by Mark Morris
With apparent reluctance Crassus stepped forward and prodded lightly at Spartacus’s bicep.
“Hmm,” he said. “He is striking enough, I suppose. But I wonder how he would fare against gladiators of Rome. I suspect his time in the arena would be cut woefully short against them.”
Batiatus’s face went taut for a moment, and then he said, “Perhaps one day he will have opportunity to test the speculation.”
“Perhaps,” Crassus murmured. “I desire to witness the manner and method required to cut the Thracian down to size.”
Batiatus smiled stiffly—then took a step back in sudden alarm.
Some of the other guests who had gathered to listen to the exchange stepped back too. The men murmured in consternation and a few of the women released shocked gasps. The reason for their disquiet was the sudden appearance of Mantilus. He had previously been standing behind Hieronymus, all but dwarfed by the merchant’s bulkier frame. Now, however, he stepped—almost slithered—forward, to stand in front of his master, his movements quick and darting as a snake’s. As Batiatus watched, partly uneasy and partly outraged, the scarred attendant stepped right up to Spartacus and began running his hands not over the Thracian’s skin, but rather around it, his palms less than a hand’s-span from the gladiator’s oiled flesh. His lips moved in a silent chant and his head weaved from side to side, as if he was attempting to hypnotize his prey before darting forward in a killing strike. Spartacus, for his part, simply stood stoic and silent, his eyes staring straight ahead, as if oblivious to the man’s attentions.
Trying to keep his voice light and his manner civil, Batiatus turned to Hieronymus.
“What is your slave doing?”
Hieronymus looked amused.
“He is not my slave. He is my attendant.”
“Mere titles,” Batiatus snapped before he could stop himself, earning a glare of disapproval from Crassus. Composing himself, he smiled thinly and said, “I simply wish to know purpose of his actions.”
His eyes dancing, Hieronymus said, “Rest easy, Batiatus. Mantilus is simply taking measure of your man.”
“How does he manage with eyes clouded from vision?”
“He assesses his aura.”
“His aura?”
“It is his … life force. All that makes him what he is. Some would call it his soul.”
Batiatus stepped forward, as if half-prepared to wrench Mantilus away from Spartacus by force if needs be.
“He attempts to steal my Champion’s soul?”
Hieronymus laughed.
“He merely assesses. Measures. Seeks to ascertain what is required for a man to become a champion.”
Still uneasy, Batiatus said, “What is his conclusion?”
“He merely appraises at present, to then reflect upon findings. Don’t be alarmed, good Batiatus. Your man is unharmed.”
Mantilus’s restless hands eventually ceased their twitching dance and drifted slowly to his sides. He did not step back from Spartacus immediately, however. Instead he stood almost nose to nose with the gladiator, and though his eyes were white and blind, he locked his gaze with Spartacus’s own.
Spartacus, for his part, did not flinch. His blue eyes unblinking, he stared impassively back.
It was the clash of swords that roused Crixus. They penetrated his fever dreams like the sweetest music, calling him from slumber. For what seemed an eternity now, he had been lying on the medicus’s slab, barely able to move. The slightest attempt had caused pain to rip through his ravaged body; pain so unbearable that sweat had instantly lathered him each time he had re-awakened it, and a surging river of unconsciousness, like Lethe itself, had coursed through his mind, overwhelming his senses.
For many weeks he had slipped from one infection, and from one fever, to another, surviving only by the strength of his iron will. It was rage and determination that kept him going—the rage of losing his status as Champion of Capua to the upstart Thracian, and the determination that his torn body would knit itself back together, in order that he might eventually return to the arena not only as strong, but even stronger than he had ever been before, and thus regain his rightful position.
By killing Theokoles, Spartacus had saved his life, but Crixus hated him all the same. He would rather have died in glorious combat than survive as the inferior warrior— which is what his once adoring audience now no doubt perceived him to be. “Crixus the Fallen” Ashur had named him with a sneer, a title which Crixus intended to repudiate at the earliest opportunity. Though he little knew it, Ashur had actually done Crixus a favor by mocking him. If nothing else, it would hasten his recovery if only so that he could more swiftly fulfill his ambition of wrapping his hands round the neck of the little Syrian shit and choking the life out of him.
For now, though, Crixus needed to be patient—which he found far from an easy task. Patience was a virtue he held in very short supply. If it hadn’t been for the company and attentions of Naevia he might have lost his mind completely. He wished she could be with him now, but she was up in the villa, tending to the needs of the household, and its guests. Crixus imagined the scene: the notables of Capua stuffing their faces and gulping good wine, while Spartacus, Varro, and the other men of the mark flexed their muscles for the women, and kept the men entertained with demonstration bouts of gladiatorial swordplay.
If Crixus had been less stoic, he would have been weeping tears of anger and frustration now. To him it mattered not that the majority of Romans openly regarded gladiators as little better than performing apes—apes whose lives were of no consequence, and whose spilt blood provided them with nothing but amusement. Crixus was proud to be a gladiator, and he cared not if certain members of society derided him for it. In fact, he secretly believed that those who belittled him in public envied and admired him in private. In his view there was nothing more glorious than stepping out into the arena with your own name, bellowed over and over by a delirious crowd, echoing from the walls around you. A gladiator’s life may often be a short one, but how many men in their lifetimes truly got to know what it felt like to be hailed a hero?
The ludus at this hour was quiet, those who were not performing up above languishing in their cells. The silence was not an easy one, however. Despite Doctore’s stern words, the men were yet fearful, many still believing themselves victims of sorcery. Crixus had never known such an atmosphere pervade the House of Batiatus; it saddened and disgusted him that so many of his brothers had succumbed to dread. He, by contrast, believed himself impervious to fear. If ordered to do so, he would willingly have fought against spirits and shades in the arenas of Hades itself.
His meandering thoughts were interrupted by a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision. Turning his head he was just in time to glimpse a dark shape, silent as a phantom, flitting past the open doorway of the sick room.
“Medicus?” he called.
There was no reply.
Irritably he tried again.
“Medicus! I am in need of water.”
Silence.
His temper getting the better of him, Crixus jammed his elbows against the hard slab beneath him and tried to raise himself into a sitting position. Instantly the wounds in his chest, back and abdomen flared like a spark in dry tinder. He screamed out, as much in frustration as agony, and slumped back. For a moment his head pounded like a drum, and then as the pain ebbed a little he roared out, “Medicus! Crawl from hole like fucking rat!”
This time his summons was answered. Scampering footsteps approached, and then the medicus, a scrawny, sweaty man, eyes raw from sleep, was at his side.
“What is it?” he snapped bad-temperedly.
Crixus scowled. “Come out when fucking called.”
“I am not your slave,” the medicus said.
“You are domina’s slave. And if I die your life will be forfeit.”
“You will not die,” the medicus said, the expression on his face suggesting that this was not altogether a good thing. “You gain st
rength with passing days. Now you must simply permit healing to take course.”
“I may yet die of thirst,” Crixus retorted, “if repeated calls go ignored.”
“I was sleeping,” the medicus answered. “I have slaved tirelessly over broken body these last weeks. I was merely seeking to redress balance.”
Crixus frowned. “Do not attempt to deceive. I saw you pass by door.”
The medicus gave him an exasperated look.
“When was this?”
“Moments before I called your name.”
“Impossible,” the medicus said, shaking his head. “It was your howl that plucked me from arms of Morpheus.”
“Do not lie to me,” Crixus barked. “I know what my eyes saw.”
“It must have been someone else.”
“Who else wanders the corridors?”
The medicus shrugged.
“Household guard perhaps?”
Crixus dismissed the notion with a sneer.
“They move in pairs, clattering like dice in cup.”
“Well … Doctore then?”
Crixus shook his head.
“In the villa above.”
The medicus threw up his hands.
“Then mysterious figure lies in imagination. Product of fever-dream.”
“My head is clear,” Crixus said. His eyes narrowed. “Someone passed by door. I am certain of it.”
All at once the medicus looked uneasy.
“Out with it,” Crixus growled.
In a hushed voice, eyes sliding toward the open doorway, the medicus said, “You have heard recent mumblings?”
“Of spirits and shades?” Crixus said, and snorted contemptuously. “Feeble-minded gibberish.”
The medicus’s sweaty skin gleamed in the half-light.
“But you saw shape at the door. A walking shadow.”
“I saw something pass.”
“What was it then? A man?”
Crixus hesitated.
“It passed too quickly for certainty. I saw only a dark shape. Perhaps a man.”
The medicus hunched his shoulders and drew in his limbs, like a spider curling into a protective ball.
“What shall we do?”
“I can do nothing,” Crixus said.
The medicus’s eyes widened.
Crixus pressed, “If intruder stalks ludus, and dominus discovers you allowed free passage, what do you think response will be?”
“He need not know,” the medicus whimpered.
Crixus bared his teeth.
“He will know.”
The medicus resembled a trapped animal, fear and resentment fluttering across his features. His eyes darted left and right, as though hunting for a means of escape, and then, as if accepting his fate, he sighed and stood up.
“If Charon awaits beyond this door, be assured my spirit will return to haunt you,” he muttered.
“I shall honor it for its bravery,” Crixus said drily.
The medicus shot him a sour look and sidled away.
Crixus waited, half-expecting to hear a roar of discovery, or perhaps even the sounds of a struggle, or scampering feet, or a scream of pain. However, a few minutes later the medicus returned, licking his lips and looking relieved.
“I saw no one,” he said. “Your brothers sleep sound and gates remain locked. Your mind must have taken flight.”
“Someone was there,” Crixus said firmly. He pondered on it a moment, a frown on his face, and then impatiently he gestured across the room. “But if words are true and ludus empty, then nothing more can be done. Now fetch water before throat crumbles to dust.”
Spartacus feinted and lunged, the sword in his left hand sliding through the gap between Varro’s shield and his sword arm. Varro grunted as the blade, blunted for bouts such as these, jabbed him in the ribs. It was only a glancing blow, however, for as the sword connected, the burly blond Roman was already spinning away, which in turn caused Spartacus to stumble forward slightly at the sudden lack of resistance. Varro sought to gain advantage by sweeping his own sword up and across Spartacus’s midriff, a slashing blow which, in the arena, would have been designed to part the flesh of his opponent’s belly, spilling his guts on to the sand.
Spartacus, though, had not become Champion of Capua by succumbing to such elementary tactics. Even as Varro’s sword was sweeping upward, the sword in the Thracian’s right hand was sweeping down to block it. The clash of blades elicited a ripple of gasps and squeals from the crowd, more so when Spartacus, regaining his balance, turned nimbly and converted defense into attack by striking at Varro’s suddenly exposed legs with his lefthanded sword. Varro winced as the blow—which in the arena would have severed the tendons behind his knee, effectively ending his chance of victory, and therefore his life—drew a stripe of blood across his sweating flesh. He caught Spartacus’s eye and gave an ironic grimace. Spartacus responded with the briefest of winks, though kept his face straight.
Crossing his twin swords in front of him, Spartacus then gave a mighty heave, pushing Varro away. Varro staggered backward, causing a knot of Roman women behind him to squeal in terrified glee. Regaining his balance, Varro rolled his shoulders like a bull and rushed immediately back into the fray, his shield deflecting Spartacus’s parry as the two friends clashed again. There followed a quick exchange of blows and counter-blows, the zing and clash of iron on iron thrumming in the heavily perfumed air.
Spartacus knew that he and Varro were putting on a good show for Batiatus’s guests, but he couldn’t deny that he felt unaccountably tired. His limbs were heavy, his muscles oddly cramped and dense, as if his body was filled with rocks, and the sweat was rolling off him, slick and harsh-smelling.
Varro, too, was suffering, Spartacus could tell. Supremely fit and surprisingly nimble for such a big man, today he was lumbering about the floor like an amateur, his face red as he puffed and gasped, his curly blond hair dark with sweat. Ordinarily his defense work—when he put his mind to it and reined in his natural eagerness to go on the attack—was excellent. On any other day he would not have allowed Spartacus’s sword to bruise his ribs, or to open the wound behind his knee—blows which in the arena could both have proved fatal. As the two men separated again, circling each other warily as though looking for an opening—though in reality using the momentary respite to gather what reserves of strength they could—Varro flashed him a look which Spartacus read immediately: What ails us?
Spartacus blinked—I know not—and then saw a look of weary compliance appear on his friend’s face: Let us end this quickly.
Willing his muscles to respond, Spartacus darted forward, his twin swords moving in a blur, delivering a flurry of thrusts and slashes. Varro countered, blocking one blow after another, the air again ringing with the impact of iron upon iron. The watching audience gasped and clapped in delight, little knowing that the rapid interchange, the skillful and seemingly instinctive display of attack and defense, was carefully orchestrated to elicit maximum dramatic impact from the encounter, but to inflict the minimum amount of damage.
Finally Spartacus feinted and lunged forward, tucking in his head and barging into Varro side-on, using his shoulder as a battering ram. Varro’s arm jerked back, his own shield slamming against his body. Again he staggered, and then slipped in a patch of oily sweat beneath his heel. Unable to regain his balance this time, he crashed to the floor, arms akimbo, exposing his broad chest. Instantly Spartacus leaped on him, knees pinioning his arms, crossed swords at his throat.
There was a moment of silence, a moment when the crowd stood in thrilled anticipation, half-believing that the Thracian Champion would sever his opponent’s head from his body. Then Spartacus relaxed and stood up, shifting both swords to his left hand. He offered his right to Varro, who grasped it and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet. As the crowd applauded in appreciation, Varro gave Spartacus a rueful look, and then clapped him on the back before both men turned to acknowledge their audience.
Spar
tacus’s gaze shifted to Batiatus, who was applauding along with everyone else and lustily proclaiming at the might and skill of his gladiators. However, when Batiatus caught his eye, Spartacus could see that the lanista was troubled. He raised his eyebrows at Spartacus as if to ask him what was wrong. Spartacus answered him as he had answered Varro, with a blink and the merest twitch of his head: I know not.
VIII
LIKE THE REST OF THE MEN, SPARTACUS WAS OUT ON THE training ground just after sunrise the following morning, limbering up with some light sparring before breakfast. Varro partnered him, still wincing each time the skin stretched over the purple-black bruise tracing the line of one of his ribs, but cheerful enough in spite of it.
“If I look as you this morning, perhaps wise to place coin in mouth now, to stand ready for Charon,” he joked.
Spartacus found it an effort to raise a smile in response.
“Unfortunately dreams were nothing but torment last night.”
Varro’s face became serious. Glancing around he said, “It seems you were not alone in such suffering.”
Spartacus followed his friend’s gaze. His head had been so full of dark thoughts, and his limbs so drained of vigor that morning that he had been barely aware of his surroundings. Now he saw that the other men of the brotherhood were evidently suffering similar symptoms to his own, that the malaise which had been lingering in the ludus these past days and weeks had suddenly grown and spread. The movements of his fellow gladiators were especially slow and cumbersome today, their limbs heavy, their heads drooping. Many bore slack expressions on their faces, their eyes haunted or distracted, as if terrible thoughts or memories raged in their minds.
Oenomaus stalked among them, cracking his whip, shouting orders, but even he seemed to move ponderously this morning, and his voice, usually so commanding, sounded strained, brittle.
Spartacus remembered the fetish that Oenomaus had thrown from the cliff yesterday. He had hoped that disposing of the thing might prove a turning point, that the men might regard it as a positive sign, and respond accordingly. But in truth its removal seemed to have had the opposite effect; indeed he himself could no longer deny that the malaise, whatever its origin, was affecting him too. He still stubbornly refused to believe in sorcery, however, even after his unnerving encounter with Mantilus the previous night. But it was equally difficult to believe that whatever was affecting the men was nothing but a bout of common fever or some similar illness.
