by Mark Morris
“And if Spartacus were to fall?”
“Spartacus will not fall with the strength of Varro to prop him. The two of them fight together.”
She waved away this minor detail.
“You evade pressing question.”
Batiatus sighed again, more deeply this time, and took a swallow of wine to fortify himself.
“The future of the House of Batiatus rests on their shoulders. Solonius falls from esteem but he stands blessed by reserve coin, deep as Neptune’s cock plunges. Such surplus not to be found in this house. If our losses match his-” he waved a hand, his face a mask of misery “-all around you would be forfeit.”
Lucretia looked at her husband in horror. And then she looked around her-at her painted walls, her mosaic floor, her attendant slaves. She looked at the wine in her goblet and considered hurling it in her husband’s face. Instead she gripped the vessel tighter, as if someone was already trying to prize it from her fingers.
“Fighting the men in such state, against such odds, appears folly,” she hissed. “You must be prudent in light of disorder falling upon house. If means could be found to withdraw from games …”
“There are no such means and I would not make effort to seek them if they proved available,” Batiatus said, stone-faced.
She closed her eyes briefly. Her voice cracking a little, she said, “To be reliant on the unruly Thracian …”
“Spartacus will prevail. He is Champion of Capua favored by the gods. Hieronymus’s rabble will be as cattle to my wolf. Even blunted by illness he will prove too much for them.”
“You speak with confidence unearned,” Lucretia muttered drily.
“I speak the truth as it’s been revealed to us. Spartacus has yet to fail us,” Batiatus countered.
“And what of this talk of Morituri? The prattle of street gossip reaches ears,” she said in response to her husband’s surprised expression. “Tongues whisper of training akin to torture, for the breeding of bloodthirsty animals in lieu of men.”
Batiatus shrugged contemptuously.
“If idle gossip contains truth, then victory is yet assured. Animals attack absent thought.”
“And absent fear,” Lucretia pointed out.
Another shrug.
“Have you witnessed Spartacus retreat in fear? The feeling is beyond him, and he stands gripped by skill and cunning.” He flapped a hand in an all-encompassing gesture. “As do all my men. Doctore teaches them to fear no pain, to embrace glorious death.”
“Let us hope that they do not embrace it with too much passion,” Lucretia said.
Batiatus gave her a sour look. There was a moment of simmering silence between them.
Then, in a softer, more reflective voice, Lucretia said, “This talk of sorcery-tell me that you believe it completely without foundation?”
Batiatus snorted. “Do you think I lend it any credence?”
She was silent for a moment. Batiatus rolled his eyes.
“My own wife lending credibility to childish terrors and foolish tales,” he muttered in disgust.
“I do confess myself … unsettled by Hieronymus’s creature.”
“Mantilus?” Batiatus nodded. “He is indeed scarred lizard draped in human skin, evoking much repulsion.” He turned and leered at the bare-breasted slaves standing in motionless attendance, as if inviting comment, but none reacted. Turning back to Lucretia, he said, “But the effect of him resides solely in outward appearance. There is nothing to fear beyond it.”
“I wish I held share of that belief,” she said. “I have kept tongue still until now but I was seized by the specter of his influence in this house the night of celebration.”
Batiatus arched an eyebrow.
“I did not bear witness to it.”
“It was but a thing of proximity to the man, not of any dark magic detected.”
“He issued threats toward you?”
“No. But his force was … palpable. Ilithyia also felt effects of unpleasantness.”
“Ilithyia, the spoiled adolescent,” Batiatus said scathingly.
“Would you see ears open and mockery resisted?” Lucretia snapped.
Batiatus gestured for her to continue.
“Spill words. I will keep skeptical tongue still.”
Lucretia took a sip of wine, and then told her husband what had happened on the night in question. However, the recounting of her story proved a frustrating experience. Just as when one is unable to convey in words the stifling atmosphere of utter dread felt in a nightmare, so the telling of her encounter with Mantilus served only to diminish it, to make her seem not justifiably fearful in the face of his overwhelming malevolence, but unaccountably foolish, even a little hysterical, in the presence of what amounted to nothing but a blind old man. Eventually she flapped a hand in angry dismissal.
“Your manner indicates you disregard my words.”
Batiatus widened his eyes.
“A thing I do not mean to convey. I offer only sympathetic ear and agreement that Mantilus uses fearsome demeanor to full advantage.”
“But you think him lacking in darker abilities beyond monstrous effect of visage?”
Batiatus spread his hands in apology.
“Why should I believe otherwise?”
“Cast eyes to your ludus. The evidence amply displayed. If not visible to your eyes, prospect of glittering coin blinds you to it. The affliction that struck down Solonius’s men is now rampant in our stable. Surely not coincidence.”
Batiatus clenched his jaw.
Eventually he said, “If true, what would you have me do?”
Lucretia sighed. “I stand empty of thought,” she admitted.
Batiatus crossed to her, put a hand over hers. This time when he spoke his voice was soft.
“Spartacus will prevail tomorrow, I am certain. Perhaps victory will break the afflicting spell.”
Lucretia looked into her husband’s eyes, her face full of doubt.
“Perhaps,” she murmured unhappily.
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 gladia
tors 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.
