Spartacus - Morituri

by Mark Morris

  Bringing the conversation back on track, Lucretia said silkily, “So you will attend tonight? I shudder to be left without company when talk turns to politics and business.”

  “It tempts,” Ilithyia mused, sounding anything but, “but I fear another engagement presses. I tire from being forever in demand.”

  “One can only imagine,” Lucretia said.

  Oblivious to her friend’s sarcasm, Ilithyia continued, “I envy you anonymity, Lucretia. Tell me again who accompanies Crassus this evening?”

  “Hieronymus. The moneyed Greek. Crassus takes up residence in his villa for summer’s remainder. A shame you cannot attend, as everyone of note in Capua will be here, drawn by lure of honored guest.”

  Ilithyia pouted prettily.

  “Perhaps I will attend. To lend support for endeavors.”

  “Gesture of friendship overwhelms, Ilithyia,” Lucretia said, her face deadpan.

  Ilithyia looked around as though wary of eavesdroppers, and then leaned forward. “Do you know how Crassus assembled fortune?”

  Not wishing to be thought a backward rustic, Lucretia said, “Support for Sulla elevated position, did it not?”

  Ilithyia raised her eyebrows dismissively, as if Lucretia’s knowledge was so inadequate as to be almost negligible.

  “For a man of apparent dullness, Crassus claims a lurid past, steeped in blood of his enemies.”

  “It is the Roman way,” Lucretia remarked.

  Frowning at the interruption, Ilithyia continued, “The right wing of Sulla’s army was his to command at the Battle of Colline Gate. It is said his tactics proved ruthless. His army crushed all opposition. The Samnite troops and the Marian adherents utterly destroyed. After Sulla’s ascension, Crassus made use of Sulla’s proscriptions. You have heard this detail?”

  “Of course,” Lucretia said tersely. “They ensured those who aided Sulla’s cause would recoup fortunes. Adding to those gained by plundering wealthy adherents to Gaius Marius or Lucius Cinna. Yet Sulla’s enemies lost not merely fortunes, but their lives.”

  Ilithyia’s eyes were shining. “Crassus was master of the campaign. Cutting through Sulla’s political foes as he had the armies fighting in Cinna’s name. He made purchase of land and houses for smattering of coin. His acquisition of burning houses notorious, purchased along with surrounding buildings for modest sum. Then employed his army of five hundred clients to douse flames before severe damage was done. His proximity convenient to so many unfortunate accidents.”

  “Wealth was surely acquired by more conventional methods as well?” Lucretia said.

  Ilithyia wafted a hand.

  “Crassus acquires coin through traffic of slaves and working of silver mines. His long fingers extend everywhere, though I fear they provide little pleasure.” She smiled wickedly.

  “A formidable ally,” Lucretia murmured.

  “And formidable foe,” Ilithyia countered. Uncharacteristically serious, she said, “Stand warned, Lucretia. Beneath dour countenance, Marcus Crassus is slippery creature.”

  As are you, Lucretia thought, though she didn’t say so. Instead she smiled expansively and said, “Gratitude, Ilithyia. Wise counsel is appreciated as always.”

  Though he cracked his whip and bellowed his familiar combination of instructions, insults and—now and again—words of encouragement, Oenomaus did not feel his usual ebullient self that day. More than ever, he felt listless, unable to concentrate, and from the shambolic display of the men in his charge he was not the only one thus afflicted.

  Through what appeared to be willpower alone, Spartacus was putting on the best show, though even he seemed slow and tired, his body dripping with sweat from his exertions. Oenomaus had seen him blinking and puffing out his cheeks and palming sweat from his brow with a weary hand on several occasions when he thought himself unobserved. Eventually, while the men did positional and stance work in rotation against the thick wooden posts embedded in the sand of the training ground, he drew the Champion of Capua aside.

  “Your exertions result in weary profile, beyond what is normal,” he said.

  Spartacus eyed him impassively.

  “We are all tired from the day.”

  Oenomaus nodded grimly.

  “Ashur’s words nest in mind.”

  “Belief in evil spirits remains absent in mine,” Spartacus said with a half-smile.

  “I don’t embrace the belief tightly. But I confess confusion at my own fatigue.”

  “The heat, lack of sleep …”

  “Not uncommon hardships.” Oenomaus paused. “But the feeling is different. And observing your training this day, I believe you feel as I do if you were to give it thought.”

  “What marks it different?”

  “Weight as though doubled. Feeling of feet clamped to ground. As though …” His voice tailed off, unsettled. “As though Ashur’s words stand truth.” Oenomaus took a deep breath. “As though deep force draws from below, to pull us through sand.”

  Spartacus licked his lips.

  “You speak of the underworld.”

  “I did not say the word,” Oenomaus said quickly.

  “You do not need to.” Spartacus paused. “What ails the men is mystery to me. But I put faith my wife’s beliefs, to consider all that happens does so for a reason.”

  “This is beyond reason,” Oenomaus said.

  Spartacus shrugged. “Perhaps. But perhaps lack of reason is reason in itself. Perhaps the gods decree that this is our fate.”

  Oenomaus grunted and looked up at the sky, as though he half-expected the gods themselves to be looking down on him, relishing his current misfortune.

  “Tell me,” he said, “what state are the men’s minds in?”

  “You ask me to betray confidence to superior.”

  “Only for the good of all, not for idle chatter.”

  Spartacus nodded in understanding and looked around.

  “They stand uneasy,” he said. “Some more than others. Ashur has kept to his own counsel, yet they are not fools. Tetraides speaks loud of Mantilus and rumor of other ludi fallen to spell. He fills the men’s heads with talk of sorcery, visions of dread and life sapped from limbs.”

  “This cannot go on,” Oenomaus said angrily. “I would speak with him.”

  “He is Greek, obstinant as bull yet also possessing fear of woodland deer. He will not listen.”

  “Then I will cut out his tongue to feed to the birds,” Oenomaus snapped.

  “Perhaps offer it to the gods for protection from evil spirits,” Spartacus remarked drily.

  Oenomaus snorted a laugh, though there was little humor in it.

  On the training ground one of the men, the bald-headed giant Thrimpus, suddenly keeled over, crashing to the ground. The other men would normally have laughed at this, as they laughed at any display of weakness, but today, having stopped what they were doing to look, the majority of them merely murmured uneasily and backed away, watching as a cloud of sand disturbed by the impact rose and then settled over the fallen man’s recumbent form. Oenomaus rolled his eyes and strode angrily forward, flicking out his whip as he did so.

  “Did you hear order to cease training?” he bellowed. “Resume or learn lessen in the hole!”

  Most of the men moved swiftly to comply, keen to avoid a stint in the hole. This was the cesspit into which all of the villa’s household waste was poured, and Spartacus himself, together with Varro, had endured far too many endless hours in its stinking confines during the early days and weeks of their training.

  With a flick of his head, Oenomaus barked, “Duro, Felix, drag this creature away and douse with water until it stirs.”

  As the two gladiators hurried to obey, Tetraides said mournfully, “Thrimpus holds no blame, Doctore. The touch of sorcery lies upon him—as it does upon all.”

  “Did I ask for thoughts spilled from mouth! Speak out of turn again and see yourself to the hole!” Oenomaus roared, his eyes burning like fire. “Resume training!”


  For an instant it seemed as if Tetraides was about to argue—and then he dropped his eyes and muttered, “Doctore.”

  “Spartacus,” Oenomaus said, “spar with Tetraides. Test him with vigor and strike further speech from him.”

  “Doctore,” Spartacus said with a nod, and moved forward, his face grim and his wooden training swords gripped firmly in his hands.

  Fed and bathed, his muscles oiled in preparation for that evening’s banquet in the villa above, Spartacus was resting on his bunk. He lay still, preserving his energy, telling himself over and over again that the aching fatigue in his limbs was imaginary, that he felt no different now than he did every other day after training. And the strange thoughts and half-visions crowding his mind, like dreams attempting to break free from the realm of sleep, were nought but the result of a restive night and Ashur’s wild tales. All this talk of evil spirits and sorcery was nonsense, foolishness. Such things were the province of the gullible and the weak-willed, destructive only if given rein to be so.

  He tried to turn his thoughts to more immediate matters, to prepare himself for his role at the night’s coming celebrations. As a proud Thracian warrior, he resented being paraded like a shank of prime beef for arrogant and overfed Romans to gape at and pore over. It was demeaning, humiliating, and it belied Batiatus’s often stirring pronouncements that gladiators were heroes to be envied and revered and lusted after, that theirs was a life defined by fame and glory.

  Spartacus never felt more like a slave than he did under the supercilious scrutiny of his Roman captors. Even the women who wanted his hard cock between their legs regarded him as nothing but a plaything, an animal with which to gain pleasure by rutting, only to then cast aside. He felt more of a free man when he was locked in his cell, alone with his thoughts and his sweet memories of Sura. But in many ways his entire life, whatever it may bring, was nought but a cage now. He doubted he would be truly free until the day when he would be reunited with his beautiful wife upon the endless plains of the afterlife.

  Sura was filling his thoughts, as she often did, when he heard footsteps halt outside his cell. As his door was unlocked and pushed open, he sat up, to see two of the house-guards staring in at him.

  “You are summoned,” one of them said curtly.

  Spartacus was surprised. “The celebrations begin at early hour?”

  The guard who had spoken sneered, as though Spartacus had proved by his response to be so slow-witted as to be beneath contempt.

  “It’s not your place to question. Rise and follow.”

  Spartacus rose from his bunk and padded to the door. He was manacled and led upstairs. As he passed Tetraides’s cell he saw the Greek lying flat on his back, his breath a snuffling grunt through his broken nose. The injuries which Spartacus had inflicted on him that afternoon were superficial—nothing but cuts and bruises—but debilitating enough to subdue him, at least temporarily.

  As ever, he squinted when he passed through the upper door and emerged into the villa itself. After the dimness of the slaves’ quarters the glowing lamps adorning the walls seemed as bright as the sun rising over the Campanian hills. Although Spartacus’s belly was full of the thick gruel of barley and vegetables that, together with bread and fruit and occasionally a little boiled meat, was the staple diet of the gladiators in the House of Batiatus, his mouth still watered at the succulent scents of roasting meat drifting from the kitchens. There were other smells too—incense and perfumed oils—and there was an abundance of wondrous sights to draw his gaze. As he was led through the villa he saw sinuous slave girls, their bodies glittering with mica, awaiting the first of that evening’s guests; silken drapes billowing gently in the wind; rose petals strewn in the atrium pool like perfect, individual drops of blood; platters stacked high with honeyed bread, stuffed dates, grapes, olives and cold meats.

  Batiatus was waiting, statesman-like, in his study. As Spartacus entered he gave a single curt nod and the guards removed his manacles.

  Without preamble Batiatus said, “What shit reaches ear about fucking spells?”

  Spartacus sighed inwardly. So Ashur had kept his counsel among the gladiators, but at the first opportunity he had gone running to Batiatus, no doubt brimming with tales of how the men downstairs were shivering in their beds like frightened children. Spartacus felt sure that what Ashur would not have revealed to his master was that he himself was the architect of their fears. No, he had no doubt in his mind that Ashur would have used his silver tongue to create a weave of words, absolving himself of any blame for the current discord.

  “It is nothing, dominus,” Spartacus said. “Rumor and foolishness.”

  “Fuck rumor!” Batiatus spat. “Eminent guest soon graces the House of Batiatus—and what whispers disturb ears? That my titans jump at fucking shadows like virgins rammed by first cocks!”

  Spartacus said nothing. Sometimes it was wiser simply to let Batiatus vent his spleen. The lanista glared at his champion for a long moment, and then the anger slipped from his face, to be replaced by a troubled expression. He approached Spartacus until they were no more than a hand span apart, and stared deep into his eyes. Then speaking as though to a close friend and confidante, Batiatus said, “Speak truth, Spartacus. What state do you find their bodies and minds?”

  Spartacus paused. He briefly contemplated making light of the situation, assuring Batiatus that he had nothing with which to concern himself. But then he decided to be honest.

  “The men are divided. Some believe sorcery at work, others deny such foolishness—no one side holds sway.”

  “What side do you take?” Batiatus asked.

  “I hold no belief in evil spirits,” Spartacus said for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. “I believe each man shapes his own destiny.”

  Batiatus clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Heart rejoices to hear good sense. And your spirits are level to match?”

  Spartacus hesitated.

  “Yes, dominus.”

  “You sound uncertain.”

  “Abounding rumors brought restless sleep to most.”

  “So muscle stand slack and limbs weary?”

  “A passing condition, dominus.”

  Batiatus pursed his lips.

  “Rotten grapes must be plucked from vine before canker within spreads to those that remain. Slaves are easily replaced with those endowed with unsullied mind. Convey this to the men.”

  “Yes, dominus.”

  “Good.” Batiatus nodded, but seemed preoccupied. He gave no sign that Spartacus should be returned to his cell.

  “Is there something else, dominus?” Spartacus asked tactfully.

  Batiatus looked up, clearly mulling something over in his mind. He leaned closer to Spartacus than ever, his voice dropping to an almost embarrassed hush.

  “You are champion, Spartacus. You stand in glorious association with this house. Is that not so?”

  “Yes, dominus,” Spartacus said automatically.

  “Then do not pour sweetness on bitter words you stand reluctant to share.” He paused again, then said, “This babbling of foul magic … Do you think anything to it?”

  Spartacus took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. What did Batiatus want from him? It seemed that the conversation was revolving in circles.

  Carefully he said, “Some believe there is truth in rumor. Sometimes merely belief in a thing can make it so.”

  “But you, Spartacus. What do you believe?”

  “I offer no more than that already spoken, dominus.”

  Batiatus was silent for a long moment. He looked at Spartacus contemplatively.

  Finally he said, “You eat, shit, and spar with these men. What cause could drain vitality from those of such strength?”

  “Illness or injury could cause such failings. Passing from one to another.”

  “Could such affliction leap from another ludus, delivered only to gladiators?”

  “Such a thing seems unlikely,” Spartacus ad
mitted.

  Batiatus nodded grimly.

  “Yet such affliction seems to clasp hold of Solonius’s men. His warriors blundered about the arena as if just roused from fucking sleep. Curious that such malaise should strike rival ludus of Capua at precise instant a third school comes to being. Is it not?”

  “Uncommon coincidence, dominus,” Spartacus said.

  “Difficult to consider it coincidence,” Batiatus said, his face hardening. He fumed a moment, staring into space as thoughts raged through his mind. Then he said, “You’ve heard of this Mantilus?”

  “Only what little Ashur told of him,” Spartacus said carefully.

  “His presence expected tonight,” Batiatus said. “A fucking monster of a man, scarred like a Getae whore. Hieronymus keeps him close as if pet. I would have you mark him for future action.”

  “You suspect Hieronymus moves him to purpose against Solonius and yourself?” Spartacus said. “By what method?”

  Batiatus gave Spartacus a strange look, as if unwilling to voice what both of them were thinking.

  “Who fucking knows what method? I care not of their ways only their intentions!” he said finally. “Observe him and report to me only—do you understand?”

  “Yes, dominus.”

  Both of them turned at the sound of urgent footsteps approaching along the corridor outside. They could tell from the lurching, uneven gait that the steps were those of Ashur’s. The next moment the ex-gladiator himself, cheeks flushed, appeared in the doorway.

  “Out with it!” Batiatus snapped.

  “Apologies, dominus,” Ashur said, “I bring message from Doctore. Commotion erupts in ludus. The men are in a state.”

  Batiatus rolled his eyes, raising his face to the heavens.

  “How do the gods fuck me now?”

  “Something was found,” Ashur said, glancing quickly at Spartacus.

  “You speak in riddle. Fucking speak plain.”

  Ashur looked uneasy.

  “For understanding, dominus, you must witness yourself.”

  Batiatus stood on his balcony overlooking the training ground, flanked by Spartacus on one side, Ashur on the other. In the distance the sun was setting over the hills, a spectacular display of red and purple and salmon pink— the work of the gods in all its livid majesty—but Batiatus was not in the mood to appreciate such beauty. He was looking down on Oenomaus, the doctore’s skin like gleaming obsidian in the fading light. He was holding up a small object, as though presenting an offering to the gods.