Spartacus: Morituri

IX

“Good Batiatus!” Hieronymus cried, greeting his rival lanista like a long-lost friend. “I hope you fare well.”

“Never better,” Batiatus replied heartily, mustering a grin.

“The heart gladdens to hear it. Your presence has been missed of late. I feared some misfortune had assaulted you.”

“Nothing could be wider of the mark,” Batiatus said glibly. “Affairs of business steal hours, preparations for these games taking their share of course.”

Hieronymus acknowledged the explanation with an exaggerated nod of the head.

“Blood surges in anticipation of fierce contest,” he admitted gleefully.

“As does mine,” Batiatus replied, and glanced beyond the merchant to the white-clad form of Marcus Crassus, staring almost glumly at the currently pristine expanse of sand beneath the pulvinus-sand which soon enough would be stained and spattered with the blood and severed body parts of today’s combatants. Raising his voice, Batiatus asked, “How do you find the Capuan summer, good Crassus?”

Crassus glanced round, seemingly reluctantly.

“I enjoy attentions of exemplary host,” he said, bestowing a stiff smile upon Hieronymus, “but admit to hankering for civilized environs of Rome.”

Batiatus nodded stiffly and took his place beside Hieronymus in the front row of the pulvinus.

Lucretia, tight-lipped and pale with tension, slipped into the seat behind him. Fanning herself, she acknowledged Hieronymus’s murmured greeting and asked a slave for water. As she sipped it she glanced nervously around, and then eventually asked, “Does your attendant Mantilus join us today?”

Hieronymus wafted extravagantly toward the arena.

“He takes his place below, in company with my warriors.”

Batiatus was surprised.

“He is your doctore, as well as your attendant?”

“He satisfies … spiritual requirements of the men,” Hieronymus said with a smile.

“A modern approach,” Batiatus half-joked, evoking a polite chuckle from his fellow lanista. When he glanced over his shoulder at Lucretia, however, he saw his own unease reflected in his wife’s eyes.

The sun blazed down, baking the sand of the arena, but in the cells and corridors beneath the amphitheater itself, the stone walls were cool, even damp to the touch. The area was a hive of activity, gladiators donning their armor and going through their pre-fight rituals. Some practiced their moves, concentration etched on their faces; others merely prowled like tigers, restless for the games to begin. Some lay on stone slabs whilst their muscles were massaged with perfumed oils; others offered prayers to their gods, or simply sat alone in silent contemplation.

Spartacus and Varro sat side by side on a stone bench, conversing quietly. As they had been selected for today’s primus they would be last to take to the sands, and as such had a wait of several hours ahead of them before their eventual crowd-pleasing entrance into the arena.

“How stands your strength?” Varro asked.

Spartacus held out his fist and clenched it. Seemingly dissatisfied with the result, he said, “Sura would say that it lies time for the gods to determine. Today I place myself in their hands.”

Varro breathed out hard through his nose.

“Not exactly words of comfort, my friend.”

“If you wish for comfort, you should have it in the arms of a woman before hour in arena.”

“And drain strength yet further? Unwise advice prior to contest.”

Spartacus chuckled, and Varro along with him. Yet despite the big Roman’s characteristic good humor, Spartacus could see that his friend was worried. He reached out and squeezed Varro’s shoulder.

“Together we shall find strength to defeat our opponents. I will not see Aurelia a widow this day.”

For a moment Varro looked too moved by Spartacus’s words to speak, and then suddenly he smiled.

“You are good friend, Spartacus-for a simple Thracian.”

Spartacus laughed.

Standing alone just inside the gate through which the gladiators made their entrance into the arena, Oenomaus basked in the hot smell of blood and the roar of the crowd. Staring through the diamond-shaped grille onto the gore-streaked sand brought back memories of his own fighting days-the glory and the adrenaline, the sense of being raised to such a pinnacle by the adulation of the people that a man could be made to believe he had the power to walk among the gods.

Today, though, Oenomaus felt far from that elevated position. The dream in which he had been visited by his nemesis, Theokoles, and his beloved wife, Melitta, still clung to him like a shroud. Though he was not a man given to flights of fancy, he could not help but think that it had been significant somehow-a message perhaps, warning him that those around him were not all that they seemed, or that dark days were on their way. If he did not feel so tired and confused, then perhaps the message would become clearer. But his distracted thoughts felt merely an extension of the mysterious aching lethargy in his bones that made him feel as old and slow as some of the former slaves he saw begging on the streets, cruelly discarded by their masters because they could no longer perform the duties required of them. At present it was only his own pride and indomitable will that enabled him to rise from his bed day after day, and to cajole the men through the rigorous routines required to give them a chance of continuing survival within the arena.

However, though Oenomaus had kept shouting at them, kept pushing them, kept cracking his whip, it had become abundantly plain to him as the days progressed that he was fighting a losing battle. Despite this he had vowed to himself that he would not succumb-that it was not in his nature to do so. Instead he would forge on with every ounce of strength at his disposal, in the stubborn belief that eventually, together, they would all break through the invisible barrier to the other side, or die trying. What angered him, and disappointed him, was that so few of the men seemed to share his conviction and determination. There was Spartacus, of course, the hardheaded but untrustworthy Thracian. And Varro, who was strong as a bull, but lacked finesse. There was Crixus, but he was currently incapacitated by injury. And there was the German, Agron, who was single-minded, fierce and brave, but whose progress thus far had been hampered by his less able brother, Duro.

But now that the Carthaginian, loyal Barca, had apparently procured his freedom (although the abruptness of his departure niggled at Oenomaus like an aching tooth), those four were perhaps the only men of the ludus on whom he could truly rely to give of their best, despite the reduced circumstances in which they currently found themselves. It was a troubling situation, but one from which he hoped the House of Batiatus might ultimately prosper. Sometimes it took a crisis to reveal the true nature of a warrior’s-or in this case an entire ludus’s — strengths and weaknesses, and sometimes a quick cull was more beneficial in the long run than a slow and lengthy decline.

Such was Oenomaus’s state of mind as he looked out at the sand, already streaked by the blood of beasts slain for the audience’s amusement, and readied himself to watch the preliminary bouts of today’s contest. Already the first of the gladiators were out, the cheers or jeers of the crowd ringing in their ears as they were announced by their respective lanistae. In moments the games proper would begin, and the House of Batiatus would rise or fall by the sword as surely as the men who fought in its name.

Sensing rather than hearing a presence behind him, Oenomaus half-turned his head. Even as he did so, he knew that if the newcomer had been an assassin he would have been dead by now, such was the rate at which his reflexes had slowed these past weeks. Although he was relieved to see that the man shuffling into view behind him apparently meant him no immediate harm, he found his presence less than welcoming all the same. In the shadows of the tunnel, the pale eyes of Hieronymus’s attendant, Mantilus, seemed to glow like white fire.

“Do you require aid to locate pulvinus, where your master sits?” Oenomaus asked him, refusing to be intimidated.

Mantilus ignored him, inclining his head only slightly to indicate that he was aware of Oenomaus’s presence.

“This area is for gladiators and the men who instruct them,” Oenomaus said, narrowing his eyes as Mantilus approached. The man appeared to be whispering or chanting quietly to himself, and Oenomaus found the constant movement of his pierced and purple lips disconcerting. However, with the bellowing of the crowd and the clashing impact of iron weapons beyond the gate drowning out all lesser sounds, it was impossible to ascertain whether the scarred attendant was making any noise.

Despite himself, Oenomaus took a step back from Mantilus as the man came level with him. He did not believe all the recent talk of sorcery, but he could not deny that to be touched by the man, to feel his long-fingered hands scuttling over his skin, would be a loathsome prospect. He had faced more fearsome foes in the arena, and yet there was something about this creature-some indefinable quality beyond even his bizarre appearance- that was oddly discomfiting. Even so, if Oenomaus had known for certain that Mantilus was responsible for the current reduced state of the men in his care-even if he discovered that the attendant was using dark abilities hitherto unknown, and possibly bestowed by evil spirits- he would have had no hesitation in striking the man down where he stood, or dying in the attempt.

He watched, distastefully and suspiciously, as Mantilus walked up to the vast gates leading into the arena and pressed his wiry body against one of them. He reached up his scarred hands and curled his fingers through the bars, the movement reminding Oenomaus unpleasantly of a vine curling its fronds through the stonework of an old building, widening cracks and undermining the structure. He was even more perturbed by the way that Mantilus pressed his face to the cross-hatched bars, still mouthing his silent imprecations.

It was as if he was casting spells, Oenomaus thought. As if he was attempting to influence proceedings in the arena with the potency of words alone.

Batiatus winced as another of his gladiators crashed to the ground. Spiculus, a Massylian from eastern Numidia, who had only recently passed the Final Test, had been too slow to dodge the net cast by Hieronymus’s lithe, lank-haired retiarius. Now he was desperately trying to untangle himself as the netman closed in, hefting his trident. Spiculus’s gladius was just out of his reach, having flown from his hand when he had fallen, and all he currently had to defend himself with was his rectangular shield.

“Come on you flailing shit,” Batiatus muttered, watching from the balcony, as Spiculus frantically kicked his legs and tore at the net with his free hand. But the Massylian warrior only seemed to be entangling himself still further by his efforts. The retiarius circled him slowly, a wild beast moving in for the kill.

Finally the retiarius sprang forward, jabbing down with his trident. Desperately Spiculus raised his shield to meet it and the three lethal prongs clanged against the metal, scoring deep scratches on its surface. The retiarius feinted, and came again, and this time his trident pierced the side of Spiculus’s thigh. The murmillo howled in pain and instantly extended two fingers in the familiar gesture of surrender. The crowd booed and jeered, and Batiatus closed his eyes. Hieronymus reached over and patted him on the shoulder, then stood up.

Now it was at the crowd’s behest whether Spiculus lived or died. From their reaction, Batiatus was certain what their response would be. Sure enough, the still-jeering mob gave him the thumbs down, and Hieronymus nodded to the waiting retiarius. Batiatus looked away, not out of squeamishness but because he had no wish to see yet more of his hard-earned coin draining away, as Hieronymus’s man leaped forward and buried his trident in Spiculus’s throat.

The crowd screamed out in blood-lust and wild approval as Spiculus’s body bucked and jerked for a few moments, then became still. The retiarius strode forward and wrenched his trident from Spiculus’s throat, releasing an arterial spray of blood. As he prowled the arena, roaring in victory, holding aloft the weapon which had ended the Numidian murmillo’s life, Hieronymus leaned in to address Batiatus.

“Most unfortunate,” he said consolingly. “Your man showed early promise.”

Batiatus clenched his teeth in a rictus grin.

“Simple mistakes merely indicated his lack of experience. Your warriors fight well, good Hieronymus. A credit to your training methods.”

Hieronymus raised a hand, accepting the compliment with easy grace.

“I will not deny a certain eye for talented prospects, but I cannot claim full credit. Good Crassus here has been generous enough to bestow his experience in battle.”

“You have feeling for work of a doctore?” Batiatus called across to the Roman nobleman a little sourly, earning a surreptitious poke in the back from Lucretia sitting behind him.

Crassus turned, his face deadpan, his gray eyes brimming with scorn.

“It affords amusement to act as Hieronymus’s tactician — only in advisory capacity of course. A mere passing of the time.”

“Of course,” Batiatus replied, his voice equally cold. “Forgive my tone if it leaned to implication of anything but.”

Crassus remained silent, regarding Batiatus with the stare of a butcher wondering how best to slice and present a slaughtered beast.

“Crassus only adds to sound methods already employed within ludus. Mantilus stands a great source assuring victory,” Hieronymus said, smoothing over the momentary awkwardness.

“Your spiritual attendant, for lack of better description,” Batiatus muttered.

“Indeed. His ministrations most beneficial to me and my gladiators.”

Batiatus nodded curtly and called for water, more as a way of excusing himself from the conversation than because he really needed a drink. He could not deny, however, that his throat was dry and that he was sweating profusely, a condition that was more endemic of his present predicament than of the heat of the day.

So far his gladiators had lost five of the six bouts in which they had competed. His sole victors, and lucky ones at that, had been the German brothers, Agron and Duro, both of whom had sustained injuries that would see them under the care of the medicus for some time. The street prattle of Capua had been mostly true- Hieronymus’s men were savage, wild-eyed and often reckless-but under more normal circumstances Batiatus would still have been confident that the skill, speed and finesse of his own stable would have been more than a match for their raw ferocity. But as Batiatus had feared, the recent problems within his ludus had taken their toll, and like Solonius’s fighters before them, his men were badly out of sorts-lacking in strength, slow to react and unable to concentrate.

“Who stands eager to step to sands for next match?” Hieronymus asked as Spiculus’s remains were pierced with a large hook and dragged from the arena.

Batiatus watched as fresh sand was strewn over the blood that had gushed from the body of his defeated man.

“Tetraides,” he muttered glumly. “Who hails from same land as you, good Hieronymus. A Greek, fighting as provocator.”

Spartacus was lying on the desert sand, vultures wheeling overhead. The merciless white disk of the sun was baking his body, his skin a deep, angry red in the unbearable heat, but he couldn’t move. He tried stretching out a hand, but it was impossibly heavy, as though invisible weights were pressing down upon it. There was blood on his fingers, and when his gaze shifted (even the tiniest muscle-twitch needed to adjust his vision was an effort) he saw that there was blood on his body too-that his entire chest and stomach was coated with it.

It was oozing from a wound just beneath his breast bone, from the same wound, in fact, that had killed Sura. With one savage thrust the blade had pierced Sura’s flesh, grated against the bone of her rib cage, and punctured her heart. Spartacus understood that because Sura’s heart and his own were as one, the killing blow had ended not only her life, but his also. And though he yet breathed, he knew also that he was dead already, and that all he could do now was watch as his and Sura’s life, slick and red- so red that it hurt his eyes-pumped out of him.

Soon we shall be together, he thought, and through the pain the thought comforted him.

Then his eyes shifted again and he saw her approaching across the sand, the sun at her back turning her into a shimmering silhouette. He watched her grow larger in his vision, and finally he blinked as she bent toward him, blocking out the sun.

“Spartacus,” she whispered, reaching out and shaking his shoulder.

He frowned, his lips barely moving. That is not my name.

She shook him again.

“Spartacus.”

Anger and distress leaped in him. He glared at her, betrayal in his eyes. That is not-

“-my name!”

It was cold, dark; the sun was gone. He jerked upright, the sound of the words he had just shouted still echoing in the air. He looked around, momentarily confused. Saw stone walls, and a stone floor strewn with reeds and sand. He could smell blood and sweat and oil. Someone was leaning over him-not Sura, but Varro.

Varro’s voice was soft in the dimness, his blond hair catching the light from the barred window overhead.

“You wake from dream, Spartacus,” he said. “It is nearly time. For the primus.” Varro’s hand was cool on his hot flesh. “Our moment of glory-or of death.”

Tetraides swung the short sword in his hand, a downward blow intended to slice through the visored helmet of his opponent and cleave his skull. The smaller, quicker gladiator, however, fighting as a thraex with a curved sica, flung up his shield, which bore the motif of an eagle battling a snake, and deflected Tetraides’s lumbering attack.

The broad-shouldered Greek, cumbersome in his heavy armor, staggered slightly as his sword skidded from the surface of the thraex’s shield. The thraex took advantage of the Greek’s momentary lack of balance to spin and strike upward with his sica. The blade sliced between the pectoral, protecting Tetraides’s chest, and the greave, protecting his left leg, finding the soft flesh just above his hip. Tetraides cried out as the sica parted the skin there in a neat slash, blood spraying from the wound and speckling the sand.

It was not a serious injury, but for a moment Tetraides’s vision grayed over. Already debilitated by the sickness sweeping through Batiatus’s ludus-a sickness which Tetraides still attributed to necromancy, despite dominus’s order to speak no more of the matter-the provocator’s armor that enclosed him felt constrictive and claustrophobic, limiting his movements. Usually he was grateful for the extra protection, particularly the visored helmet, which extended over his shoulders, but today he felt as though his head was encased in a bear trap, heavy and stifling, and stinking of hot iron and his own feverish sweat. Out in the baking heat of the arena, he felt as though he was gliding not through air, but wading through water. His opponent, by contrast, seemed to flit and buzz around him like a fly, stinging him at will.

Although it was a ludicrous notion, Tetraides would have liked nothing more at that moment than to sink to the ground and submit to the arms of Morpheus. He was so exhausted that he could barely keep his eyes open, and not even the knowledge that his life was at stake seemed to provide him with the extra boost of energy that he needed. Even so, he continued to lumber after his opponent, swinging his sword, only vaguely aware of how much the crowd was laughing and jeering at him. Their reaction was due to the fact that each time he lunged at the thraex, having pinned him in his sights, his blade would encounter only empty air, the thraex having subsequently leaped nimbly out of his way.

Occasionally the thraex would dart beneath his defenses and nick him with his sica, drawing blood. To the watching crowd it seemed as if the thraex could leap in and make the killing blow whenever he chose, but for now he seemed content to simply circle the big Greek, like a lethal predator tormenting prey that was double its size and weight, in the hope of gradually wearing it down.

Up in the pulvinus, Batiatus could hardly bear to watch. He used his hand to shade his eyes in embarrassment, flinching each time he heard a fresh burst of laughter from the massed hordes.

“I fear my thraex toys with your provocator for the merriment of the crowd,” Hieronymus said sympathetically. “I hope he ends torment soon. It would be unbecoming to draw out the contest to absurdity.”

“Your words travel to him,” Crassus muttered. “It appears he sets to the task.”

Wearily Batiatus raised his head, bracing himself for the inevitable.

Tetraides was so exhausted he could barely lift his sword. He lumbered in circles, his opponent now no more than a dark, fleeting shape in his peripheral vision. Sweat poured down his face inside his helmet, blinding him, and his breath echoed stertorously in his ears. Together with the pounding of his heart as it pumped blood through his veins, the sound drowned out the derision of the crowd-a small but tender mercy.

From the corner of his eye he saw a shadowy figure suddenly dart at him, and swung his sword toward it. As the blade swished once again through empty air, he became aware of a stinging sensation in his abdomen. Next moment the stinging became a sort of dragging, followed by the strange and altogether more unpleasant feeling of something thick and wet and slippery sliding down his legs. Tetraides looked down, and was astonished to see fat, pink-gray ropes of intestine, carried on a small waterfall of blood, surging from a wide rent in his belly. The intestines slipped over his sandaled feet and spilled across the sand, like a mass of blind snakes trying to escape from a box. As the last of his strength drained out of him and his head began to fill with dizzy, buzzing blackness, Tetraides dropped his sword and his shield, and toppled over backward on to the sand. He felt no pain. He felt nothing but the irresistible desire to sleep. As his opponent stood over him, sword poised to deliver the killing blow, Tetraides closed his eyes.

When the arena was once again clear, the cornus sounded out their fanfare. As Marcus Crassus rose to his feet, the crowd quietened expectantly. The tall, austere Roman stood for a moment, his gaze sweeping the arena, waiting for complete silence. When he had it, he slowly raised a hand.

“Citizens of Capua! Brothers of Rome!” he began, his voice carrying easily despite the fact that he seemed to be making no particular effort to raise it to a shout. “As visitor to revered city, I am honored to present final event of esteemed games! A battle of blood and sand, for ultimate glory! An opportunity for old legends to die and new ones to rise from their ashes!”

Standing in the shadows of the tunnel, waiting to face the long walk toward the huge iron gates at its far end, and out into the cauldron of the arena, Varro turned to Spartacus and raised an eyebrow.

“The great Crassus does not favor our chances,” he said.

“I will take great pleasure in disappointing nobleman of Rome,” Spartacus muttered.

They listened as Crassus first introduced Hieronymus’s men-a hoplomachus said to hail from Thrace, like Spartacus himself, and a secutor from Syria.

“Conserve energy,” Oenomaus’s low voice said from behind them. “Use guile and allow Hieronymus’s novices to expend their own. The secutor is quick but undisciplined, his companion no more than lumbering oaf with head thick as rock.”

“Like all Thracians,” Varro said, grinning at Spartacus.

Spartacus’s lips twitched, but he rolled his eyes to the sky as though to convey the fact that the comment was beneath his consideration.

“If you stood as yourselves, full in strength and vigor, victory would be snatched in but quick moment,” Oenomaus continued, “but present circumstances even the odds. Despite the appearance of leveling, these flailing savages are not fit to receive honor of primus. They would prove champions lacking all worth, such that Rome would rejoice at Capua’s plummet from greatness. Do not permit such shameful outcome.”

“We will not fall,” Spartacus muttered.

Varro nodded grimly.

“My brother speaks for us both.”

Oenomaus clapped them on the backs and pushed them forward. As they walked toward the gate, guards on the other side dragged them slowly open in readiness. Up in the pulvinus they could hear Marcus Crassus coming to the end of his introductions.

“… from house of Quintus Lentulus Batiatus, I give you Varro, son of Rome. Joined in primus by the current Champion of Capua. Behold … Spartacus!”

The announcement was half-hearted, lacking true drama, but as Spartacus marched out in to the arena, the crowd released a full-blooded roar and began to chant his name. Varro raised his sword in acknowledgement, but Spartacus was unmoved by their adulation. He cared little for glory. Now that Sura was gone he cared little even for life. He fought only to repay Batiatus for attempting to reunite him with his wife-and indeed, for doing so for a last, precious moment-and because Sura would not have wanted him to simply give up and die.

Striding to the middle of the arena with Varro beside him, he assessed his opponents, his gaze unwavering. He could tell at a glance that Doctore had been right. Hieronymus’s men were snarling and prowling like wild animals, barely able to contain their desire to engage Spartacus and Varro in battle. The eyes glittering through their helmets looked black and crazed, and their hairy bodies were matted with dirt and sweat. To be an effective gladiator, Spartacus knew that you had to have both a clear head and a measure of self-discipline. It was more than evident that these men lacked both.

He turned to face the pulvinus, staring up at Marcus Crassus unflinchingly. Crassus stared back at him with evident distaste. And then, almost casually, he flapped a hand.

“Begin!”

Immediately, like wild dogs let off the leash, Hieronymus’s men came for them. As Doctore had said, the secutor was fast and agile as an ape. He wore an egg-shaped helmet with round eye-holes and carried a large rectangular shield and a stabbing sword. The hoplomachus lumbering in his wake was clearly a veteran of many battles, his body criss-crossed with a multitude of long-healed scars. The man was armed with a long spear in one hand and protected by a small, round shield, which he held in the other. A short sword was tucked into his belt for short-range work.

The secutor targeted Varro and ran at him, screeching. Unperturbed, Varro, fighting as murmillo, raised his shield and calmly fended off his opponent’s initial attack flurry. The air rang with the clang of iron on iron as Varro, concentrating hard, adjusted his feet and his shield arm to face each fresh blow, effectively creating a shell around himself.

Eventually, after slashing and stabbing at Varro perhaps thirty times or more without connecting, the secutor backed off for a short rest, panting so loudly his tongue might be lolling from his mouth behind his blankfaced helmet.

The hoplomachus, meanwhile, closed in on Spartacus. It was the same as Varro’s situation, though reversed-a bigger, slower opponent against a smaller, more agile one.

Not that Spartacus was feeling particularly agile today. His limbs felt tired and strangely hollow, and his mind, normally so sharp in assessing his opponent’s intentions, seemed to be stuffed with heat and dust, dulling his thoughts.

Armed with two swords and without the protection of a shield, he had to rely on his guile and experience. He lowered himself into a crouching stance to make himself less of a target as the hoplomachus approached, spear raised above his head in readiness to strike.

Suddenly he did strike, his arm jabbing down. Spartacus heard the crowd gasp as he flung himself to one side, the point of the spear whistling past his left ear. Spartacus rolled in the sand-a move he had practiced many times before-and sprang back to his feet. Usually he would perform the maneuver with no ill-effects, but today his heart pounded with the effort of it and his head swam for a moment, black and red shapes jittering in his vision.

He blinked and re-focused. The hoplomachus was turning slowly, coming for him again. Before he had time to raise his spear, Spartacus leaped forward, ducking under his defenses and slashing at him with the sword in his right hand. The hoplomachus lowered his shield, but Spartacus’s sword sneaked underneath it, slicing through the greave protecting the bulky gladiator’s left leg and drawing first blood. It was nothing but a minor injury, but the crowd whooped in delight. Spartacus backed up, wiping sweat from his face with his forearm, breathing hard to regain and conserve his energy.

Unable to restrain himself, Batiatus jumped to his feet and instinctively punched the air.

“Yes!” he cried, before realizing that Crassus was regarding him with disdainful amusement.

“You appear desperate, as hungry dog leaping upon scraps,” the Roman muttered.

Batiatus lowered his fist and tried to remain aloof.

“I merely rejoice at grace of a true champion. His first blow one of beauty, to be followed by many of like appearance.”

“We shall see,” Crassus replied with a thin smile.

The bout became a cat and mouse contest, Hieronymus’s men launching wave upon wave of attack, and Spartacus and Varro having to use all their skill and experience to fend them off. There would be flurries of action, followed by increasingly longer periods where both pairs of gladiators would circle one another warily, weapons poised, looking for a vital opening.

After a while the crowd inevitably began to get restless, but Spartacus didn’t care. He was not here to please them-he had never been interested in pleasing them. He was concerned only with keeping himself and Varro alive.

And Doctore’s tactics were working. Slowly but surely Hieronymus’ s men were tiring, taking longer and longer after each attack to recoup their strength. The secutor was panting like a frustrated dog, his body streaming with sweat, and the hoplomachus was noticeably slower than he had been at the start of the contest, and starting to leave gaps in his defenses.

True, Spartacus and Varro were tired too, but only fractionally more than they had been when they had first walked out onto the sand. For them, it was simply a case of keeping their concentration and standing their ground, wearing down their opponents, and looking to capitalize on any mistakes …

Spartacus knew the game was changing when he saw Hieronymus’s men turn and nod to one another. Next moment they attacked again, but this time they switched, the secutor leaping forward to engage Spartacus, the hoplomachus targeting Varro.

Spartacus, without a shield, backed away rapidly as the secutor slashed and stabbed at him with his sword. Gritting his teeth against the ache in his muscles, Spartacus forced his arms to work quickly, the paths of the two swords he was clenching crossing and counter-crossing to create a defensive barrier as effective as any shield.

He knew he could only keep this up for so long, though. He couldn’t backpedal permanently-eventually he would have to go on the attack, and that would leave him vulnerable.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw something flash through the air. He glanced to his left, and saw the hoplomachus’s spear arcing toward Varro. For a hoplomachus to release his most valuable weapon at such a stage of a contest usually meant one of only two things: either he was tiring and therefore taking a gamble, or he was inexperienced and had allowed his impatience to get the better of him.

Spartacus thought that in this case it was probably a little bit of both. As long as the spear did not find its target, then this latest development could only be to his and Varro’s advantage.

But then Varro cried out, and Spartacus’s heart clenched. However, he was unable to check on his friend’s condition immediately-he was too busy fighting off the secutor, who after a short pause had moved in for a fresh attack. The other gladiator was bolder this time, close enough for Spartacus to smell his rank breath, even through his helmet. Clearly Hieronymus’s man was sensing victory, and eager to close the contest.

Too eager.

Spartacus coaxed him in, chose his moment-and then, gritting his teeth and drawing on every ounce of strength in his beleaguered body, slashed upward with the sword in his left hand. Immediately, instinctively, the secutor lowered his shield to block the blow-which gave Spartacus just enough room and time to pick his spot, then ram his righthanded sword, point first, up into the gap between the secutor’s throat and the rim of his helmet.

The blade traveled up through the bottom of the secutor’s jaw, sliced his tongue in two and punctured his soft palate. Barely impeded by these obstacles, it continued up between his startled eyes and skewered his brain. Finally it forced its way out through the roof of his skull, splintering it like a clay pot as it did so, and slammed into the underside of the gladiator’s helmet with such force that it flew from his head and landed with a heavy thump on the sand more than ten feet away. As the legs of the already-dead secutor crumpled beneath him, Spartacus jerked back, pulling his sword from the man’s head in a geyser of blood and brain matter.

Once again Batiatus’s response up in the pulvinus was one of unrestrained joy. Leaping from his seat, he rushed to the edge of the balcony and leaned over it, cheering as loudly as any in the crowd. When he turned to Hieronymus and Crassus, his eyes were shining with savage glee.

“Note the speed and instinct of a true champion!” he bellowed gloatingly. “My Thracian a wonder, without equal! One would find it hard to deny that he is blessed by the gods.”

Crassus regarded him without expression.

“The bout is not yet over,” he remarked drily.

“In minutes its end will arrive,” Batiatus scoffed, forgetting himself in his excitement and relief. “Spartacus will see it hastened.”

“I fear your celebrations premature,” Hieronymus said, his smile fixed and his voice dripping with sympathy. “Your man is down.”

Batiatus’s look of triumph was replaced by one of alarm and he turned his eyes once again towards the arena.

What Hieronymus had said was true. Batiatus’s man was down. However, it was not Spartacus he had been referring to, but Varro. The cheers of the crowd were still echoing around Spartacus, but he barely heard them. Exhausted, but powered by the anxiety he felt for his friend, he spun round, fearful of what he might see. Varro was on his back on the sand thirty feet away, blood gushing from a deep wound in his left bicep. He had dropped his shield, and was desperately defending himself against his bulky opponent, who was standing over him, hacking down at him with the short, heavy sword he had pulled from his belt. For the moment Varro was fending him off with his own sword, but he was clearly tiring, his teeth clenched and his body lathered in blood and sweat. The killing blow was only moments away. With a roar that, rather than draining his energy, propelled him forward, Spartacus ran toward the two fighters.

He had hoped that his yell might give the hoplomachus pause, even distract him for a moment, but the big gladiator continued his bludgeoning attack as though oblivious to everything but the wounded man at his feet. Spartacus heard Varro let out a further grunt of pain as the Roman parried another hacking blow, only for his opponent’s sword to slide down the length of his own and pierce his leg. Again it was not a serious wound, but Spartacus knew that the more blood his friend lost the weaker he would become. Sensing victory, the hoplomachus stepped back and raised his sword above his head in both hands to deliver the killing stroke. Varro could do nothing but lie there, his own sword raised ineffectually in his rapidly weakening grip, as Hieronymus’s man made ready to split his skull.

Drawing back his own arm to its full extent, Spartacus hurled the sword in his right hand like a javelin. He had hoped that the tactic might buy him just a few more seconds, but in fact it proved infinitely more effective than that. The sword flashed through the air like a streak of light, its blood-smeared blade reflecting the sun, and buried itself deep in the hoplomachus’s back. His spine severed, the gladiator staggered for a moment, and then his legs simply gave way and he crashed to the ground in a billowing cloud of sand.

Ignoring Lucretia’s muttered urgings to show restraint, Batiatus threw back his head and let loose a peal of almost maniacal laughter. He knew it would win him no favor with his illustrious opponents, but he couldn’t help himself. Thanks to Spartacus, his house was saved, his fortune and honor retained.

Raising her voice above her husband’s less than gracious reaction to what was effectively the culmination of the bout, Lucretia said smoothly, “Please forgive husband. His passion is both strength and weakness. He means no offense by it.”

Though Hieronymus was still smiling, his face had stiffened into a rictus mask.

“Be assured, good Lucretia, none is taken. Gratitude to the House of Batiatus for a fine contest.”

Crassus crooked an eyebrow.

“I suppose your Thracian fought well,” he murmured.

Lucretia bowed her head modestly, accepting the halfhearted plaudits on her husband’s behalf.

Still grinning, Batiatus nodded too.

“Well enough to remain Champion of Capua. A title which he shall not easily relinquish.” He gestured expansively towards the arena. “And now let us watch him put final end to contest.”

Varro looked up at Spartacus in amazement. Spartacus caught his eye and gave him a single brief nod. Instantly understanding the meaning behind the gesture, Varro clambered painfully to his feet and limped over to the prone Thracian giant. The man was not moaning in fear or pain, as many gladiators who were staring mortality in the face would have been doing, but snorting and growling like an angry boar. Even now he was trying in vain to heave himself to his feet, his huge hands, empty of sword and shield, clenching and unclenching.

Without preamble, Varro raised his sword in both hands and rammed it down into the center of the hoplomachus’s chest. Bright red blood-heart blood- spurted up in an arc, spattering his face and his blond hair. The dying gladiator gave a final, convulsive heave, and then slumped back, his right foot jittering for a moment before becoming still. Varro stumbled backward, and might have fallen if Spartacus had not been there to grab his hand and raise it skyward.

The crowd bellowed its approval, the men jumping up and down and punching the air, the women screeching and shaking their bared breasts. After a moment the crowd took up a chant, more and more people joining in until it was booming around the amphitheater:

“SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!”

Though Varro looked on the point of unconsciousness, his face broke into a smile.

“I may be mistaken, but I think they favor you,” he said drily.