Spartacus: Swords and Ashes

by J. M. Clements

  As Cicero stumbled down the steps after Timarchides, he heard some children giggling about some business with rabbits, which Cicero was grateful to have missed.

  “A woman without worth,” Timarchides said to him.

  “A judgment made by me alone,” Cicero said.

  “As you seem judge of all things,” Timarchides muttered.

  “Your meaning?” Cicero said sharply.

  “Coming to Neapolis in search of a… what was it? A foretelling of a foretelling? Picking over the spoils of plundered cultures.”

  “It is necessary, for the continued well-being of Rome.”

  “Is the past, present and future of Rome not already inscribed in Sibylline Book?”

  “A matter of some sensitivity,” Cicero sighed.

  “Why is that?”

  “For the reason that we no longer have them in our possession.”

  Timarchides turned to look quizzically at the quaestor.

  “But they reside in the Temple of Jupiter, on the Capitoline Hill!” he said.

  “Burned ten years hence, the books destroyed with it.”

  Timarchides stood, speechless for a moment. Then he looked about him at the firm, unyielding stone of the arena.

  “So Rome is ended? Your history is over?”

  “Fortunately, it appears that there is a window in the wall of Fate.”

  “I would hope so,” Timarchides laughed humorlessly.

  “The books may be restored.”

  “You jest!”

  “The priests maintain a prophecy is neither created by words inscribed upon a scroll, nor destroyed by burning.”

  “Really? That is not what I have been told.”

  “Regardless of what you have been told, no doubt by uneducated Libyan nurses and ill-informed Bithynian house-slaves, the future of Rome may be preserved through solicitation of replacement oracles from around the world.”

  “If only the late King Tarquin the Proud had been told such a thing, he might have saved himself much grief.”

  “Do you mock me?” Cicero bristled.

  “Of course not,” Timarchides smirked. “I mock the priesthood,” Timarchides declared, “conniving swindlers with interest only in lining their own coffers.”

  “Enough! The Sibylline Books can be replaced. Prophecies have been sought from all edges of the known world. They are to be collated in Rome and examined by the assigned priests. History will go on.”

  “Thank the gods for that.”

  “And gratitude to you for preserving one.”

  “Of what do you speak?”

  “The woman Medea.”

  “She is not preserved.”

  “I would buy her from you.”

  “She will die for her crime, and soon.”

  “Then may I at least examine her tonight?”

  “Unfamiliar words for familiar request.”

  Batiatus found himself descending the steps at the same pace as Verres, with little hope of speeding or slowing his progress.

  “I envy you your governorship,” he said, after a pregnant pause. “Such opportunities await.”

  “Perhaps,” Verres said. “Opportunitiy to be the object of hatred. The Sicilians are as yet unprepared for Roman government. They still yearn for the rule of the whip.”

  “Why so?”

  “Sicilia was that part of the Greek world where the old ways endured the longest. Their cities once ruled by tyrants-the strongest of men, the worst of men. Perhaps, in rare moments of fortune, also the best men suited to the task.”

  “And how does one achieve status of tyrant?” Batiatus asked.

  They paused to let a veiled woman pass before them. Her head turned to stare at Verres, her hand raised as if to say something, but then she hurried ahead of them, weaving through the dawdlers on the steps so that she was soon receding from sight far below.

  “Application is simple,” Verres was saying. “Requiring only that you kill the previous incumbent. But it is not a responsibility that most mortal men would relish. The constant threat of similar attacks upon oneself? The constant need to make the toughest of decisions about one’s people and one’s supplies. A tyrant’s life is not easy, and a successful tyrant might come from the lowest of the ranks. Might alone endures the worst that fate has to offer, refining him through such hardship, honing him as a whetstone does a blade, until he is the fittest for the job.”

  “I see no problem.”

  “And when the tyrant dies. Who succeeds?”

  “His son?”

  “But the tyrant has fought his way up from nothing. He has learned the justice of the battlefield and the honesty of misfortune. He has clawed his way to the pre-eminent position in his domain, and that is what has made him what he is. But what is his son?”

  “The son of a tyrant?”

  “The son of a tyrant, exactly! Raised in a palace, perhaps? Cossetted and fussed over by a coterie of adoring women and hopeful slave girls. Given the best mentors that money can buy, and opportunities denied his father for poetry, song and epic. He will know his Iliad. He will know his Socrates and Anaximander. He will read Greek…”

  “The tyrant should anticipate such obstacles. He should ensure his offspring suffers the correct hardships.”

  “You are serious? You think it possible to create some form of ideal hardship?”

  “Gladiators train body through exercise. Why not train mind through rigour? Banish him, perhaps? Force him to be raised by shepherds, unaware of true heritage? It might work…”

  “And if it does not?”

  “Then seek a new tyrant. The son will lose his place in the hierarchy.”

  Verres laughed.

  “Congratulations, Batiatus,” he said. “You have just invented the Republic!”

  “We had our kings and found them wanting,” Batiatus agreed. “Following the bad days of Tarquin the Proud, we replaced them with our Republic. With men such as yourself made to run the course of honors as their training for rulership. With men such as Cicero to learn the best course of political action.”

  Verres seemed to suppress a flinch, as if he had stubbed his toe, although Batiatus did not see him stumble on the steps.

  “Rome has no tyrant,” Batiatus continued. “That is what makes us great-great enough to overcome the backward Sicilians.”

  “Perhaps,” Verres said. “Yet we do have tyrants. Several occasions have seen the Republic falter and the appointment of new dictators to cut through the knots that senatorial government could not. Why, within living memory, Sulla was made our dictator in order to restore order to Rome.”

  “And resigned office, once job was completed.”

  “Fortuna smiles upon us. But what befalls the Republic should a dictator not resign?”

  They reached the base of the steps.

  “Then a king would rule once more.”

  Each turned to head in a different direction.

  “You depart?” Verres asked. “My litter awaits.”

  “First I must attend to the gladiators, and sign off on the departed Bebryx. The show is not over for the lanista!”

  “Of course. Forgive me. Till tonight, then.”

  Lucretia stared listlessly at the colors and muted sights of Neapolis as her litter swayed past them. But no distraction could put the prattling of Ilithyia from her ears.

  “I practically envy your husband!” Ilithyia said. “To see all those victorious gladiators.”

  “You will lay eyes again soon enough, Ilithyia,” Lucretia replied. “Tonight is the silicernium banquet, when all grief for Pelorus is put from mind.”

  “Another gathering!” Ilithyia sighed dramatically. “For a man of no consequence to me.”

  “He was nothing but a name, to me,” Lucretia admitted. “A stranger unmet. A fragment of my husband’s history that has brought us little fortune. Would that my father-in-law had never freed him!”

  “He need not have.”

  “Pelorus saved his life in some
forgotten act of kindness. He felt an obligation.”

  “A master has no obligation to his slaves,” Ilithyia said. “Nor does a mistress. Slaves are the spoils of our superiority. They are the prize for our labors. We can do as we please with them!” She raised her eyebrows conspiratorially. “Anything!”

  “Not anything,” Lucretia said. “Slaves do not spring into the world fully formed. They must be found or bred, raised or trained. They must be clothed and fed. Their illnesses attended to. With such an investment in a human possession, it would be foolish to abuse it.”

  “I can no more abuse a slave than I can abuse a table. I have even heard it said that a slave with no tongue is not diminished in value.”

  “It is true slaves are not expected to speak,” Lucretia agreed. “In most cases, the tongue is an unnecessary organ. Unless to command other slaves, or serve as nomenclator to remind you of appointments and distant acquaintances. A food taster checking for poison would be of no worth without tongue. As would a pleasure slave!”

  They giggled together at the thought.

  “Not all men share the entitlements and honors of a Roman citizen,” Ilithyia said. “If a foreigner wishes to be Roman, it is the work of generations to learn the etiquettes and culture required. Why, one such as myself is the very pinnacle of such development, representing generations of breeding.”

  “How could we forget?” Lucretia noted, flopping her head back onto her pillow.

  “But I fear I am not the type to ever give consideration to freeing a slave. Not unless he is of no possible use to me, and impossible to sell on.”

  “You mean if blind, infirm, or senile?”

  “Certainly. Why waste coin upon him? Would you have me purchase another slave to care for the one that already drains my resources?”

  “Would he not be burden on our city, when found wandering the streets?” Lucretia asked.

  “I would see him taken him up into the hills. Left beneath the heavens for the gods to decide his fate.”

  “Is that not a little cruel?”

  “Such a method gave us Romulus and Remus, suckled by the she-wolf. Rome itself came into being by such means.”

  “Does that not seem like a strange comparison?”

  “How so?”

  “Between the legend of the foundation of Rome, and the abandonment of old slaves in the wilderness!”

  “You should have a scribe set this down. A treatise on the management of a state, resembling Plato’s Republic, but absent the good ideas.”

  “You think I am a lady of bad ideas?” Lucretia asked.

  “In such a state, no work is done, but coin mysteriously appears to clothe the idle and feed the indolent. Your world is the most terrible of Saturnalias, where slaves sit in luxury while their masters scurry like mad to make sums enough to keep everybody happy.”

  “You misunderstand meaning, I suggest not an end to slavery,” Lucretia scoffed. “but small kindness, when merit allows.”

  “I keep them fed,” Ilithyia said, a small frown crinkling her delicate brow. “I give them a roof beneath which to sleep. I call the medicus if they injure themselves. Already I am the very model of charity.”

  Bebryx’s body was already gone, hauled away by the harenarii to an unknown fate. Batiatus applied his seal to the proffered document of recognition, and prepared to leave the unpleasantly warm, blood-soaked inner hall.

  His three surviving gladiators were led past him in manacles, ready for transport.

  “A word, dominus?” Spartacus hissed.

  The guards tensed, but Batiatus waved them on, leaving the Thracian by his side.

  “What is it, Spartacus?” he demanded impatiently. “Today has been very trying.”

  “Apologies, dominus,” Spartacus said. “I meant only to impart news.”

  “News!” Batiatus laughed. “Neapolis has news in abundance! A day at the arena that saw a whole ludus despoiled! An entire school of gladiators massacred in the name of justice! And a painted woman fighting a pride of lions practically bare-handed, before the Champion of Capua rides to her aid! Already the tongues wag. Already words cast at country cousins enumerating the sights they have missed.”

  “Even so, dominus-”

  “And you! You are fortunate, Spartacus, that you only fought in the arena! My fellow citizens near blows. A quaestor seeks to debate politics with a governor and a freed slave. And I suddenly found to be warden of wise words on matters gladiatorial! You fought well today. Thank the gods for you, able to conceal the shame of Bebryx’s defeat.”

  “Bebryx fought as best he could, dominus. Tired and unprepared, absent the care of a medicus-”

  “Gratitude, Spartacus! When I need a new doctore to chastise me, I shall give your application due consideration. You may go.”

  “But dominus…”

  “What?”

  “I wished to have word with you.”

  “Your wife again? I pursue her to the ends of the earth and beyond. I had the departed Pelorus scouting every Syrian slaver listing a dark-haired oriental priestess. Others besides. She will turn up, in due time.”

  “I have concern for Medea, and the discharge of the will of Pelorus.”

  “What concern is it of yours?”

  “Its entirety has been awarded to Timarchides.”

  “An annoyance, it is true. Would it have killed Pelorus to offer some small scrap to the House that gave him his freedom?”

  “And this was the wish of Pelorus?”

  “With dying breath. With dying breath he fucks us over by leaving estate in unworthy hands!”

  “Medea spoke to me of her actions in her escape.”

  “Her futile rebellion?”

  “Her brief bid for freedom, a single blow to the throat of Pelorus.”

  “Dramatic!” Batiatus said. “Such a slice in the arena is always beloved of the crowd.” He grew wistful, staring out of the portal at an unseen amphitheater of dreams. “Aim correctly and moments pass before the victim knows his fate. He might even keep fighting, unaware his last breath has already been drawn.”

  “I have used that cut many times in the arena,” Spartacus agreed. “But-”

  “Suffocation commences but the victim fights on,” Batiatus continued. “The crowd knows before he does that he is already dead. His sword is dropped, he clutches hands to throat. And then, only then, do knees buckle and body drops to sands.” Batiatus’s eyes glistened with the memory of many battles witnessed from the balcony. “The doctore favors a neck wound for bringing down a prominent opponent in single combat,” he added. “The audience given opportunity to savor the moment of death. Recommended also for dispatching less experienced gladiators who perhaps cannot be trusted to die well. Wait. Is your meaning that Medea is yet professional? Already trained?”

  “No, dominus. I believe that she had the advantage of surprise, the distraction of her nude form.”

  “And the expedience of a sharp blade close to hand.”

  “But, dominus…”

  “What is it, Spartacus?”

  “I speak of this because of the nature of the wound.”

  “What of it?”

  “A man with a cut throat cannot speak.”

  “Well, his mind is surely elsewhere!”

  “He cannot speak. He is not able.”

  The lanista’s eyes widened in shock.

  “Pelorus did not have any last words!” Batiatus breathed with sudden comprehension. “Verres is lying.”

  “That is my meaning, dominus.”

  “The strange binding of the body of Pelorus at the funeral procession did catch the eye. I thought it merely some Egyptian fancy, swathing a body in tight bandages, but… Now it seems that they were making attempt to keep his head in place? Spartacus… Spartacus… I saw the wound. Gaping like a second mouth. I assumed it one of many, but now you say it was the sole cut?”

  Spartacus shrugged.

  Batiatus chuckled with excitement, patting his own chest in
satisfaction.

  “The whole testament is a sham. Timarchides merely a figure convenient and believable to take on the estate. And Verres gets to play the magnanimous Roman all along, shielding himself from accusation of wrongdoing.”

  Spartacus bowed.

  “It would seem so, dominus.”

  Batiatus smacked the Thracian upon the shoulder in elation.

  “Spartacus! Such spoils of battle you have brought your master. You have won great favor for the House of Batiatus! You have just conquered an entire estate!”

  XIII

  ARGUMENTA

  They were armed to the teeth with swords and axes, lances and tridents, but nobody feared them. Their armor was the bulkiest ever seen, and yet the lightest, for it was made of stiffened cloth. When they entered the atrium of the House of Pelorus, they did so en masse, without any of the shoving and pushing that might have accompanied other gladiators. But none of the play-gladiators ran to their habitual position in the center, instead they brandished their arms to make way for new celebrities.

  Ahead of them, waving his arms in mock fear, ran a male figure attired with false breasts and a long, dark wig, his hands “chained” in manacles made of rope. Behind him, in chaotic, bounding pursuit, ran a handful of other men attired in bright yellow skins. The “lions” bumped and tripped over one another in a parade of pratfalls, eager to chase their prey, until a fateful moment, carefully timed to reach the middle of the chamber, when they realized that their prey had turned on them, and was whipping them with the chains.

  While the false Medea and the false lions clowned in the middle of the chamber, two new arrivals pranced in. Each wore a carefully fashioned skirt in the image of a horse’s torso, leading a fake horse’s head by a bridle. Their masks were outlandishly large, amounting to false heads. One bore a stubbly beard and piercing eyes picked out in blue. The other had a shock of garish blond hair and an exaggerated expression of horror.

  The first raised his arms up, exorting the crowd to acknowledge him, which they did, with cries of SPAR-TA-CUS, SPAR-TA-CUS! The other feigned an inability to control his mount, teetering from side to side, lurching back and forth, and bumping on occasion into his fellow rider.