by Mark Morris
“I gather your champion aided in the effort?” Batiatus said, grinning nastily.
Tetraides fingered the still-healing cuts and bruises on his face and his eyes flickered to meet Spartacus’s for a split-second.
“Yes, dominus.”
“It pleases to hear it. Now let us put foolishness behind and set to purpose. Any who poisons air of my ludus with further talk of foul magic will find himself entering arena with hands empty of all but severed cock! Do my words find understanding?”
“Yes, dominus!” the men shouted.
Batiatus nodded in satisfaction.
“A rousing response to greet ears. Let us hope your next visit to the arena elicits equal fervor.” He paused, his gaze sweeping the training yard, as if searching for weaknesses. Finally he said, “After fallow season, it will satisfy warriors hungry for blood to learn that contest has been arranged with the House of Hieronymus. With Solonius’s ill-trained rabble found sadly wanting in recent games, good Hieronymus expresses desire for his stable to take to the sands against real gladiators.” He raised a fist in the air. “We will demonstrate to this unbled virgin that his debut was but false fucking. We will grant him his first! And relieve him of heavy purse in the act! Let us pick apart his ludus so that he will be sent scurrying to market for hasty replacements.” His voice gradually rose until it became a bellow of intent, a call to war. “Let us sweep away opposition and build a fucking empire of blood and glory in this very house! Let our names become legend and make mortal men quake in fear at the speaking of them!”
The cheering was wild and protracted, some of the men even momentarily forgetting their lethargy and jumping up and down. Batiatus grinned down pugnaciously, his arms spread wide as though bathing in hero worship, or even inviting a challenge.
Spartacus, with Varro beside him, applauded just as enthusiastically as the rest of the men-but when he caught his friend’s eye he saw the doubt that was in his heart reflected there too. Sensing another face turned toward him, he saw the same doubt reflected on the face of Oenomaus-and he knew that, if nothing else, this alone was proof enough that despite his lanista’s defiant words, there was still much that was wrong in the House of Batiatus.
Spartacus and Varro sat apart from the others, eating their bread and porridge. The usual banter that rang around the refectory was today absent, replaced only by the sound of spoons clicking and scraping against earthenware bowls and the stolid sound of chewing. Here and there little knots of men spoke in murmurs, their heads together like conspirators afraid of being overheard. Most, however, were silent, staring straight ahead or down into their bowls, as if lost in their own thoughts.
Stealing a glance at Doctore, who was leaning against the wall with his whip curled in his left hand, a brooding, watchful presence, Varro muttered, “I see on your face that you share similar thoughts.”
“Does it display so transparent?” Spartacus asked. “Or perhaps you prove able to read minds now.”
Varro snorted a laugh and shoveled food into his mouth. His voice muffled by porridge, he said, “You think as I do. Upcoming games appear ill-advised.”
“Games are our purpose,” Spartacus said blandly.
Varro gave him a pointed look.
“You deny state of the men makes timing unfortunate?”
Spartacus sighed. “Perhaps it is what’s needed to shake us from present state.”
“Perhaps if such state could be blamed on fatigue needing only spirited exertion to see it gone. But I no longer hold certainty of it.”
“You believe this the result of sorcery?” Spartacus said, gesturing around him with a wave of his spoon.
Varro’s eyes slid away from his friend’s.
“Thoughts stand divided.”
Spartacus was silent for a moment, and then he said, “You heard words spoken by dominus. Such thoughts given voice will not be tolerated.”
“They will not be lent my voice.” Varro’s eyes flickered up to meet Spartacus’s. “How do your thoughts fall on the matter?”
“I do not believe in evil spirits,” Spartacus repeated stubbornly. Then he sighed. “But I do believe explanation eludes us.” He was about to add more when he glanced over Varro’s shoulder-and froze.
“Spartacus?” Varro hissed, alarmed at the expression on his friend’s face. “What worries mind?”
Spartacus tried to reply, but his throat had tightened, strangling his voice. Furthermore the porridge in his mouth had dried to a lump of sticky dust, and a pounding, which he realized was the thump of his own heart in his chest, was growing louder in his ears.
Sura, his dead wife, had entered the mess hall through the open doorway that led into the main part of the ludus. She was leaning now against the wall, as solid and as beautiful as she had been in life. She was looking right at him, her chin tilted back, the expression on her face one of invitation. She licked her lips, her glossy black hair tumbling about her shoulders. Spartacus began to rise from his seat, intending to go to her and take her in his arms.
Varro grabbed his wrist.
“What do you see?”
With an effort Spartacus swallowed the food in his mouth and managed to find his voice.
“Sura,” he croaked. “It is Sura.”
Varro twisted in his seat and looked behind him. After a moment he said, “You are mistaken. There is no one there.”
Spartacus felt a flash of irritation and shook himself free of Varro’s grip.
“She is there,” he said. “I must go to her.”
“No,” Varro said, “you must not. It is but a shade, Spartacus. Either of your own making or some enticement from the underworld. Gather wits and look again. Dominus will punish any who fall prey to visions. As champion, he appoints you set example to the brotherhood.”
Spartacus glanced down at his friend, knowing that what he was saying was true, and yet at the same time annoyed that Varro was puncturing his impossible dream of being reunited with his wife. When he looked up again, however, Sura was gone, as if too fragile to exist in the face of doubt and reason.
Suddenly overcome by a bone-crushing weariness, he released a deep, heart-felt sigh and sank back onto the bench, ignoring Doctore’s enquiring look from across the room.
Varro reached out and clasped Spartacus’s hand briefly in friendship.
“I can merely imagine full extent of your anguish. Be assured it pains to witness suffering of a brother. I am ready with ear should you require it.”
Spartacus nodded gratefully.
“Gratitude. You are good friend, Varro-for a Roman.”
He grinned to show he was joking. Varro adopted an expression of mock outrage. Before he could come up with a cutting riposte, however, there was a scream from across the room.
Spartacus twisted in his seat to see that Felix, whose dreams had tormented him more than most these past nights, had leaped to his feet and was staring down at his bowl in horror. Next second, the young trainee lunged forward and swept it from the table with such force that it flew across the room, shattering against the wall and spraying some of the men sitting nearby with porridge and shards of broken pottery. As they cried out in protest, Felix, his eyes wide and terrified, backed away from the table, scrabbling at his arms and swiping at his naked chest.
“Get them off!” he screamed. “Get them off!”
Doctore strode forward and curled a hand around his shoulder.
“There is nothing-” he began, but Felix twisted in his grip, like a fish on a line, and lashed out at him.
Spartacus knew that for a man whose days in the arena were long behind him, Oenomaus had astonishingly quick reflexes. The Doctore kept himself supremely fit- indeed, he was fitter than most of his younger charges, and still more than a match for the best of the gladiators in Batiatus’s ludus. But like the rest of the men, he too had been debilitated by the recent malaise, as a result of which Felix’s clumsy and instinctive punch connected squarely with his chin, abruptly closing his mouth
with a clack of teeth. There was a gasp of shock from the men as Oenomaus blinked in momentary surprise-and then they saw his face set, the muscles around his jaw tightening in an expression of absolute purpose and barely restrained fury.
Dropping his whip, he sprang forward, and next moment Felix was pinned to the floor, his face pressed into the sandy, dirty stone. Despite this he was still struggling, still screaming, “Get them off! Get them off, I beg of you!”
Oenomaus, perched atop the novice’s body like a spider atop a fly, leaned down and placed his mouth next to Felix’s ear. In his deep, commanding voice he said, “Listen well Felix. There is nothing there. Whatever you see, it exists only in mind.”
“No!” Felix whimpered. “They are on me. I feel them!”
Spartacus had moved forward now, and was standing beside Oenomaus, looking down at the struggling trainee.
“What do you see?” he asked.
“Scorpions,” Felix sobbed. “Black scorpions. Erupting from bowl-thousands of them. Crawling on me.”
Oenomaus looked up at Spartacus, a troubled expression on his face.
“There are no scorpions,” he said firmly. “Heed my words, Felix. Your mind plays tricks.”
Felix’s pinioned body continued to twitch and jerk beneath Oenomaus’s weight, his breath coming in rapid, sobbing gasps. His eyes were frantic, darting everywhere, like those of a rabbit caught in a snare.
“No,” he whispered, “they are here.”
“They are not here,” Oenomaus barked. “Repeat my words. There are no scorpions.”
Felix remained silent.
“Speak the words!” Oenomaus ordered.
“There are … there are no scorpions,” Felix muttered.
“Good. Now repeat these words until you believe them true.”
“There are no scorpions,” Felix whispered. “There are no scorpions. There are no scorpions.”
He repeated the words over and over like a litany as the men stood or sat silently, watching him, their own eyes full not of scorn or amusement, as might ordinarily have been the case, but of doubt and fear. Spartacus glanced at Varro, and saw the anxiety on his friend’s face too.
Men with swords and nets and tridents, ferocious warriors who wanted nothing more than to stab and slash you to death-this was a tangible threat, something easily understood. But an attack such as this-invisible and insidious and impossible to defend against-was something different altogether, and Spartacus could easily understand and sympathize with the terror and uncertainty and disorientation that the men were currently experiencing.
Finally Felix’s body seemed to relax, the twitching and jerking of his trapped limbs settling into immobility. His breathing became less frantic and his eyes began to droop.
“There are no scorpions,” he was still whispering, his voice barely audible now. “There are no scorpions.”
“You find calm?” Oenomaus said.
Felix hesitated a moment, and then nodded.
“And you will hold on to it if I release you?”
Another nod.
“Very well.” Carefully Oenomaus lifted his weight from Felix’s body and stood up. Felix remained on the floor, his cheek pressed to the cold stone, breathing steadily now. Spartacus stepped forward and stretched out a hand, and after a moment Felix rolled slowly on to his back, and then reached out and took it. As Spartacus hauled the young gladiator to his feet, Oenomaus said, “We will speak no more of this. Now eat and then resume-”
Like a motionless hare that suddenly springs to life and bolts away across a field, Felix gave a cry and leaped forward. As he did so he planted one hand on Oenomaus’s chest, one hand on Spartacus’s, and he shoved as hard as he could. Taken by surprise, both men stumbled backward, Oenomaus falling into Tetraides behind him, who raised his hands to steady him, and Spartacus hitting the bench behind him hard with the backs of his knees and abruptly sitting down. Felix, meanwhile, jumped over their outstretched legs and ran at full speed-between the long tables of the open-sided refectory and out on to the training ground.
Once there, he kept running, heading for the opposite side of the practice square, toward the sheer drop on to the uneven slopes of rock and shingle far below. Despite the danger, he gave no indication that he intended to slow his pace, and as he ran he began once again to frantically brush and scrabble at his body.
“Felix!” Doctore bellowed. “I command you to halt!”
But Felix kept running. He seemed to neither know nor care that within seconds he would be plunging to his death.
Belying his heavy limbs, Doctore shoved aside the men inadvertently blocking his path and set off in pursuit of the young trainee. He ran out of the mess hall and into the training square, unfurling his whip as he did so. The rest of the men, Spartacus and Varro among them, surged after him, gathering at the edge of the yard to watch the proceedings. They saw Oenomaus pound to a halt, draw back his arm and then almost casually flick it forward. With a crack the whip unfurled, flying after Felix’s scurrying form like a striking snake, so fast that it was little more than a blur. Almost before Spartacus had time to realize that the whip had found its target and was entwined about Felix’s ankles, Oenomaus was yanking his arm back, like a fisherman with a particularly large catch on the end of his hook. With a grunt, Felix fell, his legs flipping up behind him, his hands sending up a cloud of sand as they impacted with the ground. He lay, panting and helpless, not more than a body’s length from the cliff edge.
Lucretia entered the atrium just as Oenomaus was leaving, escorted by one of the house guards.
“Domina,” Doctore muttered with a short bow, and Lucretia acknowledged him with a nod. As Doctore and the guard marched away, toward the door that opened on to the stone steps leading to the ludus below, Lucretia saw her husband’s head droop, his hand rising to cradle it.
“What unfortunate news troubles my husband?” she asked tentatively.
Batiatus uttered a loud groan and looked up, his face etched with weariness and anger.
“Jupiter’s cock,” he snarled. “Why do the gods offer sweet honey with one hand yet shove shit in face with the other?”
Lucretia sauntered across and reclined on a couch, accepting a grape from a bunch on a salver offered by a slave.
“Surely tongues do not still babble of sorcery?”
Batiatus shook his head.
“I command lips sealed yet still they flap like an old whore’s cunt. Tomorrow offers vital contest in the arena, hard won with substantial sums already expended, and all that will be offered for combat is assemblage of madmen and fucking invalids!” He rounded on a young slave girl. “Bring fucking wine for parched throat!”
As the girl scuttled away, Lucretia asked, “What words fell from Doctore’s lips?”
“Words of fucking destruction! Four more men join Crixus in infirmary, stricken by fever.”
“How could simple fever fell men such as them?”
“Fever stands word too commonplace to tell the story. Their ailment yet remains mystery. Causing unrest to ripple through ludus.”
“What symptoms present to medicus?” Lucretia asked.
Batiatus flapped a dismissive hand.
“They cannot fight! What symptom could stand worse? They grow cunts in place of cock.” Batiatus calmed for a moment. “Doctore speaks of broken sleep, dreams of dire visions forged by fever. Limbs weighed down as if by lead, pains wrapping joints. Some spew wretched mess from every orifice.”
Lucretia sighed. “What of tomorrow then? Do we have men left with strength to fight?”
Batiatus shrugged miserably.
“Swords will be placed in hands of those who stand upright and we will hope for fucking miracle.”
The slave girl reappeared, carrying a tray bearing a jug and two goblets. A slight flush on her cheeks evidenced the fact that she had been hurrying.
“A man could die of thirst within walls of his own house. Did you take route through fucking Rome?” Batiatus
snapped at her.
“Apologies, dominus,” she muttered, the goblets rattling as she trembled.
“Make haste and fill my cup! Must I instruct in everything?”
The girl put down the tray and hastily filled both goblets with wine from the jug. She handed the first to Lucretia, who took it automatically, with no acknowledgement. As the girl approached Batiatus with the second he reached up between her legs and rammed his middle finger inside her. She stifled a gasp of pain even as she uttered it, and tried not to wince, her hands tightening instinctively on the goblet.
Batiatus flashed his teeth in a vicious grin.
“At least she does not spill upon pouring,” he said to Lucretia. “She is not completely absent skill.”
He wiggled the finger that was inside the girl, peering into her face for any reaction. She bit her lip and stared straight ahead, trying to remain expressionless.
Tiring of the game, Batiatus withdrew the finger and wiped it on the girl’s thigh. He took the wine and sipped it, then waved her away.
Lucretia watched this with a bored expression, and then asked, “What of our champion? How does his mind and body fare?”
Batiatus grunted. “He suffers like the rest, but Doctore assures that his will remains strong.”
“Will he prevail against malady enough to set foot upon the arena’s sands?” Lucretia asked, her tone suggesting that she would not be entirely displeased if he didn’t.
Batiatus flashed her a sharp look. “He must-if wife wishes to continue heedless purchase of beloved trinkets and garments.”
Lucretia’s face hardened. “Cruel words from husband’s lips.”
“Apologies, Lucretia. Temper escapes. Much coin rides on this contest.”
“I trust any losses sustained will not tip our house off balance?”
Batiatus’s eyes flickered.
“Don’t conceal from loving wife, Batiatus. We stand united against all trials and I would have you share all knowledge of them,” she demanded, her own eyes narrowing.
He sighed. “The primus is key. Ashur has placed coin to allow for certain losses in the preliminary bouts. Such losses would be undesirable, but would find coin tipped toward the reaping of its return, with victory gained in the primus.”
