Spartacus - Morituri
Page 24
When Spartacus and Varro entered the room there was a momentary pause in proceedings as the two heroes were toasted with raised cups and good-humored declarations that they should enjoy their victory now, while they still had heads and limbs with which to do so.
Varro made his way over to a corner table, where several men were rolling bone dice, roaring and banging their cups on the wooden surface at each successive outcome. Spartacus skirted a couple of men who were wrestling, their bodies shining with oil, and politely waved away the ministrations of a pretty whore, who pressed her breasts against him.
The long tables of the mess hall had been pushed back against the wall and lined with jugs of wine from which the men could help themselves. Spartacus topped up his own cup and filled another, then made his way carefully through the celebrating throng, taking care not to spill a drop even as he was jostled and continually clapped on the back.
Eventually he made it to the far side of the room and slipped out into the quieter, cooler corridor. Edging past a couple who were fucking up against a wall, the woman seemingly oblivious to the fact that her back was scraping against the rough stone with each thrust, he headed to the infirmary.
All was quiet here, the medicus himself celebrating with the men in the refectory. Duro, who was still recovering from the grievous wounds sustained in the previous games against the men of Hieronymus’s now decimated ludus, was asleep and snoring quietly.
The bay’s only other occupant turned his head and regarded Spartacus. This was Crixus, and he looked less than pleased to see his Thracian brother.
“What takes you from drunken revelry?” he muttered.
“Expression of gratitude,” Spartacus replied.
Crixus all but sneered.
“Gratitude? For lying in infirmary like slab of meat while you receive laurels that should be mine?”
Spartacus ignored the jibe.
“Gratitude for prompting thoughts which saved this ludus from ruin. Without your words the House of Batiatus would be no more, and we would all be slaves of Hieronymus.”
“Since when do your cares fall upon the House of Batiatus?” Crixus said.
“Dominus’s endeavors to return Sura to me ensures gratitude and loyalty. I will not stand by to watch him brought down by nefarious means.”
“Noble words,” Crixus said with more than a hint of sarcasm.
“Ones holding truth,” Spartacus replied. He held out the cup of wine. “I offer drink in celebration of dominus’s victory.”
Crixus glared at the cup, his face clenched, dark eyes flashing aggressively. It seemed for a long moment that he would refuse Spartacus’s offer—and then he reached out and took the wine.
“I drink only in honor of this ludus,” he said. “In recognition that its survival ensures the day we shall meet again in the arena. Where I will regain rightful status as champion.”
He gulped at the wine as eagerly as if he was drinking Spartacus’s spilled blood.
Spartacus smiled grimly and raised his own cup.
“I too look towards that day,” he said.
Batiatus threw back his head and laughed uproariously. He was in a fine, fine mood. He finished his wine, and then beckoned forward a slave to refill his cup, and the cups of Solonius and Lucretia too.
All three of them were reclining on couches, a table of refreshments within easy reach. Lucretia was having her feet massaged by Naevia and studiously ignoring Solonius’s lascivious glances. Like a pair of smaller wolves who had reluctantly joined forces to bring down a mighty bull, she knew that her husband and his rival lanista had on this occasion been united by a common purpose. But now that Hieronymus was no longer a threat to either of them, she hoped that it would not be too much longer before they resumed their more familiar status as deadly enemies.
Since returning to the villa to celebrate their victory, Batiatus and Solonius had been reliving the afternoon’s entertainment over and over again, and snorting with laughter at each re-telling. Although Solonius had lost the primus, his men had won enough of the day’s bouts to enable him to regain face lost after his recent defeats to Hieronymus, and also to earn him a modest amount of coin. What was sweetest to both men in this instance, however, was not the accumulation of victories within the arena, but the successful outcome of their plot to avenge themselves on an enemy who had grievously wronged them both. The fact that they had done it so publicly, and with Crassus’s ultimate blessing, provided them with double the satisfaction.
“The look on his fucking face as he was taken away,” Batiatus spluttered. “A visage of fevered mind.”
“His eyes rolling like dice in head,” Solonius chuckled.
“Dice destined to never cease their roll,” Batiatus added.
As both men sniggered, Lucretia said, “I wonder if he is yet aware of the full extent of defeat.”
“He will have much time to reflect upon it as he searches gutters for discarded scraps of bread,” Batiatus said with savage satisfaction.
“Do you think that Crassus will truly ruin him?” Lucretia asked.
Both men nodded.
“Crassus’s reputation for punishing those who cross him is fearsome,” Solonius purred.
“I should like to witness such spectacle,” Lucretia said. “To study the Grecian’s face as layers of his life are stripped away.”
Solonius licked his lips.
“Your rumination of justice inflicted upon enemy devastates my heart with fervor, Lucretia,” he murmured.
As Lucretia grimaced, Batiatus said, “I should have liked the viewing of the man’s loyal poisoner pinned by Varro’s spear.” His eyes shining with relish, he added, “Doctore tells that he writhed as stuck animal.”
Lucretia’s lips twitched with amusement.
“Bizarre mishap of arena’s contest, but no less welcomed.”
Both men nodded, their faces solemn. Solonius said, “How do you suppose it happened?”
“The man placed himself in unfortunate position, with sightless eyes unable to see danger,” Batiatus said with a small shrug. “Nothing more than that. Doctore reported witness to it.”
All three looked at each other—and then burst out laughing. As they did so a woman entered the cubiculum.
Batiatus looked up—and a wriggle of pleasure passed through him. Here was another benefit of his victory over Hieronymus, each one a separate gem set within a glittering crown.
“Athenais,” he said. “Your quarters are to satisfaction I hope?”
Athenais nodded demurely.
“They are,” she concurred. “Gratitude for your hospitality.”
Lucretia arched an eyebrow at her husband and smiled sweetly at the Greek woman.
“It is we who are grateful for vital part played by you in Hieronymus’s downfall, plying his cup with our vengeance.”
“My vengeance also,” Athenais murmured, her cheeks flushing. She touched her bruised wrists almost subconsciously as she spoke the words.
“You need fear Mantilus no longer,” said Lucretia.
“Be assured, his ending was agonizing and prolonged.”
“It shames me to confess I am glad to hear it,” Athenais replied.
“Be not ashamed,” said Solonius. “The man was as monstrous as his appearance. His fate was deserved.”
Lucretia nodded. “Solonius speaks truth. Rejoice in his ending.”
It was during the party at Solonius’s villa the previous evening, after Lucretia had despatched Athenais to fetch wine, that the truth of the matter had emerged. Lucretia had followed the slave girl to Solonius’s cellars, and there she had discovered that it was not Athenais’s master, Crassus, who had been abusing her, but Hieronymus’s viper, Mantilus. The creature’s attentions had been brutal and persistent, but Crassus, noticing her bruises, had been misled by Hieronymus into believing that a household slave had been violating the girl—a slave who had been punished for his alleged misdemeanors by having his tongue and genitals removed, and
who had subsequently died from the trauma of his injuries.
Athenais had been only too willing, therefore, to play her small but vital role in Hieronymus’s downfall, as a result of which Crassus—grateful not to be dragged deeper into the mire of deception and dishonor perpetrated by the Greek merchant, and therefore soiled by association with the man—had granted the girl her freedom. Now Athenais was a guest at the House of Batiatus while she awaited passage on a boat that would take her home.
“More wine,” Batiatus slurred, draining another cup and holding it out to be filled. “Come, Athenais, join us in celebration.” As a slave came forward to replenish their cups, another figure took a hesitant step into the cubiculum.
“Dominus?”
“Ah, Ashur,” Batiatus cried, waving a hand drunkenly in greeting. “Enter.”
Ashur did so, nodding at Solonius and Athenais, and then at Lucretia, who merely stared coldly back at him. He was holding a scroll of parchment, which he held out for Batiatus to take.
“A message, dominus, delivered this very moment.”
Putting his wine aside, Batiatus unrolled the parchment and read it. After a few moments he barked a laugh.
“From Crassus! He reports that Hieronymus’s house is aflame.”
“What is the cause?” Solonius enquired.
“He does not say. Only that fire rages out of control.”
“And what of Hieronymus himself?” Lucretia asked.
Batiatus made an attempt to look solemn.
“His whereabouts unknown, but feared trapped within inferno.”
Quickly Lucretia said, “What of coin owed to us for the wager laid with him?”
“Arranged by Crassus,” Batiatus replied, “the sum to be extracted from Hieronymus’s fortune.”
Lucretia smiled thinly. “The possibility of losing life to hot flames is regrettable.”
Solonius nodded. “A terrible tragedy,” he agreed.
Suppressing a grin Batiatus held up his half-empty cup. “Come, my friends! Let us toast memory of poor Hieronymus. A most grievous loss to us all.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MARK MORRIS IS THE AUTHOR OF SEVERAL NOVELS, including Stitch, The Immaculate, The Deluge and four Doctor Who books. He also edited the award-winning Cinema Macabre, a book of fifty horror movie essays by genre luminaries. Most recently he wrote the official tie-in novel to zombie apocalypse computer game Dead Island and a novelization of the 1971 Hammer movie Vampire Circus.
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ALSO AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS
SWORDS AND ASHES
J.M. CLEMENTS
The gladiator Spartacus, the new Champion of Capua, fights at the graveside of a rich man who was brutally murdered by his own slaves. Seeing an opportunity, ambitious lanista Quintus Batiatus plots to seize the dead man’s estate.
In the arena blood and death are primetime entertainment. But not all battles are fought upon the sands …
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About the Author