by Mark Morris
Ashur followed at a distance, fearful of discovery as the road became narrower and less populated. Fortunately, it became more serpentine too, and lined with ever more abundant trees and bushes, which, together with the darkness, afforded him much-needed cover.
Eventually, close to a point where the Volturnus was at its widest as it meandered past Capua on its course to the Tyrrhenian Sea, Albanus’s litter-bearers came to a halt. Ashur used the foliage to conceal his advance, trying to get close enough to Albanus to see what he was up to. He watched as the slave trader, still swaying slightly from the effects of the grape he had consumed that evening, alighted from his transport and meandered down to the bank of the Volturnus.
What is the inebriated cunt doing? Ashur wondered. Taking a piss? It was a cold night, and a dark one, the moon mostly obscured by scudding cloud. Water from the recent rains had been retained by the thirsty plants to such an extent that Ashur’s tunic was quickly soaked as he brushed against them. Within less than a minute the rough cloth was sticking clammily to his shivering skin and mud was oozing over the tops of his sandals and squelching between his toes. If Albanus had simply halted to relieve himself, Ashur vowed that he personally would cut off the bastard’s cock and choke him with it. He waited, a brooding shape in the darkness, eyes fixed on his quarry.
It soon became clear, however, that Albanus was waiting too. He prowled the banks of the Volturnus for what seemed an age, back and forth, back and forth, watching a bend in the river a short distance away. What was he waiting for? A delivery of goods? An expected visitor? Whoever or whatever the trader had come here to meet, it was clear he did not wish to make fanfare of it. This pleased Ashur. He knew all too well that secrets were currency, and that there was much profit to be made from them. Warmed by these thoughts, he waited patiently in the shadows, already imagining dominus’s voice raised in praise of his efforts and the coin that would be pressed into his hand as a consequence. He dreamed of the day when his status would be elevated to such an extent that Batiatus would grant him his freedom, perhaps even consider him an equal—a trusted advisor and friend. Ashur may not be a Roman, but he had all the cunning and ambition of one.
At last there came the stealthy splash of water lapping the banks as some vessel, as yet shrouded by the blackness of the trees, approached the spot where Albanus was waiting. A few weeks ago this would not have been possible. The recent long drought had caused the water level to fall dramatically, bringing rocks which would have torn holes through the hull of any boat, no matter how small and light, close to the surface. Now, though, after Spartacus’s dramatic victory over the giant Theokoles in the arena, the rains had come and the rivers and streams were brimming again.
Assuring himself that the knowing was worth the risk, Ashur took a step forward, and the next moment saw the flickering lights of a small trading vessel as it rounded the bend in the river.
He watched narrow-eyed with interest as the vessel slowed and maneuvered toward the bank where Albanus stood. He could see that the Syrian trader was almost literally hopping from foot to foot with anticipation. Indeed, he skipped to the very edge of the bank, as if so eager to greet the boat’s occupants that he intended wading into the water and tugging the vessel physically toward him. A few moments later, with a gentle bump, the boat came to a halt against the bank.
Only two lamps burned on deck, just enough to aid navigation, and as such to Ashur’s eyes those manning the craft were little more than wraith-like shadows in the darkness. One of them, presumably the captain, broke away to converse with Albanus, the two men talking in low murmurs for several minutes. Ashur strained his ears, and even took another step forward, further risking detection, but was unable to hear what was being said. He assumed, however, from the familiar jangle and clink of what appeared to be a sizeable amount of coin passing from one hand to another, that they had been discussing payment for as-yet-unseen goods, or perhaps for some other service rendered. Then the man who had been speaking to Albanus turned to address someone behind him.
“Bring them!” he called.
There was more movement on deck, and presently a line of dark figures began to rise from the hold below. From the shuffling way they moved, and the shackles clanking at their wrists and ankles, they were clearly slaves. In the flickering light from the oil-lamps Ashur could see that they were grimy with dirt and gleaming with sweat after what was presumably a long journey in stifling, cramped conditions. In spite of this they looked to be in good physical shape. Indeed, as far as Ashur could see, the men were all young, all muscular, all well-proportioned. They had the physiques of warriors.
Or gladiators.
The thought had barely entered his head when he spied the figure at the tail-end of the procession. This man was lean and smooth-headed, dressed in a voluminous robe that seemed composed of braids and tatters. It was a man he had seen once before—the blind, scarred attendant of the Sicel merchant, Hieronymus. Though Ashur still regarded himself a gladiator, and therefore fearful of nothing and no one, he was unable to suppress a small shudder of superstitious fear at the appearance of the man he—and many more besides, if the gossip in the streets of Capua was to be believed—could not help but regard as more shade than man. Despite exhaustive inquiries Ashur had failed to establish the man’s origins. Some claimed he was from the Massylii tribe of eastern Numidia, others that he was from Mauretania. Still more said that he was the last of a now-extinct community of jungle-dwellers from an island at the very edge of the known world, and that he possessed powers and magics bestowed upon him by dark and unknown gods.
Whatever the truth, there was no denying that he was an unsettling sight. His white eyes seemed to flash in the spill of meager light from the burning deck-lamps and the scars etched on his flesh appeared rimmed in yellow fire, standing out stark and raised on his dusky skin. He moved oddly too—like oil, like the wind, as if he was not of the earth but somehow beyond it, unshackled by its constraints, a creature not of meat and bone but of dark whispers and evil thoughts.
As Ashur watched, he was suddenly alarmed to see Hieronymus’s shade turn its ravaged face toward him. Then the creature was stalking forward, its head raised and jerking, its nose twitching as if it was sniffing the air—sniffing him out. It halted at the deck-rail, its hands curling around it, its face sharp as an ax-blade, hacking through the darkness. Fearful not so much of discovery but of the wrathful scrutiny of the creature, Ashur took a hasty step back, his heel crunching on a branch that, despite the recent rains, snapped like a bone beneath his weight. Uttering a silent curse, his heart thumping wildly in his chest, he turned and scampered away, and as he ran, hampered by his customary limp, he felt certain that the icy chill he could feel between his shoulder blades was not the cold sweat of his own fear but the breath of Hieronymus’s creature, gliding through the trees in swift pursuit like a malign spirit of Tartarus.
Sura came to him again that night, as she had every night since her death. Spartacus tossed and turned on the thin, hard board that served as his bed, but although he knew, somewhere deep down, that he was dreaming, he could not rouse himself.
He was in the arena, his opponents—too numerous to count—circling him like wolves. Each of them bore the shield with the red serpent that Sura had foreseen in her vision many moon-cycles ago. It was that vision which had given him the strength and self-belief to overcome those who had been designated to slay him the first time he had set foot in the arena; it was that vision which had ultimately set him on the path which both Batiatus and Doctore had assured him had been laid by the gods for his feet alone to tread.
Spartacus knew that Sura too would have said he was in the hands of the gods. Spartacus himself had always maintained that he worshipped only the mountain wolf, but Sura’s faith had been unshakeable. Despite his doubts, she had fervently believed that if there were no gods, then there was nothing to shape what happened in their lives, and therefore no meaning to be found in any of it.
W
hile both of them lived, Spartacus had thought the distinction between his wife’s beliefs and his own to be little more than a matter for debate between them, a game even—lightly played, and all too often culminating in a meeting of flesh and mutual passion. Now, though, now that Sura was dead, her beliefs were all that kept her— and him—alive.
Spartacus grieved for his wife. He grieved terribly. Until his dying day there would always be a part of him that would feel as though his heart had been ripped from his chest and crushed in the hand of fate. But what kept him going, what allowed him to breathe and eat and fight, was the memory of her words—or more specifically her beliefs, which he had now adopted as his own.
He still did not know if he actually believed in the gods. But what he did know was that Sura had been right. To believe in nothing at all was to render life meaningless. And so he had decided to embrace his fate, to become a puppet in the hands of others, at least for now. If he was destined to become the greatest gladiatorial champion that the world had ever known, then he would become that champion. And if he was destined to die in the arena, then he would die willingly, not with glory and pride and honor, but in the hope that his death would once again deliver him into the arms of the only woman he had ever truly loved—and would ever truly love, no matter how long he lived.
In a way it was easier to accept that he grieved because the gods wanted him to grieve, and that he dreamed because they fashioned his dreams for him. What the purpose of these dark visions was he knew not, but, though they troubled him, he welcomed them too—for in his dreams, night after night, Sura still lived.
In this latest dream the red-serpented shields surrounded him. It was as if the blood of his victims had seeped into the sand only to sprout forth a moving army of dead men. Spartacus lunged and slashed at them, slicing off limbs and heads, but whenever one opponent fell, another immediately sprang up to take its place. Eventually, his eyes blinded by sweat and his limbs heavy with exhaustion, he himself felt the burning pain of a sword blade parting the flesh beneath his ribs, and crumpled to the ground as the blood which gushed from him took his strength with it. He lay in the dust, its bitter taste in his mouth, and looked up at the helmeted face of his conqueror. And then his gaze shifted to regard the shield he held, the red serpent now spattered with blood and dirt. And finally he looked up at the sword blade which had felled him, pitted and scratched and stained, whose tip was even now pricking his throat.
And somehow, beyond all that, he saw the pulvinus, in which the lanistae and the assembled dignitaries sat, and he saw a white-robed figure slowly rising from its seat. As the figure stretched out an arm, its fist clenched and its thumb jutting to the side, the balance held between life and death, Spartacus was shocked to see that it was Sura, her dark hair blowing in the wind and a look of infinite sadness, of unutterable loss, marring her beautiful face.
“No!” he shouted—and awoke with the cry on his lips. Whether anyone heard him he knew not, and cared even less. It was silent in the ludus, not a sound issuing from the cells in which his fellows slept, most on the cold stone floor. The lack of response was not necessarily a guarantee of ignorance, though. Spartacus was Champion of Capua, after all, and was expected to display the qualities that all other gladiators in the House of Batiatus should aspire to. It was not appropriate to be tormented by the product of one’s own imaginings. Even in sleep a true champion should display absolute resolve in both body and mind.
Such concerns would doubtless have occupied Crixus, the former Champion, but Spartacus was his own man. If others thought him weak then so be it. He would prove his worth where it mattered—on the training ground and in the arena. At least no one could deny that there was anger and purpose in him. Even that very morning, armed with a pair of wooden training swords, he had transformed his misery into fury, focused it to such an extent that for a moment he had forgotten where he was. He had felled his partner, Priscus, with a series of savage blows to the head and body and then had continued his assault even when the man was soundly beaten, even when he raised two fingers to signal his submission. If his friend Varro, aided by the giant Greek Tetraides, had not dragged him away he might have consigned Priscus to a long stay in the infirmary, or even spread his brains out on the sand to bake in the noonday sun. Doctore had rebuked him for losing control, for allowing instinct and emotion to cloud his mind, but Spartacus had seen the gleam of satisfaction, even admiration, in the veteran’s eyes at the speed and savagery of his attack, at the way he handled the twin swords.
“Your aggression is well-channeled,” Doctore had told him later, “but save it for the arena. Dominus does not wish to see the beasts he laid down coin for devour one another absent profit.”
Beasts. That was the word Doctore had used, and that—despite all Batiatus’s talk of honor and glory, of Titans and legends—were all that the men of the ludus truly were to their Roman master. Even proud Doctore, honored and respected as he was, was nothing but meat to be bought and sold at will.
Spartacus lay back on his hard bed and thought of happier times—of the village where he was born, of roaming free in the mountains and forests of his homeland. And eventually his thoughts turned again, as they always did, to Sura. With the memory of her sweetness on his lips, he drifted once more into the temporary freedom of sleep.
Oenomaus was worried.
Jerked awake by a shout of “No!” that he had instantly recognized as issuing from Spartacus’s lips, he lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. There was something wrong in the ludus, something he had been aware of for days now, but which he couldn’t define. It was a feeling more than anything, a sense that beneath the usual banter and arguments, and even occasionally fights, that resulted when a group of tough and competitive men were forced to live in the same cramped conditions day in and day out, was something furtive and malicious, something that was burrowing its way in as surely as a worm burrows into an apple.
It was a subtle infestation, however. One that manifested itself in little things, strange events. Tetraides’s temporary derangement, which had resulted in the death of the novice; moments of distraction among a proportion of the men; bad dreams. It was certainly true that some of the men seemed more than usually preoccupied of late, their eyes clouded by dark thoughts, which they wouldn’t or couldn’t talk about. And yet despite this, many of the signs were so small, so seemingly inconsequential, that Oenomaus still found himself often wondering whether he wasn’t imagining them; whether, in fact, the disturbance existed solely in his own mind.
It was for this reason that he had spoken to no one about it, that until now he had kept his troubled thoughts to himself. Perhaps it was simply the heat, he thought— though he didn’t really believe that. Earlier in the summer, when the drought was at its height, he might have found that argument more convincing, but since the rains had come the days had settled into a combination of sultry heat interspersed with occasional showers.
He closed his eyes again, telling himself that all he could do for now was remain watchful, and hope that the “disturbance,” whatever it was, would soon pass.
Even so, his doubts continued to prey on his mind, and it was a long time before he slipped once again into the temporary respite of sleep.
The gloom of the day matched Batiatus’s mood as he slumped against the rail of the balcony overlooking the training ground, a goblet of wine held listlessly in one hand. Below him echoed the clunk of wooden swords and shields, and the grunts of exertion and pain from the men. Even out here the sour stink of their sweat hung heavy on the air, a contrast to the interior of his own villa, which was redolent with the delicate scent of lamp-oil and the exotic perfumes upon which Lucretia squandered far too much of his hard-earned coin.
Pondering on his spendthrift wife seemed to awaken the memory of her scent in his nostrils. Then he heard the scuff of a sandaled foot behind him and lazily turned his head. Here she was, accompanied as ever by her faithful slave Naevia.
Lucre
tia had chosen today to wear the blondest of her wigs, the hair shimmering as if bestowing its own light to the bruised sky that pressed down from above. Her face was white with chalk, though she had applied red ocher to her lips and her still-impressive cheekbones to give it the blush of youth and color.
The illusion of youth only served to remind Batiatus, however, how the days and years of their lives were mounting, with still no prospect of an heir to carry forth the noble family name.
“What presses heavy on mind, Quintus?” she asked, her voice a concerned purr.
Batiatus scowled. “Observant wife, ever able to unscroll my thoughts.”
“Your countenance betrays. And goblet in hand is further telling sign. You rarely douse reflections with so much wine before sun descends.”
“The sun will hide soon, joining the object I seek to uncover,” Batiatus muttered, gesturing at the grim sky. He glared at the wine in his cup and then swallowed it in one gulp before tossing the vessel over his shoulder for a slave to retrieve.
Lucretia regarded her husband thoughtfully.
“You speak of our friend Hieronymus?” she enquired.
The scowl on Batiatus’s face deepened.
“His presence eludes. If he moves within city he does so like rat underground.”
Lucretia sighed. This hunt had been going on for weeks now. Not even her poison-tongued but influential “friend” Ilithyia, wife of Claudius Glaber, the legatus responsible for capturing Spartacus and having his wife sold into slavery, had succeeded in winkling the reclusive merchant out of his shell.
“Swallow pride dear husband and send Grecian rat invitation to the House of Batiatus. Give word and I will despatch messenger.”
Batiatus set his face stubbornly.
“I will not beg favor like old whore with gaping cunt!”
“You make issue where none need be!” Lucretia snapped.
