Spartacus: Morituri

by Mark Morris

  There had been a number of minor skirmishes to incite the crowd, one or two flurries of action to set backsides rising from seats and pulses momentarily racing, but nothing serious. Most of the slashes and thrusts from swords and spear had clanged harmlessly against raised shields, though blood had been drawn once-that of Varro’s, the hoplomachus’s spear having sneaked briefly around his defenses and taken a flap of skin from just beneath his armpit, before he was able to leap aside and prevent the weapon from doing further damage by batting it away with his shield.

  Blood from the wound, which would sting and itch like a scorpion’s kiss later, if Varro was lucky enough to survive the day, was now trickling down his ribs and into his waistband, the flow made more copious by the sweat and oil oozing from the pores of his skin. It was a reminder that he needed to remain constantly alert-and a timely one too, because if Varro did have a weakness in the arena it was that he was a man of action, and therefore occasionally prone to impatience or frustration if an opponent was being particularly defensive. In training, Oenomaus was constantly telling him to concentrate, or admonishing him for being too eager to end the contest. Time and again he had reprimanded Varro for lunging forward and thus leaving himself vulnerable to the counter-attack.

  For this reason, having Spartacus as a partner worked hugely to Varro’s advantage. The Thracian was an intelligent and versatile fighter. He could be patient when he needed to be, but was swift and merciless when the opportunity to gain advantage over an opponent presented itself. Although he and Varro were very different in their fighting styles, Varro was intelligent and modest enough to realize that there was much he could learn from his friend, the Champion of Capua. He welcomed his tutelage, and in the absence of Oenomaus and his whip, he listened closely to his advice when they were paired together out on the sand. Spartacus often used the “quiet” moments in the arena to mutter instructions to Varro. Knowing of the Roman’s propensity to go on the attack, he would persistently urge caution, or would remind him to concentrate at all times — sometimes by voicing the brutal fact that if Varro should make a mistake, then not only would he suffer the consequences of it, but his wife and son would too.

  Today Spartacus had more reason than ever to communicate with his friend. The evening before, on Batiatus’s instructions, Oenomaus had drawn Varro and Spartacus together and discussed the strategy for the following day’s primus with them at length. He had admitted that for dominus’s plan to come fully to fruition would require not only tactical understanding and split-second timing, but also a great deal of luck. “If the gods bestow favor upon us,” he had said, “there stands no reason why we should not prevail.”

  Now they were putting those tactics into practice, by either retreating or pushing forward as they circled their opponents, with the result that they were herding them almost surreptitiously to the far side of the arena. In this way, little by little, all four gladiators were drawing closer and closer to the huge iron gates which Spartacus and Varro had passed through some minutes before-and behind which currently stood Oenomaus and Mantilus, their dark forms just visible through the thick, cross-hatched strips of iron.

  When they were within ten paces of the gates, and had circled round so that the vast metal structures were at their backs, Spartacus and Varro began to retreat more rapidly, at the same time drawing closer together, as if menaced by a pack of wild dogs that were closing in on them from all sides.

  Encouraged by this, their opponents surged forward- and as they did so, Spartacus, as if momentarily wrongfooted by their sudden advance, stumbled and dropped to one knee.

  Sensing an advantage, the thraex immediately broke formation and raced forward, raising his sica for a slashing blow. Instantly Spartacus leaped to his feet, whereupon the thraex hesitated, realizing-too late-that his opponent’s apparent stumble had been nothing but a ruse. As his attention was fully focused on engaging with Capua’s Champion, who was now moving forward with purpose, his swords raised to slash down in a straight-armed pincer movement, he was blind-sided by Varro, who, raising his shield to ward off a potential attack by the hoplomachus, took a step to his right and slashed his sword with brutal force across the thraex’s exposed back.

  Blood flew like a curling red streamer as the thraex screamed and staggered forward. Even as he peddled his feet in a desperate attempt to stop his knees from crumbling beneath him, Spartacus took a step to his right to avoid the man’s hopeless lunge with his sword, and brought his own sword up in an arc, hacking through the thraex’s ribs and into his chest.

  The thraex, his torso now gushing blood from hideous wounds at both front and back, dropped his shield and sword and crashed face-first to the ground. As he lay, whimpering with agony, his shaking body lathered in a thick red coating of his own blood, he managed to weakly lift one arm and raise his fingers in the time-honored gesture of submission.

  By this time, however, knowing that the man was too severely wounded to be any more of a threat, Spartacus had already moved on. Jumping over the thraex’s prone body, he stepped up beside Varro, and together the two of them moved forward as one to engage the hoplomachus.

  With his partner out of action, the hoplomachus now had only two courses of action available to him. The less honorable option was to turn and run, in the sure and certain knowledge that eventually he would be caught, and-no doubt with the jeers of the crowd ringing in his ears — slaughtered on the sands like a suckling pig intended for the roast.

  His second option, and that which he chose to employ, as any true gladiator would, was to take the fight to his opponents, in the hope that, with luck or skill or simply the sheer ferocity of his attack, he could put one of them out of action and thus even up the odds once again.

  Roaring like an enraged bull, he ran forward, the spear in his right hand held parallel to the ground at waist height. The point of the spear was aimed at Varro’s belly, and it was clear he was focusing on the bigger man because he considered him the larger and slower-moving of the two targets.

  That was his mistake. Because despite his size, Varro’s reflexes were surprisingly acute. As the hoplomachus lunged at him, he sidestepped and spun, grabbing the shaft of the spear as it passed through empty air and yanking it so hard that his opponent was jerked toward him.

  Caught off-balance, the hoplomachus staggered forward, whereupon Varro raised his shield and smashed it into the man’s face. There was an almighty clash of impact as the heavier, thicker shield bent and mangled the hoplomachus’s metal helmet, crushing it inwards with such force that the man’s nose burst like a plum beneath a boot, and his lips were instantly shredded against his upper teeth, which in turn were smashed to jagged splinters of bone.

  The hoplomachus dropped his spear and spun away, limbs pinwheeling wildly, giving him the look of someone who was comically, hopelessly drunk. Blood poured from beneath the rim of his crumpled helmet in thick loops and candles, collecting on his chest and running down his body like a red, tasseled bib.

  Closing the gap between them, Varro ran forward and gave the man an almighty shove. His intention was not to knock his reeling opponent off his feet, however, but to direct him toward the nearby gate, which he promptly crashed into with a clanging impact that reverberated around the entire arena. Shaking his head, an action which caused droplets of blood to fly in all directions and spatter the sand like red rain, the hoplomachus leaned back against the gate for a moment, breathing heavily through his broken nose. It was a testament to his courage and experience that as Spartacus and Varro came at him again, pressing forward their advantage, he raised his shield and snatched at the sword in his belt, instinctively preparing to fight back.

  His helmet was bent so out of shape that he was almost blind, but he tried to defend himself regardless, taking mighty swings with his sword. His desperate survival attempt proved to be sadly in vain, however. Eyeing the wildly swooping sword, Spartacus chose his moment, then leaped forward, raising and bringing his own sword down with speed a
nd deadly accuracy.

  The hoplomachus merely grunted, like a man punched in the gut, as his sword arm was all but sliced completely through at the elbow. It dangled grotesquely on a thread of skin and sinew, the sword dropping from the nerveless fingers, as blood gushed from the severed arteries and veins like water from a pump, turning the sand red.

  Groaning, his exposed flesh turning a grayish-white, the hoplomachus began to slide slowly down the gate as his knees folded beneath him. Instantly Spartacus leaped forward, grabbed the man by the throat and forced him upright again. With the hoplomachus’s blood spattering his body, he turned and gave Varro a short, grim nod.

  “Now,” he said.

  On the other side of the gate, Mantilus jerked back as the hoplomachus’s body crashed against it. Before he could take another step, however, Oenomaus, standing behind him, stepped forward, reaching out with his long arms. He grabbed handfuls of the scarred man’s loose-fitting robe in two places-at the scruff of his neck and at the base of his spine. Lips curling back from his teeth in a silent snarl, Oenomaus then slammed Mantilus back up against the gate, directly behind the wounded hoplomachus.

  Like a fish on a riverbank, Mantilus immediately began to squirm and wriggle, his white eyes bulging, his mouth opening wide and his forked tongue flickering out. He began to squeal like a child, his body so thin and light that Oenomaus couldn’t help but think that perhaps he was a child, a child aged far beyond his years by some hideous enchantment.

  Yet, although he grimaced with distaste, utterly repelled by the feeble struggles of the bony creature within his grip, Oenomaus held on, crushing his captive against the bars, his arms clamped tight, his muscles like iron. As a bead of sweat trickled down the front of his bald head and into his eyebrow, he silently urged Spartacus and Varro to make haste.

  The crowd had seen blood and mutilation and death aplenty today, yet still they bayed for more. With their excited shrieks ringing around him, Varro bent and picked up the hoplomachus’s discarded spear. Straightening up, he looked directly ahead of him, at the huge iron gates, and at the hoplomachus’s ruined body slumped against them, held upright only by Spartacus’s hand around his throat. Underpinning the exhortations of the crowd, at a lower level, he thought he could hear another sound-a sustained, high-pitched squeal, like a rat caught in a trap.

  Bile, born of hatred and revulsion, rose in his throat at what that sound must be, and raising the spear like a lance, the point aimed directly at the hoplomachus’s heart, he began to run forward. There wasn’t a great distance to cover, fifteen paces at the most, yet by the time the spear found its mark it was moving with more than enough pace not only to penetrate flesh and muscle and even bone, but to pass right through the hoplomachus’s body, with devastating force.

  Oenomaus held on grimly as the point of the spear erupted out of the center of Mantilus’s back in a gush of blood that in the shadowy stone-walled tunnel looked almost black. Though Mantilus’s mouth stretched almost to splitting point, and his white eyes bulged from his head so alarmingly that they seemed in danger of popping out on to his cheeks, his squeal was abruptly cut off, to be replaced by an almost-silent hiss of excruciating agony. With a spasm so sudden and violent that Oenomaus felt it snap through his wrist and down his forearm in a needle-thin bolt of pain, the scarred man’s body abruptly arched like a bow, as if his every sinew was as stretched and taut as a lyre-string. There he hung, suspended, like a letter C, for several seconds-and then, with manic vigor, he began to scream and thrash anew, so violently this time that Oenomaus was forced to release him and step back, for fear of having his face slashed open by the long nails on the fingers of the man’s flailing hands.

  Mantilus did not die easily. Oenomaus watched grimly as he hung there, his death-throes continuing, frantic and uncontrolled at first, and then gradually less frenziedly, for the next few minutes. Froth and blood boiled from his mouth, and shit and piss slid down his legs, joining with his blood to form a thin gruel of his life-fluids beneath his mortally wounded body.

  At last, however, it was over, the child-like body winding down, the bald head lolling, the scarred face and limbs going slack. Then with a last few shudders, the poisoner was still, and the only sound in the tunnel- aside from the distant cheers of the crowd beyond the gates-was the steady, slow drip-drip-drip of Mantilus’s blood on the stone floor.

  Oenomaus stepped closer, and stared grimly into the man’s glazed white eyes and slack, dead face.

  “Not a creature of Hades, but merely a man, like the rest of us,” he murmured. His gaze shifted to the pool of stinking fluids by his feet. “Filled not with dust, but blood, shit and piss, as it should be.” He nodded, as though satisfied, and said it again. “As it should be.”

  XVI

  Varro found Spartacus in his cell, sitting on his bunk, deep in thought. Beyond the open door could be heard the sounds of celebration-a hubbub of noise, interspersed with shouts of laughter of both men and women.

  Varro held out a cup toward his friend.

  “I have brought wine, whether you wish for it or not. I insist you drink in celebration of victory today.”

  Spartacus eyed the proffered cup wryly for a moment, and then eventually reached out and took it.

  “We celebrate with wine from dominus, fit only for slaves. Grape so bitter that morning greeting weary head provides worse blow than hilt of sword.”

  Varro laughed. “True that Batiatus expends little coin in gratitude.” He held up his own cup, his shining eyes and slight clumsiness as the wine slopped over his hand indicative of the fact that he had already drunk more than his fill. “But I offer exception. Smooth grape, pleasing to palate.”

  Spartacus took a sip and raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  “Batiatus is in rare humor to offer cup overflowing with appreciation.”

  “How could he not? His own slaves increase his status and improve fortune. His champion providing means of Hieronymus’s unmasking and subsequent favor of Crassus.”

  Spartacus took another sip of wine, humor dancing in his eyes.

  “Are the whores provided of equal vintage?”

  Varro looked pained.

  “Your enquiry elicits offense. Throw such question at another.”

  The two friends laughed together. They each took another sip of wine, then Varro clapped Spartacus on the shoulder.

  “Join festivities. Play dice.” He raised his hand and looked solemn. “Merely for diversion, not coin of course.”

  Spartacus shrugged.

  “I don’t find mood for it.”

  “It was great victory, now worthy of celebration. ”

  “There is little meaning in it for me.”

  Varro looked momentarily somber.

  “Your enduring pain saddens, brother. Divert thoughts from it, even if for one night.”

  Spartacus nodded slowly.

  “Your concern is appreciated. Perhaps I will join later after pressing task.”

  Together he and Varro walked through the stone corridors of the ludus, passing cells where naked couples heaved and rutted with grunts and shrieks, sweat streaming down their bodies. Most of the brotherhood, and the Capuan whores that Batiatus had ordered Ashur to round up and transport from the city, had congregated in the mess hall, however. Even here some were fucking openly, one ramming his whore from behind, while a circle of onlookers clapped and cheered. The wine was flowing freely, and banter and raucous laughter echoed off the walls.

  When Spartacus and Varro entered the room there was a momentary pause in proceedings as the two heroes were toasted with raised cups and good-humored declarations that they should enjoy their victory now, while they still had heads and limbs with which to do so.

  Varro made his way over to a corner table, where several men were rolling bone dice, roaring and banging their cups on the wooden surface at each successive outcome. Spartacus skirted a couple of men who were wrestling, their bodies shining with oil, and politely waved away the ministr
ations of a pretty whore, who pressed her breasts against him.

  The long tables of the mess hall had been pushed back against the wall and lined with jugs of wine from which the men could help themselves. Spartacus topped up his own cup and filled another, then made his way carefully through the celebrating throng, taking care not to spill a drop even as he was jostled and continually clapped on the back.

  Eventually he made it to the far side of the room and slipped out into the quieter, cooler corridor. Edging past a couple who were fucking up against a wall, the woman seemingly oblivious to the fact that her back was scraping against the rough stone with each thrust, he headed to the infirmary.

  All was quiet here, the medicus himself celebrating with the men in the refectory. Duro, who was still recovering from the grievous wounds sustained in the previous games against the men of Hieronymus’s now decimated ludus, was asleep and snoring quietly.

  The bay’s only other occupant turned his head and regarded Spartacus. This was Crixus, and he looked less than pleased to see his Thracian brother.

  “What takes you from drunken revelry?” he muttered.

  “Expression of gratitude,” Spartacus replied.

  Crixus all but sneered.

  “Gratitude? For lying in infirmary like slab of meat while you receive laurels that should be mine?”

  Spartacus ignored the jibe.

  “Gratitude for prompting thoughts which saved this ludus from ruin. Without your words the House of Batiatus would be no more, and we would all be slaves of Hieronymus.”

  “Since when do your cares fall upon the House of Batiatus?” Crixus said.

  “Dominus’s endeavors to return Sura to me ensures gratitude and loyalty. I will not stand by to watch him brought down by nefarious means.”