Spartacus: Morituri

XI

For the third time the unseen owl screeched as it plunged from the night sky on to its prey, and for the third time Ashur responded by almost vacating his shivering skin. He swore viciously under his breath, and placed a hand on his chest as if to soothe the wild pounding of his heart.

For what seemed like hours he had been sitting halfway down the mountain, concealed within a thicket of bushes. From here he was able to overlook the pool which supplied the ludus with water without being spotted. Each time he moved-which he did regularly to ease his aching back and prevent the muscles in his limbs from seizing up with cold-thorns snagged in his clothes and scratched at his tender flesh. Several times he had heard the rustling movement of animals somewhere out in the darkness, and he had frozen rigid, his mind full of images of beasts he had only ever seen in the arena-wolves and lions and bears.

Despite the relative freedom he was allowed by Batiatus, and the trust that was placed in him to undertake tasks in the city alone, at that moment Ashur cursed his privileged status, and envied his more restricted gladiatorial brethren. He imagined them all curled up in their warm cells right now-warm in comparison to his present location, at any rate-snoozing away the last few hours of darkness, and dreaming of glory within the arena. How he wished he could be there among them. But instead he was stuck here, with nothing but a thin cloak to protect him from the bone-aching cold, and wild animals prowling in the darkness, and-most terrifying of all- the prospect of encountering the creature he had been sent here to spy upon. Batiatus had told Ashur that he was certain that Mantilus would make an appearance at some time today, and that it was Ashur’s duty to observe what he did without being seen, and then to report his findings back to Batiatus.

Despite the almost unthinkable repercussions that would have followed had he refused the task, Ashur’s first instinct had been to do just that. The prospect of being out on this mountainside in the dark, waiting for Hieronymus’s creature to make an appearance, had turned his mouth bone-dry. Because in spite of what Batiatus had told him, Ashur still believed that Mantilus was an evil spirit, or at any rate something far more terrifying than a mere man. And as such, the scarred attendant was surely capable of inflicting terrible things upon a mortal man, things that Ashur hardly dared to contemplate, but which he felt sure would be infinitely worse than the simple finality of death.

The only reason Ashur had not refused Batiatus’s order in the end was not simply out of a sense of duty and loyalty, but also because, as usual, he had played the odds. If he said no to Batiatus then he would suffer for it, that much was certain. But at least by accepting the task, he was presented with certain choices and possibilities. One possibility was that Mantilus might not turn up at all; another was that the attendant might turn up, but that he might not detect Ashur’s presence; yet another was that, even if he did detect Ashur’s presence, he might consider him so paltry a threat that he would deem him unworthy of attention.

And if the worst came to the worst, then at least Ashur would still have the option to either run or fight-though sitting out here alone in the darkness that notion now seemed absurd.

Another possibility, of course, was that Ashur might freeze to death, and be found the next morning, his body rigid as stone, his blood frozen to red ice in his veins. In some ways that seemed almost desirable-it would stop him fretting at any rate, and place him beyond the clutches of the creature-though his sense of self-preservation still resulted in him rubbing his arms and legs vigorously at regular intervals in the hope of massaging some warmth into them.

This was precisely what he was doing when he saw a thin red horizontal line suddenly appear in front of his eyes, bisecting the darkness. His first instinct was to go rigid with fear, his heart leaping into his throat. He wondered whether he was about to witness a portal into the underworld splitting open before his very eyes, out of which Mantilus would climb like some grotesque newborn from its mother’s bleeding womb. Then he realized what the red line actually was, and he would have laughed out loud if he hadn’t been so fearful of drawing attention to himself.

It was the first glimmerings of the sun rising over the distant hills. Though the daylight was no guarantee of safety from harm-in fact, in some ways it was his enemy, for it would make him more visible-Ashur felt glad of it. At least the sun would warm the earth, and with it his bones and blood. And at least, with a landscape in which to anchor himself, he would not feel so isolated, nor so vulnerable.

He sat and watched as the sun climbed slowly above the horizon, and for the first time since being burdened with the task in hand, he felt almost peaceful. Although he was a man whose main concern in life was in securing profit and gain, a man who spent almost every waking moment attempting to turn each situation to his own advantage, even Ashur, for the moment, was entranced by the majestic artistry of the gods.

The red line which had first appeared slowly widened, the black sky around it growing gradually lighter as crimson light was forced outward into the world. First the blackness of the sky turned gray, and then purple, and then lilac. And then, finally, Apollo’s chariot of fiery horses erupted into being, obliterating the darkness completely and streaking the sky with pennants of pink and crimson and burning orange. Ashur basked in it, the sight soothing him so much that eventually he closed his tired eyes and watched the play of light over the insides of his eyelids. Already he felt warmer, though he suspected that that was merely illusion. Sleepily he opened his eyes again …

… to see a dark figure, like a mass of spindly black twigs given life, creeping across the jagged rocks of the mountainside toward him.

Panic seized him, and he almost leaped instinctively to his feet prior to running for his life. He might even have done so, immediately betraying his hiding place and undoing all of Batiatus’s carefully laid plans in a single stroke, if his limbs had not still been so stiff and unresponsive from the cold, and if he had not, a split-second later, realized that the black figure was not creeping toward him, as he had first thought, after all.

No, it was moving toward the pool, picking its way carefully across the brown, rubble-strewn rocks on the uneven slope that led to it. Edging the pool itself were bent, straggly trees and thick clumps of thorny bushes, like the one in which Ashur was currently hiding. With the sun behind it, the figure was in silhouette, but Ashur could see that it was lithe and scrawny, and dressed in a flowing garment that appeared to be fashioned from strips of rag. He had no doubt that it was Mantilus, and as such Ashur crouched, utterly rigid and motionless, like a rabbit which has caught the scent of a predator on the wind.

Mantilus came to a halt beside the pool and bent toward it. Only now did Ashur notice that he was holding two roundish objects, one in each hand. Peering hard, he realized what the objects were. They were wine skins, bulging with fluid.

Suddenly, as though sensing his presence, Mantilus’s head snapped up, and Ashur saw the light of the rising sun flash silvery-white in his sightless eyes. For an instant the scarred man seemed to be staring directly at him. Ashur felt every muscle in his body bunch and tighten in response, felt his heart begin to race once again, which in turn caused his cold limbs to tingle as blood was sent rushing through his veins.

Mantilus’s gaze held him for what seemed like minutes, and then to Ashur’s relief his white eyes flickered and moved on, raking the hillside, his head jerking like a bird’s. Finally the scarred man bent to his task again. Placing one of the wine skins on the ground by his feet, he used both hands to pull open the other and then stretched out his arms and upended the contents into the pool.

Most of what came out seemed to be liquid, but Ashur could see that it was thick and dark green, as though full of some kind of herb-or a concoction of herbs-which had been pulped almost to a paste. The stuff plopped into the pool, floated for a moment on its surface, spreading out like hair, and then sank without trace.

Picking up the second wine skin, Mantilus skirted around the edge of the pool to the other side. Here he did the same thing again-opening the wine skin and tipping an identical thick green substance into the water. When he was done, he picked up both of the skins and tucked them inside his robe, out of sight. Then, from some hidden pocket, he produced a smaller pouch, one which he held easily in his claw-like hand, and began to range about, as though searching for something. Eventually he scuttled across to a loose rock about the size of a human torso, and stuffed the pouch beneath it, out of sight. Picking up a smaller rock, he scratched a symbol on the larger one, the sound sharp and clear in the still morning air, and then, with what appeared to be a final glance around, he moved away from the pool and began to pick his way carefully back across the mountainside.

“Dominus … Dominus …”

Like thorns pushed into his skin, the words slowly penetrated Batiatus’s consciousness. He drifted up from the soothing caress of delicious sleep, prizing open one eye to see Ashur’s bearded face looming over him.

“What befalls me now that requires waking to your fucking face,” he muttered.

“Apologies, dominus. You instructed to awaken the instant of return.”

Batiatus struggled into a sitting position, blinking and rubbing his eyes.

“Is it fucking day or night?”

“Dawn, dominus. The birds begin morning song.”

“Fuck the fucking birds,” Batiatus said.

“Yes, dominus.”

“Wait in my study. I will fully open eyes and join you presently.”

A few minutes later, dressed but still red-eyed from sleep, Batiatus entered his study to find Ashur standing patiently, waiting for him.

“So,” Batiatus said, stifling a yawn. “You retrieve knowledge from scout?”

Ashur plumped himself up, clearly smug at the prospect of delivering good news to his master.

“Yes, dominus.”

“Mantilus appeared as expected I hope? Absent that, you should still be standing vigil as instructed.”

“He came, dominus. His actions indicated scheme you suspected.” Quickly Ashur described what he had seen.

Batiatus clenched his teeth in both outrage and triumph. Raising his right arm, he cupped the palm of his hand, fingers rigid and claw-like.

“With suspicion confirmed I have that little Greek fuck held tightly by the balls. Knowledge of his artifice ensures crushing of reputation and pitiful fucking excuse for ludus.”

He clenched his fist to prove his point. Ashur’s face was sanguine.

“I trust you will make discovery public, dominus. To assure citizens of Capua receive knowledge and cast similar judgement?”

“It tempts to throw him to the horde,” Batiatus smiled grimly, ruminating on the idea, but eventually shook his head. “Prospect of watching him squirm appeals to no end, but where is the coin in it? I will make preparation in stealth, to spring it to full advantage when time comes. Soon I will see the House of Hieronymus crumble. And I will lower myself to shit in the Greek’s mouth standing astride his ruins.”

“And what of Crassus, dominus? Will you see the man fall too?”

Batiatus barked a laugh at both the audacity and the naivete of the question.

“Such a move unwise in the extreme. The holes in which he inserts fingers would surely open wide and bury me deep in shit.”

Ashur nodded, and then, almost as an afterthought he said, “There is one more thing, dominus.”

“Don’t tease with suspense. Arrive at complete fucking tale.”

From the folds of his dark cloak, Ashur produced a small leather pouch, which he handed to Batiatus. Batiatus gave it a shake, and both men heard the unmistakable jangle of coins.

“Mantilus concealed this beneath rock close to pool,” Ashur said. “He chose location with care.”

Batiatus narrowed his eyes.

“Coin for the traitor in our midst no doubt. A man short of brains enough to betray me.” He looked broodingly at Ashur. “You could identify this rock you spied?”

Ashur inclined his head.

“Mantilus marked it for return.”

Batiatus bared his teeth.

“Then let us set trap, and snatch this viper by the neck.”

For the second time in two nights Ashur found himself shivering on the mountainside. On this occasion, however, he was in an infinitely better mood than he had been the previous evening. This time he was not alone, but accompanied by Batiatus and Doctore. All three of them were perched behind a large rock, overlooking the pool which Mantilus had poisoned that morning.

So far Ashur, on Batiatus’s orders, had kept silent about his discovery. It had meant that the gladiators and the household slaves had unwittingly been forced to drink the tainted water for an extra day, but Batiatus had thought that this was a small price to pay if it meant not alerting their quarry, and thus frightening him away. Aside from the three of them, only Spartacus knew of what had transpired that morning. Though he had expressed no particular desire to join them on their evening’s quest, Batiatus had nevertheless clapped him on the shoulder and assured him that he should not brood on the fact that he had been left behind, because once the traitor had been uncovered the Thracian would be rewarded with a major part in the infliction of his punishment.

All at once Oenomaus, invisible in the darkness aside from the occasional gleam of his eyes, which reflected the sickly, pale light of the cloud-wreathed moon, murmured, “He comes.”

Ashur frowned. He had heard nothing. But barely had the thought of saying so entered his head than the faint sound of crunching footsteps and shifting rubble reached his ears.

A few moments later he saw the bobbing light of a flaming torch wink into view as the newcomer rounded an outcrop of rock and picked his way gingerly along the downward-sloping path, which was littered with scree and loose boulders and sparse foliage. Despite himself, Ashur tensed at the prospect of action, his stomach curling in on itself with excitement and apprehension. Beside him he heard Oenomaus breathing deeply and evenly, and sensed the veteran ex-gladiator standing motionless and watchful, like a panther observing the approach of unsuspecting prey. Batiatus stood on Oenomaus’s other side. He had given instruction that they were not to approach the traitor until he had retrieved his blood money from beneath the rock-where Ashur had replaced it less than an hour before-and was standing with it in his hand.

Just as Spartacus had surmised, the man was a household guard. In the flickering light of his torch, they could all clearly make out his familiar uniform beneath the dark cloak that he wore around his shoulders. They watched as the man halted by the pool and brought his burning torch low to the ground. The light illuminated his features as he began to cast about, searching in the dark for the rock which Mantilus had marked.

He was no one special. The household guards came and went as availability dictated, and this was one who Ashur vaguely recognized, but who he couldn’t have said for certain he had actually ever exchanged a word with. He was just another greedy man in a world that was overburdened with them. Ashur felt no particular animosity toward him, but neither-despite considering what the traitor’s ultimate fate was likely to be-did he feel any particular sympathy either.

After searching for a few minutes, during which time he occasionally picked up rocks and examined them, only to fling them in disgust over his shoulder, the guard finally found what he was looking for. They saw a grin spread across the glowing orange mask of his face, and then he darted forward, leaning down to push aside what was evidently the rock which Mantilus had marked with a cross. Next moment he was rising triumphantly to his feet with the pouch of money in his clenched fist. As he squeezed it in evident delight, Ashur, Oenomaus and Batiatus all heard the metallic chink of coins moving against one another.

“Now,” Batiatus hissed, and stepped forward. Although he was trying to be surreptitious, the near-blackness up on the mountainside, combined with his eagerness to apprehend the culprit, caused him to dislodge a lump of rock with his foot, which clattered down the mountain in the darkness, gaining momentum as it fell.

Startled, the man looked up, raising his torch above his head. Whether it cast enough light to illuminate the three of them standing there, Ashur had no idea, but suddenly the guard turned and began to run, slithering on scree and half-tripping over rocks and spindly bushes in his effort to get away.

“The shit attempts escape!” Batiatus snapped, and, regardless of his own safety, began to lope down the mountain toward him, dislodging yet more loose stones.

“I have him, dominus,” Oenomaus said, his voice an ominous rumble in the darkness. Ashur was vaguely aware of the big African drawing back his arm, and then the familiar sharp crack of his whip seemed to split the night in two.

Almost immediately the guard’s feet flipped up into the air in front of him as his body was jerked backward. He crashed on to his back on the rocky slope without making a sound, his torch and the leather pouch flying out of his hands in different directions. The torch landed in the lee of a rock a few feet away and continued to burn, providing just enough illumination for the rest of them to see by. The leather pouch disappeared into the darkness, landing with a weighty clink somewhere close by. Making a mental note of where he thought the sound had come from, Ashur began to pick his way carefully down the slope toward it.

Batiatus, meanwhile, who had a head-start, was first to reach the man. He was lying on the ground, his eyes bulging in panic, fingers clawing desperately at the whip, which had coiled its way tightly around his neck several times, cutting off his air. Batiatus stared down at him dispassionately, before clenching his teeth in fury.

“Fucking treacherous cock!” he snarled. And then, raising his foot high in the air, he stamped down hard on the man’s balls, grinding his heel into his groin.

The man’s mouth opened wide in a silent scream of agony and his eyes became so bulbous that they looked in danger of bursting from his head. His attempts to free himself became ever more frantic, until finally his scrabbling fingers found a gap between the thin black cord of the bull-hide whip and his own reddening skin, and he managed to wrench it away from his constricted throat, the end unraveling and loosening as he did so. Even as he gulped in air, his gasps for breath like small, raw screams, the guard curled into himself, his hands now going down to cup his mangled, aching balls. As he rolled on to his side, Batiatus drew back his foot and kicked him once more, this time in the small of his back.

“You shove greedy hand up the wrong ass!” he snarled, spittle flying from his mouth.