A dark-maned male lion lurched closer to the fighting pair, snatching one of the still-thrashing human legs, and attempting to drag the feebly protesting prey in a third direction.
“The nature of such wild beasts makes their actions in the arena unpredictable,” Verres sighed, watching from above.
“I think not,” Batiatus said. “Rather, I think this behavior entirely predictable.”
“Only a moment ago you spoke of grandstanding, and beasts playing to the crowd!”
“Trained beasts. Experienced beasts. These are simply hungry. Starvation enough will turn even lions into jackals.”
“I see,” Verres said. “I was mistaken, it is clear.”
“Your suppliers should have raised awareness of the issue,” Batiatus said. “A good editor seeks to avoid such uncertainties.”
“I understand, Batiatus,” Verres bellowed in sudden anger. “Apologies if these games do not reach your high Capuan standards!”
“My husband blames you not, good Verres,” Lucretia said, giving Batiatus a look of rebuke as she stepped in to smooth things over. “We all know these games were commissioned in haste, amid tragic circumstances.”
“And besides,” Cicero said, “the crowd appear to be finding enjoyment, regardless.”
The yells from the audience threatened to drown out the dying screams of the lions’ victim. The three lions each dragged at the human limbs they gripped firmly in their jaws, vigorously shaking their heads. Then there was a sudden flurry of movement as two of the lions leapt free from the fray. The explosive fountains of blood and the state of the body left behind revealed what had happened.
“They have ripped his arms off!” Verres declared with delight.
“A draw for definite, I am afraid,” Batiatus said to Ilithyia.
The pride descended upon the armless body en masse, crowding out the original two pursuers, obscuring the dead slave completely beneath a writhing mass of animal bodies. The original lion pair picked at their measly prizes of the ripped arms, and then discarded them, charging back into the brawl.
Medea stared, eyes narrowed, at the heavy iron manacles that now lay discarded on the sands, wet with blood.
Making a sudden decision, she broke from the group, sprinting for the fallen chains.
A lion saw her break from the pack, and bounded toward her, a streak of yellow-brown fur, blurring against the sand.
Medea reached her target scant seconds ahead of her leonine competitor. She snatched up the fallen manacles, whirling one end as a shepherd whirls a sling. Taken by surprise, the lion was not ready for it, and charged headlong into the speeding metal.
The creature reeled from the blow, shocked to meet invisible resistance, shocked even more as Medea pounded the stunned beast a second and third time with her impromptu mace.
Unbalanced by the blows, the lion’s back legs gave way, and it tumbled to the ground. Medea took her opportunity and whipped the tough chain up and around repeatedly, smashing the lion’s head into an unrecognizable pulp.
The crowd went wild.
Medea paused, panting, and stood over her victim, her arms and chest spattered with animal blood.
Trembling with exhaustion and adrenalin, she kept her eyes trained on the remaining lions.
Her focus on the animal attackers, one of her fellow slaves seized his chance, coming from behind and punching her hard on the side of the head. As the crowd booed in anger, he snatched the chains from her hands. With Medea reeling on the ground, the man now faced the lions himself, whirling the bloody manacles experimentally.
“Interesting,” Verres said idly from his exalted view. “The prey turns upon itself.”
“The girl was sharp to improvise such a weapon,” Batiatus observed. “But too trusting of her fellow slaves.”
“If the slaves do not band together, they will present easier targets,” Lucretia noted, peering with renewed interest over the balcony. “This cannot end well.”
“I think it is coming to an end in a fashion most splendid to watch!” Ilithyia said. She laughed in Verres’s direction and he smiled in return.
But the man with the manacles was not quite as alert as the woman. The next lion leapt at him, somehow getting close enough so that the chains slapped harmlessly against its flank. The animal’s paws grasped the man’s head, in a parody of a lover’s kiss, as its fangs closed on his screaming face.
As he fell, another of the slaves saw his chance, leaping onto the back of the lion, heaving with all his might with his arms locked around the creature’s neck.
The observers on the balcony leapt to their feet for a better view-all around the arena there was a flurry of activity as the crowd jostled one another for a better view.
“My eyes yet deceive me!” Batiatus yelled. “Lion wrestling!”
“Never was it imagined that these slaves would bring such valued spectacle,” Verres said, thrilled. “We could never have advertised such wonders.”
“You cannot pay for spectacles such as this!” Batiatus agreed. “The gods smile upon you, Verres!”
“Although…” Cicero said hesitantly.
“What is it?” Batiatus asked impatiently.
“Well, it may simply be my inexperience at such matters? Or does the crowd now rather favor the hunted over the hunters?”
Batiatus glanced from the balcony at row after row of screaming Neapolitans, all yelling encouragement in Latin, Oscan, and Greek, a rolling cacophony of repeated phrases, one merging into the other, creating a strange, oceanic music of screams. It was almost impossible to pick out single words. One had to listen, to sieve through the contending chants. To…
“‘Kill the lions,’” Lucretia cried, exasperated. “They call for the slaves to kill the lions!”
“My purse rests on the beasts,” Batiatus laughed, clinking his goblet enthusiastically with Verres’s.
“Not that one, though,” Ilithyia said, pointing at the hapless lion with the slave on its back. His arms were locked around the lion’s neck, choking it toward its last breath.
The lion’s neck snapped, and its body went suddenly limp in the arms of its killer, who swiftly dropped his victim and scrabbled in the dirt to grab up the fallen manacles. Even as he did so, another lion bit firmly into his leg, its claws raking up his thighs.
Screaming in pain, the slave thrashed down with the manacles, the hard metal clanging on the lion as it refused to let go.
“I am starting to wish I had made water before I climbed up here,” Varro mused. His horse shifted uneasily beneath him. Instinctively, Spartacus leaned down to steady it by its bridle.
“It comes to a close,” Spartacus said. “I see nobody left standing.”
But even as he spoke, a bruised, blood-stained figure staggered to its feet.
“Medea!” Spartacus cried in surprise.
“The ringleader is yet alive?” Varro asked.
“The lions never touched her… Stay down!” he yelled. “Stay down and they will leave you be!” But his voice was drowned beneath the screams of the crowd.
“Are they really seeing justice done?” Cicero mused. “Or do they simply relish the fight?”
“Can they not do both?” Verres asked.
“This hunger for spectacle carries strong risk,” Cicero said.
“Strong risk of what?”
“Of becoming trial by combat.”
“It is execution by combat,” Verres stated.
“If the executed play their parts,” Batiatus noted. “I fear your criminals believe theirs is to entice sympathy from the crowd, leaving the lions woefully unrepresented.”
“Then they will be disappointed, but not the lions.”
“Never disappoint the crowd, Verres.” Batiatus said, leaning forward in his seat. “Where would your Roman virtue be then?”
“They support a murderess!” Verres protested.
“By acknowledging a warrior’s prowess.”
“Who is in charge here?”
Timarchides returned to the horse enclosure, flustered, his arms empty of masks, bladders on sticks, or any other symbols of comedy.
“There is nothing, save disaster,” Timarchides said. He wrung his hands.
“We save it by saving her!” Spartacus said, pointing at the beleaguered Medea.
“But she is a murderess!” Timarchides objected.
“And she can die for her offence tomorrow,” Spartacus said. “Today the crowd is on her side.”
“Verification from the editor is needed before any action is taken,” Timarchides said. “Your suggestion amounts to stay of execution.”
“Then hasten!” Spartacus shouted. “Before her resolve fades!”
Timarchides sped away, up the dozens of steps toward the band and balcony.
Spartacus immediately began pulling on his gauntlets.
“Dress yourself for the fray,” he said to Varro.
“I will wait until commanded so,” Varro sighed, leaning on his saddle. His horse sniffed experimentally in the dust, searching in vain for grass. “The slaves yet draw breath. We wait until the last of the criminals has been killed.”
“Follow me,” Spartacus said, “or do not. Let the crowd decide where the true entertainment lies. Open this gate!” Spartacus addressed the unseen slaves on the other side with authority.
Nothing happened.
Varro leaned on his saddle, smirking.
“They only open to a code,” he said.
Spartacus looked at Varro for a moment, and then smiled in realization.
He reached out with his lance and smacked it against the gate three times, paused for a breath, and then struck one more time.
Immediately, the gate began to creak open.
Spartacus dug his heels into his horse, and lurched out into the arena before the door was truly wide. His armor flashing in the sun, he held his lance up high to a roar of approval from the crowd.
Varro stared after the Thracian in disbelief, listening to the unmistakable cheers of the crowd.
Timarchides had nearly reached the balcony, and was standing by the band, when Spartacus entered the arena.
“Fanfare!” he hissed hastily at the trumpeters. “Entrance of Pyramus!”
The first trumpeter leapt to his feet and began a simple salute.
The door opened wider, and Varro rode through at a more measured pace than his predecessor.
The first trumpeter repeated his signal, joined now by a second and a third, as if they had been waiting for Varro all along. The crowd cheered once more and Varro accepted their approval with open arms, wielding his lance, and riding carefully forward into the arena.
“Ah, my interest is awoken,” Cicero said, sounding almost entertained.
“Batiatus, what is the meaning of this?” Verres demanded. “The execution is yet unfinished!”
“Is this not part of your plan?” Batiatus asked.
Then Timarchides finally reached the pulvinus, wheezing, and clasping at the hand rail for support.
“I… I…” he began, his finger pointing wildly back at the arena. “There has been a change to the plan!”
“Authorization was not given!” Verres protested.
Below in the arena, Spartacus dug his heels into the flanks of his horse, leaping forward, and charging directly at the beleaguered Medea.
She swung her grisly chains about her in a circle, her strength was clearly fading, her chest heaving with the effort. The lions paced just beyond arm’s length. Then one lunged forward, connecting by chance with Medea’s flailing chains.
The manacles smacked into its eye with an audible crack, causing it to swerve and snarl at her. Medea moved to face it, unaware that its mate was slinking ever closer behind her. The second lion crouched ever lower toward the ground, its paws extending ahead of it in delicious slowness, its haunches bunching and coiling, making ready to strike.
Had Medea not been preoccupied, she might have noticed that the once-braying crowd had fallen ominously silent. There was only the noise of her exertions and the rattle of the chain as she swung at her tormentors, the scuff and skid of the lions on the sand, and cracks and pops of teeth tearing into bodies.
And the hooves. The steady, ever-closer thunder of the horse Spartacus rode, pelting at full speed straight toward her. Medea did not acknowledge his approach, her mind only on her most immediate assailant. But she heard the horse’s feet pounding on the ground.
With the last of her strength, she swung the chains again, pushing the first lion back. She looked up to see Spartacus drawing close, his arm raised up to throw the lance.
Medea’s shoulders slumped in anguish. She looked, pleading, into the eyes of the horseman, and sank to her knees.
Spartacus hurled his spear at something behind her.
She stared at him in surprise, only half-hearing the anguished yowl of animal pain. A shadow fell across her as the second lion, pierced by the lance mid-spring, tumbled to the ground transfixed.
Spartacus was practically on top of the lions, close enough for his horse to see over its blinkers the deadly creatures nearby. It panicked, rearing up even as the dark-maned lion leapt for its throat. Lion, horse, and rider fell to the ground, just as the crowd regained its breath and began to yell once more.
Spartacus was pinned beneath his horse, the animal screaming as the dark-maned lion bit deep into its neck.
Spartacus strained to reach his sword, his path to it hampered by the thrashing of his dying mount. The horse’s screams were deafening, ringing in his ears, drowning out the noise of the crowd as Spartacus wriggled free from the horse, snatching his sword, and plunging it into the skull of the preoccupied lion.
Medea regained her composure, flinging the manacles at the lioness and turning instead to the lance. She tore it from the creature it had speared, and now faced her tormentors with a real weapon.
The crowd continued their chant of “Kill the lions!”
On horseback, Varro ambled through the pride, less attacking the lions than herding them, the point of his lance prodding them toward the other two human fighters.
One of the lions turned to paw at his horse, and the frightened mount reared up on its hind legs. Varro clung on in a panic, unable to see his horse’s front hooves mill into the lion’s head, the horseshoes smashing lethal curves into its skull, and bringing it down.
Varro slipped from the saddle, landing on his feet as the panicking beast galloped away. The lions ignored the horse to circle the gladiator, even as Spartacus and Medea closed in behind them.
The number of lions dwindled as the butchery went on. The remainder of the pride wheeled and turned, always finding itself facing a spear-point or a sword, as the humans drew closer together and became more efficient. Their bodies were soaked in animal blood, their hands slippery on their weapons as they hewed into the raging clawed beasts that had formerly ruled the arena.
The crowd leapt in ecstacy, hurling fruits in excitement. Strangers grabbed at each other in delight. In the stands, Successa felt the hard bulge of an erection pressing at her behind. She saw a man pawing at her haunches as the lions had all too recently pawed at their prey, and she let her skirt ride up so that he might find moist sanctuary.
She felt his cock sliding inside her with delicious energy as they watched the lions die, felt him pumping into her as the swords and spears penetrated animal flesh in the arena. Successa felt herself one among many, a watching, screaming, fucking audience that lived for such violent delights. She laughed as she was mounted, thinking of the whores by the steps when there were ones such as she giving such favors away freely.
The orgiastic joy of the crowd was not matched elsewhere.
“This was not the intention,” Verres fumed. “The bitch must die.”
“She can die another day!” Timarchides responded. “This is a difficult situation eased.”
“We are wise to trust the will of the crowd,” Ba
tiatus said expansively.
“A savage and unpleasant beast,” Cicero said, apparently enjoying himself now. “How does one placate such a monster, I wonder?”
Even as they watched, the fighters in the arena faced a single, lone lion. The animal twisted in uncertainty, unsure of how it had suddenly become the hunted. Sensing victory, Medea hurled her spear, but the weapon flew wide, eliciting a howl of despair from the crowd. Varro advanced closer, with greater care, still herding with his lance, as the creature jerked away from him. It saw Spartacus dead ahead and launched into a desperate charge, heading straight for the slight, vulnerable human target on the sands, its jaws extending for the kill, its haunches tensing to spring.
It never saw the sword: The blade that had been in the hand of Spartacus was suddenly, unexpectedly, hurled through the air as a missile, and its point plunged deep into the chest of the beast even as it sprang. Its heart pierced midair, the lion fell, limp, the arc of its leap matched now only by the screams of the crowd, as the last of the beasts thudded to the ground.
Suddenly, all was silent, as Varro, Spartacus, and Medea staggered toward each other, seeking support. They crouched, leaning on their own thighs, catching breath well deserved, as the shouts of the crowd erupted all around them, transforming the audience into one massive, unending howl of praise.
“The lions are dead, the heroine yet stands,” Batiatus yelled above the noise.
“Heroine she is not, rather fucking murderer!” Verres shouted.
“Everyone in the arena is a ‘fucking murderer!’” Cicero said archly. “I am surprised that you are making such a discovery only at this moment.”
“This is not justice!” Verres railed.
“Such reversals should be expected when you leave justice to wild animals,” Cicero commented.
“Roman justice is for tomorrow,” Batiatus urged. “Today finds the justice of the mob.”
“They will do as told.”
“Would you command the tides, Verres?” Batiatus laughed.
Spartacus: Swords and Ashes Page 15