The Risen

by David Anthony Durham

  Dolmos turned his head. Gaidres’s profile showed no emotion. He couldn’t see the others, but he heard someone grunt. That would be Nico. He had long said they’d grown into too large a body, with too many women and children among them. The others, though, what did they think? What did he, Dolmos, think? He wasn’t sure.

  Bantia rose and stepped toward Spartacus, his arms rising from his sides. He moved slowly, cautiously, but what he was offering was clear. Spartacus accepted it. He leaned into his embrace and returned it, his large, muscular frame enfolding the Italian as if he were a woman. Dolmos thought, This means something. He would ask later, but right now he stayed silent, as did the others.

  Drawing back, Bantia said, “I’ll take your words back to my people. Happily I’ll do so.”

  —

  Bantia did, and he brought back an invitation for a delegation to meet with Asculum’s chief magistrates. As equals. In friendship, to consider future actions in partnership.

  That’s why Dolmos is here watching things happen. The magistrates meet them outside the city gates, seven of them to match the seven representatives of the Risen. Bantia greets each of the Risen’s delegates by name. It’s strange for Dolmos, hearing his name come from this man’s mouth. He embraces them, thereby treating them as equals, and introduces them to his countrymen. These men don’t offer embraces, but neither did Bantia when first greeting Spartacus. The gesture of friendship came later. Perhaps that’s the way it is with these people.

  Like Bantia, the other Italians show their wealth in the rich colors of their robes, in the way they carry a fold of fabric draped over one arm. They aren’t wearing togas, exactly, but almost. Dolmos doesn’t trust them, but he finds it hard to fear them. Spartacus and Skaris tower over them, Gannicus and Castus as well. They hardly look like the same species of man. Skaris could break the neck of the magistrate who is rambling on to him about the city’s fortifications. Gannicus wears a grin that doesn’t waver, making jokes that the Italian talking with him clearly doesn’t understand. Spartacus is at ease, showing none of the worry Dolmos carries at his center.

  Dolmos, he watches. None of this is for him to take part in. He need say no words when they sit down with the magistrates and debate the terms of the alliance. Spartacus and Gaidres do that. Gannicus and Castus as well. He hears what they say, but it’s not what they say that matters. He searches for deceit behind the words, in the Italians’ faces and mannerisms. Does he find it? He can’t say. Try as he might, he can’t read these men. They are awkward, yes, but that means nothing. Haughty, but that’s not treachery. His difficulty is that he’s never sat with Italian men of rank like this. He knows Romans as enslavers or as soldiers, and these feel like Romans to him. They speak the Romans’ language, and their soldiers fight in the Romans’ legions. But, he tells himself, they don’t want to. That’s what Bantia said and what these men are confirming. Dolmos tries to take comfort in that. One moment he does; the next he doesn’t.

  It’s late in the afternoon when they conclude. They’ve agreed. The magistrates all say so, then kiss the back of their hands. This, apparently, confirms it. The delegates from the Risen, after some confusion, also pronounce the agreement sealed and kiss the backs of their hands. Tomorrow the details will be put on parchment. Priests from the city will bless them. The Risen may have their holy ones do the same. Sacrifices will be made, portents read. If all is well, there will be a period of feasting. Then they’ll make war on Rome.

  It’s all gone exactly as Spartacus hoped. Of course it has, Dolmos thinks. Don’t things always go as Spartacus wishes?

  Dolmos keeps to his silence when one of the magistrates addresses him. He understands Latin better than he speaks it. He answers the man with a nod, which is enough. He takes off his sword belt, removes his dagger, and places them beside the other weapons of the seven who will be dining with the magistrates. He hates it, but it happens. He hates it, but he’d rather be inside, near Spartacus, than stay with the armed contingent that will wait outside the city. There is a logic to it after all. The magistrates are not armed. Why should their guests be?

  Anyway, they are friends now. Official business is concluded. Now they break bread as equals.

  Before long they’re seated, the seven of them, on cushions around low tables heavy with bread and fruit, carafes of oil and wine, plates of cheeses. Dolmos eyes the cheese knives. Blunted, they are useless to him as they’re no real weapon, and he’s no desire to eat. He doesn’t touch the food. He lifts his wine cup when toasts are offered, but the wine only touches his lips. It doesn’t pass them.

  He takes in everything: the magistrates seated across from them, the servants that line the wall behind them, the slaves who come and go, bringing in meat and vegetable dishes as they’re readied. So much food. So many slaves. Such a grand room, with concrete walls painted to match the unseen landscapes outside, with colored tiles making patterns on the floor. Even the softness and the intricacy in the stitching of the cushion beneath him belies the claim that Asculum is somehow a slave to Rome. If this is slavery, it’s a different kind than Dolmos has ever known.

  Bantia, who had seemed so central to the discourse before, is seated across from Dolmos, both of them at one end of the long table. He tries on several occasions to break into the conversation. Each time he begins, one of the other magistrates speaks over him, as if they’re united in offering him no credit for opening the negotiations with the Risen. From the look on his face, Bantia is not pleased.

  At one point, Nico jabs Dolmos with an elbow and whispers, “Stop staring around like that. You’re making them uncomfortable.”

  Dolmos doesn’t agree. He’s making himself uncomfortable, not the Italians. They talk and eat. Eat and talk. The Italians are curious about every aspect of their lives as gladiators, of the conditions in the ludus and their escape from it. They want to know everything. They seem to find everything amusing, surprising. Again and again they remark that the version of events the gladiators tell is different than the rumors flying around the country. Much better, they say, with so much more character to it than they knew.

  When Gaidres explains the luck of finding a Roman soldier who volunteered to take them to a stash of gladiatorial weapons that, coincidentally, had been on the way to Capua, the man sitting across from Castus exclaims, “Tell me you’re joking! A Roman took you to the weapons? That must have been quite a boon. It made everything after it possible. Didn’t it? Without that pathetic soldier, you might have been hunted down and killed when, what, the best you had were cleavers and farm tools?”

  “I heard,” says another, “that you wore pots as helmets. Is that true?”

  Gaidres says nothing about the pot-helmets, but he admits, “It was a boon to get those weapons.”

  “How very different it is to hear it from their mouths!” another of the magistrates says. His name is something like Tuliacus, but Dolmos didn’t fully catch it. “Tell me, is it true that you disguised yourselves as a Roman legion when attacking Clodianus?”

  Before anyone can answer, Statius, the chief magistrate of the city, says, “No. Let them tell it in order, so as not to make a mash-up of it. Don’t you agree that’s best?” He asks this last to Spartacus, who sits directly across the table from him. Statius reminds Dolmos of Vatia. He’s soft, but he was clearly once strong. Still is, perhaps. He’s stout around the chest, and there are muscles beneath his ample flesh. His eyebrows rise into peaks when he listens. They flatten when he speaks. “Give it all to us. A full meal, right? And then we’ll have dessert.”

  It’s an easy request. Thracians, Germani, they like nothing more than to tell of deeds they’re proud of. The wine helps. Too much, Dolmos thinks. The others clamber over each other to tell the story of the Risen. One man takes it up for a time, until another finds fault with him. He owns it himself until someone does the same to him. Dolmos offers nothing.

  “Have a drink,” Nico whispers to him. “Eat something. Say something! You are as boring
as sun-dried donkey droppings.”

  Dolmos picks up his cup, wets his lips. Watches.

  The slaves who serve them are male and female, young mostly. They wear simple shifts that, on the well-formed ones, are suggestive. Dolmos tries not to notice them. But he does notice Nico, pointing at a girl and saying something to Skaris, who is next to him. And Gannicus, down at the other end, grabs a woman and tickles her, briefly, on his lap. She doesn’t seem that put out by it. Dolmos thinks that it’s strange how easy it is to welcome another person’s enslavement. Even they, who should know better, are not immune to it. He keeps his eyes off of legs and arms, breasts and bottoms, even as he searches for things that should be seen.

  There’s a personal slave behind Statius who is different from the others. Dolmos is not good at judging male beauty, but he thinks the pout of the slave’s lips and the way his cheekbones protrude would be considered attractive. His hair would certainly create envy, curling brown locks that hang to his shoulders. His function, apparently, is to do everything for Statius. The master has only to lift a hand and hold it a certain way for the slave to step forward, pick up his cup, and slip it into his grip. It’s the same with items of food. He points a finger, and the slave selects this morsel or that and places it on the small platter before Statius. Sometimes, he slips the food right into his master’s mouth. Statius doesn’t even seem to notice the youth, just the things he does.

  It’s none of these things that makes Dolmos notice him, though. It’s that anytime he’s not at one of these tasks for his master, the slave stands straight, arms clasped behind him, and stares at Spartacus. None of the slaves flanking him do the same. Mostly, their expressions are dead, glazed. They come to life only when something is asked of them. They must be paying attention to everything, but not like the one behind Statius. Dolmos tries to put force into his gaze, nudging the youth’s face with it. He wants him to know that he’s being watched.

  The sun is setting. Dolmos, if he were nearer, would point this out to Spartacus. They’ve stayed late enough. They should take their leave and ride now to meet up with the Risen before night sets in. He’s not near enough to whisper, and Spartacus doesn’t look as if he’s thinking of leaving. The animated retelling continues. Dolmos is desperate to be in the open air again, not this enclosed space so full of people and torches and perfumed scents.

  Eventually, the tale concludes with Bantia’s arrival. Gaidres begins to describe that moment, starting with “He’s a small man, but he has balls on him, riding up to us like—”

  “That’s a tale well told,” Statius cuts in. “We know the rest, because we’re living it. Now, let’s have sweet treats.” He smiles and snaps his fingers, apparently delighted at the prospect. “Slaves, quickly now.”

  The room becomes a flurry of motion, more even than before. Slaves sweep in, snatching the plates of food away. Dolmos loses sight of the staring slave with all the bodies passing in front of him. Behind him, too, he feels people passing, reaching in and clearing his uneaten portions away. Statius, for the first time all evening, picks up a jug of wine with his own hands. He leans across the table, offering to refill Spartacus’s glass. The other magistrates follow his lead. Bantia is the slowest to do so, and his attempt is halfhearted. Likely, he’s noticed Dolmos is not drinking. But also he looks confused by the gesture and by the intensity of the movement all around them.

  “Rome is a harsh master,” Statius says, loudly enough for the company to hear over the motion. He pauses as if something amusing has occurred to him. “Though I don’t have to tell you that, now do I?” He turns to the magistrate beside him. “Listen to me. Who am I to speak of harsh masters to them? They know harsh, I’m sure.” And then back to Spartacus. “Don’t you?”

  Spartacus clears his throat, confirmation that he’s heard the question but no more.

  “Which brings me to my point at last,” Statius continues. “There are ways that you and I have issues with Rome. Many ways really. But there are also things that will forever separate our interests. I’m sure you see this. Things, you know, are somewhat more complicated than Bantia makes them out.”

  Dolmos gets a momentary view of Statius’s slave. His head bobs and shifts to see through the screen of moving bodies. For once, he isn’t staring at Spartacus. His gaze looks past him, floating from right to left. The youth sees something that makes his mouth droop open. All at once, his face pales, goes limp. Dolmos turns to see what he does, but he can’t make out anything other than the scurrying servants. They are moving a great deal, which is odd because they still haven’t cleared the table or brought in whatever sweet treats Statius mentioned.

  “The truth is, Spartacus,” Statius says, “all my issues with Rome can be resolved to my benefit, with your help, of course. So generous of you to offer it.” The magistrate claps his hands enthusiastically. “So, so generous.”

  Behind the table slaves clad in their simple short tunics, Dolmos sees something else. The flash of a breastplate. A helmet. Wanting to see better, he rises. There he spots a shoulder encased in leather. And then a face, looking at him, from within a helmet. Soldiers. As he opens his mouth to shout an alarm, one of the soldiers shoves through the slaves. A foot slams into the back of Dolmos’s knee, making him fold and driving him down. The foot grinds his knee into the stone. A hand clenches his hair, and a blade cuts into his neck. Dolmos tries to slam his elbow into the man’s groin. He misses. Tries again. A spray of moisture hits his face, hot and metallic. The sensation stops him. Such a gush of blood is a killing wound. If it’s his blood, he’s already dead. It’s not, though. Beside him Nico screams as another soldier saws into his neck. He drops forward, a terrible gash spilling red blood on the table.

  The room is thrown into instant chaos. Soldiers rush from hiding. They shove through the table slaves and leap onto the other gladiators, who are trying to get to their feet. More soldiers pour into the room. Spearmen appear behind the magistrates, their weapons bristling over the officials’ heads. They waver there like snakes poised to strike. So many of them, so suddenly.

  “Do not fight us!” Statius shouts. He is still seated. His hands convey to the other magistrates that they should, likewise, not rise. “Do not fight, or you will all die! Like this man. See. See his death!” He points at Nico. “The same for you if you want it.”

  Skaris lunges toward him, raging against the grip two soldiers have on him. Spartacus, himself pinned within a cage of sword points, barks for him to be still. “Stop! Stop! They have us. Be still!”

  Dolmos doesn’t want to be still. He wants to dive across the table and crush Bantia’s throat in his bare hands. He’s so enraged, he knows he could do it. He would die, but so would the treacherous bastard. He did this. These soldiers. The swords. The spears. All a plot. Treachery, and because of it Nico is dead. Dolmos wants to press his thumbs into his eyes until they pop.

  “Silence him.”

  The way Statius points makes Dolmos think he’s talking about him, that he’s been speaking his thoughts out loud. It’s not him, though. One of the soldiers near Bantia moves in and punches him in the side of the head, sending the thin man sprawling. That, more than thoughts of his life or Spartacus’s order, keeps Dolmos still. What’s happening here? He doesn’t understand the parts yet. He will do what he needs to, but he first has to understand what that action is. He stops struggling with the man he feels at his back. The man’s fingers pull roughly at his hair, his sword point sharp against his shoulder now, in the place where he could shove it through and down to his heart. There’s another man as well. One of his hands is pushing hard on Dolmos’s other shoulder, keeping him down, bent forward. His other has the point of another sword pressed against his back. It’s bitten the skin already and might, whether the soldier intends to or not, drive in farther. He might kill Dolmos just because of the tension of the moment.

  The last of the table slaves drain out of the room, but it’s more crowded than ever with the soldiers who replace them
. The slave behind Statius is the only one who stays, pressed against the wall by the soldiers protecting his master. The gladiators are shoved down, each of them in the grip of more than one man, with more than one weapon pressed into killing points. They make eye contact with one another. They look to Nico, who is dead, and to Spartacus, whose jaw is set hard. Dolmos wants to shout, but Spartacus said to be still. So he is.

  In his mind, Dolmos reaches for the goddess. Kotys, hear me. See us. Help us.

  Spartacus directs one word at Statius. He opens his clenched jaw and says, “Explain.”

  Statius, with all those spears hovering over him, is at ease. “He’s surprised. Look at him. He’s surprised! How priceless. Oh, you do amuse me, barbarian, in so many ways. Should I count them for you? One, it’s amusing that you would dare to dream that a city as grand as ours would even consider an allegiance with slaves. Foul, filthy, dishonored slaves. Worse even, gladiators. Brutes condemned to die but without the decency to accept it. Can’t you see the madness of that? You’re not to be joined; you’re to be despised. Two, that you would easily be led here to come to terms and kiss the backs of your hands and then…Perhaps this is three. That you would truly believe we would sit across from you and eat from the same table. By Jupiter, your arrogance astounds. No city in Italy is ever going to join you! Win all the victories you want; it doesn’t change what you are. And you—” He spits. “You made Romans fight each other for your amusement? You think any Roman will ever forget that?”