by Mark Morris
So what was wrong? It was a mystery—but a welcome one. Batiatus’s glee mounted as one of Solonius’s gladiators after another was cut down. By contrast Solonius slowly became a shadow of his former grandiloquent self, his shoulders sagging further with each fresh defeat, his waxen face etched in mounting misery.
“Perhaps you are right. It appears the peacock has lost strut,” Batiatus muttered into Lucretia’s ear. She uttered a high, tinkling laugh, the sound of which caused Solonius to jerk his head toward them.
Batiatus caught his eye and beamed. Raising a cup of wine in salute, he called, “A fine contest, Solonius! Tell me, have you adopted new training methods for your gladiators? Or new diet perhaps, abundant amount of indulgent sweetmeats?”
There was a ripple of laughter from the dignitaries in the pulvinus. Solonius gritted his teeth in a rictus grin.
“I confess that losses pain the heart,” he replied. “If feelings were otherwise I would not be foremost lanista in Capua. My expert eye gleams that good Hieronymus has trained his warriors well, rather than holding that mine display reduced skill.”
“I would venture both observations hold sway,” Batiatus countered cheerfully. “Hieronymus without doubt makes excellent progress in limited time before contest. His men truly raise status and glory of his house to exalted heights. But heart saddens that they stand forced to display new-found skill against inferior opposition. Would that they were able to test mettle against real titans of the arena.” Directing his words to Hieronymus and, by extension, Crassus, he raised his voice to a shout. “As you are surely aware, good Hieronymus, I boast among my stable the foremost gladiators in the Republic. Among them, the Champion of Capua himself—slayer of the mighty Theokoles and the Bringer of Rain … Spartacus himself!”
He bellowed, raising his hand in a flourish, as though introducing Spartacus to the arena. He knew it was a shameful display, one that might see him ostracized by those among Solonius’s guests who were of a somewhat genteel disposition, and would therefore be repelled by what they would undoubtedly consider his brutishness. But it was a calculated risk, and one that he felt was well worth taking. Crassus’s undoubted interest in the arena was Batiatus’s primary concern, and if his overexuberance succeeded in snaring Crassus’s interest at the expense of a few minor notables, then so be it.
As it was, his words had a far greater effect than he could have hoped. A few of the dignitaries in the pulvinus, not to mention a fair number of the rabble in the crowd who were within earshot, responded by turning their heads eagerly toward the blood-streaked sand, as if expecting to see the legendary Thracian striding arrogantly out to take the plaudits of his myriad admirers. Batiatus’s lips twitched in satisfaction as he observed all of their faces fall in disappointment. Clearly he had more than whetted their appetites, as was his intention.
He was even more delighted a moment later when Marcus Crassus, who had initially feigned indifference to his words, staring out across the sand during his exchange with Solonius, now turned and regarded Batiatus directly for the first time.
“I would like to see this Thracian,” he murmured, his rich voice audible even among the tumult of the crowd. “News of his prowess reaches ears even in Rome.”
Batiatus spread his hands in a gesture of both humility and generosity.
“Allow me to place myself at disposal. It would be rare honor to have such esteemed guest at the House of Batiatus.”
Marcus Crassus nodded curtly and raised a hand as though wafting away a fly.
“You shall have it then.”
Batiatus could barely restrain himself from rubbing his hands together in glee.
“My house stands ready, with but the timing at your discretion.”
“A day hence,” Crassus confirmed, and turned back to watch the games.
Flashing a look of triumph at Solonius, Batiatus said, “Your arrival and all proper arrangements much anticipated.”
V
FOR SEVERAL MOMENTS AFTER HE WOKE UP SPARTACUS HAD no idea where he was. Though he leaped to his feet like a startled cat, every nerve in his body tingling, his thoughts were absent, his mind scoured clean by the terrible screams that were filling his head. For the present he was a creature of instinct only, and instantly felt himself adopting the tensile, crouching stance of a warrior preparing for battle. He felt too the hairs on his arms and back prickling erect, like those of an animal attempting to make itself look less like prey.
When the attack he had been half-expecting did not come, he felt his senses slowly returning. Looking at the stone walls around him, he realized that he was where he always was at night—locked in his cell in the ludus. He crossed to the door and raised himself to peer through the bars above it. Immediately he saw a pair of Roman guards hurrying past.
“What is happening?” he shouted.
They ignored him.
He listened as the screams continued, ringing around the dingy cell area. They were screams of mortal terror, long and endless and horrible. Spartacus had heard such screams many times before—in battle, and in the arena. He wondered whether the ludus was under attack, but just as quickly dismissed the notion. These were the screams of but a single man. If attackers should come in the night— though Spartacus had no idea from where they might appear or what their ultimate intentions might be—they would surely go about their business swiftly and silently, or more likely simply leave the men locked in their cells and set a torch to the place. Besides, there were no sounds of battle to accompany the screams; in fact, there was no other commotion at all, save the increasingly voluble enquiries of his fellow gladiators, who had been roused from their slumbers, just as he himself had.
Eventually there came the jangle of keys at a cell door, and then a few gruffly barked orders to be silent, followed by the none-too-gentle impact of fists and feet on flesh. The screams cut off, wound down into a whimpering and gasping. Spartacus sat back down on the bench where he slept, listening to the confusion of movement and the grumble and growl of half-heard voices. In the glow of his single torch he watched as a black scorpion scuttled across the wall of his cell and disappeared into a crack between the stones.
Eventually he heard movement outside his cell again. Jumping to his feet he saw the guards passing by and then returning moments later with Oenomaus in tow.
“Doctore,” Spartacus said. “Who screams?”
Oenomaus glanced at him and raised a hand as he hurried past.
“Patience,” he said. It was the only word Spartacus heard him speak. He completely ignored the entreaties of the other men.
Spartacus returned to his bunk and lay down. He felt cold and then hot, as though on the verge of fever, and his limbs throbbed with fatigue. Though he had felt this way, off and on, for several days and nights now, he told himself it was simply that his humors were a little unbalanced by the shock of being woken so suddenly, and he closed his eyes. He surprised himself by slipping almost instantly into a restless sleep, only realizing he had done so when he heard the rattle of a key in the lock of his door.
He roused himself, sitting up as Oenomaus entered, accompanied by Ashur.
“How fares mind and body?” Oenomaus asked him.
It was an odd question. Though the men respected Doctore, he was a hard taskmaster and they were not accustomed to him adopting the role of nursemaid.
Spartacus nodded, resisting the urge to rub his tingling limbs.
“I suffer from curiosity only. Who screams sounds of affliction?”
Oenomaus looked troubled.
“Felix,” he replied.
“He suffers injury?”
“In mind only.”
Spartacus glanced at Ashur. There was something going on here that he was not aware of, something he was missing.
“What stands cause?”
It was Ashur who answered.
“A fever-dream. One he claims so vivid that it revealed waking glimpse into Hades itself.”
Spartacus remaine
d unmoved.
“He is new to ludus. Incarceration in unfamiliar surroundings, severe demands on body and mind by training—I mean no disrespect, Doctore …”
Oenomaus nodded.
“… this place takes toll on mind not yet hardened to life as gladiator. Felix soon faces Final Test. Adding to concern that—”
“Doubtful Felix’s condition result of mundane anxieties,” Ashur interrupted.
Spartacus narrowed his eyes.
“Speak and make thoughts clear.”
Lowering his voice to a whisper, Ashur said, “The man is bewitched.”
For a moment Spartacus did not react. He was uncertain how to. He looked at Oenomaus, who remained stony-faced.
“Do you hold such opinion, Doctore?”
The veteran frowned, as though forced to deal with thoughts he was unwilling to entertain.
“I grasp only uncertainty,” he said eventually.
Ashur’s eyes possessed certainty.
“I hold none. The evidence without question.”
“What evidence?” Spartacus asked.
“Felix was gripped by terrifying vision, of a man composed of darkness, eyes burning red fire. Felix spoke of him as if evil spirit in human form. Able to penetrate veil of sleep to pluck soul from body and drag it down to Hades’s deepest eternal pit.”
Spartacus was silent for a moment. He did not scoff; he knew the power of dreams. But he was skeptical all the same. Unlike many of his people—and Romans, and Gauls, and Syrians, and all manner of other men too—he did not adhere so readily to the idea of dreams as omens and portents. Nor did he believe that evil spirits (if they existed at all) could adopt human form and steal a man’s soul in the way a street dog might steal a sausage from a market stall.
“Perhaps tale you told of Mantilus inflamed fears already present in mind and made them monsters,” he suggested.
Ashur shook his head irritably.
“It is not just tonight’s disturbance that stands evidence.”
The crippled ex-gladiator exchanged a look with Oenomaus. The statuesque African expelled a deep sigh.
“Dominus summoned me after games of evening past. His spirits high following defeat of Solonius’s gladiators, but admitting to confusion as to nature of the losses suffered by rival. He told of Solonius’s men fighting as if fresh recruits absent skill. Movement burdened by weight, tepid wielding of weapons during attack, slow lifting of shields in defense.”
Spartacus shrugged.
“Perhaps dominus spins tale to degrade Solonius. It is known their exchanges stand more blows with daggers than words from mouth.”
Oenomaus shook his head.
“Dominus spoke not to revel in humiliation of rival’s defeat, but as a lanista, leveling assessment upon wares of another. His puzzlement towards its display standing genuine.”
“I don’t see how story lends proof of otherworldly assertions.”
“Are all Thracians so slow of mind?” Ashur asked, shaking his head with a smile. “Solonius’s men fell to spell weaved by the creature Mantilus. Ensuring inferior performance in the arena. And now Felix joins them.” “Why Felix?” Spartacus asked with a frown. “He is but untested gladiator. What advantage would it give Hieronymus?”
“Felix does not suffer in isolation,” Oenomaus rumbled with some reluctance. “Many have been troubled during slumber in recent nights. I myself experience similar affliction. My habit of sleep is steady one absent dreams, the hours of falling to it and waking precise ones. Yet such discipline deserts of late. I lie sleepless, ears disturbed by men crying out in terror. Men who weep and thrash bodies about.”
Spartacus shrugged.
“Sleep does not come easy upon stone floors,” he said.
Ashur shook his head, with increasing irritation this time.
“Ashur moves freely during night, sleep often aggrieved by wounded leg. I am familiar with night sounds of ludus, and this stands different. It is surely sorcery, the influence of Mantilus extending far beyond his master’s ludus.”
“If the men hear your crazed words they will believe,” Spartacus snapped. “It will not be to their advantage.”
Ashur raised his hands.
“Ashur’s intention is silence. It disfavors him to undermine the House of Batiatus. Yet concealment of tale will only delay appearance of sorcery to all. The men who yet stand unafflicted speak of tired limbs and minds fatigued.”
Spartacus was silent for a moment. What Ashur had said was true. There had been more groaning and complaining than usual in the mess hall and the baths of late. And Doctore had criticized the sluggish reflexes of some of the men on several occasions during training. Neither could he deny that he himself currently felt out of humor. Hadn’t he taken to his bunk only a short time ago with the notion that he was succumbing to a slight fever, his body flushing hot and cold as tiredness prickled in his limbs?
He tried to put the thought from his head, scowling as if to deny it. It was nothing but a passing minor ailment, that was all. This entire situation would wear a different complexion in the morning.
“I do not embrace belief in evil spirits,” he said again stubbornly.
Ashur gave an exasperated grunt, but Oenomaus nodded.
“It pleases to hear it.”
“And yet still you come with wild tales?”
“I come to a man of conviction—one of single-minded purpose, not easily molded and manipulated.”
“Surely such trait more hindrance than boon to a trainer of gladiators?” Spartacus said lightly.
Oenomaus allowed himself a tight smile.
“A challenge, certainly—but such form has you champion, Spartacus. And if unknown forces told by Ashur besiege us, the men will look to their champion as example against adversity.”
“You seek me for ally?” Spartacus said with sudden realization and more than a little surprise.
Oenomaus looked at him steadily for a moment, and then gave a short nod.
“In anticipation of troubled times.”
For a few seconds Spartacus sat motionless—and then he reached out and clasped Oenomaus’s arm.
“Then you have one,” he said.
Ilithyia flounced into the atrium, her eyes widening in amazement.
“What is sound that assaults ears? Can one call it song?”
Lucretia forced a smile, though she couldn’t quite hide her embarrassment. Trust Ilithyia, duplicitous as two-faced Janus himself, to arrive just at the moment when Batiatus was doing something which the pampered senator’s daughter and those of her acquaintance would no doubt find vulgar in the extreme.
“I fear one must,” Lucretia said, brazening it out by making a joke of it. “Gods smile upon husband this day. He responds with raised voice in gratitude.”
“Spirits raise to hear the gods show generous heart,” Ilithyia said with a tinkling laugh. “But such bleating calls to mind sacrificial pig awaiting slaughter!”
“We will retire to my chamber,” Lucretia suggested, taking her friend’s elbow and steering her gently from the atrium, away from Quintus’s caterwauling.
The preparations for the evening’s festivities were well underway. Slaves hurried hither and thither throughout the villa, carrying tableware or floral displays or ingredients for the sumptuous feast that Lucretia had planned. Others cleaned and scrubbed the marble walls and mosaic floors, making them gleam. Still more filled the lamps with perfumed oils and placed incense burners on ledges and alcoves.
As they walked, Ilithyia leaned close to Lucretia, her voice dropping conspiratorially. Apparently oblivious to the activity around her, she arched an eyebrow and enquired, “And why do the gods smile on husband? Perhaps loving wife has granted rare pleasure within bed chamber?”
Lucretia’s smile stiffened slightly.
“Be assured he wants for nothing in that department, no pleasures standing rare.”
“You surprise,” Ilithyia said lightly, and then widened her eyes as if only n
ow realizing what she had said. “Intention was not to offend. My meaning implied only that at advanced age one imagines energy for carnal pursuits stands less vigorous than in youth. Admiration abounds for your tenacity and persistence.”
Lucretia’s smile had become a grimace. Reaching the first of her sitting rooms, she said, “Wine?”
“Some water perhaps,” Ilithyia said, and—as ever— looked around as though sympathizing with her friend’s lack of wealth. “Speak more of your husband’s good fortune.”
The fact that she wasn’t didn’t prevent Lucretia from doing so now. After all, she was proud of the news that she was about to impart. She told Ilithyia of what had transpired at the games the previous day, and of the imminent arrival of Marcus Crassus and his acquaintance, the Sicel merchant, Hieronymus. If she expected Ilithyia to be impressed, or even envious, she was disappointed.
Barely concealing a very obvious yawn, Ilithyia said, “I wish you good fortune with Crassus. The man is a crushing bore. His talk only of politics and business, and his face—like his grandfather, who Gaius Lucilius named Agelastus on account of grim demeanor—it has not yet been seen to crack in joy.”
“Perhaps sight of your delicate beauty would pry it open?” Lucretia suggested.
“If I were a woman fashioned from equal coin maybe. You know he is the richest man in all Rome?”
“Everyone knows it,” Lucretia replied.
Ilithyia raised her eyebrows in mild surprise.
“Such knowledge extends all the way to the provinces, penetrating grubby homes and ears of those often ignorant of politics and power. Present company excluded, naturally.”
“Naturally,” Lucretia muttered.
Ilithyia reached out and touched Lucretia’s hand lightly, bestowing upon her a generous smile.
“It must stifle to reside among the ill-informed.”
