by Mark Morris
Spartacus bared his teeth slightly. He lunged.
Oenomaus batted aside the attack with a flick of his sword. In the training square, the crack of wood on wood faded as the other men bearing the Mark of the Brotherhood paused in their training to stand and watch. The new Champion of Capua, slayer of the legendary Theokoles, versus the veteran who had trained them all, and at whose word they lived and fought and died. This was something worth seeing.
Spartacus’s left-hand sword came up on Oenomaus’s unarmed side. It was a fast strike, but not so fast as the first. Oenomaus stepped sideways and it passed through empty air. His own weapon darted upright in his fist and missed Spartacus’s throat by half a handspan.
The two gathered themselves, Spartacus breathing hard, Oenomaus cool and watchful. The sun was going down and the light was fading. A red glow flooded the ludus from the west, long purple shadows sliding across the sand.
“It appears Mars watches exhibition,” Varro said to Felix, one of the newer men. He nodded at the sky and then spat on the ground. “Etching sky in glowing libation.”
Oenomaus and Spartacus circled each other slowly.
Suddenly Spartacus leapt in with a cry, both swords raised, swift as a hawk. One sword cracked off the doctore’s own weapon and the other would have thudded into Oenomaus’s upper thigh had the trainer not twisted with preternatural speed, almost as though he were dancing. His own sword came up and the point swung round to clip Spartacus on the temple, a glancing blow, no more, but the hard wood of the practice weapon opened the skin there, and a trickle of blood fell down the champion’s face like a ribbon, dark in the failing light.
“Good,” Oenomaus said. “You maneuver weapons with admirable skill. But you would do well to hold something back. To preserve for defense.”
“With respect Doctore, you instruct attack with both swords, and now you counsel defense,” Spartacus said, wiping his bloody temple on the back of one forearm.
“I speak not of weapons now. But of mind that controls them. Yours and your opponent’s. His intentions must be as clear to you as your own. If the enemy sees opening, you must see it, sense it before his move is made.” Doctore appraised his fierce student. “You wield with left hand as though it still holds shield. Left foot strides early, giving signal of attack. You must learn balance, to prevent opponent gauging intent from footwork. Employ two feet, as you do two weapons, combining all into one tool of violence.”
Spartacus smiled. “I will find comfort with them all.”
“Dominus arms you to fight as dimachaerus, and so you will. How does your wound fare?”
“It is but scratch.”
“Apply vinegar to soothe.” Oenomaus nodded, and then raised his voice. “Today’s training ends!” He cracked the long bull-hide whip and tossed the practice sword back to Varro. “Eat. Rest. Gather strength,” he cried. “For tomorrow you will work harder!”
The men began to troop into the mess hall, where the cooks had been stirring at the millet and lentil porridge for some time now, the toothsome smell of it drifting over the practice square.
Spartacus looked down at the two wooden swords in his hands.
“Two weapons divide attention,” Oenomaus told him. “Against skilled enemy, the challenge stands greater.”
“I will learn,” Spartacus said. “Future victory assured by the promise.”
Oenomaus nodded. “You are champion now. The honor of this house balanced upon efforts.”
Spartacus stared into his eyes for a moment, and then gave a short nod. “Yes, Doctore.”
Oenomaus coiled up his whip grimly. “As champion you are held as example. Inside the arena or out of it. Failure no option.”
Spartacus touched the blood on his temple. Then he tossed his twin swords onto the sand and walked away.
Oenomaus turned to watch him go, saw his friend Varro slap him on the back as they entered the mess hall together. He peered up at the sky, it was almost dark now and the stars shone overhead in their tens of millions. Below, in the low country about the Volturnus River, Capua had begun to light up also, a thousand lamps burning in shadow.
Oenomaus frowned. He ran his fingers over the coils of his whip, as was his habit, then, finally, walked inside the ludus. The men were already seated at table, and the usual profane ribaldry of the evening had begun, as familiar to his ear as the smell of the porridge was to his nose. This was his home, and would always be so. There was nothing he would not do to protect it from threat, whether it came from within or without.
Scooping water from the plunge-bath with a bronze patera, Spartacus upended it over his head. He gasped, blowing water droplets out of his mouth in a plume of spray, as the cold liquid ran over his shoulders and down his chest, sluicing away the dirt and oil that he had sweated out of his pores. His skin tingled and his heart beat a little faster. He did it again, and then again, feeling increasingly invigorated and refreshed.
Around him the other men were in various stages of the cleansing process-rubbing olive oil into their aching muscles, sitting on hot stone benches in the steam bath to sweat out the day’s dust and grime, or scraping the dirt off their skin with strigils.
The stone walls echoed with banter, but Spartacus, as was usual, kept his own counsel. Because of this some thought him arrogant, unapproachable, even untrustworthy, but this did not concern him. Spartacus desired only to fight, and, one day, die in the arena. Varro was perhaps his only true friend, the big Roman having persisted in engaging Spartacus in conversation even when faced with the Thracian’s initial taciturnity, and his evident antipathy toward Romans.
Varro was seated at the back of the room, his skin glistening with sweat, playing a game of tabula with the big, bearded Greek, Tetraides. Within the hubbub, Spartacus could hear Varro’s easy laughter and the click of bone counters on the board.
A moment later, however, the gentle click of the gaming counters became a tinkling rattle not of one, but of many counters falling to the stone floor and scattering in all directions. This was followed by a more hefty clatter as what was almost certainly the wooden board crashed to the floor, too. Palming water from his face, Spartacus turned, expecting to see one of the two players throwing up his hands in despair at the clumsiness of the other in knocking the game off its stone perch. However, when his eyes came into focus what he saw was Tetraides leaping to his feet, while Varro, who remained seated, looked up at his opponent with a startled expression on his face.
As other men turned toward the source of the commotion, Spartacus saw Varro spread his hands.
“What crawls up ass, Tetraides?” he asked, baffled.
Tetraides was staring down at the counters scattered across the floor, his dark eyes wide with alarm.
“Did you not see it?” he said.
Still Varro looked baffled. “See what, you dense fuck?”
Tetraides did not answer. Instead he staggered, as though wounded and about to collapse, bringing up a hand to cradle his forehead.
From across the room came a bark of laughter. Tetraides’s head snapped up. The perpetrator was a young Syrian, lean and quick with a sly, fox-like face. He was a new recruit to the Brotherhood; so new, in fact, that Varro did not yet even know his name. Tetraides glared at him, his features twisted in fear and loathing. Then, with a bestial roar, he lurched across the room, towards the young Syrian, snatching up a discarded strigil as he did so.
The Syrian leaped to his feet, face hardening in readiness to fight. As Tetraides lunged at him, he ducked beneath the Greek’s swinging arm, his own clenched fist flashing up and crunching into Tetraides’s ribs.
The big Greek, however, seemed to not even feel the blow-he was like a man possessed. He roared again, and then with a speed that clearly surprised the Syrian, he brought up the arm with the strigil and rammed the curved metal end deep into the younger man’s eye. The Syrian screamed as his eyeball burst like a softly boiled egg, spilling down his cheek in a viscous stream of jelly and blood. Teeth cl
enched, Tetraides rammed the strigil deeper into the socket, causing the man to judder and spasm as the metal implement penetrated his brain.
It had all happened so quickly that the Syrian was sliding dead to the floor before anyone had time to react. Most of the men were still shouting out in shock and protest when Tetraides dropped the gore-streaked strigil to the floor and tottered on his heels.
“I feel…” he muttered, and then his legs went from under him and he crumpled to the floor.
Varro, who by now had leaped up from his seat, was the first to reach him. He squatted by Tetraides’s side. Spartacus moved across to join him.
“What causes the man to act as enraged beast?” Spartacus said.
Varro looked shocked and baffled.
“It’s fucking mystery to me. One moment we play game, the next he jumps as though struck by cobra.”
“His eyes pin back in his head,” Spartacus said. “Help me remove him to cooler air of his cell.”
He pushed his arms beneath Tetraides’s armpits, bent his elbows and hauled the unconscious Greek up into a sitting position. Varro grabbed the man’s ankles, and between them they carried the big, bearded gladiator from the room, the shocked babble of the rest of the men echoing around them.
They carried Tetraides into his cell and propped him up against the wall. Spartacus then went back to the bathhouse and filled the patera he had been using with cold water. He returned to the cell and poured it unceremoniously over the Greek’s head. Tetraides shuddered and coughed, and then his rolling eyes steadied and cleared.
“What is this place?” he said, looking around. “Do I find myself in Hades?”
Varro’s face was grim.
“Not far off the mark. But it is your cell. Tetraides, you were…” he hesitated, “…overcome by heat in the bath. What does your mind last recall?”
Tetraides blinked at him. “Not heat. No. It was …” his voice trailed off.
“What did you see?” Spartacus asked.
Tetraides reached out a trembling hand.
“A vision,” he said. “One that I would not care to see again.”
Varro glanced at Spartacus, a disturbed expression on his face.
“What kind of vision?”
“The counters,” Tetraides muttered. His whole body trembled now, and his eyes were avid. “The game counters. Darkness leaking from them. Darkness and death … and then …” his eyes widened.
“Speak,” Spartacus muttered.
“A shade,” Tetraides whispered. “Harbinger of doom.” He looked at them fearfully. “I felt urge to send it back to Hades from whence it came. Did I succeed? Tell me what I did …”
“You look low of spirit,” Crixus said as Oenomaus entered the medicus’s bay. The big Gaul, former Champion of Capua, was flat on his back swathed in bandages, and beside him the slave-girl Naevia sat spooning porridge into his mouth.
Crixus was the only man in the care of the medicus at present, for there had been no important bouts or festivals, or even a munus, since he and Spartacus had fought Theokoles and the rains had come. The Gaul had been slashed apart in that epic contest and was a long, slow time healing. A lesser man would have surely died.
Oenomaus pulled up a stool and sat down beside Crixus.
“Needless death falls upon ludus this day. Novice gladiator killed by the hand of the Greek, Tetraides.”
Crixus absorbed the news with a shrug.
“Training carries risk. If it were not so, a quick end would come in the arena instead.”
“This was not result of training.” Quickly Oenomaus told Crixus what had happened.
Again Crixus shrugged.
“The Greek will be punished.”
Oenomaus shook his head.
“Batiatus will not satisfy his rage with Tetraides’s life. The Greek will pay through coin won in the arena.”
“And if Tetraides falls before debt is paid?”
Oenomaus smiled grimly and made a rare joke.
“I hold no doubt that dominus will find profit in it. Even if left with Tetraides’s carcass to proffer meat for dogs at market.”
Crixus laughed, and Oenomaus’s grin widened, his teeth flashing white in the lamplit gloom of the infirmary.
“It soothes troubled mind to see strength and spirits return,” the doctore said. He glanced at Naevia, the beautiful slave girl, who had been administering to Crixus’s needs. “Surely aided by dutiful attendants.”
Blushing, Naevia stood up.
“Domina does not like me to linger. I must go.”
Crixus caught her arm, his meaty fist engulfing it.
“I would have you stay longer yet.”
“Work in the villa awaits me. And additional company stands by your side.” She hesitated and smiled down on him. “I will return tomorrow.”
The Gaul’s eyes followed her all of the way out of the chamber. When she had disappeared, he stared at the beams of the ceiling and some light seemed to go out of him.
“Her attention appears to deliver mending,” Oenomaus said, gentle amusement in his eyes.
Crixus’s good humor, however, seemed to have evaporated with Naevia’s departure.
“Only to see me awaken to world of shit. The Thracian fuck standing atop it, my victories earned in the arena forgotten by all.”
“Not by all,” Doctore replied quietly. “They hold fast in my memory.”
Crixus cast his eyes to Oenomaus.
“The sentiment appreciated. But memories will not knit flesh to see me upon the sands.”
“Stay such thoughts. Preserve strength, for the day will come when you reclaim your place.”
Crixus nodded, seeming to take strength from the words.
“I long for the day to wield sword again. And knock the Thracian from undeserved position.”
“I will lend voice to the cheering crowd on that day,” Oenomaus replied. “Spartacus may be Champion of Capua by name, but his heart holds no loyalty to this ludus. His thoughts still drift elsewhere. I find no perch to rest trust upon him.”
“Trust that I will stand over him, sword at his throat.”
“I believe in the promise of it.” Oenomaus paused in his thoughts. “Yet consider that you stood well together against Theokoles. When you fought as one. A fact not be dismissed.”
Disgust filled Crixus’s face. “You raise spirits only to sweep them away. Counseling me to regard him as brother.”
“He bears the mark, as you do. Perhaps he will come to place belief in it with the passing of time. And the fading of memories.” Oenomaus’s face clouded. “It is no small thing to lose a wife. As I know too well.”
Crixus shifted slightly on his hard bed, wincing at the pain it caused him, uncomfortable at the sight of his doctore’s pain.
“I will set mind to healing while Spartacus occupies my spot on the sand. Soon, he will relinquish it.”
“I would lay coin toward it, if the habit were mine,” Doctore said with a soft smile. He gripped Crixus’s fist in his own for a moment, and then rose.
“Rumors fill the villa about someone of note rumored to soon grace Capua. A man with an eye toward games, if Ashur’s telling of it is true.”
“I would not put stock in anything that falls from the limping shit’s mouth,” Crixus said contemptuously.
“I stand the same towards him. Yet if he speaks truth in this, this ludus will profit. Now, rest and grow strong. The House of Batiatus will have need of Crixus.”
Naevia padded up the stone steps from the ludus to the villa above. When the light grew around her again, it revealed an entirely different world.
Triple-armed lamps hung flickering at intervals, their light gleaming on polished bronze. The tiles were cool underfoot, patterned in shadowed colors, and the walls were brightly painted. There was the sound of a fountain, for with the rains and monies from recent games, the atrium had been restored to its former splendor. The pool was full and the fountain played in the middle, its tumbling a
rcs of water glittering with moonlight from the night sky above.
A slave scurried past her, whispered, “A storm comes,” and then was gone. She bore a bright blond wig on a wooden stand and her bare feet made scarcely a sound on the tiles.
Naevia took a breath and then followed in the slave’s wake. The domina had a series of cubicula set back from the atrium. These she used for dressing, sleeping and entertaining close friends. The house slaves were trooping in and out of one of these now, and Naevia heard a cry of frustration and the slap of flesh being struck.
“Worthless bitch! Send Naevia to me! Where is she? The mere holding of a mirror results in dent upon it. Can not one of you accomplish task as ordered?”
A red-eyed slave girl crawled out of the cubiculum on her hands and knees, a welt rising on her cheek. Naevia stepped past her.
“Domina?”
“Naevia, tend to fucking wig. Thirty sesterces and it looks as if clipped from horse’s tail.” She turned blazing eyes to a slave bowed in the corner. “Fill cup with wine absent spilling or see yourself sent below for the beasts to have their way with.”
Lucretia’s attendants fluttered around her like butterflies, but Naevia stood calm in their midst and patiently adjusted the blonde wig on her mistress’s head. Lucretia regarded herself in the polished bronze mirror, tilting it against the light. She took her cup from the tray the trembling slave held and appeared somewhat mollified by Naevia’s presence.
“They lack your composure. Market whores, all of them. The wig, it sits well by your hand. I would have you share thoughts toward my coloring.”
“Perhaps a little stibium, domina.”
“Of course. Flavia, apply with hand held steady.”
A young girl leaned forward and painted the outlines of Lucretia’s eyes with a black brush. When she straightened, there was sweat trickling down her throat. Lucretia regarded herself appraisingly in the mirror once again.
“The judging of it impossible in such light,” she muttered. A sigh issued from Lucretia. “That will do for now. Flavia, set wine and food for Batiatus’s return. A jug of Falernian. He will desire only the best after long day in town.”
