”

“What of them?”

Batiatus barked a laugh.

“Do you suppose they drink fine Roman water? They imbibe from the same source as you, yet they display no affliction.”

Carefully Spartacus said, “Are you certain, dominus?”

Batiatus shrugged. “I detect no debility among them.”

“The illness is not so acute that it would keep them from duties,” Spartacus replied. “I hold doubt they would care to trouble their dominus with grievance of aching limbs and troubled sleep. A gladiator finds himself balanced between life and death in the arena. What could be irksome burden for house slaves to endure could be the push that sends a fighting man to his doom.”

Again Batiatus looked thoughtful. Then he called forward a slave, who appeared in the doorway. The portly African, stripped to the waist, moved across obediently.

“Dominus?” he enquired softly.

“Spill truth, Abbasi,” Batiatus said. “How do you fare?”

The slave, Abbasi, looked wary. His dark eyes flickered from Batiatus to Spartacus, and then back again.

“Dominus?” he said again, uncertain.

“It is a simple question the smallest of minds could provide answer for,” Batiatus said impatiently. “Are you well?”

Unconvincingly Abbasi said, “Quite well, dominus.”

“Your tone carries doubt-speak truth.”

Quietly Spartacus said to the man, “No fault will lie with you. Has there been illness among slaves in the house these past weeks?”

Abbasi hesitated a moment longer, and then reluctantly nodded.

“A little, dominus. But it will soon pass, without need of medicus.”

Batiatus waved him away.

“Carry on. Do not concern yourself with it.”

“Dominus,” Abbasi said with a short bow. With a last troubled glance at Spartacus, he backed away, resuming his position outside the door.

“The water is collected daily?” Spartacus asked.

Batiatus nodded.

“From a pool fed by stream in constant motion.”

“Mantilus must make frequent pilgrimage, lest the effects of poison swiftly fade.”

Baring his teeth like an animal, Batiatus said, “Then we will lie in wait and catch him at task. When his loathsome face appears we will slice it from fucking head and deliver to his master!”

Spartacus raised a hand. “Dominus?”

Batiatus’s face was a mask of fury.

“What is it?”

His own face calm, Spartacus paused, waiting until he had Batiatus’s full attention. Then he said softly, “With dominus’s permission, I would make proposal of different solution …”