Spartacus: Morituri

VII

“Behold whipped dog, still licking his wounds!” Batiatus bellowed, letting rip a drunken gale of laughter.

Solonius, who had just entered the villa, visibly flinched and looked for a moment as if he was seriously contemplating turning round and walking straight back out of the door again.

Batiatus, however, raised his goblet, splashing outrageously expensive wine-that which he had given strict orders to reserve only for himself, Crassus and Hieronymus-over his wrist.

“Drink with us, good Solonius,” he shouted, “in hopes that excellent grape will unknot frown upon brow. We lanistae come together this night to share common bond. Let us celebrate past victories and bemoan ignoble defeats!”

As Solonius moved forward, his face set and suspicious, to join the tight-knit group on the fringes of the main crush of revelers around the atrium pool, Hieronymus murmured, “Surely defeats are best forgotten?”

Batiatus laughed. “Only adversity hardens sinew to set sights yet higher. Don’t you agree, Solonius?”

“Interesting philosophy, certainly,” Solonius muttered with a death’s-head grin.

In a rare moment of inebriated bonhomie, Batiatus indicated to the slave girl entrusted with the Opimian to provide a brimming goblet for his rival. When the newcomer had been presented with it, Batiatus clapped him on the back.

“Drink!” he said, tilting his head and gulping his own wine as though to show the other how it was done. “Good wine soothes troubled fucking mind.”

Solonius complied, first raising his goblet to Crassus and Hieronymus.

“Your good fortune.” He sniffed the wine uncertainly, as though fearing it might be poisoned, and then took an experimental sip. An expression of surprise, swiftly followed by pleasure, scurried across his face, and he took a larger mouthful.

Within minutes the three lanistae were chatting away like old friends, Crassus-a dour presence-perched vulture-like on the periphery.

“Your presence does you credit, Solonius,” Hieronymus said. “I had thought you to save face by remaining within your own walls.”

Before Solonius could respond, Batiatus said loudly, “We lanistae are resilient breed. We hold head high and strut like peacocks, whether in victory or defeat. Is that not so, Solonius?”

Solonius looked at Batiatus as if unsure where the remark was leading. Finally he inclined his head.

“A lanista does not sulk like spoiled child.”

“And the games are but sport,” Batiatus declared. “Representation of life, but not the thing itself.”

“Such flippancy towards the arena,” Crassus remarked.

“Not flippancy, no,” Batiatus replied. “Apologies, good Crassus, but you misunderstand meaning. The arena lives within me.” He thumped his chest with a clenched fist to demonstrate the fact. “My very veins run with sand and sweat. The blood of many, spilled and long forgotten. The world of gladiators is both business and passion. When my warriors enter the arena it is not only livelihood but my very life at stake.” He paused, raising a finger. “This fact is but irrelevance for some, those with ass on warm seat with simple hope of entertainment. Perfectly understandable but not a thing I feel. Good Hieronymus, what in your estimation is most vital in the craft?” He fixed his eyes on the merchant.

As ever, Hieronymus hid behind his smile. Spreading his hands he said, “I would not presume a guess in such experienced company. I am barely tested pupil of the games, and await your words of enlightenment.”

“Honor,” Batiatus replied, his voice suddenly quiet, his manner sober. “Nobility. Notions by which we stand. We lanistae may tussle and bicker outside the arena, but within it fair sport holds sway. Would you find agreement in that, good Solonius?”

Solonius regarded Batiatus thoughtfully. At length he nodded.

“Words truly spoken.”

“A pretty speech,” Crassus said.

“You disagree with such sentiments?”

“You speak of gladiators as though pure as gods themselves. The truth holds them as slaves-unrefined warriors, natural savagery honed to kill more efficiently. Their only instinct to spill blood and prolong miserable existence. You call this noble? You call it honorable?”

“I do if they do not seek to gain advantage. If they but meet opponents on equal terms.”

Crassus snorted. Still smiling, Hieronymus said, “I’m sure we would find agreement on this matter.”

He looked at Solonius, who nodded, and then at Batiatus, who looked back at him, his face set and stern.

Batiatus’s features retained their stone-like impassivity for a few seconds longer, and then abruptly twitched into a beaming smile. He raised his goblet once more, encouraging the others with a nod to do the same.

“It is certain we would,” he agreed. “All present are men of honor, are we not?”

Perhaps there was something in it, after all, Lucretia thought. Now that she had seen Mantilus at close-quarters she could more readily believe him capable of sorcery.

Just like Batiatus himself, she had scoffed at Ashur’s suggestion that Hieronymus’s attendant may be a creature risen from the underworld. She found it almost as difficult to accept that he possessed the ability to influence the bodies and minds of men simply by method of savage ritual learned in some far-distant jungle. The very idea of such a thing outraged and terrified her. She was a Capuan, and by extension a Roman citizen, and as such she possessed the arrogance and absolute assurance of her upbringing. She and her kind were as close to the gods in nature as it was possible to be on this earthly plain. All other races were inferior in every aspect-there to be conquered and enslaved, to serve only the glory of Rome and its citizens. It was unthinkable, therefore, that this savage, this barbarian, could be blessed with powers beyond the capabilities of his superiors in the civilized world. The fact that she might be forced to accept that he was so blessed destabilized her beyond measure.

As a result of their earlier encounter with Mantilus, relatively innocuous though it may have been, she and Ilithyia had retreated to her furthermost cubiculum, there to drink wine in an effort to allay the shivers of fear that still occasionally gripped them. However, such had been their shock that the alcohol was having the opposite effect. The more they drank the more frightened and paranoid they became.

“You must expel him from your house,” Ilithyia wavered.

Her own fear and helplessness made Lucretia snappish.

“Expel him by what method?”

“Inform Batiatus of the matter. As paterfamilias the duty is his. He can compel your slaves to remove him from villa. Or better still that you set your gladiators to the task. Pitch the creature over the cliff to jagged rocks below.”

Lucretia made an exasperated sound.

“Suggestions beyond all reason dearest Ilithyia! Mantilus is Hieronymus’s man. It would cause outrage.”

“Then ask Hieronymus to leave. The creature will depart with his master.”

“Impossible. Quintus would forbid it. And what of Marcus Crassus? Should we dispense with his favor as well?”

Ilithyia curled her lip-a momentary re-emergence of the spiteful child.

“You do not have his favor.”

“Not yet perhaps. But to do as you suggest, would be to render it unattainable.”

Ilithyia pouted.

“This is insufferable! The creature should pay for its insolence.”

“It spoke not a word in our direction,” Lucretia pointed out.

“It stuck out its tongue at us! Its serpent’s tongue.”

“At you and me? Are you certain? Remember that it is blind, Ilithyia.”

Ilithyia looked unconvinced. Lowering her voice, she said, “It gives appearance of blindness. But perhaps it sees with other than eyes.”

Both women shuddered in unison. At that moment Naevia appeared in the doorway.

“What is it?” Lucretia asked.

“Dominus sent me. He requests presence, domina. For presentation of gladiators.”

Ilithyia raised her eyebrows.

“Perhaps gleaming muscle will provide protection against magic. Particularly if Crixus is among them,” she murmured unguardedly.

Lucretia felt her cheeks flush. She gave Ilithyia a withering look. “Perhaps,” she said. “His loyalty is comfort against any provocation.”

“I assumed no more,” Ilithyia said, her eyes wide and innocent.

Lucretia grunted and stood up.

“Will you return with me?”

“And face the snake again?”

“Cower here if you wish.”

With a weary groan Ilithyia hauled herself upright.

“I will come. We will stand together in defiance of the creature’s wrath.”

“I’m flattered that you risk body and mind for sake of friendship,” Lucretia said wryly.

“What else to risk it for?”

“Perhaps promise of oiled muscles and stiff … bearing?”

Ilithyia gave a tinkling laugh and finished her wine with a single swallow.

“You possess persuasive reasoning,” she admitted.

Batiatus had taken center stage, his guests gathered around him. With a goblet of wine in one hand, and his other upraised like an orator addressing the Senate, he looked in his element.

“Friends, honored guests, citizens of Capua,” he cried, barely slurring his words, “gratitude for gracing the House of Batiatus with venerated presence this evening. I am certain that you will join in welcoming the noble Hieronymus to our humble city, made arcadian by his presence, and in congratulations for recent victory in the arena-a triumph made more impressive by being the opening engagement of noble friend’s ludus. In inflicting heavy losses on good Solonius’s stable-” Solonius raised a hand in scant acknowledgement and smiled self-consciously. “-Hieronymus has in single contest made considerable mark upon the arena. He may yet be a fledgling, but already he has spread wings and declared himself an eagle!”

He roared out the last word, sweeping his arm in a flourish. The crowd responded with a cheer and a prolonged round of applause. Hieronymus, ever smiling, bowed over and over, accepting the plaudits.

Batiatus waited for the applause to die down and then continued. “Let us also welcome Marcus Licinius Crassus, hero of the Republic. Who fought so bravely in support of Lucius Cornelius Sulla. His presence overwhelms humble lanista with honor bestowed upon unworthy house. We welcome him to Capua with reverence and gratitude.” Again he flung out his arm, palm flat and fingers spread, to present the tall, dour Roman standing at Hieronymus’s shoulder. “Marcus Licinius Crassus!” he cried.

There was a greater roar this time, and a more sustained round of applause. Crassus accepted the adulation with the barest of nods, as if it was his divine right.

“And now, for the enjoyment of my esteemed guests,” Batiatus said, “I present a selection of my finest gladiators.” He half-turned toward a curtained alcove behind him. “First, Hephaestus, Beast of Abyssinia, scourge of the white sands …”

As Batiatus presented his titans, Lucretia hovered behind him, partly concealed by a column, her hands wrapped around a goblet of wine, as if for comfort. Ilithyia, in turn, lurked at her back, like a shy child taking refuge in the shadow of its mother. From the rapidity of Ilithyia’s hot breath on her bare shoulder, it was clear to Lucretia that the senator’s daughter was even more fearful of Mantilus than she was herself.

Her eyes scanned the crowd, searching for Hieronymus’s attendant, but he was now nowhere to be seen. The patch of wall where he had been standing earlier was now unoccupied, though Lucretia could not quite shake off the notion that the shadows which had clotted there were a manifestation of the darkness he had left behind; shadows which were even now-as Ilithyia had suggested-seeping into the very fabric of her home.

She could not decide whether Mantilus’s current absence was a good thing or a bad thing. She was relieved that those blind eyes were not once again boring into hers, and yet at the same time she was fearful of the possibility that he may suddenly appear at her side, like a phantom, his spindly arms reaching out toward her. She was reminded of the words of Junius Albanus, the husband of a friend of hers from Neapolis-a man, in fact, who had served under Sulla during the Second Mithridatic War. Albanus had spent some time at sea and had regaled Batiatus and herself with stories of man-eating fish whose bodies were the length of five men, and sometimes more. He had told them that when these particular fish were rising from the depths of the ocean the fins on their backs would break the surface of the water like gray sails.

“Setting eyes on such a fin is most fearful sight,” he had said, “but for a sailor in small boat it is not the most dreaded. Worse yet is when the fin descends back into depths, because then you lack knowledge of when and from where the monster will strike.”

Such were Lucretia’s feelings about Mantilus. Her eyes continued to dart about the crowd, looking for some sign of him, as Batiatus, unaware of her trepidation, launched into his final spiel. Already Hephaestus, Varro and Priscus were standing before the crowd, puffing out their chests and flexing their muscles, eliciting envious looks from the men and lascivious ones from the women.

“And now the prize of my collection,” Batiatus was saying. “A warrior whose very name echoes heart and mind. The slayer of mighty Theokoles. The Bringer of Rain. Honored guests, I give you … Spartacus!”

There were exclamations of delight and awe, and a few shrieks of pure, thigh-shuddering lust from the women, as Spartacus strode into the room. As ever, he carried himself with ease, almost with nonchalance, his face set, his blue eyes narrowed and raking the crowd. He refused to play to his audience, seeming more to resemble a bird of prey-poised and watchful-than a snorting bull or a stamping stallion, as did most other gladiators. It was part of his mystique, Lucretia supposed, and therefore part of his appeal-the still surface that hid such depths of savagery and ruthlessness in the arena. She did not trust him, though. His lack of transparency disturbed her. Neither did she like the way he had usurped her lover, Crixus, and put his position in the ludus under threat. As far as she was concerned, the sooner the Thracian was dead and Crixus restored to his rightful place as champion, the better it would be for them all.

Her attention snapped back to the present as all at once she spotted her quarry. At the appearance of Spartacus, Hieronymus and Crassus were forging through the crowd to get a closer look at the Champion of Capua, and there, like a misshapen shadow at his master’s heels, was Mantilus. She drew back into the shadows as Hieronymus and his entourage approached, hoping that the merchant’s attendant would not sense her presence. Behind her Ilithyia gave a little whimper of fear-which was more than ample proof that she had seen Mantilus too.

“So this is the great Spartacus?” Crassus said, wrinkling his nose in apparent disappointment.

Batiatus smiled, but his eyes were hard.

“He stands impressive does he not?”

“I supposed him to be … bigger,” Crassus sniffed.

“He is big where it matters most,” Batiatus declared, grinning at the wave of laughter that his words evoked. In a more serious tone he said, “Spartacus relies not on bulk, but on speed and skill. His strength formidable.” He waved Crassus forward. “Come, good Crassus, feel his muscles and note the resemblance to newly cast iron.”

With apparent reluctance Crassus stepped forward and prodded lightly at Spartacus’s bicep.

“Hmm,” he said. “He is striking enough, I suppose. But I wonder how he would fare against gladiators of Rome. I suspect his time in the arena would be cut woefully short against them.”

Batiatus’s face went taut for a moment, and then he said, “Perhaps one day he will have opportunity to test the speculation.”

“Perhaps,” Crassus murmured. “I desire to witness the manner and method required to cut the Thracian down to size.”

Batiatus smiled stiffly-then took a step back in sudden alarm.

Some of the other guests who had gathered to listen to the exchange stepped back too. The men murmured in consternation and a few of the women released shocked gasps. The reason for their disquiet was the sudden appearance of Mantilus. He had previously been standing behind Hieronymus, all but dwarfed by the merchant’s bulkier frame. Now, however, he stepped-almost slithered-forward, to stand in front of his master, his movements quick and darting as a snake’s. As Batiatus watched, partly uneasy and partly outraged, the scarred attendant stepped right up to Spartacus and began running his hands not over the Thracian’s skin, but rather around it, his palms less than a hand’s-span from the gladiator’s oiled flesh. His lips moved in a silent chant and his head weaved from side to side, as if he was attempting to hypnotize his prey before darting forward in a killing strike. Spartacus, for his part, simply stood stoic and silent, his eyes staring straight ahead, as if oblivious to the man’s attentions.

Trying to keep his voice light and his manner civil, Batiatus turned to Hieronymus.

“What is your slave doing?”

Hieronymus looked amused.

“He is not my slave. He is my attendant.”

“Mere titles,” Batiatus snapped before he could stop himself, earning a glare of disapproval from Crassus. Composing himself, he smiled thinly and said, “I simply wish to know purpose of his actions.”

His eyes dancing, Hieronymus said, “Rest easy, Batiatus. Mantilus is simply taking measure of your man.”

“How does he manage with eyes clouded from vision?”

“He assesses his aura.”

“His aura?”

“It is his … life force. All that makes him what he is. Some would call it his soul.”

Batiatus stepped forward, as if half-prepared to wrench Mantilus away from Spartacus by force if needs be.

“He attempts to steal my Champion’s soul?”

Hieronymus laughed.

“He merely assesses. Measures. Seeks to ascertain what is required for a man to become a champion.”

Still uneasy, Batiatus said, “What is his conclusion?”

“He merely appraises at present, to then reflect upon findings. Don’t be alarmed, good Batiatus. Your man is unharmed.”

Mantilus’s restless hands eventually ceased their twitching dance and drifted slowly to his sides. He did not step back from Spartacus immediately, however. Instead he stood almost nose to nose with the gladiator, and though his eyes were white and blind, he locked his gaze with Spartacus’s own.

Spartacus, for his part, did not flinch. His blue eyes unblinking, he stared impassively back.

It was the clash of swords that roused Crixus. They penetrated his fever dreams like the sweetest music, calling him from slumber. For what seemed an eternity now, he had been lying on the medicus’s slab, barely able to move. The slightest attempt had caused pain to rip through his ravaged body; pain so unbearable that sweat had instantly lathered him each time he had re-awakened it, and a surging river of unconsciousness, like Lethe itself, had coursed through his mind, overwhelming his senses.

For many weeks he had slipped from one infection, and from one fever, to another, surviving only by the strength of his iron will. It was rage and determination that kept him going-the rage of losing his status as Champion of Capua to the upstart Thracian, and the determination that his torn body would knit itself back together, in order that he might eventually return to the arena not only as strong, but even stronger than he had ever been before, and thus regain his rightful position.

By killing Theokoles, Spartacus had saved his life, but Crixus hated him all the same. He would rather have died in glorious combat than survive as the inferior warrior- which is what his once adoring audience now no doubt perceived him to be. “Crixus the Fallen” Ashur had named him with a sneer, a title which Crixus intended to repudiate at the earliest opportunity. Though he little knew it, Ashur had actually done Crixus a favor by mocking him. If nothing else, it would hasten his recovery if only so that he could more swiftly fulfill his ambition of wrapping his hands round the neck of the little Syrian shit and choking the life out of him.

For now, though, Crixus needed to be patient-which he found far from an easy task. Patience was a virtue he held in very short supply. If it hadn’t been for the company and attentions of Naevia he might have lost his mind completely. He wished she could be with him now, but she was up in the villa, tending to the needs of the household, and its guests. Crixus imagined the scene: the notables of Capua stuffing their faces and gulping good wine, while Spartacus, Varro, and the other men of the mark flexed their muscles for the women, and kept the men entertained with demonstration bouts of gladiatorial swordplay.

If Crixus had been less stoic, he would have been weeping tears of anger and frustration now. To him it mattered not that the majority of Romans openly regarded gladiators as little better than performing apes-apes whose lives were of no consequence, and whose spilt blood provided them with nothing but amusement. Crixus was proud to be a gladiator, and he cared not if certain members of society derided him for it. In fact, he secretly believed that those who belittled him in public envied and admired him in private. In his view there was nothing more glorious than stepping out into the arena with your own name, bellowed over and over by a delirious crowd, echoing from the walls around you. A gladiator’s life may often be a short one, but how many men in their lifetimes truly got to know what it felt like to be hailed a hero?

The ludus at this hour was quiet, those who were not performing up above languishing in their cells. The silence was not an easy one, however. Despite Doctore’s stern words, the men were yet fearful, many still believing themselves victims of sorcery. Crixus had never known such an atmosphere pervade the House of Batiatus; it saddened and disgusted him that so many of his brothers had succumbed to dread. He, by contrast, believed himself impervious to fear. If ordered to do so, he would willingly have fought against spirits and shades in the arenas of Hades itself.

His meandering thoughts were interrupted by a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision. Turning his head he was just in time to glimpse a dark shape, silent as a phantom, flitting past the open doorway of the sick room.

“Medicus?” he called.

There was no reply.

Irritably he tried again.

“Medicus! I am in need of water.”

Silence.

His temper getting the better of him, Crixus jammed his elbows against the hard slab beneath him and tried to raise himself into a sitting position. Instantly the wounds in his chest, back and abdomen flared like a spark in dry tinder. He screamed out, as much in frustration as agony, and slumped back. For a moment his head pounded like a drum, and then as the pain ebbed a little he roared out, “Medicus! Crawl from hole like fucking rat!”

This time his summons was answered. Scampering footsteps approached, and then the medicus, a scrawny, sweaty man, eyes raw from sleep, was at his side.

“What is it?” he snapped bad-temperedly.

Crixus scowled. “Come out when fucking called.”

“I am not your slave,” the medicus said.

“You are domina’s slave. And if I die your life will be forfeit.”

“You will not die,” the medicus said, the expression on his face suggesting that this was not altogether a good thing. “You gain strength with passing days. Now you must simply permit healing to take course.”

“I may yet die of thirst,” Crixus retorted, “if repeated calls go ignored.”

“I was sleeping,” the medicus answered. “I have slaved tirelessly over broken body these last weeks. I was merely seeking to redress balance.”

Crixus frowned. “Do not attempt to deceive. I saw you pass by door.”

The medicus gave him an exasperated look.

“When was this?”

“Moments before I called your name.”

“Impossible,” the medicus said, shaking his head. “It was your howl that plucked me from arms of Morpheus.”

“Do not lie to me,” Crixus barked. “I know what my eyes saw.”

“It must have been someone else.”

“Who else wanders the corridors?”

The medicus shrugged.

“Household guard perhaps?”

Crixus dismissed the notion with a sneer.

“They move in pairs, clattering like dice in cup.”

“Well … Doctore then?”

Crixus shook his head.

“In the villa above.”

The medicus threw up his hands.

“Then mysterious figure lies in imagination. Product of fever-dream.”

“My head is clear,” Crixus said. His eyes narrowed. “Someone passed by door. I am certain of it.”

All at once the medicus looked uneasy.

“Out with it,” Crixus growled.

In a hushed voice, eyes sliding toward the open doorway, the medicus said, “You have heard recent mumblings?”

“Of spirits and shades?” Crixus said, and snorted contemptuously. “Feeble-minded gibberish.”

The medicus’s sweaty skin gleamed in the half-light.

“But you saw shape at the door. A walking shadow.”

“I saw something pass.”

“What was it then? A man?”

Crixus hesitated.

“It passed too quickly for certainty. I saw only a dark shape. Perhaps a man.”

The medicus hunched his shoulders and drew in his limbs, like a spider curling into a protective ball.

“What shall we do?”

“I can do nothing,” Crixus said.

The medicus’s eyes widened.

Crixus pressed, “If intruder stalks ludus, and dominus discovers you allowed free passage, what do you think response will be?”

“He need not know,” the medicus whimpered.

Crixus bared his teeth.

“He will know.”

The medicus resembled a trapped animal, fear and resentment fluttering across his features. His eyes darted left and right, as though hunting for a means of escape, and then, as if accepting his fate, he sighed and stood up.

“If Charon awaits beyond this door, be assured my spirit will return to haunt you,” he muttered.

“I shall honor it for its bravery,” Crixus said drily.

The medicus shot him a sour look and sidled away.

Crixus waited, half-expecting to hear a roar of discovery, or perhaps even the sounds of a struggle, or scampering feet, or a scream of pain. However, a few minutes later the medicus returned, licking his lips and looking relieved.

“I saw no one,” he said. “Your brothers sleep sound and gates remain locked. Your mind must have taken flight.”

“Someone was there,” Crixus said firmly. He pondered on it a moment, a frown on his face, and then impatiently he gestured across the room. “But if words are true and ludus empty, then nothing more can be done. Now fetch water before throat crumbles to dust.”

Spartacus feinted and lunged, the sword in his left hand sliding through the gap between Varro’s shield and his sword arm. Varro grunted as the blade, blunted for bouts such as these, jabbed him in the ribs. It was only a glancing blow, however, for as the sword connected, the burly blond Roman was already spinning away, which in turn caused Spartacus to stumble forward slightly at the sudden lack of resistance. Varro sought to gain advantage by sweeping his own sword up and across Spartacus’s midriff, a slashing blow which, in the arena, would have been designed to part the flesh of his opponent’s belly, spilling his guts on to the sand.

Spartacus, though, had not become Champion of Capua by succumbing to such elementary tactics. Even as Varro’s sword was sweeping upward, the sword in the Thracian’s right hand was sweeping down to block it. The clash of blades elicited a ripple of gasps and squeals from the crowd, more so when Spartacus, regaining his balance, turned nimbly and converted defense into attack by striking at Varro’s suddenly exposed legs with his lefthanded sword. Varro winced as the blow-which in the arena would have severed the tendons behind his knee, effectively ending his chance of victory, and therefore his life-drew a stripe of blood across his sweating flesh. He caught Spartacus’s eye and gave an ironic grimace. Spartacus responded with the briefest of winks, though kept his face straight.

Crossing his twin swords in front of him, Spartacus then gave a mighty heave, pushing Varro away. Varro staggered backward, causing a knot of Roman women behind him to squeal in terrified glee. Regaining his balance, Varro rolled his shoulders like a bull and rushed immediately back into the fray, his shield deflecting Spartacus’s parry as the two friends clashed again. There followed a quick exchange of blows and counter-blows, the zing and clash of iron on iron thrumming in the heavily perfumed air.

Spartacus knew that he and Varro were putting on a good show for Batiatus’s guests, but he couldn’t deny that he felt unaccountably tired. His limbs were heavy, his muscles oddly cramped and dense, as if his body was filled with rocks, and the sweat was rolling off him, slick and harsh-smelling.

Varro, too, was suffering, Spartacus could tell. Supremely fit and surprisingly nimble for such a big man, today he was lumbering about the floor like an amateur, his face red as he puffed and gasped, his curly blond hair dark with sweat. Ordinarily his defense work-when he put his mind to it and reined in his natural eagerness to go on the attack-was excellent. On any other day he would not have allowed Spartacus’s sword to bruise his ribs, or to open the wound behind his knee-blows which in the arena could both have proved fatal. As the two men separated again, circling each other warily as though looking for an opening-though in reality using the momentary respite to gather what reserves of strength they could-Varro flashed him a look which Spartacus read immediately: What ails us?

Spartacus blinked-I know not-and then saw a look of weary compliance appear on his friend’s face: Let us end this quickly.

Willing his muscles to respond, Spartacus darted forward, his twin swords moving in a blur, delivering a flurry of thrusts and slashes. Varro countered, blocking one blow after another, the air again ringing with the impact of iron upon iron. The watching audience gasped and clapped in delight, little knowing that the rapid interchange, the skillful and seemingly instinctive display of attack and defense, was carefully orchestrated to elicit maximum dramatic impact from the encounter, but to inflict the minimum amount of damage.

Finally Spartacus feinted and lunged forward, tucking in his head and barging into Varro side-on, using his shoulder as a battering ram. Varro’s arm jerked back, his own shield slamming against his body. Again he staggered, and then slipped in a patch of oily sweat beneath his heel. Unable to regain his balance this time, he crashed to the floor, arms akimbo, exposing his broad chest. Instantly Spartacus leaped on him, knees pinioning his arms, crossed swords at his throat.

There was a moment of silence, a moment when the crowd stood in thrilled anticipation, half-believing that the Thracian Champion would sever his opponent’s head from his body. Then Spartacus relaxed and stood up, shifting both swords to his left hand. He offered his right to Varro, who grasped it and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet. As the crowd applauded in appreciation, Varro gave Spartacus a rueful look, and then clapped him on the back before both men turned to acknowledge their audience.

Spartacus’s gaze shifted to Batiatus, who was applauding along with everyone else and lustily proclaiming at the might and skill of his gladiators. However, when Batiatus caught his eye, Spartacus could see that the lanista was troubled. He raised his eyebrows at Spartacus as if to ask him what was wrong. Spartacus answered him as he had answered Varro, with a blink and the merest twitch of his head: I know not.