Spartacus - Morituri

by Mark Morris

  Solonius saw him advancing through the crush of sweating, cavorting bodies and raised his hands in greeting.

  “Good to lay eyes, old friend!” he cried.

  “A welcome sight indeed,” Batiatus replied with rather less enthusiasm.

  “Made more so by vision of ravishing wife. You look radiant this evening, Lucretia,” Solonius said, his gaze crawling like an insect over Lucretia’s creamy décolletage. “All around reduced to drabness by comparison.”

  As soon as he was within touching distance, his hand, bedecked with jewelry, flashed out like a striking snake and grabbed Lucretia’s wrist. He lowered his head, his over-pampered golden locks tumbling forward, and planted unpleasantly wet lips on the back of her hand. She forced a smile.

  “Your attention as focused as ever, dear Solonius,” she murmured.

  “The task not an onerous one,” he replied, as though she was suggesting that it was. “Would that the gods could fix eternal gaze on your beauty.”

  Nostrils flaring, Batiatus muttered, “Perhaps Lucretia would care to pull hers away and rest it upon nourishment?”

  Solonius glanced at him, uncomprehending.

  Batiatus swept a hand toward the laden tables.

  “I refer to spread of excellent feast of course,” he said tightly.

  Lucretia nodded.

  “I confess eagerness for it.” She looked down pointedly at her hand, which Solonius was still gripping in both of his. “If good Solonius would release grip …”

  “With great reluctance,” Solonius said, his fingers springing apart.

  Lucretia smiled prettily and tried to resist the urge to snatch her hand away and wiped Solonius’s spittle on the tunic of a passing slave. Touching Batiatus’s sleeve lightly, she excused herself and drifted away. Solonius watched her go with an avaricious expression.

  “You appear thin of sustenance yourself, Solonius,” Batiatus said coldly.

  Solonius blinked, and then laughed.

  “Merely light with excitement at prospect of tomorrow’s games.”

  “Do Crassus and Hieronymus present themselves this evening?”

  Solonius nodded. “Brutilius as well. Come, let us join them.”

  He led the way through the shrieking throng, many of whom, thanks to the enthusiastic ministrations of the slaves, were already drunk. The journey was a slow one, hampered by numerous delays, which irked Batiatus greatly. Solonius was intercepted so many times by guests wishing to compliment him on his wonderful hospitality that Batiatus began to think they would never reach their destination. One woman, whom Batiatus did not recognize, but whose jewelry alone was advertisement enough of her wealth and status, all but fell into Solonius’s arms with a howl of laughter, before groping with more enthusiasm than skill at his cock and planting a slobbering kiss on his lips.

  “You do us great honor, sweet Solonius,” she slurred, hand still clawing at the lanista’s nether regions. “We will be forever in debt.”

  “The honor is mine,” Solonius assured her, gently removing her hand and kissing it before urging her tactfully back into the throng. She turned and staggered away as though oblivious of the rebuff.

  “Who was that creature so free with hand?” Batiatus asked, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

  “The wife of Brutilius,” Solonius replied.

  Batiatus arched an eyebrow.

  “He has my condolences,” he murmured.

  Hieronymus, Crassus and Brutilius were in one of the chambers branching off from the atrium, standing in the shadow of a thick column, as though attempting to distance themselves from the wild revelry around them. They were talking with a trio of younger men, all of whom were laughing at something that Brutilius was saying.

  However, it was not the group of men who first drew Batiatus’s attention, but the woman standing against the wall. It was Athenais, who Batiatus had not seen since the evening of the party which had been held in his own villa to welcome Hieronymus and Crassus to Capua. Back then the bruises on the Greek woman’s thighs had unsettled him—and he found himself equally unsettled on this occasion too. Athenais’s creamy skin, previously so flawless, was once again marked with patches of bruised flesh, this time not only on her thighs, but also on her wrists, as though she had been gripped with some force. She also had marks around her exquisite, swan-like throat—the unmistakeable purple-red imprints of fingers. Batiatus was frankly appalled. He was no saint, but to see a woman so graceful and so perfect—slave or not— reduced to this battered and brow-beaten state, turned his stomach.

  Realizing she was being stared at, Athenais’s blue eyes flickered to meet his. Instantly Batiatus was struck by the stark fear and misery displayed there. Instinctively his lips turned upward into a smile of reassurance and he gave a small nod. Athenais did not respond, her gaze skittering away in a manner that reminded him of a timid animal retreating into its burrow. Releasing a long breath, Batiatus suddenly became aware that someone, standing beyond Athenais, was regarding him with the same level of intensity that he was staring at the Greek woman. More than that even, he had the impression that he was being regarded with candid indifference—or perhaps even open hostility. He shifted his gaze, and was not surprised to see Mantilus standing against the wall, framed—and, in fact, almost wreathed within—the dark folds of a richly elaborate Persian drape that hung behind him.

  The rat forever seeks out the darkest places, Batiatus thought, staring hard at Hieronymus’s attendant in the hope of unsettling him enough to make him turn his head, thus betraying the fact that, as Spartacus had theorized, he was not blind, despite the absence of color in his eyes. However, if Mantilus had been staring at Batiatus before, he was not doing so now. Instead he was looking straight ahead, unblinking, his body as still as a statue. Batiatus stared at him for several seconds more, and then Solonius, in front of him, turned back, a questioning look on his face. Batiatus acknowledged him with a nod and moved forward to join the group by the pillar.

  “… sword snapped clean in half and he tumbled to sand like performer seeking to rouse merriment of crowd,” Brutilius was saying loudly, his face red and wine slopping from the goblet he was holding as he guffawed loudly at his own tale.

  The three younger men began to laugh along with him—and then one of them caught sight of Batiatus, and his eyes widened. Immediately he threw his colleagues a warning glance so obvious it was almost pitiful, and then turned back to the approaching lanistae.

  “Our friend Solonius returns with noble Batiatus,” he declared, with a distinct lack of subtlety. “Welcome to you!”

  Brutilius had been in the process of raising his goblet to his lips and tipping wine into his throat, but at the young man’s words he jerked, as if at the touch of a cold hand on the back of his neck, and then immediately began to choke and splutter.

  “Do you find yourself unwell, good Brutilius?” Batiatus said icily, appearing beside him. “Perhaps the wine too harsh for such refined palate?”

  Brutilius, now bent over double, continued to choke. One of the young men stepped forward and half-heartedly patted him on the back. When the portly man finally straightened up, his face was almost the same color as the wine in his goblet and tears were streaming from his eyes. He opened his mouth to reply, but only a thin croak emerged.

  “Apologies,” Batiatus said, leaning forward and cupping his ear. “Your words are lost in enveloping clamor.”

  “I fear good Brutilius overcome with mirth,” Crassus said drily.

  Batiatus stared at him, his gaze unwavering.

  “For mirth is it? What brings it on? I would share in the benefit of such amusement.”

  The three young men shuffled in embarrassment. Hieronymus, who had yet to say a word, simply grinned at Batiatus, as if a show of overt friendliness was enough to absolve him from responsibility. Crassus alone returned Batiatus’s gaze without flinching. His reply too was blunt and without apology.

  “I confess we were finding merriment at expense o
f your champion. Tell us, does condition of stumbling Thracian improve?”

  One of the young men, unable to help himself, snorted laughter.

  Batiatus turned his cold gaze upon him, and the man seemed visibly to wither.

  “His condition is robust as usual,” he said.

  “Good to hear that recovery from recent … misfortunes, arrives absent long delay,” Hieronymus said.

  Batiatus hesitated a moment, and then finally said, “Quick enough that appearance in tomorrow’s primus will not be affected.”

  “Surely his strength has not fully returned?” Crassus pressed.

  Batiatus sighed as if he considered confessing the truth of that, then seemed to think better of what he was about to say, and shook his head almost angrily. “Spartacus will raise himself for the games—as will all my warriors. If they do not, then they stand unworthy of the house they serve.”

  “Words boldly spoken,” Solonius murmured.

  “It is not boldness but certainty of victory,” Batiatus said.

  “You intend slight upon opponents with claim that their warriors stand inferior, though your ludus still flows with sickness,” Crassus goaded, looking almost as if he was enjoying himself.

  “I intend no insult, good Crassus,” Batiatus replied. “It is not the way of the House of Batiatus to raise fingers in submission before commencement of games.”

  “I am sure good Crassus meant no such offense,” Solonius said smoothly. “His words prompted merely by concern for fair contest.”

  Batiatus glared at him.

  “And how fares Solonius’s own ludus?”

  Solonius smiled and shrugged, though the look in his eyes betrayed his uncertainty.

  “Quite healthy. Why does Batiatus ask?”

  “All talk that assails ears is of impending fall of Champion of Capua, due to diminished prowess—but good Solonious should not find comfort behind street gossip in hopes of concealing weakness of own ludus.”

  Solonius looked momentarily lost for words. Brutilius, all but recovered now, frowned at him.

  “I trust my father will be truly honored by tomorrow’s contest,” he said.

  Solonius bowed. “There is nothing to fear in that regard, Brutilius. His glorious name will stir the hearts of all our gladiators, such that their skill and ferocity will spill boundless into the arena.”

  “And you will witness my champion stride into it absent stumble,” Batiatus promised. He glared at the young men, who cowered beneath his wrath. “He will rage as storm in human shape, sweeping all before him.”

  “Bold words become rash ones,” Solonius muttered. “Your champion is not the gladiator he was. Storm, yes — but I fear it one that has blown itself out.”

  Batiatus shook his head.

  “False gossip deceives ear my friend. Spartacus’s crown will not slip tomorrow. Additional laurels will be laid atop it, I am certain of that.”

  Brutilius narrowed his eyes shrewdly and poked a fat finger in Batiatus’s direction.

  “Certain enough to wager all that you own—coin, villa, ludus … everything?”

  The arrogance slipped from Batiatus’s face—but only for a moment. He looked at the visages around him—at Brutilius and Solonius; at Crassus and Hieronymus; at the three young men whose names he still did not know, and had no particular wish to. All seven of them were looking at him with expressions ranging from wide-eyed curiosity to supercilious contempt. He shrugged with exaggerated casualness.

  “Surely, yet who would see such wager proposed?”

  Brutilius raised his eyebrows gleefully and looked at Solonius.

  “Good Solonius? Words of doubt towards the Thracian’s chances were expressed with eloquence. Do you weight them with enough conviction to add coin to the scale?”

  Solonius looked alarmed. Holding up his hands he said bluffly, “I do not wish to see friend ruined by careless boasting.”

  Batiatus grunted contemptuously. Brutilius pouted in evident disappointment.

  “I will take the wager,” Hieronymus said.

  All eyes turned to him. The Greek merchant was smiling at Batiatus, as if doing him a favor. Brutilius giggled like a child, his eyes shining.

  “The contest begins to soar to great heights of appeal,” he said. “You understand the nature of agreement?”

  Hieronymus nodded. “If my gladiators win the primus, Batiatus forfeits all—”

  “All that he owns,” Crassus interrupted with a sudden and terrifying wolf-like grin that caused the three young men to each take an involuntary step back at the sight of it, “to leave him destitute.”

  “And if Batiatus’s men prevail,” Hieronymus continued, “then I shall match the value of his entire fortune with equivalent sum.” He shrugged. “A simple wager.”

  “And if Solonius should take the primus?” one of the young men asked.

  Brutilius shrugged. “Then the wager is forfeit. Neither man wins—but Solonius takes the glory.”

  The young men all nodded eagerly, clearly excited by the prospect of Batiatus’s ruination, but Solonius’s face was a mask of exaggerated concern.

  “Do you still stand certain, beyond reappraisal of such agreement?” he said to Batiatus. “The risk of it stands great. To venture possibility towards losing all that you possess, on the back of ailing Thracian…”

  Batiatus looked pale, but at Solonius’s words his face set hard.

  “Spartacus will prevail,” he said stubbornly. “His victory assured by the gods.”

  “One hopes decree of gods as solid as good Batiatus’s confidence,” Brutilius said gleefully.

  “If not, then he falls with his Thracian,” Crassus purred.

  Lucretia slipped through the reveling crowd, every few moments catching a glimpse of her husband and the group of men he was talking to, an unmoving tableau within the mass of weaving bodies. She was moving toward them, but did not want to be spotted by them, and was therefore grateful that both Solonius and Hieronymus had their backs to her, and that Crassus was half-hidden by the column beside which he was standing.

  Around her the party was becoming wilder, many of the drunken attendees—those that weren’t passed out in a stupor or throwing up in the atrium pool, that was — having sex with slaves or each other. One very young man, who looked barely old enough to wear the toga virilis, fell against her, pawing at her breasts and trying to stick his tongue in her mouth. In different circumstances Lucretia might have dragged him in to a quiet corner for a little mutual fumbling, but right at that moment he was nothing but an irritation. Struggling free of his clumsy embrace, she lifted her arm and elbowed him smartly in the face. She heard a satisfying crack, but was moving away from him without looking behind her even as he was tumbling backward into the crowd, blood gushing from his broken nose.

  Someone else she didn’t want to be seen by was Mantilus, who was standing motionless against the wall a little way beyond her target, the girl with the frightened eyes and the bruised wrists. Finding out that Hieronymus’s creature had laid their ludus low not with magic but with poison, and that—in the opinion of her husband—he was not in reality blind, despite his milky-white pupils, had reduced him greatly in her eyes. Now he seemed no longer a fearsome spirit of the underworld, beholden with terrifying powers, but merely a withered, ugly brute, a scarred and scuttling monkey despatched by Hieronymus to carry out his dirty work. Lucretia would have liked nothing more than to stick a knife in his gut and twist it, to see the shock on his hideous face and feel his thin, hot blood splash out over her hands and form a spreading pool on the floor. But Batiatus had warned her to contain her wrath, that their ultimate satisfaction would come from taking their time, and playing the long game. Lucretia knew that he was right, but even so she itched for blood. And if she could be the one wielding the blade that released it from his body, then so much the better.

  Still eyeing the knot of men by the pillar and the goblin-like figure of Mantilus standing close by, she continued to e
dge forward through the crowd until she was within earshot of the girl. Quickly she finished the wine in her goblet and waved away a slave who scurried forward to replenish it. Hoping that Mantilus’s ears would not be sharp enough to pick out her individual voice among the clamor of the crowd, she hissed, “Slave! I would have words.”

  The bruised slave—Batiatus had told her that her name was Athenais—continued to stare straight ahead, as if in a trance, clearly unaware that she was being addressed. Lucretia was not used to being ignored by slaves, but fought down her irritation. Raising her voice as much as she dared, she tried again: “Attend when I speak at you!”

  This time Athenais blinked and looked at her. She wore a terrified expression, as if she lived in constant fear of such a summons. Her lips moved but her voice was so low that it was lost among the laughter and the raucous conversation.

  Lucretia raised her arm, thrusting her goblet toward the girl.

  “Fetch wine,” she commanded.

  The girl looked trapped. Her eyes flickered toward the thick white column several feet away, behind which her master and his friends were deep in conversation. Then she looked back at Lucretia and raised an arm, pointing with a trembling finger.

  “I beg that there are other slaves present—” the girl began tentatively, her voice barely audible.

  “I don’t want sour piss pressed from rotten grapes by diseased feet of slaves,” Lucretia interrupted impatiently. “I desire good wine, from Solonius’s private stock. Fetch it.”

  Athenais was shaking now, torn between complying with a direct command and obeying the strict instructions of her master to stand in attendance until required.

  “Please, my dominus—” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the column.

  “If your dominus asks of whereabouts, I will tell him of errand. Now hurry before I arrange flogging for insolence.”