He leaned in close, grabbing Verres’s arm forcefully.
“Only moments remain before crowd is lost,” Batiatus hissed. “Trust me, and be remembered as hero. Ignore me, and be forgotten absent virtue.”
“Something occurs,” Spartacus said, “on the balcony.”
“They speak of my fate,” Medea said. “Verres wants my death at your hand.”
“We serve and obey,” Varro said coldly, reaching for his sword.
“You will die-!” she spat, crouching ready to spring.
“It will not come to that,” Spartacus said. “It appears Batiatus will have his way.”
Verres pulled his hand away from Batiatus.
“Do what you will,” he spat. “I tire of this appeasement.”
Batiatus leapt up onto the band’s podium, his hands raised for silence.
“People of Neapolis,” he bellowed to the crowd, “you have seen a great warrior fight today!”
The audience roared in response.
“With hands alone, she began this day sentenced to death by beasts. But the gods, and two brave horsemen have intervened. In recognition of her prowess in the arena, and in a further test of her fighting spirit, noble Gaius Verres, editor of these games, decrees that her sentence should be commuted, ad gladium!”
He waved at the cheering crowd, grinning broadly, and gestured with careful deference to Verres, inviting further applause for the governor’s apparent wisdom. Verres rose and acknowledged the cheers with a half-hearted wave of his arm, sneaking a gulp of wine from the goblet in his other hand. He shook his head in resignation and sat heavily back in his chair.
“Ad gladium? Put ‘to the sword’?” Verres hissed. “We are going to have her killed anyway?”
“After a fashion,” Lucretia said, “her fate is put to the sword. She will fight and die another day.”
XI
PRIMUS
THE FIRST OF THEM WAS CLAD IN THE LONG DARK ROBE OF Charon, the skeletal boatman of the dead on the River Styx. He clutched a long pole, as if for punting his legendary vessel, and wore a bright white mask that showed nothing but the bare features of a human skull. The crowd acknowledged his arrival with a series of old gags-mutterings about friends and relatives due to meet him on the river, or pleas to be left alone until the end of the games. Charon played along, venturing close to the stands to point and leer at the front row, inviting their derision and their fear.
He found an old man in the eastern corner, and prodded at him experimentally with his stick.
“Not yet!” his victim laughed, batting away the punting pole. “You will see me soon enough.”
Charon held out a hand painted black with dots of white to signify human bones. He rubbed his fingers together as if demanding payment for the ferryman. The crowd laughed and jeered, and someone threw an apple core at him. The missile bounced comically off his head, and the ferryman looked left and right, then behind him in a pantomime of irritation.
Charon did no lifting, his presence merely signified the arrival of his minions, the harenarii-cleaners and sandmen, who marched briskly into the amphitheater to drag away the dead and the dying. Even as the boatman of the Styx taunted the crowd, and clowned beneath their debris, the cleaners dragged a cart into the center of the arena, hurling the bodies of man and beast alike onto it. Several lions, a smattering of rabbits, and the visceral remains of several human beings. Too big to lift, the corpse of the fallen horse was swiftly wrapped in chains and towed behind the cart as the cleaners dragged it from the arena.
A second cart of harenarii, pulled by two burly slaves yoked to the front, began a fast trot from the center of the arena, spiraling outward in ever widening circles, toward the arena’s edge. Piled high with fresh sand, the cart spread a new layer on top of the sticky wet residue of the morning’s combat. Their efforts seemed artificially effective-the sand was of bright, sun-bleached yellow, not the drab gray local ash it covered. The cart finally reached the outer edge, scooping up Charon as it went past.
The ferryman climbed aboard, brandishing his staff at the crowd in mock anger, pointing at various hapless individuals among them, as if to say that they were next for a journey aboard his boat. The cart made its final exit, leaving the arena decorated with a wide swirl of new sand, the underlay now forming a dark spiral within the lighter one.
“A pleasing effect,” Cicero said, looking over at the freshly sanded arena, “Resembling pattern of snail’s shell in sand.”
“It will not long be so arranged,” Batiatus said with a frown. “Effect ruined by gladiator’s first kick. ”
“By then, all eyes will be on fighting once more,” Verres said dismissively. “With only the primus of the day remaining.”
“Perhaps your skills as editor are more advanced than claimed,” Batiatus said generously.
He clinked his goblet apologetically against that of Verres.
“The credit is not ours,” Timarchides said. “A development pioneered by Pelorus himself when deal was struck with lanistae in Carthage’s new colony.”
“A deal? For what?” Batiatus asked.
“Sand,” Timarchides replied.
There were chuckles all around the balcony as the assembled dignitaries took this in.
“Truly?” Cicero asked. “This Pelorus sold sand to Africans?”
“In truth,” Timarchides explained, “Pelorus sent cartfuls of Neapolitan ash across with the grain ships as ballast. When they returned, he asked for a similar measure of local sand.”
There was a communal sigh of understanding.
“Making such effect possible in both arenas. Carthage gets a new color, and Neapolis also,” Cicero said, approvingly.
“Good Cicero,” Batiatus laughed, “your care seems greater for the aesthetics of grounds-keeping than for sport itself.”
Cicero shrugged.
“Are you surprised?” he said with a smile.
“All part of the great drama,” Batiatus replied.
“If you want drama, attend the theater!” Verres declared.
“A theater is mere semi-circle,” Batiatus scoffed, “the crowd seated around the stage, witnessing story unfold. But the amphitheater enfolds drama at its center. It offers no respite, no chance of hidden surprise. Its audience bears witness to the most real and most visceral of dramas-the struggle for life itself.”
“You have clearly given thought,” Cicero said.
“The lanista is witness to the age, an architect of combat affirming and echoing concerns of the crowd itself,” Batiatus stated. “When Rome struggled to contend with Hannibal and his elephants, the arena played out our victory before it even happened, as crowds bore witness to the defeat of men attired as Carthaginians. And when, indeed, Rome proved victorious, so they did in the arena. Just as it revealed the might of the elephants, only to see them set upon and butchered by men of Rome!”
“Batiatus, I proclaim there is nothing proper about what you do, but you do it properly!” Cicero said.
“Both of us merely faithful servants to our profession, Cicero,” Batiatus said.
Cicero patted Batiatus’s arm in approval.
“The arena as instrument for drama and justice. An idea that intrigues me.”
“I am but humble servant,” Batiatus said.
Lucretia looked on as the two men bowed their heads in excited talk.
“Your husband has made a friend,” Ilithyia said.
Lucretia shrugged.
“With a minor quaestor,” she muttered.
“For what reason would Cicero take such sudden interest in games?” Ilithyia wondered.
“I care not if it comes with coin,” Lucretia observed.
“I enquire,” Cicero was saying, “as to the condition of the painted woman.”
“The murderess?”
“The witch of the Getae. A sentence ad gladium, for me, would be as fatal as a sentence of death. But for her, it sustains life.”
“The Getae woman will yet die,
assuredly, she will yet die,” Batiatus said. “Only the day is postponed. She will fight in the arena as often as her owner decrees, against any odds her owner desires.”
“And if she survives such odds?”
“Impossible.”
“Impossible? Who is her owner? Legally, who is her master?”
“You have better legal mind than I. Absent those killed in games, property of Pelorus will be inherited by his heir.”
“And which man holds that honor?”
“Pelorus died intestate, but good Verres holds his testament.”
“He is the familiae emptor?”
“And his intention is to pass all to Timarchides. Apparently the man was on intimate terms with Pelorus.”
“Perhaps I might make purchase of the woman from them,” Cicero said thoughtfully.
“A price unknown if not put to test,” Batiatus pointed out. “The banquet would provide audience for such offer to be made.”
“What banquet?”
“With Pelorus laid to rest, his death purged from our fortunes with bloodshed in his honor, we will replace joy with grief within the walls of his house. A celebration of day renewed and final peace.”
“She will meet death soon enough,” Cicero mused.
“Though she still stands Fortuna blessed,” Batiatus countered.
“It is surely not natural for women to fight.”
“In Africa, in nature-”
“We are not animals, Batiatus,” Cicero said, with a frown.
“No, we are Romans. Even our women fall superior.”
“And what if woman gladiator defeats Roman man?” Cicero said, with a quaestor’s logic.
“Ah…” Batiatus stopped, realizing that there was more to an argument that simply speaking his thoughts aloud.
“Would it not send opposite message, if foreign woman succeeds where Roman men fail? I would see her fail soon. And permanently.”
“But, good Cicero, think only of spectacle were she to be pitted against the most expendable gladiators until novelty was spent. What spectacle could rival that of woman gladiator fighting to the death in the arena?”
“I am yet wary.”
“Because it offends tender sensibilities?” Batiatus laughed.
“Because…” Cicero glanced behind him to make sure that the ladies were out of earshot. “Fighting is men’s work. If women become combative, if they are encouraged by the sight of their sex holding its ground against men, there is no telling what follies they will be led to.”
“Your concern is that gentle Roman women will be turned belligerent by the sight of gladiatrices in the arena?”
“That is my concern.”
“There is danger in teaching any slave to fight. Who knows what else they may learn?”
Batiatus laughed long and loud, but Cicero barely smiled in response.
Spartacus upended a pail of water over his head, washing the grime and sweat of the arena from his body as best he could. He grabbed up a strigil and scraped the dirty water from his body in swift, careful strokes, before grabbing a towel to mop up the rest. It was, habitually, the ritual at the end of a day in the arena. But today, there was still the primus to come.
“The sun is hot today,” Varro said. “Do not forget the oil.”
“And you,” Spartacus said, “wash it from you, lest your sword slip in your hand.”
Barca poked around the weapons in the corner of the changing room, picking out a large double-handed axe.
“Do we fight with theme?” he asked. “Does some literary conceit constrain us?”
“We are free,” Varro replied. “Free to choose whatever weapons we desire.”
Spartacus half-smiled.
“Free,” he said. “As free as ever, within chains!”
“You know my meaning,” Varro said.
“Whom do we fight?” Barca asked.
“Timarchides did not name them,” Spartacus said. “But we fight ten men.”
“Impressive odds,” Barca mused.
“I shall dress as a Greek hoplite,” Varro said. “With spear and sword. Enough to take out foe from a distance.”
“And us only three,” Barca said, scowling.
“Four,” a voice said. They turned to see white teeth and eyes shining from a dark shadow at the gate. The guards opened it and pushed a new figure into their holding cell.
“Bebryx!” Varro said. “You cannot fight-your wounds hinder you!”
“I am a gladiator,” Bebryx said, determination in his voice. “While I live, I fight.”
The African stood proudly, but with his left arm all but dangling at his side.
“We fight ten men,” Spartacus said thoughtfully. “Your presence will be useful, even as distraction.”
“Distraction?” Bebryx spat. “My presence will be useful as killer!”
Barca laughed appreciatively.
“Attire yourself as murmillo,” Spartacus said. “The heavy armor affords better protection with shield to cover wound.”
“A shield tied with extra bindings would restrict movement-” Varro suggested.
“But at least protection will be assured,” Spartacus agreed.
“I need no crutches as though fucking invalid,” Bebryx snarled.
“I seek to prolong your life, in this fight, and the next,” Spartacus said mildly. “Do as I say and survive.”
“And what will you fight with, Champion of Capua?” Barca asked, voice tinged with sarcasm.
Spartacus thought for a moment.
“The twin swords of the dimacherius,” he said. “As with the Shadow of Death.”
As he spoke, Timarchides passed by, a doleful look upon his face. The freedman nodded curtly at Spartacus, and Spartacus leaned as far forward against the bars as he could to watch where he went.
The freedman lurked nervously before the bars of a nearby cell. Shadows from within played on his face, as he addressed the occupants.
“I come to say farewell,” Timarchides said.
There was no response from inside the cell.
“My brothers,” the freedman continued, “let it not end this way.”
Someone threw a helmet at the bars.
“Is there choice?” an angry voice spat. “Perhaps you would like to join us, Timarchides?”
“I do not share your sentence.”
“You shared our fates. You shared our bread. You shared our victories and our defeats.”
“I did, and proudly.”
“And now, we die, while you watch from the pulvinus.”
“Apologies.”
“You apologize for nothing! Where are the rest of our number?”
“Already dead.”
“And you place us here, in the far cells, denied consideration of watching them fall.”
Timarchides looked away awkwardly.
“My hands are tied,” he said.
“They are not!” the man snarled. “You are master now, and we yet slaves.”
“Indeed!” Timarchides said, his eyes narrowing. “I am no longer slave. I bought my freedom. Paid for with hard-won coin, and such is the receipt upon my wooden sword. I labored to avoid a slave’s fate, and purchased that right with Fortuna’s blessing.”
“Fuck you. And fuck Fortuna.”
“Perhaps, Scaeva, you should have spent less coin on wine and whores, and more on saving for your manumission.”
“Mark that well, Varro,” Spartacus murmured quietly to his friend.
Varro frowned at him in confusion.
“There is no talk among them of the love of men,” Spartacus hissed. “Only of freedom freely purchased.”
Down the corridor, the insults still flew.
“I will show you how a gladiator fights.”
Timarchides turned away and strode purposefully back toward the arena steps, with the gladiators’ jeers pursuing him through the corridor.
“You were no fighter!”
“You were no gladiator!”
&nbs
p; “Hoarder!”
“Thief!”
“Coward!”
As he passed Spartacus’s cell, Timarchides tried to turn away, his hand rising to his eyes in an attempt to brush away his tears.
The gladiators of the House of Batiatus walked out to the fanfare of a primus, a mismatched platoon of four, marching beneath the roars of the crowd. Spartacus bore two blades, each with a cruel curve near its point. Barca stood, half naked, swinging the great axe. Varro advanced with the almighty oval shield and crested helmet of a Greek warrior. Bebryx wore the heavy armor of a murmillo, his shield held a little too stiffly, clutched a little too close to his chest.
Their opponents were all attired exactly alike. Ten warriors clutched round shields painted with the two-horned symbol of House Pelorus. Ten hands clutched leaf-shaped swords, dirty and pitiless, each, too, bearing the twin-horned mark on its blade. Ten pairs of greaves, battered and worn, protected shins from low blows.
“So this is the last stand of the House of Pelorus,” Cicero mused.
“Their fate is sealed,” Verres said with a nod. “Though they were gladiators locked in their cells, they were slaves within the house of a master cruelly murdered. They will all die.”
“I confess myself surprised that they play along,” Cicero said.
“Your meaning?”
“Were I a slave, told I would die whatever my actions, I doubt that I would care to put effort into honoring my master.”
“What would you do?”
“Take my own life! Deprive them of opportunity to gain coin from my suffering!”
The other dignitaries chuckled at the thought.
“Spoken like a true Roman,” Verres said with a smile. “That, Cicero, is what separates us from the barbarians.”
“You dismiss matters intricate with too much ease,” Batiatus said. Lucretia shot him a warning look, but he ignored it.
“I would understand your meaning,” Cicero said.
“Gladiators suspected to harbor such self-murdering desires are watched with vigilance,” Batiatus explained. “Prevented from pissing without guard to hand, and absent items by which to harm themselves. A gladiator is stock of great value, and as slave, he has not right to damage what belongs to another. Including himself.”
Spartacus: Swords and Ashes Page 16
