“Me?” Spartacus said. “I should offer advice to a woman of the Getae?”
“I am already dead,” she said. “Show me how to take a Roman lion with me, purely for spite.”
Spartacus recalled the many lessons of Oenomaus, and spoke as his trainer would have done.
“You are not unarmed,” he said. “You have your chains. You have the sun and the folly of your opponents. You have the sand and dust of the arena floor.”
As he spoke, he realized that his audience had grown. The woman’s fellow convicts now stood attentively before the bars that divided them, listening to his every word.
“Any small thing can be used as a weapon. The arena is kept clear of stones, but look for what may have been left by those that came before you. Bones. Nails. Splinters.”
She nodded.
“Understand, too,” Spartacus continued, “that you are going to die. Nothing will change that.”
The slaves grimly met his gaze.
“We knew,” she said. “Inside ourselves, we knew that we would never make it far. But it was better to be free, if only for those moments.”
“Then you will be free again,” Spartacus said. “You will be free for the time it takes for the lions to eat you.”
“We will fight,” she said.
“Fortuna be with you,” Spartacus replied.
The heavy door to the arena swung open, and several armored guards came in. They unbolted the door to the neighbouring cell, prodding at the chained slaves, herding them toward the light.
The woman looked at Spartacus as she was ushered from the cell, calling out to him as she and her fellow convicts were taken on their last journey.
“Remember me,” she said. “Remember I was free for a few moments.”
“Who are you?” he called after her.
“I am Medea!” she called. “What is your name, doctore?”
“My name is...” he began, but the great door had slammed shut.
“She killed a Roman,” Varro said quietly. “A Roman like me.”
“I have killed many,” Spartacus responded with a shrug. “As have you!”
“All the same,” Varro said. “My opponents volunteered or paid for crimes past. Hers did not.”
The wind drew the stench swiftly over to the balcony. There was none of the modest cedar wood and Asian spices of the recent funeral. Instead, Lucretia’s nose caught a whiff of seared flesh and singed hair, with the distinctive tang of cheap lamp oil.
The novelty had worn off for the crowd. In the first throes of the burning, there were cheers at the screams and pleadings, and gasps of excitement as certain articles of clothing seemed more flammable than others. There were jeers and mock gasps at the most colorful of curses yelled at the watching Romans by some of the older slaves, but as the fires rendered them first inarticulate, and the fumes rendered them unconscious, there was nothing to see but a series of burning carcasses.
“You would think this rabble would crave the sight of justice done,” Batiatus murmured,
“It is midday, Quintus,” Lucretia pointed out.
“True,” he agreed. There was a flurry of movement from within the antechamber. “On which note,” Batiatus added, “more refreshment arrives.”
A trio of slaves appeared bearing trays heaped with food. Batiatus was surprised to see they were immediately followed by new arrivals. Gaius Verres himself, all smiles and patted backs, leading a balding, serious-looking young man in a hastily chosen toga.
“Well met!” Batiatus cried. “We feared arrival in the wrong arena.”
“Quintus Lentulus Batiatus,” Verres said smiling, “and his wife Lucretia, and Ilithyia, wife of Gaius Claudius Glaber, may I present Marcus Tullius Cicero, newly arrived on business of the Republic.”
“Welcome! Welcome!” Batiatus said hastily. “Your arrival is well timed for the main attractions!”
Cicero managed a pained smile, nodding respectfully toward the ladies.
“You are the editor of these games?” he said politely to Batiatus.
“Not I,” Batiatus said. “I am but lifelong friend of the lamented Pelorus, in whose honor these games are held. But if I were editor...” He stopped, realizing that Verres was standing right beside them.
“Speak, Batiatus,” Verres laughed. “My programme does not please you, I am sure.”
“I would not dream of disputing with one as respected as Gaius Verres,” Batiatus said quickly.
“I never claimed expertise in such matters!” Verres said. “I merely muddle through. Now, where is the wine?” He left them together, in search of better flagons in the shade at the back of the balcony.
“I sense your disapproval,” Cicero whispered confidentially. “And I share it!”
Batiatus grinned at the apparent arrival of a kindred spirit.
“The gods be blessed, this has been a day of utter trivialities,” he replied. “You must thank them that you escaped the rabbit hunt.”
Cicero shook his head in disbelief.
“Had I the position of editor,” Batiatus confided, “by which I mean truly the editor of the games and not a mere supplier of gladiators, there would certainly be some more impressive fights to warm the blood!”
Cicero’s friendly smile froze in place.
“I... see...” he said. “You are a lanista? I was mistaken.”
“I... er...” Batiatus said, unsure of what had just happened.
“Do excuse me a moment,” Cicero said, never letting the smile falter, although his eyes had changed their aspect. “I heard whisper of wine and my journey has been long.”
“There is wine, wine enough for all!” Batiatus said enthusiastically. He turned to gesture to a slave and the tray of refreshments. “Moreover, there are fine sweetmeats from—”
But Cicero’s back was turned, a goblet in his hand as a slave poured wine. He smiled politely as Ilithyia introduced herself in her habitual, flirtatious manner. Batiatus watched as Ilithyia twirled a lock of her blonde hair in one finger, inquiring excitably as to news from Sicilia.
“What strange encounter was that?” he muttered to Lucretia. “You and I are alone on the balcony once more, even amongst a crowd.”
“I fear, Quintus, that you were mistaken for a person of position,” she said with a sigh. “And then revealed yourself as a trader in human flesh.”
“And yet he said Verres’s programme was shit. He is connoisseur of quality games!”
“I believe he disapproves of the games themselves.”
Batiatus turned to gaze upon the arena, at a dozen smouldering skeletons, charred flesh hanging from their bones. As he watched, one collapsed, its shoulder bones giving way and leaving one arm still clasped within its dangling manacle.
“So,” Cicero said to Verres with a smile, “you are to be the new governor of Sicilia.”
“Such is my honor and my burden,” Verres responded. “You know the island well?”
“Not long ago I was a solid year working in west Sicilia,” Cicero said. “But memories were overshadowed by my return.”
“How so?” Verres inquired. Behind him, on the sands, a burning body flinched inadvertently, the soul long since departed, its flanks now a firebrand of burning fats and crisped skin.
“The last occasion I returned to Italia, I put ashore not far from here, just around the bay at Puteoli,” Cicero said. “Do you know it?”
“By reputation only. Putrid Puteoli?”
“Spiteful rumour spread by rival spa towns!” Ilithyia protested. “It does not smell. The spring waters run rich with minerals and cleansing warmth. The baths are marvelous. It is gentrifying.”
“I believe your words!” Verres laughed, his eyes unwavering on hers, willing her to leave the men to their talk. Ilithyia backed away with a smile, uncharacteristically tactful, and went to consort with the Batiati.
“I know it to be so,” Cicero continued, “from many visits. And I thought I would put ashore near my home, to greet hospes and
dignitaries, drop in on old acquaintances and dispatch letters for the east, rather than take them to Rome, only to send them back again.”
“Very wise, I am sure.”
“And so I stepped ashore, much as you see me now. Sure that the people of Italia would flock to hear my tales of foreign postings and administrative adventure.”
“And did they?”
“Flock they did, demanding to know what news I brought from Rome.”
“But you had not been to Rome!”
“Quite so! All roads lead to Rome, it seems, and all news must similarly issue from there. I protested I had been away in foreign climes, attending to the demanding affairs of the Republic, and some... fool chimes in with: ‘Oh yes, you have been in Africa, have you not?’”
“Africa!”
“Africa! So I reply that I have been in Sicilia, and some other slow-witted fool interrupts and says: ‘Of course, how is Syracuse?’”
“You were not in Syracuse?”
“Sicilia is more than just Syracuse! So I renounced effort. I nodded and declared my time in parts beyond Italia both useful and productive, and feigned thereafter that I was merely another of the Roman herd, taking myself to Puteoli for the baths and relaxation. A valuable lesson learned.”
“Puteoli is full of fools?”
“Romans are deaf to facts and correction. My origin mattered not, concern was only for my arrival. And so I made sure I was seen. Seen in the right circles, seen at the baths, seen to be at home to callers, whensoever they called.”
“To what do we owe gratitude for the honor of your presence here?” Batiatus said, barging into the conversation, fortified with wine.
The assembled Romans visibly winced as the lanista tactlessly broached the subject that propriety dare not raise.
“A... matter religious,” Cicero said, carefully.
“Your meaning, exactly?” Batiatus persisted. He was unaware that Verres was backing away from them, carefully separating himself from the conversation lest he be tainted by its collapse. Even so, he lurked, close at hand, pretending to watch the arena even as he listened on the balcony.
“You are refreshingly direct, Batiatus,” Cicero laughed. “I am sent from Rome for the investigation of a possible prophecy.”
“A foretelling of a foretelling?” Batiatus said frowning.
“Indeed!”
Ilithyia and Verres stood next to each other both tense, their eyes staring, unblinking, at the burned flesh and writhing flames of the executions, their lips parted in unified anticipation.
“Does not Rome already have prophecy enough, with the Sibylline Books?” Batiatus asked bluntly.
“The Sibylline Books are in a state of... renewal.” Cicero said, sucking in air through his teeth. “The priests of the Capitoline ready to consider any additions.”
“Add more to them, as water to jug or wine to cup!” Batiatus chuckled at his conversational gambit, and took the opportunity to refill both their goblets.
“It is not so tawdry,” Cicero observed. “Rather it is the serious business of the Republic, an effort to shore up our access to numinous portent. The collection of prophecies from all over the known world.”
“So it is like a visit to the fortune teller?” Batiatus laughed.
“It is most certainly not!”
Verres and Ilithyia exchanged a nervous glance as Batiatus dug himself deeper. Verres suppressed a smile, as did the Roman lady. Ilithyia stroked her neck with a finger, giving the universal gesture of a slit throat. Verres nodded with a grin, and clinked his goblet against hers as they both stifled their laughter.
“You resemble a giddy maiden,” Batiatus went on, “who wants hands held and stories of future husband told. There is an Egyptian down at the docks who will read the lines in the palm of your hand, relating how many children you will have, and how many lovers—”
“The Sibylline Books are not the work of Egyptian fortune tellers!” Cicero said, his voice raised in protest.
“Are you so sure? You said yourself these oracles find source all over the world. Must these soothsayers pass examination before their work is handed over? Or can anyone take part?”
“Clues of particular note mark out the true soothsayers from mere conjurors and charlatans.”
“Of what clues do you speak?”
“I believe that the main clues are linguistic. Oracles jabber away in all sorts of nonsense languages. But if a dizzy, drunken priestess in, say, Bithynia, stumbling and coughing under the influence of some Asian incense, should suddenly spout prophecy in the ancient language of Italia, then one can assume with good reason that a message from the Sibyl is being received.”
“And that is the business bringing you to Neapolis?”
“Something of that nature. Say that... say that a Syrian girl, blind since birth and permanently addled on the strange, dream-inducing spices of the orient, began to speak in Greek verse about matters particular to southern Italia. A place which she had never been, or even heard tell of. Would that be strange enough for you?”
“You would find me not surprised?” Batiatus laughed loudly at his own joke, smiling at his fellow dignitaries, not noticing their frozen expressions.
“The order of the prophecies is unclear,” Cicero explained patiently, as if talking to a child. “Their relevance is not immediately apparent. Where we use everyday names, they supply poetic allusion. Reference to forgotten gods or strange phenomena. There was, assuredly, material in the Sibylline Books that told us how to fight off Hannibal and his elephants, but, tell me, what is the likelihood that your forefathers would have believed a direct reference to African monsters walking over the mountains to the north?”
“Do you seek to tell me that the Sibylline prophecies tell of futures, but can only be understood after events have occurred?”
“The books do not fail, only our ability to interpret them.”
“So of what use are they?”
“They offer guidance. When an event unfolds as described in the books, it gives us a brief purchase on the text around it. It allows us, for a moment, to see what is happening in the line after that, and then we can see what is to come.”
“But if everything is pre-ordained, what matters it if we can see the future or not? The future will come to us anyway.”
“Imagine Rome as a ship. A vessel with a divinely mandated destination, sailing through unfamiliar seas.”
Batiatus thought for a moment.
“And the Sibylline Books as chart? A map through time?” he said.
“If it aids understanding to look upon things in that way, yes.”
Gaius Verres shook his head in disbelief and winked at Ilithyia. She smiled in return and they sipped from their goblets. Watching them, Lucretia realized that they were savoring not the wine but the idiocy of her own husband.
“And you are here with promise of chart?” Batiatus continued.
“Not chart, but seer,” Cicero said. “I had word from the late Marcus Pelorus that within his walls there was an oracle of the distant Getae.”
Nearby, Gaius Verres suddenly went into a coughing fit, spluttering red wine all over Ilithyia, who scolded him for damage to her silks, and patted his back in accentuated sympathy.
“A slave of Pelorus?” Batiatus asked with a glance at the choking Verres.
“A recent acquisition from Syrian slavers. A savage, untamed priestess who could be persuaded to speak telling portents with the right inducement.”
Timarchides frowned and looked from his wax tablet to the holding pen, and back again. He peered into the gloom at the two gladiators.
“Spartacus and Varro?” he asked.
“I am Spartacus,” Spartacus confirmed. Varro’s face was expressionless, as if he were struggling to keep all reaction, all emotion from view. The two men climbed to their feet, ready for instruction, but Timarchides simply scowled at his tablet, tapping it frettingly with his stylus.
“Do others share your names?” he
asked.
Spartacus and Varro looked at each other in confusion.
“In the House of Batiatus,” Timarchides spat, vexed.
“Only us,” Varro said.
“This is most irregular,” Timarchides muttered. “You are listed here on two occasions, as catervarii and in the primus.”
“We could not speak to our master’s intention,” Varro said.
“But I have fought more than once on occasion,” Spartacus added.
“Does Capua lack sufficient numbers of gladiators?” Timarchides asked with a sneer.
“I have killed the rest,” Spartacus replied quietly, and Varro laughed.
Timarchides sighed.
“That events have come to this,” he said.
“Your meaning, dominus?” Spartacus asked.
Timarchides sniffed, unbolting their cell portal, beckoning them out.
“Years of toil by Pelorus saw his ludus prosper,” Timarchides said, turning his back and walking down the corridor toward the waiting area, assuming with the air of a dominus that they would follow him. He continued to speak as he walked.
“He turned men such as I from feeble youths into gods of the arena. He paid his taxes. His slaves received good care. He built up a fine ludus, the envy of all Neapolis. And then...”
Timarchides banged three times on the grating, paused a moment, and then banged again, causing the slaves on the other side to haul the next doors open.
“...and then one slave brings sentence of death upon them all. All! My brother gladiators I have known for half my life. The serving girls. Even the old medicus!”
Daylight streamed through the open door, bringing with it the smell of manure. Varro’s eyes widened at the sight of two massive horses, their eyes shielded by blinkers to keep out the worst sights of the arena, their bridles held by grooms. The horses shifted nervously at every shout from the crowd. Varro looked in panic at Spartacus, but the Thracian was listening to Timarchides.
“Fortuna smiled upon you, dominus,” Spartacus said. “That you were freed before tragedy struck.”
“Quite so,” Timarchides said.
“And even more so,” Spartacus said, “that Verres seems to favor you with inheritance.”
Spartacus - Swords and Ashes Page 13
