Spartacus: Morituri

III

For the next several days a procession of pack mules, litters and carts made their slow way up to the heights above Capua to call upon the House of Batiatus. The cellars were stocked to bursting with amphorae, some shipped in from the Mamertinum vineyards in Sicily, unloaded at Neapolis and brought north. There was even a jar of the famous Opimian vintage, over fifty years old and considered the finest wine ever pressed.

This, Batiatus fussed over like an old man with a young bride, for it had cost him the equivalent of three slaves. He kept it not in the cellars below, but instead in his office, in a cool corner, and while he was seated at his desk going over the household accounts, sometimes he would stare at it, and, depending on what his books told him, would either feel a ripple of pleasurable anticipation at the thought of his first mouthful, or would gnaw his thumb in a spasm of momentary doubt.

Most of the time, in truth, the doubt would prevail, for it could not be denied that the ludus was sliding heavily into debt with such preparations and expensive purchases. Batiatus alternated between beseeching the gods to bring the Roman visitor or visitors, whoever he, she, or they might be, not only to Capua but to the very doors of his villa, and cursing the self-same gods for teasing him with rumor, even as they withheld the fabled visitor-or visitors-from the city gates.

Lucretia, meanwhile, had brought in contractors to lay a mosaic floor about the pillars of the peristylium, and another pool had been dug there also, the water piped in from a spring beyond the house, as cool and fresh as though it had sprung from the slopes of Olympus. The walls of the peristylium had been faced with travertine marble, hauled at enormous cost from the quarries outside Rome itself, and every slave had been outfitted with new clothing which stood folded in heavy chests in their quarters below, the chests to remain closed upon pain of a flogging.

Day after day, Batiatus frequented the forum of Capua, in the hope of running into the Greek Hieronymus again with an air of casual happenstance, but he saw nothing of him. The market buzzed with rumors of his extravagances, and the land agents that Batiatus knew were all willing to divulge that great tracts of property had been bought and paid for in Capua itself.

Demolition work was going on at a series of insulae which had defaced the outskirts of the city for decades, but when Batiatus tried to identify the buyer the trail went cold with suspicious rapidity. There was talk of Roman money changers, a consortium of noblemen from the Palatine, but it proved impossible to delve deeper. This was not just discretion on the part of the agents, but a kind of fear. The most that Batiatus could discover was that someone of great power was involved, someone high up in the cursus honorum. Not even the local magistrates would say more, no matter how much Falernian he poured down their throats.

As a last resort, Batiatus found himself, much to his own disgust, courting the Syrian slaver, Albanus. He invited the man to dinner, fixed a grin on his face, and had a pair of pretty slave girls wait on his guest in revealing garments while the two men reclined in the triclinium. Lucretia did not attend: she sent her apologies, prettily worded and voiced by Naevia. Albanus did not seem to mind, but reclined on his couch to be fed by Flavia like a baby bird, whilst Batiatus plied him with wine and questions, the temper in him brimming higher with every wasted moment.

“The dark haired girl, Athenais-indulge me with her story, good Albanus. Such a beauty must have one for the telling,” Batiatus said, wincing at the taste of the wine. It was a very ordinary vintage from Praetutium, though Albanus seemed to relish it. The slaver fancied himself something of an expert, and grew boring on the subject. Southern Italy had been known to the Greeks as Oenotria, land of wines, for centuries, and Albanus knew many of the local grapes.

“It’s true, she does. Every man and woman possesses story, even slaves,” Albanus said, staring down into his cup and swilling the wine in a slow circle so that it caught the light. “My own place of birth was Antioch. A few centuries past I would have called myself Persian. And following them, Alexander’s heirs would have made me to be Greek. Now, I am Syrian, my city ruled by the Armenian, Tigranes the Great. Cities, countries, they have histories and destinies as wayward as those of men, their lives lived but longer. Though names change the land remains as it ever was. Don’t you find it to be true?” Batiatus gritted his teeth. “Such truth can only be discovered by so wide a digression from discussion at hand. Turn mind to the girl if it would but accommodate it, good Albanus. Curiosity rouses for tales of her and the new master she pleases.”

Albanus stroked his beard. It was oiled and perfumed and it gleamed in the light of the hanging lamps.

“Such a treasure she was to have won. A virgin sold by indebted father, which stands a common story in my trade. But this girl possessed education above others of her kind. Skills to read and write, sing and sew. She could have been perfect wife for one not requiring noble blood and the patience for woman of knowledge!”

“And what role does she play for the Greek?” Batiatus asked.

Albanus shrugged.

“He but purchased her to use as gift to give.” He raised himself up on one elbow. “Fitting offering for a man who in possession of everything.” He stroked Flavia’s chin. “Something unique and beautiful that mere coin cannot match.”

“He made transaction only to give her to another?”

Albanus smiled. “His preference lies in boys, like many Greeks. The girl was in the nature of a-” But there he stopped, as if he had already said too much. He leaned back on his couch and raised his cup. “Your wine deserves compliment, dear Batiatus. Your hospitality without fault.” He looked wistfully at Flavia. “I only wish I had more to tell in return.”

Batiatus stood up and pulled Flavia to her feet. She was not tall and her long black hair was bound up behind her head. He loosened it now and let it spill down her back. A tug of his fingers and the flimsy robe slid down onto her hips. Another, and it lay in a pool of fabric at her feet. She stood naked, pale, flawless.

“Wonderful,” Albanus said, the breath hitching in his throat, turning his voice husky.

“I must excuse myself for brief moment,” Batiatus said casually. “Flavia will entertain.” He smiled.

“Indeed,” Albanus murmured. He ran a hand up and down Flavia’s body.

“I would see you well satisfied by time of your departure,” Batiatus added. “Make my home yours.”

“Your words the very soul of courtesy,” Albanus murmured. “And this creature an offering of Vesta herself.”

Batiatus left the room. He paced up and down the atrium for a few minutes, eventually turning angrily and tossing his cup into the pool with a splash.

“I know you’re here, Ashur,” he said. “Attend.”

A shadow stepped from behind a pillar. “Yes, dominus.”

“Spill words of investigation.”

“Unfortunate lack of discovery. The man’s litter-bearers are Gauls possessing no facility with common tongue.”

Batiatus’s face twitched. “The dripping cunt laughs at me while swilling wine and groping slave. Follow him upon his slithering away and find what cocks he wraps around.”

The lamed former gladiator bowed slightly.

“As you wish, dominus.” He stood still and thoughtful as Batiatus strode away, a shadow within blacker shadow. There was a smile on his face.

Less than an hour later Ashur’s smile had turned into a snarl and a whispered curse. After partaking of Batiatus’s hospitality, sated both with wine and Flavia’s attentions, Albanus had turned not north toward home, but south toward the lower-lying marshes which were eventually bisected by the Volturnus River.

Ashur followed at a distance, fearful of discovery as the road became narrower and less populated. Fortunately, it became more serpentine too, and lined with ever more abundant trees and bushes, which, together with the darkness, afforded him much-needed cover.

Eventually, close to a point where the Volturnus was at its widest as it meandered past Capua on its course to the Tyrrhenian Sea, Albanus’s litter-bearers came to a halt. Ashur used the foliage to conceal his advance, trying to get close enough to Albanus to see what he was up to. He watched as the slave trader, still swaying slightly from the effects of the grape he had consumed that evening, alighted from his transport and meandered down to the bank of the Volturnus.

What is the inebriated cunt doing? Ashur wondered. Taking a piss? It was a cold night, and a dark one, the moon mostly obscured by scudding cloud. Water from the recent rains had been retained by the thirsty plants to such an extent that Ashur’s tunic was quickly soaked as he brushed against them. Within less than a minute the rough cloth was sticking clammily to his shivering skin and mud was oozing over the tops of his sandals and squelching between his toes. If Albanus had simply halted to relieve himself, Ashur vowed that he personally would cut off the bastard’s cock and choke him with it. He waited, a brooding shape in the darkness, eyes fixed on his quarry.

It soon became clear, however, that Albanus was waiting too. He prowled the banks of the Volturnus for what seemed an age, back and forth, back and forth, watching a bend in the river a short distance away. What was he waiting for? A delivery of goods? An expected visitor? Whoever or whatever the trader had come here to meet, it was clear he did not wish to make fanfare of it. This pleased Ashur. He knew all too well that secrets were currency, and that there was much profit to be made from them. Warmed by these thoughts, he waited patiently in the shadows, already imagining dominus’s voice raised in praise of his efforts and the coin that would be pressed into his hand as a consequence. He dreamed of the day when his status would be elevated to such an extent that Batiatus would grant him his freedom, perhaps even consider him an equal-a trusted advisor and friend. Ashur may not be a Roman, but he had all the cunning and ambition of one.

At last there came the stealthy splash of water lapping the banks as some vessel, as yet shrouded by the blackness of the trees, approached the spot where Albanus was waiting. A few weeks ago this would not have been possible. The recent long drought had caused the water level to fall dramatically, bringing rocks which would have torn holes through the hull of any boat, no matter how small and light, close to the surface. Now, though, after Spartacus’s dramatic victory over the giant Theokoles in the arena, the rains had come and the rivers and streams were brimming again.

Assuring himself that the knowing was worth the risk, Ashur took a step forward, and the next moment saw the flickering lights of a small trading vessel as it rounded the bend in the river.

He watched narrow-eyed with interest as the vessel slowed and maneuvered toward the bank where Albanus stood. He could see that the Syrian trader was almost literally hopping from foot to foot with anticipation. Indeed, he skipped to the very edge of the bank, as if so eager to greet the boat’s occupants that he intended wading into the water and tugging the vessel physically toward him. A few moments later, with a gentle bump, the boat came to a halt against the bank.

Only two lamps burned on deck, just enough to aid navigation, and as such to Ashur’s eyes those manning the craft were little more than wraith-like shadows in the darkness. One of them, presumably the captain, broke away to converse with Albanus, the two men talking in low murmurs for several minutes. Ashur strained his ears, and even took another step forward, further risking detection, but was unable to hear what was being said. He assumed, however, from the familiar jangle and clink of what appeared to be a sizeable amount of coin passing from one hand to another, that they had been discussing payment for as-yet-unseen goods, or perhaps for some other service rendered. Then the man who had been speaking to Albanus turned to address someone behind him.

“Bring them!” he called.

There was more movement on deck, and presently a line of dark figures began to rise from the hold below. From the shuffling way they moved, and the shackles clanking at their wrists and ankles, they were clearly slaves. In the flickering light from the oil-lamps Ashur could see that they were grimy with dirt and gleaming with sweat after what was presumably a long journey in stifling, cramped conditions. In spite of this they looked to be in good physical shape. Indeed, as far as Ashur could see, the men were all young, all muscular, all well-proportioned. They had the physiques of warriors.

Or gladiators.

The thought had barely entered his head when he spied the figure at the tail-end of the procession. This man was lean and smooth-headed, dressed in a voluminous robe that seemed composed of braids and tatters. It was a man he had seen once before-the blind, scarred attendant of the Sicel merchant, Hieronymus. Though Ashur still regarded himself a gladiator, and therefore fearful of nothing and no one, he was unable to suppress a small shudder of superstitious fear at the appearance of the man he-and many more besides, if the gossip in the streets of Capua was to be believed-could not help but regard as more shade than man. Despite exhaustive inquiries Ashur had failed to establish the man’s origins. Some claimed he was from the Massylii tribe of eastern Numidia, others that he was from Mauretania. Still more said that he was the last of a now-extinct community of jungle-dwellers from an island at the very edge of the known world, and that he possessed powers and magics bestowed upon him by dark and unknown gods.

Whatever the truth, there was no denying that he was an unsettling sight. His white eyes seemed to flash in the spill of meager light from the burning deck-lamps and the scars etched on his flesh appeared rimmed in yellow fire, standing out stark and raised on his dusky skin. He moved oddly too-like oil, like the wind, as if he was not of the earth but somehow beyond it, unshackled by its constraints, a creature not of meat and bone but of dark whispers and evil thoughts.

As Ashur watched, he was suddenly alarmed to see Hieronymus’s shade turn its ravaged face toward him. Then the creature was stalking forward, its head raised and jerking, its nose twitching as if it was sniffing the air-sniffing him out. It halted at the deck-rail, its hands curling around it, its face sharp as an ax-blade, hacking through the darkness. Fearful not so much of discovery but of the wrathful scrutiny of the creature, Ashur took a hasty step back, his heel crunching on a branch that, despite the recent rains, snapped like a bone beneath his weight. Uttering a silent curse, his heart thumping wildly in his chest, he turned and scampered away, and as he ran, hampered by his customary limp, he felt certain that the icy chill he could feel between his shoulder blades was not the cold sweat of his own fear but the breath of Hieronymus’s creature, gliding through the trees in swift pursuit like a malign spirit of Tartarus.

Sura came to him again that night, as she had every night since her death. Spartacus tossed and turned on the thin, hard board that served as his bed, but although he knew, somewhere deep down, that he was dreaming, he could not rouse himself.

He was in the arena, his opponents-too numerous to count-circling him like wolves. Each of them bore the shield with the red serpent that Sura had foreseen in her vision many moon-cycles ago. It was that vision which had given him the strength and self-belief to overcome those who had been designated to slay him the first time he had set foot in the arena; it was that vision which had ultimately set him on the path which both Batiatus and Doctore had assured him had been laid by the gods for his feet alone to tread.

Spartacus knew that Sura too would have said he was in the hands of the gods. Spartacus himself had always maintained that he worshipped only the mountain wolf, but Sura’s faith had been unshakeable. Despite his doubts, she had fervently believed that if there were no gods, then there was nothing to shape what happened in their lives, and therefore no meaning to be found in any of it.

While both of them lived, Spartacus had thought the distinction between his wife’s beliefs and his own to be little more than a matter for debate between them, a game even-lightly played, and all too often culminating in a meeting of flesh and mutual passion. Now, though, now that Sura was dead, her beliefs were all that kept her- and him-alive.

Spartacus grieved for his wife. He grieved terribly. Until his dying day there would always be a part of him that would feel as though his heart had been ripped from his chest and crushed in the hand of fate. But what kept him going, what allowed him to breathe and eat and fight, was the memory of her words-or more specifically her beliefs, which he had now adopted as his own.

He still did not know if he actually believed in the gods. But what he did know was that Sura had been right. To believe in nothing at all was to render life meaningless. And so he had decided to embrace his fate, to become a puppet in the hands of others, at least for now. If he was destined to become the greatest gladiatorial champion that the world had ever known, then he would become that champion. And if he was destined to die in the arena, then he would die willingly, not with glory and pride and honor, but in the hope that his death would once again deliver him into the arms of the only woman he had ever truly loved-and would ever truly love, no matter how long he lived.

In a way it was easier to accept that he grieved because the gods wanted him to grieve, and that he dreamed because they fashioned his dreams for him. What the purpose of these dark visions was he knew not, but, though they troubled him, he welcomed them too-for in his dreams, night after night, Sura still lived.

In this latest dream the red-serpented shields surrounded him. It was as if the blood of his victims had seeped into the sand only to sprout forth a moving army of dead men. Spartacus lunged and slashed at them, slicing off limbs and heads, but whenever one opponent fell, another immediately sprang up to take its place. Eventually, his eyes blinded by sweat and his limbs heavy with exhaustion, he himself felt the burning pain of a sword blade parting the flesh beneath his ribs, and crumpled to the ground as the blood which gushed from him took his strength with it. He lay in the dust, its bitter taste in his mouth, and looked up at the helmeted face of his conqueror. And then his gaze shifted to regard the shield he held, the red serpent now spattered with blood and dirt. And finally he looked up at the sword blade which had felled him, pitted and scratched and stained, whose tip was even now pricking his throat.

And somehow, beyond all that, he saw the pulvinus, in which the lanistae and the assembled dignitaries sat, and he saw a white-robed figure slowly rising from its seat. As the figure stretched out an arm, its fist clenched and its thumb jutting to the side, the balance held between life and death, Spartacus was shocked to see that it was Sura, her dark hair blowing in the wind and a look of infinite sadness, of unutterable loss, marring her beautiful face.

“No!” he shouted-and awoke with the cry on his lips. Whether anyone heard him he knew not, and cared even less. It was silent in the ludus, not a sound issuing from the cells in which his fellows slept, most on the cold stone floor. The lack of response was not necessarily a guarantee of ignorance, though. Spartacus was Champion of Capua, after all, and was expected to display the qualities that all other gladiators in the House of Batiatus should aspire to. It was not appropriate to be tormented by the product of one’s own imaginings. Even in sleep a true champion should display absolute resolve in both body and mind.

Such concerns would doubtless have occupied Crixus, the former Champion, but Spartacus was his own man. If others thought him weak then so be it. He would prove his worth where it mattered-on the training ground and in the arena. At least no one could deny that there was anger and purpose in him. Even that very morning, armed with a pair of wooden training swords, he had transformed his misery into fury, focused it to such an extent that for a moment he had forgotten where he was. He had felled his partner, Priscus, with a series of savage blows to the head and body and then had continued his assault even when the man was soundly beaten, even when he raised two fingers to signal his submission. If his friend Varro, aided by the giant Greek Tetraides, had not dragged him away he might have consigned Priscus to a long stay in the infirmary, or even spread his brains out on the sand to bake in the noonday sun. Doctore had rebuked him for losing control, for allowing instinct and emotion to cloud his mind, but Spartacus had seen the gleam of satisfaction, even admiration, in the veteran’s eyes at the speed and savagery of his attack, at the way he handled the twin swords.

“Your aggression is well-channeled,” Doctore had told him later, “but save it for the arena. Dominus does not wish to see the beasts he laid down coin for devour one another absent profit.”

Beasts. That was the word Doctore had used, and that-despite all Batiatus’s talk of honor and glory, of Titans and legends-were all that the men of the ludus truly were to their Roman master. Even proud Doctore, honored and respected as he was, was nothing but meat to be bought and sold at will.

Spartacus lay back on his hard bed and thought of happier times-of the village where he was born, of roaming free in the mountains and forests of his homeland. And eventually his thoughts turned again, as they always did, to Sura. With the memory of her sweetness on his lips, he drifted once more into the temporary freedom of sleep.

Oenomaus was worried.

Jerked awake by a shout of “No!” that he had instantly recognized as issuing from Spartacus’s lips, he lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. There was something wrong in the ludus, something he had been aware of for days now, but which he couldn’t define. It was a feeling more than anything, a sense that beneath the usual banter and arguments, and even occasionally fights, that resulted when a group of tough and competitive men were forced to live in the same cramped conditions day in and day out, was something furtive and malicious, something that was burrowing its way in as surely as a worm burrows into an apple.

It was a subtle infestation, however. One that manifested itself in little things, strange events. Tetraides’s temporary derangement, which had resulted in the death of the novice; moments of distraction among a proportion of the men; bad dreams. It was certainly true that some of the men seemed more than usually preoccupied of late, their eyes clouded by dark thoughts, which they wouldn’t or couldn’t talk about. And yet despite this, many of the signs were so small, so seemingly inconsequential, that Oenomaus still found himself often wondering whether he wasn’t imagining them; whether, in fact, the disturbance existed solely in his own mind.

It was for this reason that he had spoken to no one about it, that until now he had kept his troubled thoughts to himself. Perhaps it was simply the heat, he thought- though he didn’t really believe that. Earlier in the summer, when the drought was at its height, he might have found that argument more convincing, but since the rains had come the days had settled into a combination of sultry heat interspersed with occasional showers.

He closed his eyes again, telling himself that all he could do for now was remain watchful, and hope that the “disturbance,” whatever it was, would soon pass.

Even so, his doubts continued to prey on his mind, and it was a long time before he slipped once again into the temporary respite of sleep.

The gloom of the day matched Batiatus’s mood as he slumped against the rail of the balcony overlooking the training ground, a goblet of wine held listlessly in one hand. Below him echoed the clunk of wooden swords and shields, and the grunts of exertion and pain from the men. Even out here the sour stink of their sweat hung heavy on the air, a contrast to the interior of his own villa, which was redolent with the delicate scent of lamp-oil and the exotic perfumes upon which Lucretia squandered far too much of his hard-earned coin.

Pondering on his spendthrift wife seemed to awaken the memory of her scent in his nostrils. Then he heard the scuff of a sandaled foot behind him and lazily turned his head. Here she was, accompanied as ever by her faithful slave Naevia.

Lucretia had chosen today to wear the blondest of her wigs, the hair shimmering as if bestowing its own light to the bruised sky that pressed down from above. Her face was white with chalk, though she had applied red ocher to her lips and her still-impressive cheekbones to give it the blush of youth and color.

The illusion of youth only served to remind Batiatus, however, how the days and years of their lives were mounting, with still no prospect of an heir to carry forth the noble family name.

“What presses heavy on mind, Quintus?” she asked, her voice a concerned purr.

Batiatus scowled. “Observant wife, ever able to unscroll my thoughts.”

“Your countenance betrays. And goblet in hand is further telling sign. You rarely douse reflections with so much wine before sun descends.”

“The sun will hide soon, joining the object I seek to uncover,” Batiatus muttered, gesturing at the grim sky. He glared at the wine in his cup and then swallowed it in one gulp before tossing the vessel over his shoulder for a slave to retrieve.

Lucretia regarded her husband thoughtfully.

“You speak of our friend Hieronymus?” she enquired.

The scowl on Batiatus’s face deepened.

“His presence eludes. If he moves within city he does so like rat underground.”

Lucretia sighed. This hunt had been going on for weeks now. Not even her poison-tongued but influential “friend” Ilithyia, wife of Claudius Glaber, the legatus responsible for capturing Spartacus and having his wife sold into slavery, had succeeded in winkling the reclusive merchant out of his shell.

“Swallow pride dear husband and send Grecian rat invitation to the House of Batiatus. Give word and I will despatch messenger.”

Batiatus set his face stubbornly.

“I will not beg favor like old whore with gaping cunt!”

“You make issue where none need be!” Lucretia snapped.

“And what if this Greek spurns hospitality? I risk losing enough face to see senses stripped away.”

“Your entreaty would find favor, I am sure of it,” Lucretia said. “Did you not say that the man is adherent to the arena? That he was present to witness the slaying of Theokoles by Spartacus and Crixus?”

Batiatus looked at her sharply.

“Spartacus the Slayer, Crixus merely wounded observer. Victory is not honor possessed by those struck to the infirmary.”

Lucretia waved this aside as if it was a mere detail.

“The Grecian’s enthusiasm is key in any case. He will not refuse opportunity to view the men in our ludus.”

Though Batiatus still frowned and shook his head, Lucretia could see that her husband’s resolve was weakening.

“Rumor swirls that the merchant builds stable of his own gladiators,” he muttered.

Lucretia knew this. Since Ashur had returned from his nocturnal pursuit of Albanus some ten days past, her husband had brooded on little else.

She was ready, therefore, with her answer.

“This weighs in our favor. Eagerness to view competition at close quarters will overwhelm.”

Batiatus looked thoughtful.

“Your words convey sense but we risk betraying transparency of intentions. There must be added layer to obscure, an element to draw the eye-and the mind with it.” Suddenly his eyes brightened, a grin spread across his face. “I will set meeting with Solonius, to plant suggestion of arrangement for mutual benefit.”

Lucretia curled her lip at mention of the viper-like lanista, Quintus’s only true rival in Capua. “What kind of arrangement?” she said sourly.

“Gladiatorial contest between our two houses, to display the titans of Capua! Invitation to Hieronymus from both houses, issued as welcoming gesture from fair city.”

“Solonius,” Lucretia hissed. “You would make arrangement beneficial to wretched creature who tried to kill you?” Scorn and astonishment moved across Lucretia’s face.

“One of temporary convenience only. Hold no doubt that I have Solonius yet marked for future action. But for current purpose I will clasp wretched hand in friendship and conceal sharp teeth behind warm smile. The agony of pretense to be made worthwhile by ultimate gain.”

“The notion unsettles,” Lucretia said. “Solonius’s fallen status makes his worth equal to shit stuck to sandal. Your offer will scrape him off and return him to equal footing.”

“The very temptation he will be unable to resist,” Batiatus countered. “And once he has fulfilled purpose, he will find himself kicked down to earth once more.”

Lucretia narrowed her eyes. The game that her beloved husband was proposing to play was a dangerous one.

“This contest between houses,” she mused. “Who will be editor of them? Who will provide the funding of it?”

Batiatus looked furtive.

“An editor can be found.”

“You propose to pluck one from thin air?” she said. “What if search proves unsuccessful?”

“Then Solonius and I will combine necessary funds,” Batiatus replied evasively.

It was as she had feared.

“This is foolishness, Batiatus. Such laying out of coin will stretch us beyond limit.”

Batiatus waved a dismissive hand.

“For short time only. Once Hieronymus has been bent over and mystery of his powerful friends revealed, all will reverse. And coin will flow back to us without limit.”

“And if Hieronymus is unmoved?”

“He will not be,” Batiatus said bluntly.

Lucretia drew in a breath.

“I hope you speak truth, Batiatus. For sake of this house.”

They fell into a brooding silence, Batiatus resting his elbows on the balcony rail and leaning forward to watch the men training below. He saw Spartacus leap forward, his arms a blur as he swung and thrust with his two swords, using the twin weapons as one. His partner, one of the newer Gauls, tried both to parry with his own sword and protect himself with his shield, but found himself back-pedaling until, eventually, he received a blow to the face and his nose burst with blood.

Batiatus laughed delightedly and banged the rail with both hands as the Gaul sprawled in the sand.

“See how our Thracian performs!” he cried. “A sure sign the gods favor us.”

“The Thracian is a savage,” Lucretia muttered. “He but appears champion, recent fortune cloaking untameable beast. To rest the reputation of this house on the animal’s shoulders is to risk its crumbling.”

Batiatus shot his wife a sour look, but before he could respond a slave hurried on to the balcony, a rolled-up parchment in his hand.

“Dominus,” he said, bowing his head in supplication, “urgent message arrives.”

Batiatus snatched the parchment and read it quickly.

“From Ashur,” he told Lucretia. He read on, and then suddenly glanced up, his eyes dancing with excitement. “Rumor becomes truth. Ashur spies procession of carriages on the Via Appia, two leagues shy of city gates. Hieronymus emerges from hole, and the gods remove cock from mine!”