by Mark Morris
“The notion unsettles,” Lucretia said. “Solonius’s fallen status makes his worth equal to shit stuck to sandal. Your offer will scrape him off and return him to equal footing.”
“The very temptation he will be unable to resist,” Batiatus countered. “And once he has fulfilled purpose, he will find himself kicked down to earth once more.”
Lucretia narrowed her eyes. The game that her beloved husband was proposing to play was a dangerous one.
“This contest between houses,” she mused. “Who will be editor of them? Who will provide the funding of it?”
Batiatus looked furtive.
“An editor can be found.”
“You propose to pluck one from thin air?” she said. “What if search proves unsuccessful?”
“Then Solonius and I will combine necessary funds,” Batiatus replied evasively.
It was as she had feared.
“This is foolishness, Batiatus. Such laying out of coin will stretch us beyond limit.”
Batiatus waved a dismissive hand.
“For short time only. Once Hieronymus has been bent over and mystery of his powerful friends revealed, all will reverse. And coin will flow back to us without limit.”
“And if Hieronymus is unmoved?”
“He will not be,” Batiatus said bluntly.
Lucretia drew in a breath.
“I hope you speak truth, Batiatus. For sake of this house.”
They fell into a brooding silence, Batiatus resting his elbows on the balcony rail and leaning forward to watch the men training below. He saw Spartacus leap forward, his arms a blur as he swung and thrust with his two swords, using the twin weapons as one. His partner, one of the newer Gauls, tried both to parry with his own sword and protect himself with his shield, but found himself back-pedaling until, eventually, he received a blow to the face and his nose burst with blood.
Batiatus laughed delightedly and banged the rail with both hands as the Gaul sprawled in the sand.
“See how our Thracian performs!” he cried. “A sure sign the gods favor us.”
“The Thracian is a savage,” Lucretia muttered. “He but appears champion, recent fortune cloaking untameable beast. To rest the reputation of this house on the animal’s shoulders is to risk its crumbling.”
Batiatus shot his wife a sour look, but before he could respond a slave hurried on to the balcony, a rolled-up parchment in his hand.
“Dominus,” he said, bowing his head in supplication, “urgent message arrives.”
Batiatus snatched the parchment and read it quickly.
“From Ashur,” he told Lucretia. He read on, and then suddenly glanced up, his eyes dancing with excitement. “Rumor becomes truth. Ashur spies procession of carriages on the Via Appia, two leagues shy of city gates. Hieronymus emerges from hole, and the gods remove cock from mine!”
IV
The narrow, cobbled streets around the gates of Capua thronged with citizens eager to glimpse the new arrival, whoever it may be. As the huge stone arch of the gateway itself came into view, the myriad streets converged on a square, dominated in its center by a fountain, around which the plebeian hordes sat and chattered, eating figs and hunks of coarse bread as though determined to make a day of it.
Batiatus, grimacing at his enforced proximity to the sweating, grimy mass of humanity, looked around, searching for Hieronymus. He spotted him over on the far side of the square, resplendent in a bronze-colored cloak edged with gold trim. He was accompanied by a number of guards, by his scarred attendant, whose name, Ashur had now discovered, was Mantilus, and by Athenais, the Greek beauty, who Hieronymus had snatched from under Batiatus’s nose. Presumably the slave was to be bestowed on this imminent visitor from Rome, the rattle of whose carriages could even now be heard approaching the city gates.
It was not the memory of how the merchant had outbid him over the slave girl that caused Batiatus’s face to harden, however. Silent as an assassin, Ashur appeared seemingly from nowhere and fell into step beside his master.
“Dominus,” he murmured.
Batiatus rounded on him.
“How does that perfumed ape Solonius come to have the ear of Hieronymus?”
The inference was obvious: Ashur had failed in his task to prize Hieronymus from his shell for Batiatus’s manipulations alone. The former gladiator bowed his head in obeisance.
“Dominus, he but gains sliver of advantage. Gleaned solely from lesser distance from city to House of Solonius.”
Batiatus was barely mollified.
“Perhaps this is not good Solonius’s first meeting with Hieronymus,” he hissed.
“If they were acquainted, dominus, I would know it,” Ashur replied.
Batiatus grunted, unconvinced. However, as Solonius glanced his way, a smirk on his thin, rat-like face, Batiatus set his features in an expression of casual indifference and nodded a greeting to his rival.
Solonius nodded back, and then deliberately leaned toward Hieronymus, making a show of murmuring something into the merchant’s ear. Hieronymus nodded, and the two men clasped hands a moment as though sealing a deal. Then Solonius sauntered across to where Batiatus was standing, the latter feigning interest in a bolt of Indian cotton on a nearby market stall.
“Greetings, good Batiatus,” Solonius said, the smirk never leaving his face, nor his voice.
Batiatus turned, blinking, as though preoccupied.
“My old friend Solonius. I hope fortune finds you well, considering recent events in the arena. It cannot be easy for a lanista to recover from such blows.”
Batiatus was referring to the contest, among others, in which Spartacus had first made his entrance. As a Thracian captive, beaten, exhausted and half-starved, he had been sent into the arena as a hunk of living meat for four of Solonius’s finest gladiators to slice asunder. His captor, legatus Gaius Claudius Glaber, had wished to see Spartacus made an example of as revenge for the man’s part in the desertion of Glaber’s legion by an auxiliary of Thracian warriors. The desertion had come about because the Thracians’ main concern had been to defend their villages from the advancing Getae hordes rather than fight against the Greeks for the glory of Rome. Because of the actions of Spartacus and his fellow Thracians, Glaber’s tribune had been slaughtered and Glaber himself, defeated and humiliated, had been forced to return to Rome. Despite the legatus’s desire to see Spartacus dead, however, the Thracian-in full view of Senator Albinius, father of Glaber’s wife, Ilithyia-had somehow prevailed against Solonius’s men, as a result of which Solonius had lost considerable face and status. Spartacus’s reward had been not only life (Glaber had still itched to see the Thracian dead, but Albinius had deemed it unwise to defy the wishes of the crowd baying for Spartacus’s life), but a place in Batiatus’s gladiatorial stable.
Solonius gave a short nod, the sculpted golden curls at the nape of his neck tumbling forward to frame his face. A stiff smile danced briefly across his features as if he wished to give the impression that the episode had been nothing but an amusing inconvenience.
“In an odd way, Spartacus’s victory favored me that day,” he murmured. “Losing the patronage of Albinius enabled me to gain that of one far greater.”
“How lucky for you,” Batiatus said casually, and wafted the fly-whisk in his hand. “It gladdens heart to know fortune’s abandonment of your cause was not permanent.”
Solonius half-turned and gestured across the square.
“You have heard of Hieronymus have you not? Most of proper standing know of him.”
“We made brief acquaintance,” Batiatus said, raising his eyebrows distractedly as if the meeting had been of little import. “A trader and money changer of Greek origin.”
“Those crafts are but seeds from which his vines have spread far and wide. He holds no small influence in Rome, and ambitions far exceeding even current lofty status.”
Batiatus glanced cursorily at the merchant.
“I wish him well.” Then he looked thoughtful,
as if a casual idea had just that moment struck him. “Is it his intention to reside in Capua?”
“He made purchase of house south of city, close to banks of the Volturnus, with much land added to the transaction. It surprises that a man of your status was not aware of such widely known developments.”
There was a bite of satisfaction to Solonius’s tone which Batiatus pretended not to hear. Once again he lazily wafted the fly-whisk.
“I have been too taken with affairs of my own to indulge in idle prattle. The wearisome but necessary distraction of success.”
“Your burdens ease presently,” Solonius said cuttingly.
Once again Batiatus glanced with apparent casualness toward where Hieronymus and his entourage waited by the gate. “This merchant with new residence in Capua. Perhaps we can bury rancor and see mutual burden of flowing coin,” he suggested.
Solonius looked amused. “Your mind schemes to aid someone not possessing name Batiatus?”
“Only to further in restoration of House of Solonius, with receipt of mutual benefit. It grieves to see suffering by brother of esteemed craft.”
“Your concern lifts spirit,” Solonius said drily. “What do you propose?”
“Contest between two houses. A welcome extended to good Hieronymus, in hopes that his fortune will extend far beyond his walls.”
“A venture requiring substantial sum,” Solonius mused.
“If talk of the man’s influence in Rome is true, ultimate reward will outweigh momentary loss.”
“A bold plan,” Solonius said thoughtfully.
Trying to rein in his eagerness, Batiatus said, “One to set in motion, with your assent.”
Solonius looked his rival directly in the eye.
“Nothing would give greater pleasure, good Batiatus, than to see enrichment shared with cherished friend,” he said. He hesitated, waiting for hope to spring into Batiatus’s eyes before allowing a note of regret- albeit one that failed to completely mask the smugness beneath-to creep into his voice. “Alas, I fear offer is revealed too late. Contest is already agreed upon between House of Solonius and Hieronymus.”
Batiatus stiffened. Solonius continued.
“It seems demands upon House of Batiatus divert ear from glorious news: Hieronymus establishes ludus here in Capua. The venture newly born but Hieronymus wishes to see it take bold step. Wondrous contest staged to mark arrival of dignified guest, with my ludus chosen to bear honor of pitting my gladiators against his newly acquired stock.”
“Excellent news indeed,” Batiatus said, biting back his own humiliation. “Hieronymus displays wise judgement in selection of opponents for his novice recruits.”
Solonius’s lips twitched in satisfaction. “Of course you must attend as honored guest, with invitation extended to enchanted wife as well. I would see the House of Batiatus witness model of spectacle.”
“Invitation received with burst of gratitude,” Batiatus muttered, his final word drowned out by a sudden surge of interest in the crowd as the large double gates of the city swung open with a squeal of metal.
The lead carriage, the first of the procession whose clattering approach had been steadily increasing in volume during Batiatus’s exchange with Solonius, rumbled into the square. As it came to a halt the crowd surged forward, and were unceremoniously shoved back by the soldiers at the gate. Only when order had been restored-though admittedly not without a few bruises and bloodied heads — did the door of the carriage open and a man step out.
He was tall and imperious-looking, carrying himself with the arrogance and authority of one who was used to superiority in both rank and status. He was in his forties, his face handsome but stern, his eyes narrow beneath heavy brows. The instant Batiatus laid eyes on the man his mouth went dry, though he tried not to betray a flicker of emotion beneath Solonius’s searching, slightly mocking gaze.
He knew full well who Hieronymus’s visitor was, though; all those of rank in the Republic would have recognized him, and many of the common citizens besides.
This was Marcus Licinius Crassus, the Roman general who had commanded the right wing of Sulla’s army at the Battle of the Colline Gate. He was currently a nobleman with designs on the praetorship, and with a fortune estimated at over two hundred million sesterces, was rumored to be the richest man in all Rome!
With a roar of anger Batiatus snatched up the first thing that came to hand-a small ointment flask in the shape of a hare-and hurled it at Ashur. Ashur ducked, throwing up an arm to protect himself, and the flask bounced off his shoulder. Next, Batiatus grabbed an inkpot from his desk and threw that too. It hit Ashur in the midriff, spattering his tunic and the floor with ink.
“That leathery shit!” Batiatus raged.
Hesitantly, Ashur said, “Solonius’s maneuver due merely to chance opportunity, dominus. He was not-”
“Fuck chance!” Batiatus yelled. “I care not how arrangement was brokered. Your incompetence sees that little cunt use my back as fucking step towards richest man in the Republic!”
“Solonius’s fortunes may yet reverse, dominus. Were he to meet with accident …”
“See addled brain returned to head. Fingers would point to this house if injury came to Solonius quick upon heels of his fondling rich Greek. We must keep hands clean of blood, reputation unstained. Any attempt we make will be one possessing stealth.”
“Of course, dominus,” Ashur said humbly. “Apologies. Anguish at predicament led me to speak in haste.”
“If actions had been as swift as tongue, I would be raising cup with Marcus Crassus at present.”
Approaching footsteps announced the arrival of Lucretia. She glanced at Ashur and then at her husband.
“Outburst reached ear in bed chamber. What new wound has been inflicted?”
Batiatus slumped into the chair behind his desk, his anger spent.
“One whose pain will linger. Your husband bested by foul Solonius.”
Lucretia stared hard at Batiatus for a moment, and then glanced at Ashur and the ink on the floor.
“Leave us,” she snarled. “Send someone to clean fucking mess.”
“Domina,” Ashur mumbled and scurried away.
Lucretia crossed to Batiatus and dabbled her fingers in his hair.
“Unburden mind with the telling of its troubles,” she said gently.
Batiatus reached up, placed his hand over the back of hers and turned his head to kiss her palm. With a sigh he recounted his encounter with Solonius in the square and the arrival of Marcus Crassus.
“Marcus Crassus!” Lucretia gasped, her eyes sparkling with greed.
“So near, yet beyond our reach,” Batiatus said sourly.
“And yet perhaps not. Solonius has slithered next to the man but he also presents opportunity for us to mend injury and brush him aside.” Lucretia allowed her hand to snake down her husband’s thigh and beneath his tunic. She grasped his cock, making him gasp, and began to squeeze and pull the flaccid organ until she felt it stiffening in her palm.
“He invites us merely to flaunt new-found status,” Batiatus said, and gasped again, raising his hips to further aid the accelerating rhythm of his wife’s hand.
“And while boasts tumble from his mouth,” Lucretia said, “my lips will form smiles as you find advantage in proximity to Crassus.”
“To draw attentions away from Solonius?”
Her hand pumped harder.
“Crassus is eager advocate of games is he not? Witnessing contest with Solonius’s meager stock would be but thin gruel against more desirable feast. With the mighty slayer of Theokoles the tantalizing main dish.”
Batiatus tilted his head back and bit his lip.
“My wife stashes away distrust for Spartacus to broach sly plan. The thought brushes aside dark clouds hovering above husband, parting skies.”
This last word was accompanied by a grunt and a final spasmodic thrust of the hips. Batiatus’s seed spurted from his cock, hitting the tiled floor in a thin white s
treak.
As he slumped back into his chair, his eyelids drooping heavily, a slave appeared in the doorway, a tiny Egyptian girl of fifteen or sixteen, her budding breasts exposed.
Lucretia rearranged her husband’s tunic and kissed him on the lips, a wickedly crooked smile on her face as she addressed the slave. “Your presence well timed to see floor cleaned.” She turned eyes back to Batiatus. “I trust I set mind?”
“You fucking did,” he murmured.
Ashur suspected that Naevia was to blame. In fact, he was almost certain of it. It was the only method by which news of his humiliation at the hands of Batiatus could have reached the ludus with such speed. The instant he arrived in the baths, after descending the stone steps from the villa and passing through the metal gates which separated the two worlds, the jibes began.
Varro was the first to speak. The flaxen-haired Roman, a grin splitting his face from ear to ear, raised his eyebrows and remarked, “Ashur comes to scrape away failure and wash taste of shit dumped from dominus’s ass.”
Ashur frowned. The matching grins on the faces of the other gladiators easing their aching muscles in the steam of the bath house informed him that he was the butt of some as yet unspoken joke. Even so, he could not prevent himself rising to the bait, albeit with a barb of his own.
“I merely come for whiff of company no longer kept. To remind Ashur of rank odor now replaced by sweet scents of villa above.”
There was a ripple of hoots and sniggers, albeit of contempt rather than admiration. Varro glanced around at his fellows, still grinning.
“His barbs stand as limp as crippled leg. And foul cock.”
Laughter echoed around the stone-walled chamber. Even Spartacus, who had had little to laugh about in recent days, and who had never indulged in the childish, often cruel victimization of the newer recruits like that pig Crixus, had a smile on his face. Ashur gritted his teeth in a grin to indicate that he was happy to play along with the humor of the men.
Then Duro, one of the German brothers, pointed at the ink stains on his tunic.
