Spartacus: Morituri

V

For several moments after he woke up Spartacus had no idea where he was. Though he leaped to his feet like a startled cat, every nerve in his body tingling, his thoughts were absent, his mind scoured clean by the terrible screams that were filling his head. For the present he was a creature of instinct only, and instantly felt himself adopting the tensile, crouching stance of a warrior preparing for battle. He felt too the hairs on his arms and back prickling erect, like those of an animal attempting to make itself look less like prey.

When the attack he had been half-expecting did not come, he felt his senses slowly returning. Looking at the stone walls around him, he realized that he was where he always was at night-locked in his cell in the ludus. He crossed to the door and raised himself to peer through the bars above it. Immediately he saw a pair of Roman guards hurrying past.

“What is happening?” he shouted.

They ignored him.

He listened as the screams continued, ringing around the dingy cell area. They were screams of mortal terror, long and endless and horrible. Spartacus had heard such screams many times before-in battle, and in the arena. He wondered whether the ludus was under attack, but just as quickly dismissed the notion. These were the screams of but a single man. If attackers should come in the night- though Spartacus had no idea from where they might appear or what their ultimate intentions might be-they would surely go about their business swiftly and silently, or more likely simply leave the men locked in their cells and set a torch to the place. Besides, there were no sounds of battle to accompany the screams; in fact, there was no other commotion at all, save the increasingly voluble enquiries of his fellow gladiators, who had been roused from their slumbers, just as he himself had.

Eventually there came the jangle of keys at a cell door, and then a few gruffly barked orders to be silent, followed by the none-too-gentle impact of fists and feet on flesh. The screams cut off, wound down into a whimpering and gasping. Spartacus sat back down on the bench where he slept, listening to the confusion of movement and the grumble and growl of half-heard voices. In the glow of his single torch he watched as a black scorpion scuttled across the wall of his cell and disappeared into a crack between the stones.

Eventually he heard movement outside his cell again. Jumping to his feet he saw the guards passing by and then returning moments later with Oenomaus in tow.

“Doctore,” Spartacus said. “Who screams?”

Oenomaus glanced at him and raised a hand as he hurried past.

“Patience,” he said. It was the only word Spartacus heard him speak. He completely ignored the entreaties of the other men.

Spartacus returned to his bunk and lay down. He felt cold and then hot, as though on the verge of fever, and his limbs throbbed with fatigue. Though he had felt this way, off and on, for several days and nights now, he told himself it was simply that his humors were a little unbalanced by the shock of being woken so suddenly, and he closed his eyes. He surprised himself by slipping almost instantly into a restless sleep, only realizing he had done so when he heard the rattle of a key in the lock of his door.

He roused himself, sitting up as Oenomaus entered, accompanied by Ashur.

“How fares mind and body?” Oenomaus asked him.

It was an odd question. Though the men respected Doctore, he was a hard taskmaster and they were not accustomed to him adopting the role of nursemaid.

Spartacus nodded, resisting the urge to rub his tingling limbs.

“I suffer from curiosity only. Who screams sounds of affliction?”

Oenomaus looked troubled.

“Felix,” he replied.

“He suffers injury?”

“In mind only.”

Spartacus glanced at Ashur. There was something going on here that he was not aware of, something he was missing.

“What stands cause?”

It was Ashur who answered.

“A fever-dream. One he claims so vivid that it revealed waking glimpse into Hades itself.”

Spartacus remained unmoved.

“He is new to ludus. Incarceration in unfamiliar surroundings, severe demands on body and mind by training-I mean no disrespect, Doctore …”

Oenomaus nodded.

“… this place takes toll on mind not yet hardened to life as gladiator. Felix soon faces Final Test. Adding to concern that-”

“Doubtful Felix’s condition result of mundane anxieties,” Ashur interrupted.

Spartacus narrowed his eyes.

“Speak and make thoughts clear.”

Lowering his voice to a whisper, Ashur said, “The man is bewitched.”

For a moment Spartacus did not react. He was uncertain how to. He looked at Oenomaus, who remained stony-faced.

“Do you hold such opinion, Doctore?”

The veteran frowned, as though forced to deal with thoughts he was unwilling to entertain.

“I grasp only uncertainty,” he said eventually.

Ashur’s eyes possessed certainty.

“I hold none. The evidence without question.”

“What evidence?” Spartacus asked.

“Felix was gripped by terrifying vision, of a man composed of darkness, eyes burning red fire. Felix spoke of him as if evil spirit in human form. Able to penetrate veil of sleep to pluck soul from body and drag it down to Hades’s deepest eternal pit.”

Spartacus was silent for a moment. He did not scoff; he knew the power of dreams. But he was skeptical all the same. Unlike many of his people-and Romans, and Gauls, and Syrians, and all manner of other men too-he did not adhere so readily to the idea of dreams as omens and portents. Nor did he believe that evil spirits (if they existed at all) could adopt human form and steal a man’s soul in the way a street dog might steal a sausage from a market stall.

“Perhaps tale you told of Mantilus inflamed fears already present in mind and made them monsters,” he suggested.

Ashur shook his head irritably.

“It is not just tonight’s disturbance that stands evidence.”

The crippled ex-gladiator exchanged a look with Oenomaus. The statuesque African expelled a deep sigh.

“Dominus summoned me after games of evening past. His spirits high following defeat of Solonius’s gladiators, but admitting to confusion as to nature of the losses suffered by rival. He told of Solonius’s men fighting as if fresh recruits absent skill. Movement burdened by weight, tepid wielding of weapons during attack, slow lifting of shields in defense.”

Spartacus shrugged.

“Perhaps dominus spins tale to degrade Solonius. It is known their exchanges stand more blows with daggers than words from mouth.”

Oenomaus shook his head.

“Dominus spoke not to revel in humiliation of rival’s defeat, but as a lanista, leveling assessment upon wares of another. His puzzlement towards its display standing genuine.”

“I don’t see how story lends proof of otherworldly assertions.”

“Are all Thracians so slow of mind?” Ashur asked, shaking his head with a smile. “Solonius’s men fell to spell weaved by the creature Mantilus. Ensuring inferior performance in the arena. And now Felix joins them.” “Why Felix?” Spartacus asked with a frown. “He is but untested gladiator. What advantage would it give Hieronymus?”

“Felix does not suffer in isolation,” Oenomaus rumbled with some reluctance. “Many have been troubled during slumber in recent nights. I myself experience similar affliction. My habit of sleep is steady one absent dreams, the hours of falling to it and waking precise ones. Yet such discipline deserts of late. I lie sleepless, ears disturbed by men crying out in terror. Men who weep and thrash bodies about.”

Spartacus shrugged.

“Sleep does not come easy upon stone floors,” he said.

Ashur shook his head, with increasing irritation this time.

“Ashur moves freely during night, sleep often aggrieved by wounded leg. I am familiar with night sounds of ludus, and this stands different. It is surely sorcery, the influence of Mantilus extending far beyond his master’s ludus.”

“If the men hear your crazed words they will believe,” Spartacus snapped. “It will not be to their advantage.”

Ashur raised his hands.

“Ashur’s intention is silence. It disfavors him to undermine the House of Batiatus. Yet concealment of tale will only delay appearance of sorcery to all. The men who yet stand unafflicted speak of tired limbs and minds fatigued.”

Spartacus was silent for a moment. What Ashur had said was true. There had been more groaning and complaining than usual in the mess hall and the baths of late. And Doctore had criticized the sluggish reflexes of some of the men on several occasions during training. Neither could he deny that he himself currently felt out of humor. Hadn’t he taken to his bunk only a short time ago with the notion that he was succumbing to a slight fever, his body flushing hot and cold as tiredness prickled in his limbs?

He tried to put the thought from his head, scowling as if to deny it. It was nothing but a passing minor ailment, that was all. This entire situation would wear a different complexion in the morning.

“I do not embrace belief in evil spirits,” he said again stubbornly.

Ashur gave an exasperated grunt, but Oenomaus nodded.

“It pleases to hear it.”

“And yet still you come with wild tales?”

“I come to a man of conviction-one of single-minded purpose, not easily molded and manipulated.”

“Surely such trait more hindrance than boon to a trainer of gladiators?” Spartacus said lightly.

Oenomaus allowed himself a tight smile.

“A challenge, certainly-but such form has you champion, Spartacus. And if unknown forces told by Ashur besiege us, the men will look to their champion as example against adversity.”

“You seek me for ally?” Spartacus said with sudden realization and more than a little surprise.

Oenomaus looked at him steadily for a moment, and then gave a short nod.

“In anticipation of troubled times.”

For a few seconds Spartacus sat motionless-and then he reached out and clasped Oenomaus’s arm.

“Then you have one,” he said.

Ilithyia flounced into the atrium, her eyes widening in amazement.

“What is sound that assaults ears? Can one call it song?”

Lucretia forced a smile, though she couldn’t quite hide her embarrassment. Trust Ilithyia, duplicitous as two-faced Janus himself, to arrive just at the moment when Batiatus was doing something which the pampered senator’s daughter and those of her acquaintance would no doubt find vulgar in the extreme.

“I fear one must,” Lucretia said, brazening it out by making a joke of it. “Gods smile upon husband this day. He responds with raised voice in gratitude.”

“Spirits raise to hear the gods show generous heart,” Ilithyia said with a tinkling laugh. “But such bleating calls to mind sacrificial pig awaiting slaughter!”

“We will retire to my chamber,” Lucretia suggested, taking her friend’s elbow and steering her gently from the atrium, away from Quintus’s caterwauling.

The preparations for the evening’s festivities were well underway. Slaves hurried hither and thither throughout the villa, carrying tableware or floral displays or ingredients for the sumptuous feast that Lucretia had planned. Others cleaned and scrubbed the marble walls and mosaic floors, making them gleam. Still more filled the lamps with perfumed oils and placed incense burners on ledges and alcoves.

As they walked, Ilithyia leaned close to Lucretia, her voice dropping conspiratorially. Apparently oblivious to the activity around her, she arched an eyebrow and enquired, “And why do the gods smile on husband? Perhaps loving wife has granted rare pleasure within bed chamber?”

Lucretia’s smile stiffened slightly.

“Be assured he wants for nothing in that department, no pleasures standing rare.”

“You surprise,” Ilithyia said lightly, and then widened her eyes as if only now realizing what she had said. “Intention was not to offend. My meaning implied only that at advanced age one imagines energy for carnal pursuits stands less vigorous than in youth. Admiration abounds for your tenacity and persistence.”

Lucretia’s smile had become a grimace. Reaching the first of her sitting rooms, she said, “Wine?”

“Some water perhaps,” Ilithyia said, and-as ever- looked around as though sympathizing with her friend’s lack of wealth. “Speak more of your husband’s good fortune.”

The fact that she wasn’t didn’t prevent Lucretia from doing so now. After all, she was proud of the news that she was about to impart. She told Ilithyia of what had transpired at the games the previous day, and of the imminent arrival of Marcus Crassus and his acquaintance, the Sicel merchant, Hieronymus. If she expected Ilithyia to be impressed, or even envious, she was disappointed.

Barely concealing a very obvious yawn, Ilithyia said, “I wish you good fortune with Crassus. The man is a crushing bore. His talk only of politics and business, and his face-like his grandfather, who Gaius Lucilius named Agelastus on account of grim demeanor-it has not yet been seen to crack in joy.”

“Perhaps sight of your delicate beauty would pry it open?” Lucretia suggested.

“If I were a woman fashioned from equal coin maybe. You know he is the richest man in all Rome?”

“Everyone knows it,” Lucretia replied.

Ilithyia raised her eyebrows in mild surprise.

“Such knowledge extends all the way to the provinces, penetrating grubby homes and ears of those often ignorant of politics and power. Present company excluded, naturally.”

“Naturally,” Lucretia muttered.

Ilithyia reached out and touched Lucretia’s hand lightly, bestowing upon her a generous smile.

“It must stifle to reside among the ill-informed.”

Bringing the conversation back on track, Lucretia said silkily, “So you will attend tonight? I shudder to be left without company when talk turns to politics and business.”

“It tempts,” Ilithyia mused, sounding anything but, “but I fear another engagement presses. I tire from being forever in demand.”

“One can only imagine,” Lucretia said.

Oblivious to her friend’s sarcasm, Ilithyia continued, “I envy you anonymity, Lucretia. Tell me again who accompanies Crassus this evening?”

“Hieronymus. The moneyed Greek. Crassus takes up residence in his villa for summer’s remainder. A shame you cannot attend, as everyone of note in Capua will be here, drawn by lure of honored guest.”

Ilithyia pouted prettily.

“Perhaps I will attend. To lend support for endeavors.”

“Gesture of friendship overwhelms, Ilithyia,” Lucretia said, her face deadpan.

Ilithyia looked around as though wary of eavesdroppers, and then leaned forward. “Do you know how Crassus assembled fortune?”

Not wishing to be thought a backward rustic, Lucretia said, “Support for Sulla elevated position, did it not?”

Ilithyia raised her eyebrows dismissively, as if Lucretia’s knowledge was so inadequate as to be almost negligible.

“For a man of apparent dullness, Crassus claims a lurid past, steeped in blood of his enemies.”

“It is the Roman way,” Lucretia remarked.

Frowning at the interruption, Ilithyia continued, “The right wing of Sulla’s army was his to command at the Battle of Colline Gate. It is said his tactics proved ruthless. His army crushed all opposition. The Samnite troops and the Marian adherents utterly destroyed. After Sulla’s ascension, Crassus made use of Sulla’s proscriptions. You have heard this detail?”

“Of course,” Lucretia said tersely. “They ensured those who aided Sulla’s cause would recoup fortunes. Adding to those gained by plundering wealthy adherents to Gaius Marius or Lucius Cinna. Yet Sulla’s enemies lost not merely fortunes, but their lives.”

Ilithyia’s eyes were shining. “Crassus was master of the campaign. Cutting through Sulla’s political foes as he had the armies fighting in Cinna’s name. He made purchase of land and houses for smattering of coin. His acquisition of burning houses notorious, purchased along with surrounding buildings for modest sum. Then employed his army of five hundred clients to douse flames before severe damage was done. His proximity convenient to so many unfortunate accidents.”

“Wealth was surely acquired by more conventional methods as well?” Lucretia said.

Ilithyia wafted a hand.

“Crassus acquires coin through traffic of slaves and working of silver mines. His long fingers extend everywhere, though I fear they provide little pleasure.” She smiled wickedly.

“A formidable ally,” Lucretia murmured.

“And formidable foe,” Ilithyia countered. Uncharacteristically serious, she said, “Stand warned, Lucretia. Beneath dour countenance, Marcus Crassus is slippery creature.”

As are you, Lucretia thought, though she didn’t say so. Instead she smiled expansively and said, “Gratitude, Ilithyia. Wise counsel is appreciated as always.”

Though he cracked his whip and bellowed his familiar combination of instructions, insults and-now and again-words of encouragement, Oenomaus did not feel his usual ebullient self that day. More than ever, he felt listless, unable to concentrate, and from the shambolic display of the men in his charge he was not the only one thus afflicted.

Through what appeared to be willpower alone, Spartacus was putting on the best show, though even he seemed slow and tired, his body dripping with sweat from his exertions. Oenomaus had seen him blinking and puffing out his cheeks and palming sweat from his brow with a weary hand on several occasions when he thought himself unobserved. Eventually, while the men did positional and stance work in rotation against the thick wooden posts embedded in the sand of the training ground, he drew the Champion of Capua aside.

“Your exertions result in weary profile, beyond what is normal,” he said.

Spartacus eyed him impassively.

“We are all tired from the day.”

Oenomaus nodded grimly.

“Ashur’s words nest in mind.”

“Belief in evil spirits remains absent in mine,” Spartacus said with a half-smile.

“I don’t embrace the belief tightly. But I confess confusion at my own fatigue.”

“The heat, lack of sleep …”

“Not uncommon hardships.” Oenomaus paused. “But the feeling is different. And observing your training this day, I believe you feel as I do if you were to give it thought.”

“What marks it different?”

“Weight as though doubled. Feeling of feet clamped to ground. As though …” His voice tailed off, unsettled. “As though Ashur’s words stand truth.” Oenomaus took a deep breath. “As though deep force draws from below, to pull us through sand.”

Spartacus licked his lips.

“You speak of the underworld.”

“I did not say the word,” Oenomaus said quickly.

“You do not need to.” Spartacus paused. “What ails the men is mystery to me. But I put faith my wife’s beliefs, to consider all that happens does so for a reason.”

“This is beyond reason,” Oenomaus said.

Spartacus shrugged. “Perhaps. But perhaps lack of reason is reason in itself. Perhaps the gods decree that this is our fate.”

Oenomaus grunted and looked up at the sky, as though he half-expected the gods themselves to be looking down on him, relishing his current misfortune.

“Tell me,” he said, “what state are the men’s minds in?”

“You ask me to betray confidence to superior.”

“Only for the good of all, not for idle chatter.”

Spartacus nodded in understanding and looked around.

“They stand uneasy,” he said. “Some more than others. Ashur has kept to his own counsel, yet they are not fools. Tetraides speaks loud of Mantilus and rumor of other ludi fallen to spell. He fills the men’s heads with talk of sorcery, visions of dread and life sapped from limbs.”

“This cannot go on,” Oenomaus said angrily. “I would speak with him.”

“He is Greek, obstinant as bull yet also possessing fear of woodland deer. He will not listen.”

“Then I will cut out his tongue to feed to the birds,” Oenomaus snapped.

“Perhaps offer it to the gods for protection from evil spirits,” Spartacus remarked drily.

Oenomaus snorted a laugh, though there was little humor in it.

On the training ground one of the men, the bald-headed giant Thrimpus, suddenly keeled over, crashing to the ground. The other men would normally have laughed at this, as they laughed at any display of weakness, but today, having stopped what they were doing to look, the majority of them merely murmured uneasily and backed away, watching as a cloud of sand disturbed by the impact rose and then settled over the fallen man’s recumbent form. Oenomaus rolled his eyes and strode angrily forward, flicking out his whip as he did so.

“Did you hear order to cease training?” he bellowed. “Resume or learn lessen in the hole!”

Most of the men moved swiftly to comply, keen to avoid a stint in the hole. This was the cesspit into which all of the villa’s household waste was poured, and Spartacus himself, together with Varro, had endured far too many endless hours in its stinking confines during the early days and weeks of their training.

With a flick of his head, Oenomaus barked, “Duro, Felix, drag this creature away and douse with water until it stirs.”

As the two gladiators hurried to obey, Tetraides said mournfully, “Thrimpus holds no blame, Doctore. The touch of sorcery lies upon him-as it does upon all.”

“Did I ask for thoughts spilled from mouth! Speak out of turn again and see yourself to the hole!” Oenomaus roared, his eyes burning like fire. “Resume training!”

For an instant it seemed as if Tetraides was about to argue-and then he dropped his eyes and muttered, “Doctore.”

“Spartacus,” Oenomaus said, “spar with Tetraides. Test him with vigor and strike further speech from him.”

“Doctore,” Spartacus said with a nod, and moved forward, his face grim and his wooden training swords gripped firmly in his hands.

Fed and bathed, his muscles oiled in preparation for that evening’s banquet in the villa above, Spartacus was resting on his bunk. He lay still, preserving his energy, telling himself over and over again that the aching fatigue in his limbs was imaginary, that he felt no different now than he did every other day after training. And the strange thoughts and half-visions crowding his mind, like dreams attempting to break free from the realm of sleep, were nought but the result of a restive night and Ashur’s wild tales. All this talk of evil spirits and sorcery was nonsense, foolishness. Such things were the province of the gullible and the weak-willed, destructive only if given rein to be so.

He tried to turn his thoughts to more immediate matters, to prepare himself for his role at the night’s coming celebrations. As a proud Thracian warrior, he resented being paraded like a shank of prime beef for arrogant and overfed Romans to gape at and pore over. It was demeaning, humiliating, and it belied Batiatus’s often stirring pronouncements that gladiators were heroes to be envied and revered and lusted after, that theirs was a life defined by fame and glory.

Spartacus never felt more like a slave than he did under the supercilious scrutiny of his Roman captors. Even the women who wanted his hard cock between their legs regarded him as nothing but a plaything, an animal with which to gain pleasure by rutting, only to then cast aside. He felt more of a free man when he was locked in his cell, alone with his thoughts and his sweet memories of Sura. But in many ways his entire life, whatever it may bring, was nought but a cage now. He doubted he would be truly free until the day when he would be reunited with his beautiful wife upon the endless plains of the afterlife.

Sura was filling his thoughts, as she often did, when he heard footsteps halt outside his cell. As his door was unlocked and pushed open, he sat up, to see two of the house-guards staring in at him.

“You are summoned,” one of them said curtly.

Spartacus was surprised. “The celebrations begin at early hour?”

The guard who had spoken sneered, as though Spartacus had proved by his response to be so slow-witted as to be beneath contempt.

“It’s not your place to question. Rise and follow.”

Spartacus rose from his bunk and padded to the door. He was manacled and led upstairs. As he passed Tetraides’s cell he saw the Greek lying flat on his back, his breath a snuffling grunt through his broken nose. The injuries which Spartacus had inflicted on him that afternoon were superficial-nothing but cuts and bruises-but debilitating enough to subdue him, at least temporarily.

As ever, he squinted when he passed through the upper door and emerged into the villa itself. After the dimness of the slaves’ quarters the glowing lamps adorning the walls seemed as bright as the sun rising over the Campanian hills. Although Spartacus’s belly was full of the thick gruel of barley and vegetables that, together with bread and fruit and occasionally a little boiled meat, was the staple diet of the gladiators in the House of Batiatus, his mouth still watered at the succulent scents of roasting meat drifting from the kitchens. There were other smells too-incense and perfumed oils-and there was an abundance of wondrous sights to draw his gaze. As he was led through the villa he saw sinuous slave girls, their bodies glittering with mica, awaiting the first of that evening’s guests; silken drapes billowing gently in the wind; rose petals strewn in the atrium pool like perfect, individual drops of blood; platters stacked high with honeyed bread, stuffed dates, grapes, olives and cold meats.

Batiatus was waiting, statesman-like, in his study. As Spartacus entered he gave a single curt nod and the guards removed his manacles.

Without preamble Batiatus said, “What shit reaches ear about fucking spells?”

Spartacus sighed inwardly. So Ashur had kept his counsel among the gladiators, but at the first opportunity he had gone running to Batiatus, no doubt brimming with tales of how the men downstairs were shivering in their beds like frightened children. Spartacus felt sure that what Ashur would not have revealed to his master was that he himself was the architect of their fears. No, he had no doubt in his mind that Ashur would have used his silver tongue to create a weave of words, absolving himself of any blame for the current discord.

“It is nothing, dominus,” Spartacus said. “Rumor and foolishness.”

“Fuck rumor!” Batiatus spat. “Eminent guest soon graces the House of Batiatus-and what whispers disturb ears? That my titans jump at fucking shadows like virgins rammed by first cocks!”

Spartacus said nothing. Sometimes it was wiser simply to let Batiatus vent his spleen. The lanista glared at his champion for a long moment, and then the anger slipped from his face, to be replaced by a troubled expression. He approached Spartacus until they were no more than a hand span apart, and stared deep into his eyes. Then speaking as though to a close friend and confidante, Batiatus said, “Speak truth, Spartacus. What state do you find their bodies and minds?”

Spartacus paused. He briefly contemplated making light of the situation, assuring Batiatus that he had nothing with which to concern himself. But then he decided to be honest.

“The men are divided. Some believe sorcery at work, others deny such foolishness-no one side holds sway.”

“What side do you take?” Batiatus asked.

“I hold no belief in evil spirits,” Spartacus said for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. “I believe each man shapes his own destiny.”

Batiatus clapped him on the shoulder.

“Heart rejoices to hear good sense. And your spirits are level to match?”

Spartacus hesitated.

“Yes, dominus.”

“You sound uncertain.”

“Abounding rumors brought restless sleep to most.”

“So muscle stand slack and limbs weary?”

“A passing condition, dominus.”

Batiatus pursed his lips.

“Rotten grapes must be plucked from vine before canker within spreads to those that remain. Slaves are easily replaced with those endowed with unsullied mind. Convey this to the men.”

“Yes, dominus.”

“Good.” Batiatus nodded, but seemed preoccupied. He gave no sign that Spartacus should be returned to his cell.

“Is there something else, dominus?” Spartacus asked tactfully.

Batiatus looked up, clearly mulling something over in his mind. He leaned closer to Spartacus than ever, his voice dropping to an almost embarrassed hush.

“You are champion, Spartacus. You stand in glorious association with this house. Is that not so?”

“Yes, dominus,” Spartacus said automatically.

“Then do not pour sweetness on bitter words you stand reluctant to share.” He paused again, then said, “This babbling of foul magic … Do you think anything to it?”

Spartacus took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. What did Batiatus want from him? It seemed that the conversation was revolving in circles.

Carefully he said, “Some believe there is truth in rumor. Sometimes merely belief in a thing can make it so.”

“But you, Spartacus. What do you believe?”

“I offer no more than that already spoken, dominus.”

Batiatus was silent for a long moment. He looked at Spartacus contemplatively.

Finally he said, “You eat, shit, and spar with these men. What cause could drain vitality from those of such strength?”

“Illness or injury could cause such failings. Passing from one to another.”

“Could such affliction leap from another ludus, delivered only to gladiators?”

“Such a thing seems unlikely,” Spartacus admitted.

Batiatus nodded grimly.

“Yet such affliction seems to clasp hold of Solonius’s men. His warriors blundered about the arena as if just roused from fucking sleep. Curious that such malaise should strike rival ludus of Capua at precise instant a third school comes to being. Is it not?”

“Uncommon coincidence, dominus,” Spartacus said.

“Difficult to consider it coincidence,” Batiatus said, his face hardening. He fumed a moment, staring into space as thoughts raged through his mind. Then he said, “You’ve heard of this Mantilus?”

“Only what little Ashur told of him,” Spartacus said carefully.

“His presence expected tonight,” Batiatus said. “A fucking monster of a man, scarred like a Getae whore. Hieronymus keeps him close as if pet. I would have you mark him for future action.”

“You suspect Hieronymus moves him to purpose against Solonius and yourself?” Spartacus said. “By what method?”

Batiatus gave Spartacus a strange look, as if unwilling to voice what both of them were thinking.

“Who fucking knows what method? I care not of their ways only their intentions!” he said finally. “Observe him and report to me only-do you understand?”

“Yes, dominus.”

Both of them turned at the sound of urgent footsteps approaching along the corridor outside. They could tell from the lurching, uneven gait that the steps were those of Ashur’s. The next moment the ex-gladiator himself, cheeks flushed, appeared in the doorway.

“Out with it!” Batiatus snapped.

“Apologies, dominus,” Ashur said, “I bring message from Doctore. Commotion erupts in ludus. The men are in a state.”

Batiatus rolled his eyes, raising his face to the heavens.

“How do the gods fuck me now?”

“Something was found,” Ashur said, glancing quickly at Spartacus.

“You speak in riddle. Fucking speak plain.”

Ashur looked uneasy.

“For understanding, dominus, you must witness yourself.”

Batiatus stood on his balcony overlooking the training ground, flanked by Spartacus on one side, Ashur on the other. In the distance the sun was setting over the hills, a spectacular display of red and purple and salmon pink- the work of the gods in all its livid majesty-but Batiatus was not in the mood to appreciate such beauty. He was looking down on Oenomaus, the doctore’s skin like gleaming obsidian in the fading light. He was holding up a small object, as though presenting an offering to the gods.

“What the fuck is it, a child’s plaything?” Batiatus snarled.

With a flick of his powerful arm, Oenomaus threw the object up to the balcony. Spartacus snatched it from the air and handed it to Batiatus. All three men peered at it, Batiatus wearing an expression somewhere between contempt and distaste. The object was a doll of sorts, its head the skull of a small rodent, a rat perhaps, with small black stones pushed into its gaping sockets to give it a simulacrum of beady-eyed life. Its body was fashioned from twigs and strips of coarse cloth, and embedded with hobnails, which gleamed like the shafts of myriad tiny daggers.

“If it is a plaything, it comes not from child’s cradle but from its nightmares,” Batiatus muttered.

“I believe it to be a fetish,” Spartacus said.

Batiatus scowled.

“A what?”

“A fetish. The Getae priestesses known to make use of them in ritual. The embodiment of evil spirit or their powers.” He paused. “Said to drain life from a man, if placed in proximity.”

Batiatus grimaced and threw the fetish off the balcony, his hand jerking as if the tiny object had suddenly squirmed in his palm. The fetish hit the sand with barely a sound.

“Hurl it from the cliff,” he ordered. “Let it drain life from rocks below.”

“Dominus,” Oenomaus said with a nod. He picked up the fetish without a qualm, strode to the far side of the training ground and tossed it disdainfully away.

“This will see end to fucking foolishness and superstition,” Batiatus said firmly.

Hesitantly Ashur said, “There is one further question for consideration, dominus.”

Batiatus’s scowl reappeared.

“And what is that?”

“How did such item come to ludus in the first place?”