by Mark Morris
This Theokoles, the monster that now stood in his cell, looming over his prostrate body, had no head. All that sprouted from his shoulders was the ragged stump of a neck, edged with long-dried blood, from which a splintered shard of bone protruded. Oenomaus stared at him in horror, his mouth moving soundlessly.
What are you? he wanted to say. Why are you here? But his lungs were frozen, his throat closed, denying him the breath to speak.
For a moment Theokoles simply stood there, his presence impossible, terrible, and yet undeniable. And then there was movement behind him, and another figure slipped into the cell—this one smaller, its face and body swathed in a dark, hooded cloak. All Oenomaus could see of this second figure were its hands — slim and delicate and undoubtedly feminine—but it was enough to send a further stab of dread through him.
Melitta?
The hooded figure neither confirmed nor denied that it was his dead wife, but Oenomaus knew. He watched with utter horror as Melitta reached into the folds of her heavy cloak and slowly drew out the object she had grasped. What was it? A knife? Was this how his life would end? Slaughtered like a helpless animal by his dead wife while the butchered body of his nemesis stood sentinel over him?
But it was not a knife that Melitta drew from her cloak. No, it was the head of Theokoles. She was holding it by its long yellow hair. Its eyes and mouth were closed, and blood was crusted around the rim of its severed neck.
Silently Melitta extended her arm, holding the head out toward him.
Why do you show me this? Oenomaus wanted to ask her. This was not my doing.
Then Theokoles’s dead eyes opened wide and glared at him. Red eyes, burning with madness. The dead albino’s scarred lips parted and his mouth opened, and suddenly Oenomaus was overwhelmed by the appalling stench of the death-pits of Hades. Then Theokoles was roaring at him, the sound carrying with it all the screaming torments of the underworld.
Finally finding his voice, Oenomaus cried out …
… and awoke.
His heart was crashing in his chest, his body lathered with sweat. He looked quickly around his cell. He was alone. Thank the gods, thank the gods.
He sat up, trembling, breathing deeply, thoughts of Melitta, of her beauty and her gentleness, filling his head. He felt grief rising in him, but he swallowed it back down.
Again he heard footsteps approaching his cell. Marching footsteps this time. Hobnails. The sound was almost comforting.
He stood up on legs that were still a little shaky, composing himself in readiness for the evening’s entertainment yet to come.
VII
“BEHOLD WHIPPED DOG, STILL LICKING HIS WOUNDS!” BATIATUS bellowed, letting rip a drunken gale of laughter.
Solonius, who had just entered the villa, visibly flinched and looked for a moment as if he was seriously contemplating turning round and walking straight back out of the door again.
Batiatus, however, raised his goblet, splashing outrageously expensive wine—that which he had given strict orders to reserve only for himself, Crassus and Hieronymus—over his wrist.
“Drink with us, good Solonius,” he shouted, “in hopes that excellent grape will unknot frown upon brow. We lanistae come together this night to share common bond. Let us celebrate past victories and bemoan ignoble defeats!”
As Solonius moved forward, his face set and suspicious, to join the tight-knit group on the fringes of the main crush of revelers around the atrium pool, Hieronymus murmured, “Surely defeats are best forgotten?”
Batiatus laughed. “Only adversity hardens sinew to set sights yet higher. Don’t you agree, Solonius?”
“Interesting philosophy, certainly,” Solonius muttered with a death’s-head grin.
In a rare moment of inebriated bonhomie, Batiatus indicated to the slave girl entrusted with the Opimian to provide a brimming goblet for his rival. When the newcomer had been presented with it, Batiatus clapped him on the back.
“Drink!” he said, tilting his head and gulping his own wine as though to show the other how it was done. “Good wine soothes troubled fucking mind.”
Solonius complied, first raising his goblet to Crassus and Hieronymus.
“Your good fortune.” He sniffed the wine uncertainly, as though fearing it might be poisoned, and then took an experimental sip. An expression of surprise, swiftly followed by pleasure, scurried across his face, and he took a larger mouthful.
Within minutes the three lanistae were chatting away like old friends, Crassus—a dour presence—perched vulture-like on the periphery.
“Your presence does you credit, Solonius,” Hieronymus said. “I had thought you to save face by remaining within your own walls.”
Before Solonius could respond, Batiatus said loudly, “We lanistae are resilient breed. We hold head high and strut like peacocks, whether in victory or defeat. Is that not so, Solonius?”
Solonius looked at Batiatus as if unsure where the remark was leading. Finally he inclined his head.
“A lanista does not sulk like spoiled child.”
“And the games are but sport,” Batiatus declared. “Representation of life, but not the thing itself.”
“Such flippancy towards the arena,” Crassus remarked.
“Not flippancy, no,” Batiatus replied. “Apologies, good Crassus, but you misunderstand meaning. The arena lives within me.” He thumped his chest with a clenched fist to demonstrate the fact. “My very veins run with sand and sweat. The blood of many, spilled and long forgotten. The world of gladiators is both business and passion. When my warriors enter the arena it is not only livelihood but my very life at stake.” He paused, raising a finger. “This fact is but irrelevance for some, those with ass on warm seat with simple hope of entertainment. Perfectly understandable but not a thing I feel. Good Hieronymus, what in your estimation is most vital in the craft?” He fixed his eyes on the merchant.
As ever, Hieronymus hid behind his smile. Spreading his hands he said, “I would not presume a guess in such experienced company. I am barely tested pupil of the games, and await your words of enlightenment.”
“Honor,” Batiatus replied, his voice suddenly quiet, his manner sober. “Nobility. Notions by which we stand. We lanistae may tussle and bicker outside the arena, but within it fair sport holds sway. Would you find agreement in that, good Solonius?”
Solonius regarded Batiatus thoughtfully. At length he nodded.
“Words truly spoken.”
“A pretty speech,” Crassus said.
“You disagree with such sentiments?”
“You speak of gladiators as though pure as gods themselves. The truth holds them as slaves—unrefined warriors, natural savagery honed to kill more efficiently. Their only instinct to spill blood and prolong miserable existence. You call this noble? You call it honorable?”
“I do if they do not seek to gain advantage. If they but meet opponents on equal terms.”
Crassus snorted. Still smiling, Hieronymus said, “I’m sure we would find agreement on this matter.”
He looked at Solonius, who nodded, and then at Batiatus, who looked back at him, his face set and stern.
Batiatus’s features retained their stone-like impassivity for a few seconds longer, and then abruptly twitched into a beaming smile. He raised his goblet once more, encouraging the others with a nod to do the same.
“It is certain we would,” he agreed. “All present are men of honor, are we not?”
Perhaps there was something in it, after all, Lucretia thought. Now that she had seen Mantilus at close-quarters she could more readily believe him capable of sorcery.
Just like Batiatus himself, she had scoffed at Ashur’s suggestion that Hieronymus’s attendant may be a creature risen from the underworld. She found it almost as difficult to accept that he possessed the ability to influence the bodies and minds of men simply by method of savage ritual learned in some far-distant jungle. The very idea of such a thing outraged and terrified her. She was a Capuan, and by exten
sion a Roman citizen, and as such she possessed the arrogance and absolute assurance of her upbringing. She and her kind were as close to the gods in nature as it was possible to be on this earthly plain. All other races were inferior in every aspect—there to be conquered and enslaved, to serve only the glory of Rome and its citizens. It was unthinkable, therefore, that this savage, this barbarian, could be blessed with powers beyond the capabilities of his superiors in the civilized world. The fact that she might be forced to accept that he was so blessed destabilized her beyond measure.
As a result of their earlier encounter with Mantilus, relatively innocuous though it may have been, she and Ilithyia had retreated to her furthermost cubiculum, there to drink wine in an effort to allay the shivers of fear that still occasionally gripped them. However, such had been their shock that the alcohol was having the opposite effect. The more they drank the more frightened and paranoid they became.
“You must expel him from your house,” Ilithyia wavered.
Her own fear and helplessness made Lucretia snappish.
“Expel him by what method?”
“Inform Batiatus of the matter. As paterfamilias the duty is his. He can compel your slaves to remove him from villa. Or better still that you set your gladiators to the task. Pitch the creature over the cliff to jagged rocks below.”
Lucretia made an exasperated sound.
“Suggestions beyond all reason dearest Ilithyia! Mantilus is Hieronymus’s man. It would cause outrage.”
“Then ask Hieronymus to leave. The creature will depart with his master.”
“Impossible. Quintus would forbid it. And what of Marcus Crassus? Should we dispense with his favor as well?”
Ilithyia curled her lip—a momentary re-emergence of the spiteful child.
“You do not have his favor.”
“Not yet perhaps. But to do as you suggest, would be to render it unattainable.”
Ilithyia pouted.
“This is insufferable! The creature should pay for its insolence.”
“It spoke not a word in our direction,” Lucretia pointed out.
“It stuck out its tongue at us! Its serpent’s tongue.”
“At you and me? Are you certain? Remember that it is blind, Ilithyia.”
Ilithyia looked unconvinced. Lowering her voice, she said, “It gives appearance of blindness. But perhaps it sees with other than eyes.”
Both women shuddered in unison. At that moment Naevia appeared in the doorway.
“What is it?” Lucretia asked.
“Dominus sent me. He requests presence, domina. For presentation of gladiators.”
Ilithyia raised her eyebrows.
“Perhaps gleaming muscle will provide protection against magic. Particularly if Crixus is among them,” she murmured unguardedly.
Lucretia felt her cheeks flush. She gave Ilithyia a withering look. “Perhaps,” she said. “His loyalty is comfort against any provocation.”
“I assumed no more,” Ilithyia said, her eyes wide and innocent.
Lucretia grunted and stood up.
“Will you return with me?”
“And face the snake again?”
“Cower here if you wish.”
With a weary groan Ilithyia hauled herself upright.
“I will come. We will stand together in defiance of the creature’s wrath.”
“I’m flattered that you risk body and mind for sake of friendship,” Lucretia said wryly.
“What else to risk it for?”
“Perhaps promise of oiled muscles and stiff … bearing?”
Ilithyia gave a tinkling laugh and finished her wine with a single swallow.
“You possess persuasive reasoning,” she admitted.
Batiatus had taken center stage, his guests gathered around him. With a goblet of wine in one hand, and his other upraised like an orator addressing the Senate, he looked in his element.
“Friends, honored guests, citizens of Capua,” he cried, barely slurring his words, “gratitude for gracing the House of Batiatus with venerated presence this evening. I am certain that you will join in welcoming the noble Hieronymus to our humble city, made arcadian by his presence, and in congratulations for recent victory in the arena—a triumph made more impressive by being the opening engagement of noble friend’s ludus. In inflicting heavy losses on good Solonius’s stable—” Solonius raised a hand in scant acknowledgement and smiled self-consciously. “—Hieronymus has in single contest made considerable mark upon the arena. He may yet be a fledgling, but already he has spread wings and declared himself an eagle!”
He roared out the last word, sweeping his arm in a flourish. The crowd responded with a cheer and a prolonged round of applause. Hieronymus, ever smiling, bowed over and over, accepting the plaudits.
Batiatus waited for the applause to die down and then continued. “Let us also welcome Marcus Licinius Crassus, hero of the Republic. Who fought so bravely in support of Lucius Cornelius Sulla. His presence overwhelms humble lanista with honor bestowed upon unworthy house. We welcome him to Capua with reverence and gratitude.” Again he flung out his arm, palm flat and fingers spread, to present the tall, dour Roman standing at Hieronymus’s shoulder. “Marcus Licinius Crassus!” he cried.
There was a greater roar this time, and a more sustained round of applause. Crassus accepted the adulation with the barest of nods, as if it was his divine right.
“And now, for the enjoyment of my esteemed guests,” Batiatus said, “I present a selection of my finest gladiators.” He half-turned toward a curtained alcove behind him. “First, Hephaestus, Beast of Abyssinia, scourge of the white sands …”
As Batiatus presented his titans, Lucretia hovered behind him, partly concealed by a column, her hands wrapped around a goblet of wine, as if for comfort. Ilithyia, in turn, lurked at her back, like a shy child taking refuge in the shadow of its mother. From the rapidity of Ilithyia’s hot breath on her bare shoulder, it was clear to Lucretia that the senator’s daughter was even more fearful of Mantilus than she was herself.
Her eyes scanned the crowd, searching for Hieronymus’s attendant, but he was now nowhere to be seen. The patch of wall where he had been standing earlier was now unoccupied, though Lucretia could not quite shake off the notion that the shadows which had clotted there were a manifestation of the darkness he had left behind; shadows which were even now—as Ilithyia had suggested—seeping into the very fabric of her home.
She could not decide whether Mantilus’s current absence was a good thing or a bad thing. She was relieved that those blind eyes were not once again boring into hers, and yet at the same time she was fearful of the possibility that he may suddenly appear at her side, like a phantom, his spindly arms reaching out toward her. She was reminded of the words of Junius Albanus, the husband of a friend of hers from Neapolis—a man, in fact, who had served under Sulla during the Second Mithridatic War. Albanus had spent some time at sea and had regaled Batiatus and herself with stories of man-eating fish whose bodies were the length of five men, and sometimes more. He had told them that when these particular fish were rising from the depths of the ocean the fins on their backs would break the surface of the water like gray sails.
“Setting eyes on such a fin is most fearful sight,” he had said, “but for a sailor in small boat it is not the most dreaded. Worse yet is when the fin descends back into depths, because then you lack knowledge of when and from where the monster will strike.”
Such were Lucretia’s feelings about Mantilus. Her eyes continued to dart about the crowd, looking for some sign of him, as Batiatus, unaware of her trepidation, launched into his final spiel. Already Hephaestus, Varro and Priscus were standing before the crowd, puffing out their chests and flexing their muscles, eliciting envious looks from the men and lascivious ones from the women.
“And now the prize of my collection,” Batiatus was saying. “A warrior whose very name echoes heart and mind. The slayer of mighty Theokoles. The Bringer of Rain. Honored guests,
I give you … Spartacus!”
There were exclamations of delight and awe, and a few shrieks of pure, thigh-shuddering lust from the women, as Spartacus strode into the room. As ever, he carried himself with ease, almost with nonchalance, his face set, his blue eyes narrowed and raking the crowd. He refused to play to his audience, seeming more to resemble a bird of prey—poised and watchful—than a snorting bull or a stamping stallion, as did most other gladiators. It was part of his mystique, Lucretia supposed, and therefore part of his appeal—the still surface that hid such depths of savagery and ruthlessness in the arena. She did not trust him, though. His lack of transparency disturbed her. Neither did she like the way he had usurped her lover, Crixus, and put his position in the ludus under threat. As far as she was concerned, the sooner the Thracian was dead and Crixus restored to his rightful place as champion, the better it would be for them all.
Her attention snapped back to the present as all at once she spotted her quarry. At the appearance of Spartacus, Hieronymus and Crassus were forging through the crowd to get a closer look at the Champion of Capua, and there, like a misshapen shadow at his master’s heels, was Mantilus. She drew back into the shadows as Hieronymus and his entourage approached, hoping that the merchant’s attendant would not sense her presence. Behind her Ilithyia gave a little whimper of fear—which was more than ample proof that she had seen Mantilus too.
“So this is the great Spartacus?” Crassus said, wrinkling his nose in apparent disappointment.
Batiatus smiled, but his eyes were hard.
“He stands impressive does he not?”
“I supposed him to be … bigger,” Crassus sniffed.
“He is big where it matters most,” Batiatus declared, grinning at the wave of laughter that his words evoked. In a more serious tone he said, “Spartacus relies not on bulk, but on speed and skill. His strength formidable.” He waved Crassus forward. “Come, good Crassus, feel his muscles and note the resemblance to newly cast iron.”
