by Mark Morris
He clenched his fist to prove his point. Ashur’s face was sanguine.
“I trust you will make discovery public, dominus. To assure citizens of Capua receive knowledge and cast similar judgement?”
“It tempts to throw him to the horde,” Batiatus smiled grimly, ruminating on the idea, but eventually shook his head. “Prospect of watching him squirm appeals to no end, but where is the coin in it? I will make preparation in stealth, to spring it to full advantage when time comes. Soon I will see the House of Hieronymus crumble. And I will lower myself to shit in the Greek’s mouth standing astride his ruins.”
“And what of Crassus, dominus? Will you see the man fall too?”
Batiatus barked a laugh at both the audacity and the naivete of the question.
“Such a move unwise in the extreme. The holes in which he inserts fingers would surely open wide and bury me deep in shit.”
Ashur nodded, and then, almost as an afterthought he said, “There is one more thing, dominus.”
“Don’t tease with suspense. Arrive at complete fucking tale.”
From the folds of his dark cloak, Ashur produced a small leather pouch, which he handed to Batiatus. Batiatus gave it a shake, and both men heard the unmistakable jangle of coins.
“Mantilus concealed this beneath rock close to pool,” Ashur said. “He chose location with care.”
Batiatus narrowed his eyes.
“Coin for the traitor in our midst no doubt. A man short of brains enough to betray me.” He looked broodingly at Ashur. “You could identify this rock you spied?”
Ashur inclined his head.
“Mantilus marked it for return.”
Batiatus bared his teeth.
“Then let us set trap, and snatch this viper by the neck.”
For the second time in two nights Ashur found himself shivering on the mountainside. On this occasion, however, he was in an infinitely better mood than he had been the previous evening. This time he was not alone, but accompanied by Batiatus and Doctore. All three of them were perched behind a large rock, overlooking the pool which Mantilus had poisoned that morning.
So far Ashur, on Batiatus’s orders, had kept silent about his discovery. It had meant that the gladiators and the household slaves had unwittingly been forced to drink the tainted water for an extra day, but Batiatus had thought that this was a small price to pay if it meant not alerting their quarry, and thus frightening him away. Aside from the three of them, only Spartacus knew of what had transpired that morning. Though he had expressed no particular desire to join them on their evening’s quest, Batiatus had nevertheless clapped him on the shoulder and assured him that he should not brood on the fact that he had been left behind, because once the traitor had been uncovered the Thracian would be rewarded with a major part in the infliction of his punishment.
All at once Oenomaus, invisible in the darkness aside from the occasional gleam of his eyes, which reflected the sickly, pale light of the cloud-wreathed moon, murmured, “He comes.”
Ashur frowned. He had heard nothing. But barely had the thought of saying so entered his head than the faint sound of crunching footsteps and shifting rubble reached his ears.
A few moments later he saw the bobbing light of a flaming torch wink into view as the newcomer rounded an outcrop of rock and picked his way gingerly along the downward-sloping path, which was littered with scree and loose boulders and sparse foliage. Despite himself, Ashur tensed at the prospect of action, his stomach curling in on itself with excitement and apprehension. Beside him he heard Oenomaus breathing deeply and evenly, and sensed the veteran ex-gladiator standing motionless and watchful, like a panther observing the approach of unsuspecting prey. Batiatus stood on Oenomaus’s other side. He had given instruction that they were not to approach the traitor until he had retrieved his blood money from beneath the rock-where Ashur had replaced it less than an hour before-and was standing with it in his hand.
Just as Spartacus had surmised, the man was a household guard. In the flickering light of his torch, they could all clearly make out his familiar uniform beneath the dark cloak that he wore around his shoulders. They watched as the man halted by the pool and brought his burning torch low to the ground. The light illuminated his features as he began to cast about, searching in the dark for the rock which Mantilus had marked.
He was no one special. The household guards came and went as availability dictated, and this was one who Ashur vaguely recognized, but who he couldn’t have said for certain he had actually ever exchanged a word with. He was just another greedy man in a world that was overburdened with them. Ashur felt no particular animosity toward him, but neither-despite considering what the traitor’s ultimate fate was likely to be-did he feel any particular sympathy either.
After searching for a few minutes, during which time he occasionally picked up rocks and examined them, only to fling them in disgust over his shoulder, the guard finally found what he was looking for. They saw a grin spread across the glowing orange mask of his face, and then he darted forward, leaning down to push aside what was evidently the rock which Mantilus had marked with a cross. Next moment he was rising triumphantly to his feet with the pouch of money in his clenched fist. As he squeezed it in evident delight, Ashur, Oenomaus and Batiatus all heard the metallic chink of coins moving against one another.
“Now,” Batiatus hissed, and stepped forward. Although he was trying to be surreptitious, the near-blackness up on the mountainside, combined with his eagerness to apprehend the culprit, caused him to dislodge a lump of rock with his foot, which clattered down the mountain in the darkness, gaining momentum as it fell.
Startled, the man looked up, raising his torch above his head. Whether it cast enough light to illuminate the three of them standing there, Ashur had no idea, but suddenly the guard turned and began to run, slithering on scree and half-tripping over rocks and spindly bushes in his effort to get away.
“The shit attempts escape!” Batiatus snapped, and, regardless of his own safety, began to lope down the mountain toward him, dislodging yet more loose stones.
“I have him, dominus,” Oenomaus said, his voice an ominous rumble in the darkness. Ashur was vaguely aware of the big African drawing back his arm, and then the familiar sharp crack of his whip seemed to split the night in two.
Almost immediately the guard’s feet flipped up into the air in front of him as his body was jerked backward. He crashed on to his back on the rocky slope without making a sound, his torch and the leather pouch flying out of his hands in different directions. The torch landed in the lee of a rock a few feet away and continued to burn, providing just enough illumination for the rest of them to see by. The leather pouch disappeared into the darkness, landing with a weighty clink somewhere close by. Making a mental note of where he thought the sound had come from, Ashur began to pick his way carefully down the slope toward it.
Batiatus, meanwhile, who had a head-start, was first to reach the man. He was lying on the ground, his eyes bulging in panic, fingers clawing desperately at the whip, which had coiled its way tightly around his neck several times, cutting off his air. Batiatus stared down at him dispassionately, before clenching his teeth in fury.
“Fucking treacherous cock!” he snarled. And then, raising his foot high in the air, he stamped down hard on the man’s balls, grinding his heel into his groin.
The man’s mouth opened wide in a silent scream of agony and his eyes became so bulbous that they looked in danger of bursting from his head. His attempts to free himself became ever more frantic, until finally his scrabbling fingers found a gap between the thin black cord of the bull-hide whip and his own reddening skin, and he managed to wrench it away from his constricted throat, the end unraveling and loosening as he did so. Even as he gulped in air, his gasps for breath like small, raw screams, the guard curled into himself, his hands now going down to cup his mangled, aching balls. As he rolled on to his side, Batiatus drew back his foot and kicked him once more, this time
in the small of his back.
“You shove greedy hand up the wrong ass!” he snarled, spittle flying from his mouth.
XII
When the men staggered out into the yard the next morning, groggy after another night of broken sleep, they found Oenomaus, whip in hand as always, standing with his arms folded, waiting for them.
“Form up,” he ordered. “Dominus desires a word.”
The men looked at each other, blinking and rubbing the sleep from their eyes. This was highly unusual. Dominus usually only appeared-if at all-after breakfast, once the day’s training was well underway. For him to show his face with the dawn light still streaking the sky overhead must mean that he had something of great importance to tell them.
“If he announces more games,” Varro muttered to Spartacus as he trudged beside him, “I may hurl myself from cliff to save opponent the trouble of cleaving my head from shoulders.”
Spartacus smiled.
“I don’t expect it, Varro. I feel dominus has news to impart that will cheer us all.”
Varro looked at him curiously.
“You know of dominus’s intended words?”
Still smiling, Spartacus said, “We will discover soon enough.”
The words were barely out of his mouth when slaves pushed open the double doors above, and Batiatus strode out on to the balcony. Despite the early hour he looked well-rested and happy-happier, in fact, than he had looked for some considerable time. Resplendent in a maroon tunic edged with gold beneath his toga, he raised his hands, not for silence but in a gesture of expansiveness, even celebration.
“I greet you this glorious morning,” he cried. “Excellent news dances with anticipation of its revealing. News that will enable you to step from recent darkness back into glorious light of the arena.
“Recent events test us all. Ailments of body and mind fashion rumors of dread-of spirits and sorcerers despatched from the underworld. Even murmurings of curse laid upon the House of Batiatus peck at brains like nagging vulture.
“Such rumors can now wither and come to rest. Gratitude is owed your champion, Spartacus, whose wisdom in the matter matched only by his prowess in the arena. The House of Batiatus uncovers the truth.”
He paused as a rumble of speculation rippled among the men, as heads turned to regard Spartacus, whose face remained impassive, his blue eyes fixed on Batiatus alone.
At last, nodding sagely, Batiatus continued, “There is no curse upon us. You gladiators have been dosed not with measure of sorcery-but with poison!”
This time the ripple became a rising babble, the men gaping up at Batiatus and at each other in amazement. Doctore stepped forward and cracked his whip, his face like thunder.
“Silence! Dominus did not grant leave to speak!” he bellowed.
Instantly the men quietened, glancing apprehensively up at their master, realizing that they had overstepped the mark. Batiatus, however, raised his hands once again, clearly still in an expansive and forgiving mood.
“Your agitation well founded,” he said. “Indeed, I share it. Heart is saddened and enraged upon discovery that a fellow lanista has soiled honorable profession. He uses means of advancement better fit for those who dwell in gutter among shit and rats.
“I thought Hieronymus an honorable man. I invited him to house, to partake of wine and hospitality. My own gladiators provided entertainment.” He raised his voice in outrage, jabbing a finger at the sky. “Despite this extension of hand in courtesy and friendship, he spits in my face. And seeks to snatch glory from my noble warriors not by sword and spear but by foul concoction wrought from exotic herbs, secreted in food we eat and water we drink.” He shook his head, as if he could not conceive of such villainy. “Are these the actions of an honorable man?”
Roused to anger by his words, the men below clenched their fists and punched the air, shouting out their denials.
“I agree they are not,” Batiatus agreed. “These are not honorable actions. But be assured, the House of Batiatus will have vengeance. Hieronymus will wish eyes never laid on gates of Capua. He will pay for attempting to infect blood and sand we hold dear with stinking filth of his vile machinations.”
As the men roared their approval, Batiatus looked down at them, a benevolent god, nodding in accord. At length he raised his hands once again.
“From this moment we partake only of pure water and untainted food. And we train as never before. When next we face Hieronymus’s morituri-as we shall soon-we will destroy them, leaving nothing but butchered meat fit for feeding fucking pigs!”
More cheering, more clenched fists. Batiatus indulged it for a minute or so and then adopted a somber expression.
“It pains heart that not all who serve the House of Batiatus will enjoy the teaching of this lesson. There is one among us who turned hand against us, choosing betrayal above honor, for mere glint of coin. If not for this snake, many of your brothers would still stand alongside you today. Let his punishment serve as example of reward for dishonor. And with it, conclude dark moment that fell upon this house to set upon new path to glorious victory!”
With that a man was dragged out on to the practice square and thrown to his knees on the sandy ground. Naked but for a filthy loincloth, his torso was scored with cuts and blotched with ugly purple-black bruises. He looked around in a daze, his bottom lip split open and the plum-colored flesh around his left eye so swollen that the eye itself was nothing but a narrow sliver of red in its center. Blood ran down the right-hand side of his face from an ear that appeared to have been chewed, as if by a wild animal.
The man lowered his head and spat a black crust of blood on to the sand.
“Get up you unfaithful cunt,” Batiatus snarled down at him.
Raising his head, which wobbled unsteadily, as though about to topple from his shoulders, the man looked around, trying to pinpoint the source of the voice. Finally he spotted Batiatus on the balcony above.
“I give no fuck for this house,” he slurred.
Batiatus gave a single sharp nod to Oenomaus, who strode forward and grabbed the man by his hair. The man yelped as he was hauled to his feet, eliciting a ripple of guttural laughter from the watching gladiators. He tried to claw at Doctore’s hand, but the African’s grip was immovable. Only when the man was standing upright, on his own two feet, did he let go of him.
“Give the traitor a sword,” Batiatus ordered.
A slave hurried out of the refectory with a sword-not a wooden practice one, but a real one-and handed it to Doctore. With a sneer of contempt the veteran gladiator threw it at the man’s feet.
“Pick it up,” Batiatus said.
The man again looked up at him, tilting his head so that he could see Batiatus clearly with his good eye.
“What for?” he replied defiantly.
Batiatus shrugged.
“There is no obligation to do so. The choice yours. But note in the giving of choice that, unlike your master, I am an honorable man. And offer opportunity to walk free from the house you shit upon.”
The man stared at him for a long moment, and then he looked down at the sword at his feet. With a sigh he picked it up, but held it loosely, as though already resigned to his fate.
“Your decision to serve Hieronymus for selfish gain has grieved my gladiators,” Batiatus said. “Several of their brothers lie dead, glory denied by your actions. For this they would see justice done. But so great is their honor that it dictates giving you a chance.” He smiled a slow, grim smile. “You will face our champion in combat. Prevail and walk free. Lose…” He shrugged. “… and your ravaged body will be discovered on lower slopes, regrettable victim of accident.” He twisted his features into a mockery of sadness. “A terrible tragedy befallen innocent man.”
Spartacus stepped forward and was handed a sword by a slave. He took it without a word, his stance relaxed, his face implacable. The traitorous guard glanced at him warily, but his voice when he addressed Batiatus was still defiant.
“I am Roman and demand fair trial. I will not be made to brawl in dirt like common slave.”
Batiatus spread his hands and said in a reasonable voice, “Judgement is given, along with choice. Now yours to make alone. Fight and perhaps live. Or receive certain death.” He glanced at his champion. “Do you stand ready, Spartacus?”
“Yes, dominus.”
Batiatus gave a sharp nod. “Then begin.”
With a smile of satisfaction, Batiatus re-entered the villa, the slaves pulling the double doors closed behind him. He found Lucretia bathing, Naevia gently rubbing warm oil into her shoulders and back to bring the dirt and sweat to the surface, before scraping it carefully off with a strigil.
Perching on the edge of the bath, Batiatus dabbled his fingers in the milky water. He dried them on a cloth proffered by a slave, then helped himself to a fig from a wooden bowl.
“Has the deed been done?” Lucretia said.
Batiatus nodded.
“The treacherous dog has had yelp forever silenced.”
She arched an eyebrow.
“Did he fight well?”
The question made Batiatus laugh so hard that the fig he was eating flew out of his mouth and spattered on the floor, where it was quickly cleared away by a slave.
“He fought like whipped mule, and crawled as one too. Spartacus saw more of his ass than face. The men chomped at bit to see the traitor’s heart borne aloft by the champion’s sword. It was joyous spectacle.”
Lucretia’s smile was thin and cruel.
“I wish I had seen it.”
“The sight would have brought flame to cheek.”
Her eyes flashed dangerously.
“You don’t think wife’s skin pallid do you?”
Batiatus’s response was immediate.
“Your skin is finest porcelain. Venus herself shamed by it.”
Apparently mollified, Lucretia said, “How will you avenge against Hieronymus and his vile creature?”