Spartacus: Morituri

IV

The narrow, cobbled streets around the gates of Capua thronged with citizens eager to glimpse the new arrival, whoever it may be. As the huge stone arch of the gateway itself came into view, the myriad streets converged on a square, dominated in its center by a fountain, around which the plebeian hordes sat and chattered, eating figs and hunks of coarse bread as though determined to make a day of it.

Batiatus, grimacing at his enforced proximity to the sweating, grimy mass of humanity, looked around, searching for Hieronymus. He spotted him over on the far side of the square, resplendent in a bronze-colored cloak edged with gold trim. He was accompanied by a number of guards, by his scarred attendant, whose name, Ashur had now discovered, was Mantilus, and by Athenais, the Greek beauty, who Hieronymus had snatched from under Batiatus’s nose. Presumably the slave was to be bestowed on this imminent visitor from Rome, the rattle of whose carriages could even now be heard approaching the city gates.

It was not the memory of how the merchant had outbid him over the slave girl that caused Batiatus’s face to harden, however. Silent as an assassin, Ashur appeared seemingly from nowhere and fell into step beside his master.

“Dominus,” he murmured.

Batiatus rounded on him.

“How does that perfumed ape Solonius come to have the ear of Hieronymus?”

The inference was obvious: Ashur had failed in his task to prize Hieronymus from his shell for Batiatus’s manipulations alone. The former gladiator bowed his head in obeisance.

“Dominus, he but gains sliver of advantage. Gleaned solely from lesser distance from city to House of Solonius.”

Batiatus was barely mollified.

“Perhaps this is not good Solonius’s first meeting with Hieronymus,” he hissed.

“If they were acquainted, dominus, I would know it,” Ashur replied.

Batiatus grunted, unconvinced. However, as Solonius glanced his way, a smirk on his thin, rat-like face, Batiatus set his features in an expression of casual indifference and nodded a greeting to his rival.

Solonius nodded back, and then deliberately leaned toward Hieronymus, making a show of murmuring something into the merchant’s ear. Hieronymus nodded, and the two men clasped hands a moment as though sealing a deal. Then Solonius sauntered across to where Batiatus was standing, the latter feigning interest in a bolt of Indian cotton on a nearby market stall.

“Greetings, good Batiatus,” Solonius said, the smirk never leaving his face, nor his voice.

Batiatus turned, blinking, as though preoccupied.

“My old friend Solonius. I hope fortune finds you well, considering recent events in the arena. It cannot be easy for a lanista to recover from such blows.”

Batiatus was referring to the contest, among others, in which Spartacus had first made his entrance. As a Thracian captive, beaten, exhausted and half-starved, he had been sent into the arena as a hunk of living meat for four of Solonius’s finest gladiators to slice asunder. His captor, legatus Gaius Claudius Glaber, had wished to see Spartacus made an example of as revenge for the man’s part in the desertion of Glaber’s legion by an auxiliary of Thracian warriors. The desertion had come about because the Thracians’ main concern had been to defend their villages from the advancing Getae hordes rather than fight against the Greeks for the glory of Rome. Because of the actions of Spartacus and his fellow Thracians, Glaber’s tribune had been slaughtered and Glaber himself, defeated and humiliated, had been forced to return to Rome. Despite the legatus’s desire to see Spartacus dead, however, the Thracian-in full view of Senator Albinius, father of Glaber’s wife, Ilithyia-had somehow prevailed against Solonius’s men, as a result of which Solonius had lost considerable face and status. Spartacus’s reward had been not only life (Glaber had still itched to see the Thracian dead, but Albinius had deemed it unwise to defy the wishes of the crowd baying for Spartacus’s life), but a place in Batiatus’s gladiatorial stable.

Solonius gave a short nod, the sculpted golden curls at the nape of his neck tumbling forward to frame his face. A stiff smile danced briefly across his features as if he wished to give the impression that the episode had been nothing but an amusing inconvenience.

“In an odd way, Spartacus’s victory favored me that day,” he murmured. “Losing the patronage of Albinius enabled me to gain that of one far greater.”

“How lucky for you,” Batiatus said casually, and wafted the fly-whisk in his hand. “It gladdens heart to know fortune’s abandonment of your cause was not permanent.”

Solonius half-turned and gestured across the square.

“You have heard of Hieronymus have you not? Most of proper standing know of him.”

“We made brief acquaintance,” Batiatus said, raising his eyebrows distractedly as if the meeting had been of little import. “A trader and money changer of Greek origin.”

“Those crafts are but seeds from which his vines have spread far and wide. He holds no small influence in Rome, and ambitions far exceeding even current lofty status.”

Batiatus glanced cursorily at the merchant.

“I wish him well.” Then he looked thoughtful, as if a casual idea had just that moment struck him. “Is it his intention to reside in Capua?”

“He made purchase of house south of city, close to banks of the Volturnus, with much land added to the transaction. It surprises that a man of your status was not aware of such widely known developments.”

There was a bite of satisfaction to Solonius’s tone which Batiatus pretended not to hear. Once again he lazily wafted the fly-whisk.

“I have been too taken with affairs of my own to indulge in idle prattle. The wearisome but necessary distraction of success.”

“Your burdens ease presently,” Solonius said cuttingly.

Once again Batiatus glanced with apparent casualness toward where Hieronymus and his entourage waited by the gate. “This merchant with new residence in Capua. Perhaps we can bury rancor and see mutual burden of flowing coin,” he suggested.

Solonius looked amused. “Your mind schemes to aid someone not possessing name Batiatus?”

“Only to further in restoration of House of Solonius, with receipt of mutual benefit. It grieves to see suffering by brother of esteemed craft.”

“Your concern lifts spirit,” Solonius said drily. “What do you propose?”

“Contest between two houses. A welcome extended to good Hieronymus, in hopes that his fortune will extend far beyond his walls.”

“A venture requiring substantial sum,” Solonius mused.

“If talk of the man’s influence in Rome is true, ultimate reward will outweigh momentary loss.”

“A bold plan,” Solonius said thoughtfully.

Trying to rein in his eagerness, Batiatus said, “One to set in motion, with your assent.”

Solonius looked his rival directly in the eye.

“Nothing would give greater pleasure, good Batiatus, than to see enrichment shared with cherished friend,” he said. He hesitated, waiting for hope to spring into Batiatus’s eyes before allowing a note of regret- albeit one that failed to completely mask the smugness beneath-to creep into his voice. “Alas, I fear offer is revealed too late. Contest is already agreed upon between House of Solonius and Hieronymus.”

Batiatus stiffened. Solonius continued.

“It seems demands upon House of Batiatus divert ear from glorious news: Hieronymus establishes ludus here in Capua. The venture newly born but Hieronymus wishes to see it take bold step. Wondrous contest staged to mark arrival of dignified guest, with my ludus chosen to bear honor of pitting my gladiators against his newly acquired stock.”

“Excellent news indeed,” Batiatus said, biting back his own humiliation. “Hieronymus displays wise judgement in selection of opponents for his novice recruits.”

Solonius’s lips twitched in satisfaction. “Of course you must attend as honored guest, with invitation extended to enchanted wife as well. I would see the House of Batiatus witness model of spectacle.”

“Invitation received with burst of gratitude,” Batiatus muttered, his final word drowned out by a sudden surge of interest in the crowd as the large double gates of the city swung open with a squeal of metal.

The lead carriage, the first of the procession whose clattering approach had been steadily increasing in volume during Batiatus’s exchange with Solonius, rumbled into the square. As it came to a halt the crowd surged forward, and were unceremoniously shoved back by the soldiers at the gate. Only when order had been restored-though admittedly not without a few bruises and bloodied heads — did the door of the carriage open and a man step out.

He was tall and imperious-looking, carrying himself with the arrogance and authority of one who was used to superiority in both rank and status. He was in his forties, his face handsome but stern, his eyes narrow beneath heavy brows. The instant Batiatus laid eyes on the man his mouth went dry, though he tried not to betray a flicker of emotion beneath Solonius’s searching, slightly mocking gaze.

He knew full well who Hieronymus’s visitor was, though; all those of rank in the Republic would have recognized him, and many of the common citizens besides.

This was Marcus Licinius Crassus, the Roman general who had commanded the right wing of Sulla’s army at the Battle of the Colline Gate. He was currently a nobleman with designs on the praetorship, and with a fortune estimated at over two hundred million sesterces, was rumored to be the richest man in all Rome!

With a roar of anger Batiatus snatched up the first thing that came to hand-a small ointment flask in the shape of a hare-and hurled it at Ashur. Ashur ducked, throwing up an arm to protect himself, and the flask bounced off his shoulder. Next, Batiatus grabbed an inkpot from his desk and threw that too. It hit Ashur in the midriff, spattering his tunic and the floor with ink.

“That leathery shit!” Batiatus raged.

Hesitantly, Ashur said, “Solonius’s maneuver due merely to chance opportunity, dominus. He was not-”

“Fuck chance!” Batiatus yelled. “I care not how arrangement was brokered. Your incompetence sees that little cunt use my back as fucking step towards richest man in the Republic!”

“Solonius’s fortunes may yet reverse, dominus. Were he to meet with accident …”

“See addled brain returned to head. Fingers would point to this house if injury came to Solonius quick upon heels of his fondling rich Greek. We must keep hands clean of blood, reputation unstained. Any attempt we make will be one possessing stealth.”

“Of course, dominus,” Ashur said humbly. “Apologies. Anguish at predicament led me to speak in haste.”

“If actions had been as swift as tongue, I would be raising cup with Marcus Crassus at present.”

Approaching footsteps announced the arrival of Lucretia. She glanced at Ashur and then at her husband.

“Outburst reached ear in bed chamber. What new wound has been inflicted?”

Batiatus slumped into the chair behind his desk, his anger spent.

“One whose pain will linger. Your husband bested by foul Solonius.”

Lucretia stared hard at Batiatus for a moment, and then glanced at Ashur and the ink on the floor.

“Leave us,” she snarled. “Send someone to clean fucking mess.”

“Domina,” Ashur mumbled and scurried away.

Lucretia crossed to Batiatus and dabbled her fingers in his hair.

“Unburden mind with the telling of its troubles,” she said gently.

Batiatus reached up, placed his hand over the back of hers and turned his head to kiss her palm. With a sigh he recounted his encounter with Solonius in the square and the arrival of Marcus Crassus.

“Marcus Crassus!” Lucretia gasped, her eyes sparkling with greed.

“So near, yet beyond our reach,” Batiatus said sourly.

“And yet perhaps not. Solonius has slithered next to the man but he also presents opportunity for us to mend injury and brush him aside.” Lucretia allowed her hand to snake down her husband’s thigh and beneath his tunic. She grasped his cock, making him gasp, and began to squeeze and pull the flaccid organ until she felt it stiffening in her palm.

“He invites us merely to flaunt new-found status,” Batiatus said, and gasped again, raising his hips to further aid the accelerating rhythm of his wife’s hand.

“And while boasts tumble from his mouth,” Lucretia said, “my lips will form smiles as you find advantage in proximity to Crassus.”

“To draw attentions away from Solonius?”

Her hand pumped harder.

“Crassus is eager advocate of games is he not? Witnessing contest with Solonius’s meager stock would be but thin gruel against more desirable feast. With the mighty slayer of Theokoles the tantalizing main dish.”

Batiatus tilted his head back and bit his lip.

“My wife stashes away distrust for Spartacus to broach sly plan. The thought brushes aside dark clouds hovering above husband, parting skies.”

This last word was accompanied by a grunt and a final spasmodic thrust of the hips. Batiatus’s seed spurted from his cock, hitting the tiled floor in a thin white streak.

As he slumped back into his chair, his eyelids drooping heavily, a slave appeared in the doorway, a tiny Egyptian girl of fifteen or sixteen, her budding breasts exposed.

Lucretia rearranged her husband’s tunic and kissed him on the lips, a wickedly crooked smile on her face as she addressed the slave. “Your presence well timed to see floor cleaned.” She turned eyes back to Batiatus. “I trust I set mind?”

“You fucking did,” he murmured.

Ashur suspected that Naevia was to blame. In fact, he was almost certain of it. It was the only method by which news of his humiliation at the hands of Batiatus could have reached the ludus with such speed. The instant he arrived in the baths, after descending the stone steps from the villa and passing through the metal gates which separated the two worlds, the jibes began.

Varro was the first to speak. The flaxen-haired Roman, a grin splitting his face from ear to ear, raised his eyebrows and remarked, “Ashur comes to scrape away failure and wash taste of shit dumped from dominus’s ass.”

Ashur frowned. The matching grins on the faces of the other gladiators easing their aching muscles in the steam of the bath house informed him that he was the butt of some as yet unspoken joke. Even so, he could not prevent himself rising to the bait, albeit with a barb of his own.

“I merely come for whiff of company no longer kept. To remind Ashur of rank odor now replaced by sweet scents of villa above.”

There was a ripple of hoots and sniggers, albeit of contempt rather than admiration. Varro glanced around at his fellows, still grinning.

“His barbs stand as limp as crippled leg. And foul cock.”

Laughter echoed around the stone-walled chamber. Even Spartacus, who had had little to laugh about in recent days, and who had never indulged in the childish, often cruel victimization of the newer recruits like that pig Crixus, had a smile on his face. Ashur gritted his teeth in a grin to indicate that he was happy to play along with the humor of the men.

Then Duro, one of the German brothers, pointed at the ink stains on his tunic.

“The man appears to wield pen for bookkeeping as poorly as he did sword. Fortunate for him, he spills only ink instead of his own blood, as before.”

The walls rang with laughter this time-and Ashur’s ears rang too. The lame ex-gladiator felt his cheeks flushing red, felt the anger bubbling up his throat and into his head.

He clenched his fists, but was unable to contain his temper. Raising his voice above the sneers and hoots of derision, he shouted, “Ashur shall release similar sounds of mirth when he sees shit from Duro’s gut spill upon sand in the arena.”

Some of the men even laughed at that, though Agron, the brother of Duro, scowled.

“You will be released from this world before the opportunity presents itself,” he retorted.

Ashur shook his head.

“I have witnessed brother’s training, his shortcomings quite obvious. He will be nothing but meat for superior beasts.”

Agron jumped to his feet, the sweat pouring down his naked body. “I would see your crippled limb freed from body!”

“Ashur’s words see you jump to foot. Jolted by the truth of them no doubt,” Ashur taunted.

Agron lunged across the stone floor of the bath house, but was restrained by Varro, who leaped up and grabbed his arm as he ran past.

“Leave the shit alone,” Varro murmured calmly into the German’s ear. “No honor lies in his blood.”

Agron glared at Varro, but he backed down with a curt nod and sauntered back to his place on the stone bench.

“Tell us,” Varro said, nodding at the black stains on Ashur’s tunic, “what discovery prompts dominus’s displeasure?”

Ashur shrugged and recounted that afternoon’s events in the city.

“All that spying and whispering for no reward,” Varro said. “Silver tongue falls tarnished, Ashur. Take care lest dominus find no further use for you.”

Ashur bridled. “The fault lies elsewhere. I was hampered in efforts by … forces beyond control.”

For the first time Spartacus spoke. In a low voice he asked, “What forces were those?”

Ashur looked slowly left and right, as if fearful of interlopers. Then he leaned forward and hissed, “Batiatus’s marked man, Hieronymus, has dark attendant holding name of Mantilus and thick cloud of mystery.”

“I have heard of him,” Oenomaus rumbled, a dark presence in the corner of the room.

“A fearsome creature you would attest,” Ashur said with a nod.

“In what respect?” Spartacus asked.

Ashur paused for effect, and then said quietly, “It is said that he is not true man but one of the lemures — malign spirit raised from underworld. From the very pits of Tartarus itself.”

Oenomaus snorted. “A tale to frighten children and simple minds.”

“Perhaps,” Ashur said with an elaborate shrug. Then his eyes glanced about the room. “But my own eyes laid witness and heart felt dread he imparts.”

Some of the men looked prepared to hear more, but Spartacus was quietly skeptical. “Did dominus’s wine cloud mind when this vision appeared before you?”

Ashur smiled thinly as a couple of the men chuckled.

“Senses were as sharp as your killing blade.”

He told his story-about how he had followed Albanus down to the banks of the Volturnus River, and about the small merchant vessel which had appeared from the darkness with its consignment of slaves. If nothing else, Ashur had a silver tongue, as Varro had declared, and he told his story well. He embellished it too, for maximum dramatic effect-in his account the merchant vessel cut through the black waters of the Volturnus without a sound, the lights burning on its deck suffused with an eerie green glow. When Mantilus himself appeared, he did so, according to Ashur, capering like some simian spirit, his sightless eyes flashing white like beacons, and the scars on his body writhing as if a nest of vipers moved beneath his skin.

“He sensed my presence in the instant he emerged from darkness, appearing as creature rising from underworld,” Ashur said, his voice hushed. “Though wrapped in blackest of night, he felt my eyes on him.”

“Or got whiff of rancid breath,” Varro said, eliciting another laugh from the men.

Ashur inclined his head. “Perhaps he did, with sharpened sense. His head moved like hawk hunting prey, possessed of faculties acute beyond those of man. And then …” His voice dropped lower. Instinctively the men leaned forward. In a blood-curdling whisper, Ashur said “…his eyes bore straight at me. I was cloaked and concealed such that no mortal could have detected. Yet this creature of clouded eyes turned them directly upon me.”

To Ashur’s satisfaction there were one or two low gasps and mutters.

“Continue the tale,” prodded the Gaul who had partnered Spartacus in training that morning, his nose still bearing the bloodied scar of the encounter.

Ashur knew he had his audience by the throat, and that it was time to give the ligature a final twist.

“He moved like a shade and floated toward me.”

While Spartacus continued to look skeptical, his reaction was the exception; most of the men gasped in superstitious dread.

Saucer-eyed, Tetraides asked, “What did you do?”

Ashur spread his hands. “I ran, I must confess. Ashur stands not proud but receives comfort from thought that any man here would have joined alongside.”

Tetraides was shaking his head slowly.

“I cannot speak against that, when mind envisions creature sent from underworld itself.”

“I would not run,” Duro boasted.

“No,” Varro remarked drily. “You would have shit and fainted like woman under sun.”

Before the banter could dissipate the effect of his story, Ashur said quickly, “Rumors hover that this creature Mantilus employs dark forces to aid Hieronymus’s new stock of gladiators. What they lack in skill and training they gain in application of sorcery, Mantilus weaving them about like cloak. It is said they fight with savagery, as if creatures from Hades wreaking vengeance against the living. Hieronymus names them Morituri-those who are about to die.”

The murmur of disquiet was palpable now. Oenomaus looked around the bath house, his eyes narrowed.

“Remember that you are all always about to die,” he muttered, his deep voice rumbling. “It is the way of the gladiator.”

“Death should be received in the arena from other mortal men, not from evil spirits of Hades,” Tetraides murmured fearfully. “It is said that if lemures claim you, then soul is lost forever.”

“I fear no such spirits,” Spartacus said. “And I fear stories of spirits even less. Our fears are of our own making, residing here-” He tapped his head. “-thoughts of dread waiting to strike at one’s own mind. If you believe the men of Hieronymus will defeat you then you are beaten before foot hits sand. I would enter arena with clear mind, eyes seeing not monsters and shades, but men-of flesh and bone, that can be cut and broken. Morituri. If they are about to die, then let them. If I find myself against them, I will gladly usher them on their way.”

Oenomaus nodded, eyeing Spartacus approvingly.

“Your champion speaks truth. Half the battle is played not on sand, but in mind. Put these dreams from head and rest your minds. Tomorrow is a new day.”

“One holding games that exclude the House of Batiatus,” Varro murmured sullenly.

“For now,” Oenomaus said. “But your day will come. And you must be ready.”

Batiatus smiled until his face ached, though behind the smile he was grinding his teeth. What he wouldn’t have given to have tipped that grinning rat Solonius over the balcony of the pulvinus, and then to have witnessed lions and bears released into the arena to tear him apart. How he would have laughed and clapped and cheered at the spectacle, even as he was spattered with the lanista’s blood.

Oh, that day was coming, he felt certain of it. But he would have to be patient. For now he must endure the pretense of licking the little fucker’s arsehole, of putting up with his jibes and his put-downs and his ogling of Lucretia’s tits as if such things were mere light banter between friends.

It was none of these things which galled him the most today, however. No, what really made him angry was the fact that Solonius had deliberately arranged the seating at the games in such a way that his opportunity to speak to Crassus had been rendered virtually non-existent. The Roman nobleman had been seated on the front row, beyond his friend Hieronymus, to Solonius’s right. Batiatus and Lucretia, despite their status as “honored guests,” had by contrast been seated on the second row to the far left. Ordinarily this would not have presented too much of a problem, but the pulvinus was uncommonly full today-vulgarly so, in fact. Solonius, of course, had turned the situation to his advantage, claiming that the interest in, and good feeling toward, Hieronymus’s new ludus and Capua’s esteemed visitor was so great that he had allowed his enthusiasm to run away with him, with the result that he had issued invitations to a greater number of Capua’s more influential citizens than he had originally intended.

“I hope you are not overwhelmed by surplus of hospitality,” Solonius had said smarmily to Hieronymus.

“On the contrary,” the merchant had replied, eyeing the minor dignitaries and their families cramming themselves into the pulvinus, and the extra chairs that were having to be found for them, with some alarm. “Generosity of spirit is well received, good Solonius. I’m certain that noble Marcus Crassus would agree?”

Crassus had merely grunted and taken his appointed place. He had resisted being drawn into any lengthy conversations, despite the efforts of several of Solonius’s guests to engage him in such.

Batiatus was wondering whether he would be presented with the opportunity to exchange even so much as a single word with the esteemed visitor. He and Lucretia were currently pinioned beyond a corpulent bore named Cassius Brocchus, his ever-chattering wife and their two obnoxious children.

Lucretia had kept up a pretense of conversation with the couple-which, as far as Batiatus could discern, had been mostly about Capua’s appalling sanitation system-but Batiatus himself, after an initial show of smiling politeness, had now descended into a brooding malaise. From his uncomfortable position he could only watch helplessly as Solonius ingratiated himself with the Sicel merchant and his guest, anointing them with his oily platitudes, his bejeweled fingers glinting as his gestures became ever more extravagant. There was scant consolation in the fact that Crassus seemed just as unresponsive to Solonius’s overtures as he had been to everyone else’s. Such taciturnity was not uncommon for a Roman dignitary, particularly one who hailed from such an exalted family as his.

At last the spiral horns sounded their fanfare and Solonius rose to his feet. He looked around at the cheering crowd, relishing the moment. Then he raised his arms, prompting them to cheer all the louder.

“The cunt basks in attention like lizard in the sun,” Batiatus muttered to Lucretia. “Is crowd so prepared to accept inferior games without complaint?”

“They are satiated by blood,” Lucretia replied. “They have lesser care for its origin.”

Batiatus sneered in disgust and slumped back in his seat.

“Good citizens of Capua,” Solonius shouted, his every word dripping with smugness, “this is a day most glorious for fair city! Games of joyous celebration to express how truly blessed we stand to welcome not one, but two of the most esteemed men to ever grace us with noble presence.”

“The man tugs both cocks with either hand,” Batiatus grumbled, and was waved to silence by Lucretia. He listened with growing disdain as Solonius went on to fawningly extol the virtues of Crassus and Hieronymus, paying little regard to the fact that if he had been in Solonius’s position he would have been doing exactly the same thing.

At last, his toadying over, Solonius called upon Crassus to give the signal for the games to begin. Crassus wafted a weary arm in response, prompting the crowd to cheer wildly and jump up and down. Some of the women bared their breasts in time-honored tradition as the huge, bloodstained gates at each side of the arena were slowly pulled open, and the first of the gladiators emerged from the darkness of the tunnels beyond.

As those in the pulvinus strained forward in their seats to get their first glimpse of the stallions in Hieronymus’s stable, Batiatus remained slumped and disconsolate, his chin propped on his palm. He couldn’t even be bothered to raise his eyes at the commencement of clash of sword on shield, nor at the roars of rage and pain from the arena and the frenzied reactions of the crowd.

It was only when Lucretia plucked at his sleeve, not once but several times, that he looked up.

“What is it?” he snapped. “Must you peck at me like small bird?”

There was a strange look in Lucretia’s eyes and spots of high color on her cheeks that were nothing to do with the carefully applied rouge.

“I think you will find contest of interest,” she said.

“What interest could I have in observing Solonius allowing Hieronymus a few victories to convince him his ludus has worth?”

This was what Batiatus had foretold Lucretia would happen as they had dressed for the games earlier that day. He had predicted that Hieronymus’s gladiators would be too new and raw for skillful combat, and that these games had come too early for them. He had said that Solonius would use the contest to rebuild his tarnished reputation and rake in an abundance of coin at the merchant’s expense.

“He is too wily to humiliate the Greek though. To do so would see him lose favor,” he had added, jabbing his point home with a raised finger. “He will sacrifice a few bouts to sweeten the merchant’s demeanor and keep him tantalized.”

Now, perched on the edge of her uncomfortable wooden seat, Lucretia narrowed her eyes at her husband.

“Observe, Quintus,” she hissed. “It may be to your advantage.”

Batiatus sighed and made a big show of raising himself upright. He peered down into the arena, just in time to see a gladiator with long, matted hair, who appeared to be carrying too much weight, drive a trident through the throat of one lying on his back, pinning the man to the sand in a gush of blood. As the crowd rose as one, screaming their approval, he shrugged.

“It is the opening bout. Solonius allows Greek to draw early blood. This holds no surprise.”

“Lay eyes on Solonius,” Lucretia urged.

Batiatus glanced across at the wiry lanista. To his surprise, Solonius looked not merely troubled, but severely anxious. As Batiatus watched, he saw a bead of sweat form at the side of Solonius’s temple and trickle down his face. Then he saw Solonius remove it with an angry flick of his finger.

“He reacts with nerves merely for show,” Batiatus said, though there was doubt in his voice. “He would not have Hieronymus suspect manipulation.”

“You did not witness his gladiators, Quintus. Solonius’s men were slow and clumsy. They fought poorly.”

“Then he has ordered them forfeit, or face less honorable death.”

“That stands hard to believe. Solonius’s hand is sly, possessed of lighter touch than such obvious conduct.”

Batiatus looked thoughtful. What Lucretia had said was true. Solonius would be prepared to shoulder a few minor losses in today’s contest, but he would still instruct his gladiators to fight well in the losing of them.

He watched the next several bouts with mounting interest. As Lucretia had said, Solonius’s men looked uncharacteristically lethargic, stumbling around the arena as if they had weights attached to their ankles. Their lunges were clumsy, and easily evaded by their opponents. And they were equally slow to defend themselves, as a result of which Solonius quickly began to suffer defeat after ignominious defeat.

Hieronymus’s men, for their part, were as willing, fearless and savage as Batiatus would expect of barbarian warriors, but to his trained eye it was clear that few of them were yet ready for the arena. They had neither the skill, dexterity, nor speed of his own men-and neither should they have been a match for Solonius’s gladiators, who, despite Batiatus’s often scathing words, had proven themselves more than worthy opponents over the years.

So what was wrong? It was a mystery-but a welcome one. Batiatus’s glee mounted as one of Solonius’s gladiators after another was cut down. By contrast Solonius slowly became a shadow of his former grandiloquent self, his shoulders sagging further with each fresh defeat, his waxen face etched in mounting misery.

“Perhaps you are right. It appears the peacock has lost strut,” Batiatus muttered into Lucretia’s ear. She uttered a high, tinkling laugh, the sound of which caused Solonius to jerk his head toward them.

Batiatus caught his eye and beamed. Raising a cup of wine in salute, he called, “A fine contest, Solonius! Tell me, have you adopted new training methods for your gladiators? Or new diet perhaps, abundant amount of indulgent sweetmeats?”

There was a ripple of laughter from the dignitaries in the pulvinus. Solonius gritted his teeth in a rictus grin.

“I confess that losses pain the heart,” he replied. “If feelings were otherwise I would not be foremost lanista in Capua. My expert eye gleams that good Hieronymus has trained his warriors well, rather than holding that mine display reduced skill.”

“I would venture both observations hold sway,” Batiatus countered cheerfully. “Hieronymus without doubt makes excellent progress in limited time before contest. His men truly raise status and glory of his house to exalted heights. But heart saddens that they stand forced to display new-found skill against inferior opposition. Would that they were able to test mettle against real titans of the arena.” Directing his words to Hieronymus and, by extension, Crassus, he raised his voice to a shout. “As you are surely aware, good Hieronymus, I boast among my stable the foremost gladiators in the Republic. Among them, the Champion of Capua himself-slayer of the mighty Theokoles and the Bringer of Rain … Spartacus himself!”

He bellowed, raising his hand in a flourish, as though introducing Spartacus to the arena. He knew it was a shameful display, one that might see him ostracized by those among Solonius’s guests who were of a somewhat genteel disposition, and would therefore be repelled by what they would undoubtedly consider his brutishness. But it was a calculated risk, and one that he felt was well worth taking. Crassus’s undoubted interest in the arena was Batiatus’s primary concern, and if his overexuberance succeeded in snaring Crassus’s interest at the expense of a few minor notables, then so be it.

As it was, his words had a far greater effect than he could have hoped. A few of the dignitaries in the pulvinus, not to mention a fair number of the rabble in the crowd who were within earshot, responded by turning their heads eagerly toward the blood-streaked sand, as if expecting to see the legendary Thracian striding arrogantly out to take the plaudits of his myriad admirers. Batiatus’s lips twitched in satisfaction as he observed all of their faces fall in disappointment. Clearly he had more than whetted their appetites, as was his intention.

He was even more delighted a moment later when Marcus Crassus, who had initially feigned indifference to his words, staring out across the sand during his exchange with Solonius, now turned and regarded Batiatus directly for the first time.

“I would like to see this Thracian,” he murmured, his rich voice audible even among the tumult of the crowd. “News of his prowess reaches ears even in Rome.”

Batiatus spread his hands in a gesture of both humility and generosity.

“Allow me to place myself at disposal. It would be rare honor to have such esteemed guest at the House of Batiatus.”

Marcus Crassus nodded curtly and raised a hand as though wafting away a fly.

“You shall have it then.”

Batiatus could barely restrain himself from rubbing his hands together in glee.

“My house stands ready, with but the timing at your discretion.”

“A day hence,” Crassus confirmed, and turned back to watch the games.

Flashing a look of triumph at Solonius, Batiatus said, “Your arrival and all proper arrangements much anticipated.”