by Mark Morris
This last word was accompanied by a grunt and a final spasmodic thrust of the hips. Batiatus’s seed spurted from his cock, hitting the tiled floor in a thin white streak.
As he slumped back into his chair, his eyelids drooping heavily, a slave appeared in the doorway, a tiny Egyptian girl of fifteen or sixteen, her budding breasts exposed.
Lucretia rearranged her husband’s tunic and kissed him on the lips, a wickedly crooked smile on her face as she addressed the slave. “Your presence well timed to see floor cleaned.” She turned eyes back to Batiatus. “I trust I set mind?”
“You fucking did,” he murmured.
Ashur suspected that Naevia was to blame. In fact, he was almost certain of it. It was the only method by which news of his humiliation at the hands of Batiatus could have reached the ludus with such speed. The instant he arrived in the baths, after descending the stone steps from the villa and passing through the metal gates which separated the two worlds, the jibes began.
Varro was the first to speak. The flaxen-haired Roman, a grin splitting his face from ear to ear, raised his eyebrows and remarked, “Ashur comes to scrape away failure and wash taste of shit dumped from dominus’s ass.”
Ashur frowned. The matching grins on the faces of the other gladiators easing their aching muscles in the steam of the bath house informed him that he was the butt of some as yet unspoken joke. Even so, he could not prevent himself rising to the bait, albeit with a barb of his own.
“I merely come for whiff of company no longer kept. To remind Ashur of rank odor now replaced by sweet scents of villa above.”
There was a ripple of hoots and sniggers, albeit of contempt rather than admiration. Varro glanced around at his fellows, still grinning.
“His barbs stand as limp as crippled leg. And foul cock.”
Laughter echoed around the stone-walled chamber. Even Spartacus, who had had little to laugh about in recent days, and who had never indulged in the childish, often cruel victimization of the newer recruits like that pig Crixus, had a smile on his face. Ashur gritted his teeth in a grin to indicate that he was happy to play along with the humor of the men.
Then Duro, one of the German brothers, pointed at the ink stains on his tunic.
“The man appears to wield pen for bookkeeping as poorly as he did sword. Fortunate for him, he spills only ink instead of his own blood, as before.”
The walls rang with laughter this time—and Ashur’s ears rang too. The lame ex-gladiator felt his cheeks flushing red, felt the anger bubbling up his throat and into his head.
He clenched his fists, but was unable to contain his temper. Raising his voice above the sneers and hoots of derision, he shouted, “Ashur shall release similar sounds of mirth when he sees shit from Duro’s gut spill upon sand in the arena.”
Some of the men even laughed at that, though Agron, the brother of Duro, scowled.
“You will be released from this world before the opportunity presents itself,” he retorted.
Ashur shook his head.
“I have witnessed brother’s training, his shortcomings quite obvious. He will be nothing but meat for superior beasts.”
Agron jumped to his feet, the sweat pouring down his naked body. “I would see your crippled limb freed from body!”
“Ashur’s words see you jump to foot. Jolted by the truth of them no doubt,” Ashur taunted.
Agron lunged across the stone floor of the bath house, but was restrained by Varro, who leaped up and grabbed his arm as he ran past.
“Leave the shit alone,” Varro murmured calmly into the German’s ear. “No honor lies in his blood.”
Agron glared at Varro, but he backed down with a curt nod and sauntered back to his place on the stone bench.
“Tell us,” Varro said, nodding at the black stains on Ashur’s tunic, “what discovery prompts dominus’s displeasure?”
Ashur shrugged and recounted that afternoon’s events in the city.
“All that spying and whispering for no reward,” Varro said. “Silver tongue falls tarnished, Ashur. Take care lest dominus find no further use for you.”
Ashur bridled. “The fault lies elsewhere. I was hampered in efforts by … forces beyond control.”
For the first time Spartacus spoke. In a low voice he asked, “What forces were those?”
Ashur looked slowly left and right, as if fearful of interlopers. Then he leaned forward and hissed, “Batiatus’s marked man, Hieronymus, has dark attendant holding name of Mantilus and thick cloud of mystery.”
“I have heard of him,” Oenomaus rumbled, a dark presence in the corner of the room.
“A fearsome creature you would attest,” Ashur said with a nod.
“In what respect?” Spartacus asked.
Ashur paused for effect, and then said quietly, “It is said that he is not true man but one of the lemures — malign spirit raised from underworld. From the very pits of Tartarus itself.”
Oenomaus snorted. “A tale to frighten children and simple minds.”
“Perhaps,” Ashur said with an elaborate shrug. Then his eyes glanced about the room. “But my own eyes laid witness and heart felt dread he imparts.”
Some of the men looked prepared to hear more, but Spartacus was quietly skeptical. “Did dominus’s wine cloud mind when this vision appeared before you?”
Ashur smiled thinly as a couple of the men chuckled.
“Senses were as sharp as your killing blade.”
He told his story—about how he had followed Albanus down to the banks of the Volturnus River, and about the small merchant vessel which had appeared from the darkness with its consignment of slaves. If nothing else, Ashur had a silver tongue, as Varro had declared, and he told his story well. He embellished it too, for maximum dramatic effect—in his account the merchant vessel cut through the black waters of the Volturnus without a sound, the lights burning on its deck suffused with an eerie green glow. When Mantilus himself appeared, he did so, according to Ashur, capering like some simian spirit, his sightless eyes flashing white like beacons, and the scars on his body writhing as if a nest of vipers moved beneath his skin.
“He sensed my presence in the instant he emerged from darkness, appearing as creature rising from underworld,” Ashur said, his voice hushed. “Though wrapped in blackest of night, he felt my eyes on him.”
“Or got whiff of rancid breath,” Varro said, eliciting another laugh from the men.
Ashur inclined his head. “Perhaps he did, with sharpened sense. His head moved like hawk hunting prey, possessed of faculties acute beyond those of man. And then …” His voice dropped lower. Instinctively the men leaned forward. In a blood-curdling whisper, Ashur said “...his eyes bore straight at me. I was cloaked and concealed such that no mortal could have detected. Yet this creature of clouded eyes turned them directly upon me.”
To Ashur’s satisfaction there were one or two low gasps and mutters.
“Continue the tale,” prodded the Gaul who had partnered Spartacus in training that morning, his nose still bearing the bloodied scar of the encounter.
Ashur knew he had his audience by the throat, and that it was time to give the ligature a final twist.
“He moved like a shade and floated toward me.”
While Spartacus continued to look skeptical, his reaction was the exception; most of the men gasped in superstitious dread.
Saucer-eyed, Tetraides asked, “What did you do?”
Ashur spread his hands. “I ran, I must confess. Ashur stands not proud but receives comfort from thought that any man here would have joined alongside.”
Tetraides was shaking his head slowly.
“I cannot speak against that, when mind envisions creature sent from underworld itself.”
“I would not run,” Duro boasted.
“No,” Varro remarked drily. “You would have shit and fainted like woman under sun.”
Before the banter could dissipate the effect of his story, Ashur said quickly, “Rumors hover
that this creature Mantilus employs dark forces to aid Hieronymus’s new stock of gladiators. What they lack in skill and training they gain in application of sorcery, Mantilus weaving them about like cloak. It is said they fight with savagery, as if creatures from Hades wreaking vengeance against the living. Hieronymus names them Morituri—those who are about to die.”
The murmur of disquiet was palpable now. Oenomaus looked around the bath house, his eyes narrowed.
“Remember that you are all always about to die,” he muttered, his deep voice rumbling. “It is the way of the gladiator.”
“Death should be received in the arena from other mortal men, not from evil spirits of Hades,” Tetraides murmured fearfully. “It is said that if lemures claim you, then soul is lost forever.”
“I fear no such spirits,” Spartacus said. “And I fear stories of spirits even less. Our fears are of our own making, residing here—” He tapped his head. “—thoughts of dread waiting to strike at one’s own mind. If you believe the men of Hieronymus will defeat you then you are beaten before foot hits sand. I would enter arena with clear mind, eyes seeing not monsters and shades, but men—of flesh and bone, that can be cut and broken. Morituri. If they are about to die, then let them. If I find myself against them, I will gladly usher them on their way.”
Oenomaus nodded, eyeing Spartacus approvingly.
“Your champion speaks truth. Half the battle is played not on sand, but in mind. Put these dreams from head and rest your minds. Tomorrow is a new day.”
“One holding games that exclude the House of Batiatus,” Varro murmured sullenly.
“For now,” Oenomaus said. “But your day will come. And you must be ready.”
Batiatus smiled until his face ached, though behind the smile he was grinding his teeth. What he wouldn’t have given to have tipped that grinning rat Solonius over the balcony of the pulvinus, and then to have witnessed lions and bears released into the arena to tear him apart. How he would have laughed and clapped and cheered at the spectacle, even as he was spattered with the lanista’s blood.
Oh, that day was coming, he felt certain of it. But he would have to be patient. For now he must endure the pretense of licking the little fucker’s arsehole, of putting up with his jibes and his put-downs and his ogling of Lucretia’s tits as if such things were mere light banter between friends.
It was none of these things which galled him the most today, however. No, what really made him angry was the fact that Solonius had deliberately arranged the seating at the games in such a way that his opportunity to speak to Crassus had been rendered virtually non-existent. The Roman nobleman had been seated on the front row, beyond his friend Hieronymus, to Solonius’s right. Batiatus and Lucretia, despite their status as “honored guests,” had by contrast been seated on the second row to the far left. Ordinarily this would not have presented too much of a problem, but the pulvinus was uncommonly full today—vulgarly so, in fact. Solonius, of course, had turned the situation to his advantage, claiming that the interest in, and good feeling toward, Hieronymus’s new ludus and Capua’s esteemed visitor was so great that he had allowed his enthusiasm to run away with him, with the result that he had issued invitations to a greater number of Capua’s more influential citizens than he had originally intended.
“I hope you are not overwhelmed by surplus of hospitality,” Solonius had said smarmily to Hieronymus.
“On the contrary,” the merchant had replied, eyeing the minor dignitaries and their families cramming themselves into the pulvinus, and the extra chairs that were having to be found for them, with some alarm. “Generosity of spirit is well received, good Solonius. I’m certain that noble Marcus Crassus would agree?”
Crassus had merely grunted and taken his appointed place. He had resisted being drawn into any lengthy conversations, despite the efforts of several of Solonius’s guests to engage him in such.
Batiatus was wondering whether he would be presented with the opportunity to exchange even so much as a single word with the esteemed visitor. He and Lucretia were currently pinioned beyond a corpulent bore named Cassius Brocchus, his ever-chattering wife and their two obnoxious children.
Lucretia had kept up a pretense of conversation with the couple—which, as far as Batiatus could discern, had been mostly about Capua’s appalling sanitation system—but Batiatus himself, after an initial show of smiling politeness, had now descended into a brooding malaise. From his uncomfortable position he could only watch helplessly as Solonius ingratiated himself with the Sicel merchant and his guest, anointing them with his oily platitudes, his bejeweled fingers glinting as his gestures became ever more extravagant. There was scant consolation in the fact that Crassus seemed just as unresponsive to Solonius’s overtures as he had been to everyone else’s. Such taciturnity was not uncommon for a Roman dignitary, particularly one who hailed from such an exalted family as his.
At last the spiral horns sounded their fanfare and Solonius rose to his feet. He looked around at the cheering crowd, relishing the moment. Then he raised his arms, prompting them to cheer all the louder.
“The cunt basks in attention like lizard in the sun,” Batiatus muttered to Lucretia. “Is crowd so prepared to accept inferior games without complaint?”
“They are satiated by blood,” Lucretia replied. “They have lesser care for its origin.”
Batiatus sneered in disgust and slumped back in his seat.
“Good citizens of Capua,” Solonius shouted, his every word dripping with smugness, “this is a day most glorious for fair city! Games of joyous celebration to express how truly blessed we stand to welcome not one, but two of the most esteemed men to ever grace us with noble presence.”
“The man tugs both cocks with either hand,” Batiatus grumbled, and was waved to silence by Lucretia. He listened with growing disdain as Solonius went on to fawningly extol the virtues of Crassus and Hieronymus, paying little regard to the fact that if he had been in Solonius’s position he would have been doing exactly the same thing.
At last, his toadying over, Solonius called upon Crassus to give the signal for the games to begin. Crassus wafted a weary arm in response, prompting the crowd to cheer wildly and jump up and down. Some of the women bared their breasts in time-honored tradition as the huge, bloodstained gates at each side of the arena were slowly pulled open, and the first of the gladiators emerged from the darkness of the tunnels beyond.
As those in the pulvinus strained forward in their seats to get their first glimpse of the stallions in Hieronymus’s stable, Batiatus remained slumped and disconsolate, his chin propped on his palm. He couldn’t even be bothered to raise his eyes at the commencement of clash of sword on shield, nor at the roars of rage and pain from the arena and the frenzied reactions of the crowd.
It was only when Lucretia plucked at his sleeve, not once but several times, that he looked up.
“What is it?” he snapped. “Must you peck at me like small bird?”
There was a strange look in Lucretia’s eyes and spots of high color on her cheeks that were nothing to do with the carefully applied rouge.
“I think you will find contest of interest,” she said.
“What interest could I have in observing Solonius allowing Hieronymus a few victories to convince him his ludus has worth?”
This was what Batiatus had foretold Lucretia would happen as they had dressed for the games earlier that day. He had predicted that Hieronymus’s gladiators would be too new and raw for skillful combat, and that these games had come too early for them. He had said that Solonius would use the contest to rebuild his tarnished reputation and rake in an abundance of coin at the merchant’s expense.
“He is too wily to humiliate the Greek though. To do so would see him lose favor,” he had added, jabbing his point home with a raised finger. “He will sacrifice a few bouts to sweeten the merchant’s demeanor and keep him tantalized.”
Now, perched on the edge of her uncomfortable wooden seat, Lucretia narrowed her
eyes at her husband.
“Observe, Quintus,” she hissed. “It may be to your advantage.”
Batiatus sighed and made a big show of raising himself upright. He peered down into the arena, just in time to see a gladiator with long, matted hair, who appeared to be carrying too much weight, drive a trident through the throat of one lying on his back, pinning the man to the sand in a gush of blood. As the crowd rose as one, screaming their approval, he shrugged.
“It is the opening bout. Solonius allows Greek to draw early blood. This holds no surprise.”
“Lay eyes on Solonius,” Lucretia urged.
Batiatus glanced across at the wiry lanista. To his surprise, Solonius looked not merely troubled, but severely anxious. As Batiatus watched, he saw a bead of sweat form at the side of Solonius’s temple and trickle down his face. Then he saw Solonius remove it with an angry flick of his finger.
“He reacts with nerves merely for show,” Batiatus said, though there was doubt in his voice. “He would not have Hieronymus suspect manipulation.”
“You did not witness his gladiators, Quintus. Solonius’s men were slow and clumsy. They fought poorly.”
“Then he has ordered them forfeit, or face less honorable death.”
“That stands hard to believe. Solonius’s hand is sly, possessed of lighter touch than such obvious conduct.”
Batiatus looked thoughtful. What Lucretia had said was true. Solonius would be prepared to shoulder a few minor losses in today’s contest, but he would still instruct his gladiators to fight well in the losing of them.
He watched the next several bouts with mounting interest. As Lucretia had said, Solonius’s men looked uncharacteristically lethargic, stumbling around the arena as if they had weights attached to their ankles. Their lunges were clumsy, and easily evaded by their opponents. And they were equally slow to defend themselves, as a result of which Solonius quickly began to suffer defeat after ignominious defeat.
Hieronymus’s men, for their part, were as willing, fearless and savage as Batiatus would expect of barbarian warriors, but to his trained eye it was clear that few of them were yet ready for the arena. They had neither the skill, dexterity, nor speed of his own men—and neither should they have been a match for Solonius’s gladiators, who, despite Batiatus’s often scathing words, had proven themselves more than worthy opponents over the years.
