by Mark Morris
“What the fuck is it, a child’s plaything?” Batiatus snarled.
With a flick of his powerful arm, Oenomaus threw the object up to the balcony. Spartacus snatched it from the air and handed it to Batiatus. All three men peered at it, Batiatus wearing an expression somewhere between contempt and distaste. The object was a doll of sorts, its head the skull of a small rodent, a rat perhaps, with small black stones pushed into its gaping sockets to give it a simulacrum of beady-eyed life. Its body was fashioned from twigs and strips of coarse cloth, and embedded with hobnails, which gleamed like the shafts of myriad tiny daggers.
“If it is a plaything, it comes not from child’s cradle but from its nightmares,” Batiatus muttered.
“I believe it to be a fetish,” Spartacus said.
Batiatus scowled.
“A what?”
“A fetish. The Getae priestesses known to make use of them in ritual. The embodiment of evil spirit or their powers.” He paused. “Said to drain life from a man, if placed in proximity.”
Batiatus grimaced and threw the fetish off the balcony, his hand jerking as if the tiny object had suddenly squirmed in his palm. The fetish hit the sand with barely a sound.
“Hurl it from the cliff,” he ordered. “Let it drain life from rocks below.”
“Dominus,” Oenomaus said with a nod. He picked up the fetish without a qualm, strode to the far side of the training ground and tossed it disdainfully away.
“This will see end to fucking foolishness and superstition,” Batiatus said firmly.
Hesitantly Ashur said, “There is one further question for consideration, dominus.”
Batiatus’s scowl reappeared.
“And what is that?”
“How did such item come to ludus in the first place?”
VI
BY THE TIME MARCUS AND HIERONYMUS FINALLY arrived at the villa, the party was well underway. Slaves wove through the unruly crowd, fulfilling the drunken guests’ every demand, but although everyone seemed to be having a good time, Batiatus had begun to fret that the two people he most wanted to attend might not make an appearance at all. As soon as they entered, therefore, he swept toward them with open arms, a grin of relief and welcome on his face.
“Welcome honored guests!” he cried. “The House of Batiatus greets you! The sight of you balms weary eyes!”
As Crassus looked around with what appeared to be an expression of mild disapproval, Batiatus beckoned forward a bare-breasted slave girl.
“Wine for these men! Quickly!”
He beamed as each man took a goblet from the tray the girl offered, Crassus grudgingly. He beamed even as Crassus took a sniff of the ruby-red liquid and crinkled his nose in disgust.
“Opimian,” Batiatus could not resist boasting. “It’s been said no finer vintage ever produced.”
Crassus took another sniff and then the tiniest of sips. Pulling a face he muttered, “It is adequate.”
Batiatus laughed uproariously, as if the nobleman had made the most hilarious joke he had ever heard. As he did so he glanced over Hieronymus’s shoulder and saw Mantilus, his teeth bared, staring back at him—or at least, appearing to do so despite his milk-white sightless eyes. The pale and somehow savage scrutiny of the blind man choked the laughter in Batiatus’s throat. He swigged wine to hide his discomfort and averted his gaze—but only as far as Athenais, the beautiful Athenian slave girl who Hieronymus had purchased for the outrageous price of six thousand sesterces as a gift for his house-guest.
Athenais was standing a few paces behind Crassus’s right shoulder, her skin still stippled with goose bumps from the cool night air. She was wearing a chiton even flimsier than the one she had been wearing in Albanus’s garden, but it was not the fact that the garment left nothing at all to the imagination that held Batiatus’s eye. As his eyes roamed admiringly over her body, he caught a glimpse of purplish-black bruises on the girl’s inner thighs. She caught and held his gaze for a moment, and then looked away with an expression of shame.
Though Batiatus was firmly of the belief that the role of a slave was to fulfill the needs of his or her master, whatever those needs may be, he felt an unfamiliar surge of sympathy for the girl. Of course, slaves must be punished for insubordination, and perhaps Athenais had refused Crassus’s advances, occasioning no option but for him to use force—but somehow this did not sit well with Batiatus’s prior knowledge of the man. Crassus was not known for his carnal appetites (though physical attributes such as Athenais possessed were doubtless difficult to resist; Batiatus fancied her allure may even raise the cock on a corpse), and moreover, despite his dour nature and fabled ruthlessness, it was said that Crassus treated his slaves with compassion unusual in a Roman; indeed, that he treated them not as chattels but as human beings deserving of respect. The bruises on the girl’s thighs, however, looked both old and new — some faded, some livid as the sunset he had observed from his balcony earlier—which to Batiatus suggested not an isolated violation, but brutal and persistent maltreatment.
Putting the thought to the rear of his mind, he turned his attention back to his revered guests.
“Hieronymus, allow congratulations once again on success at the games yesterday,” he said expansively. “A glorious and historic victory, to be sure.”
The Sicel merchant inclined his head.
“Pleasing start to fresh venture,” he admitted. “Though I confess myself a virgin in bedchamber compared to your accomplishments in the arena.”
“Then allow that in other endeavors of yours, I am but whore with flagging tits like sacks of grain,” Batiatus joked, with a bellow of laughter.
Crassus winced.
Chuckling politely, Hieronymus said, “Among lanistae, you are zenith to which all others aspire to rise.”
“You flatter with honeyed words,” Batiatus said. “Trust that my inaugural games as lanista were but pale imitation of your own.”
This was not strictly true. Batiatus had grown up among gladiators—his father Titus had been a lanista before him—and the transition from being his father’s heir to the inheritor of all that the old man owned had been a smooth one. It had been a simple matter for Batiatus to pick up the reins of his father’s legacy—which was not to say that the ensuing years had been easy ones. Gladiatorial sport was one which ebbed and flowed more swiftly than the tide. It required quick decisions, constant attention and an eye for accruing as much coin as possible from assets which were expensive and often brutally temporary.
“I judge that opposition was not as … demanding as expected.” Taking a sip of his wine, Hieronymus looked around quizzically. “Is Solonius present? I would commiserate with him.”
“Invitation was extended,” Batiatus replied casually, “but he has not yet graced us with presence. I expect him delayed with preoccupation towards filling gaps in his stable.”
Both men chuckled. Though Crassus, hovering like a vulture, remained grim.
Keeping his voice light, Batiatus said, “While Solonius’s warriors do not compare well with my own stable, I confess surprise at swiftness of their defeat. Upon the viewing I wondered what afflicted them. Forgive blunt words from humble lanista but they faced less experienced stock.”
Hieronymus shrugged expansively.
“I myself was surprised at their condition.”
“Do you gain insight towards explanation?”
“None.”
Batiatus looked hard at Hieronymus for a moment, and then turned to Crassus with a smile.
“Good Crassus, if I may, what is your opinion on the matter?”
Crassus’s face was like stone.
“I do not own gladiators. Solonius appears the man to ask.”
“And ask we shall—if he makes appearance.”
There was a natural pause as they all drank wine.
Then his eyes twinkling, the ready smile appearing on his face once again—a smile that secretly Batiatus would have relished battering into a mass of bloodied and spli
ntered teeth—Hieronymus said, “When shall opportunity present to view future opposition?”
“Soon, good Hieronymus,” Batiatus promised. “I delay not for sinister purpose, but to whet appetite of the crowd and make full spectacle of entrance.”
“A true purveyor of pageantry. There is much to learn from your methods.”
“And from yours, no doubt,” Batiatus said, and waved a casual hand when Crassus looked at him sharply. “If you intend to hold role of lanista as permanent with other concerns?”
“I do,” said Hieronymus. “There is much coin to be had from it.”
Batiatus bared his teeth in a grin and raised his goblet.
“Here’s to much coin and the gaining of it,” he said.
On the far side of the atrium, Ilithyia popped an olive into her mouth. Spitting the stone into the pool, where slave girls were undulating slowly like water-nymphs, she waited impatiently until Lucretia had finished her conversation with Magistrate Calavius—a cadaverous bore who Ilithyia avoided speaking to whenever possible—and then drew her hostess aside.
“Are you well, Ilithyia?” Lucretia asked. “Your face pales.”
Ilithyia’s eyes flickered to her left. “You do see that creature, do you not? Please say that you do.”
Lucretia followed the direction of her friend’s gaze. All she saw was a sea of bobbing heads. Her eyes slid from one face to another, many of which were employing their mouths to quaff her wine, or devour her food, or talk animatedly, or utter uproarious laughter at some amusing comment from a companion. She saw nothing to engender a sense of fear or alarm. It was a good party, and she congratulated herself on her aptitude as a hostess.
“What do my eyes seek?” She smiled wickedly. “An illicit lover to avoid? Local milliner owed extensive coin?”
Ilithyia shook her head irritably.
“You speak trivialities. Cast eyes by the wall. Lurking in shadow beside likeness of Minerva.”
Lucretia craned her neck—and suddenly, between a pair of bobbing heads, she caught sight of the scarred, silent figure that Ilithyia had indicated. She shivered. The man resembled a partly withered corpse propped against the wall, or some form of simian shade.
“You do see him, do you not?” Ilithyia said in a small voice.
Lucretia opened her mouth to reply that yes, of course she did—and then she paused. All at once she realized why the senator’s daughter must be asking her the question. Ilithyia must think that Mantilus was some minion of the underworld, despatched by Charon, the journey made in order to claim her soul.
Innocently, Lucretia said, “I see no one. The place you indicate is but a section of empty wall.”
Ilithyia’s eyes widened and she clutched Lucretia’s hands.
“It cannot be. I am yet too young to see vision of death. Too young to die.”
“Die?” Lucretia said with a small laugh. “You jest of death amidst celebration.”
“Yet death joins the occasion. And if I am only to see him, it must mean he comes for me.”
“Tell me again where your eyes rest.”
Ilithyia glanced across at where Mantilus was standing, and looked quickly away again.
In a whisper she said, “Between pillar and Minerva’s likeness. Fear clenches heart, Lucretia.”
Lucretia made a show of peering across the room, raising herself on tiptoe and narrowing her eyes. She allowed the time to stretch out, aware of the strong grip of Ilithyia’s fingers as the younger woman clutched at her for comfort, and the stricken look on her face. Finally she broke the moment with a laugh.
“Oh, I see where eyes fall now. Apologies for my foolishness.”
A flicker of hope dawned on Ilithyia’s face.
“So you do see him?”
“Of course,” Lucretia said as if the matter had never been in doubt. “It is Mantilus. Attendant to Hieronymus.”
Abruptly Ilithyia released Lucretia’s hands. She stood upright, arching her long, swan-like neck as she again turned to scrutinize the scarred man standing silently in the shadows. The fearful expression on her face hardened into one of suspicion and resentment. She turned back to glare at Lucretia, who smiled at her in guileless sympathy.
“Hieronymus’s attendant?” she said.
Lucretia nodded. “I am surprised you have not heard of him. He is quite the object of local chatter.”
“You must think me very foolish,” Ilithyia said in a curt voice.
Lucretia looked astonished.
“Dearest Ilithyia, the very idea impossible.”
Ilithyia sniffed. “I feel faint. The stuffiness of this villa, no doubt. Unwashed Capuan bodies pressing together. I’m not used to such confinement.” She nodded contemptuously at a slave topping up wine goblets from a jug. “The rough local grape you serve cannot help the matter. Palate stands accustomed to more refined vintage.”
Lucretia refused to rise to Ilithyia’s spiteful jibes.
“Of course,” she purred. “Poor dear friend. Your sufferings pain me. I see why laying eyes on Hieronymus’s creature gave you shock.”
Like a child snapping in anger one moment and distracted the next, the petulant look slipped from Ilithyia’s face. Leaning in to Lucretia, she giggled, “He is a creature, isn’t he? More beast than man.”
“A fearsome sight,” Lucretia agreed.
Ilithyia’s voice dropped even lower.
“What must swing between his legs? A cock like that of men, or some other instrument?”
Like a mother indulging an infant, Lucretia too giggled. She brushed her cheek against Ilithyia’s as she murmured into her ear.
“Perhaps he possesses black horn like that of a bull. Or cluster of writhing appendages like tentacles of squid.”
Ilithyia gave a small shriek, quickly stifled, her eyes positively shining with gleeful horror at the prospect. The two women turned to sneak another look at the scarred man—and the giggles dried in their throats.
As though aware that he was the topic of their discussion—and their ridicule—Mantilus had turned his head and appeared to be staring at them. His white eyes shone out from his dark face like tiny twin moons and his purple lips stretched in a leering smile. As they stared, transfixed, they were horrified to see his mouth open and a forked tongue flicker out, as though he were tasting their fear on the air.
“He truly is a denizen of the underworld,” Ilithyia squeaked.
Shuddering and clutching at one another, the women fled from the room.
Oenomaus was lying on his bunk, waiting to be summoned, along with the pick of Batiatus’s gladiators, to the villa. Faintly he could hear the sounds of celebration drifting down from above—the rumble of conversation, the occasional sharp tinkle of laughter. He closed his eyes, retreating into the cool interior of his own thoughts, and breathed deeply, slowly, in an effort to relax not only his limbs but his mind too. However, the unnamed anxiety was still there, at the back of his mind, like a rat gnawing its way through the thick stone wall toward him, sliver by sliver.
A frown crinkled his forehead. He would not give in to his doubts, his fears, his paranoia; he would not. He would remain strong. For the ludus. For the men. For himself.
He heard footsteps approaching his cell. The house-guards, coming to tell him that it was time. He opened his eyes, breathed out slowly once more, in an effort to expunge the troublesome thoughts in his head, and tried to swing his legs from the thin mattress, to pivot his body so that he could sit up.
But he couldn’t move! He was paralyzed!
He tried again, but it was as if his body was dead from the neck down; he couldn’t make even so much as a finger twitch. He glanced toward the door. The footsteps were still approaching his cell, but he realized now that there was something odd about them. The rapid clatter of the house-guards’ hob-nailed caligae was a familiar sound, but this was different. These footsteps were slow and booming, as if it was not a man who moved along the corridor toward him, but a giant.
A
t last the footsteps stopped right outside his door. There was silence for a long moment, a silence during which Oenomaus felt himself becoming overwhelmed by a terrible sense of dread. He was not a man given to panic, nor even fear, and yet all at once both of those emotions rushed through his mind like a rushing tide of white water, threatening to engulf all rational thought. He clenched his teeth, straining his neck muscles as he tried vainly to lift his unresponsive body from the bed. For a gladiator there was nothing worse than losing the ability to defend oneself, to have no choice but to simply lie there, defenseless as a baby, and accept whatever fate had in store.
His head whipped round to look at the door. He hoped against hope that it would prove a sturdy enough barrier to deter the intruder, whoever or whatever it was. He prayed that he would not hear the jangle of keys, and in this, at least, his prayers were answered. He did not hear the jangle of keys—but he did hear something far worse. He heard the creak of the already unlocked door as it was pushed slowly open.
Helpless, he watched the door swinging inwards. It swung toward him, and then back, the dark line between door and frame getting gradually wider as it did so. A vast shadow filled the doorway. Oenomaus saw a huge, powder-white torso, criss-crossed with livid red scar tissue. His mouth went dry as, with ponderous and terrible intent, the massive figure stooped and stepped through the doorway, into his cell.
Oenomaus knew who the figure was instantly, but as he saw the full, awful truth of it for the first time, his throat closed up, and though his mouth dropped open he found that he could not scream. This was Theokoles, the albino giant, the only man who had ever bested Oenomaus in the arena. But this was not the living Theokoles, the roaring, bestial creature who had slaughtered hundreds of men, and who had chosen to continue fighting in the arena even after winning his freedom. No, this was Theokoles as Oenomaus had last seen him, lying dead and bleeding on the sand after being despatched by Spartacus.
