Spartacus - Swords and Ashes

by J. M. Clements

  “Jupiter’s cock!” he shouted, snatching his robe from its puddle.

  Lucretia turned from the rain’s chill, gliding back toward the antechambers of the house.

  “Jupiter Pluvius, the divine bringer of rain, himself counsels a roof over your head, Quintus,” she called, not looking back at her husband.

  “All summer I prayed only for rain,” admitted Batiatus. “Now I tire of it.”

  “Then rest indoors and wait for such storms to pass.”

  “This storm? It is but trifle,” Batiatus declared.

  “As is all unwelcome change. Be it by men or gods.”

  Their upraised voices echoed through the house, but did not travel to the outer gardens. The rain saw to that, pelting onto the Capuan clifftop with increasing volume, until it drowned out all other sounds in a relentless rattle. It pattered on the leaves of the formerly parched trees. It drummed on the cracked ground. It tapped an irritating, unceasing tempo on the waxed tarpaulin of the litter that approached the house of Batiatus.

  The four bearers, one shouldering each end of the two carrying poles, struggled with each step to maintain their footing. Feet used to the reliable, measured flagstones of the Appian Way scraped and slipped on treacherous dips and uncleared tree-roots. Three of the slaves did not even look up, crouching their heads beneath their sodden hoods and concentrating merely on putting one foot in front of the other. Only the lead bearer, standing at front-right, exposed his head to the rain, squinting through the storm in case of oncoming traffic.

  The litter and its bearers had no other company on the remote track. They plodded on through the rain, their pace picking up as the welcoming lights loomed nearer. The cargo was light, barely noticeable to accomplished porters, such that when the leader called halt, the litter was raised off their shoulders and lowered to the ground with ease.

  Within the courtyard of the Batiatus villa, shadowy figures scurried to the portal. The occupant of the litter stirred, placing a foot gingerly on the damp ground. A figure substantially smaller than the vast man’s cloak that wrapped it scampered through the storm toward the entrance of the house itself, and the indistinct sound of a couple in the middle of an argument.

  “It is inconvenient,” Lucretia said.

  “Inconvenient!” Batiatus yelled in response.

  He inhaled sharply through his teeth, raising his arms up in exasperation at the walls around him. He glared hotly at a wall of painted finches and songbirds, and thought meanly of roasting them on spits.

  “It is inconvenient that my prize gladiator lays pierced with hole the size of Rome’s Cloaca Maxima, unable to enter the arena any time soon.”

  “I realize that,” Lucretia said carefully. “It grieves me. It grieves me sorely that Crixus is—”

  “It is inconvenient,” Batiatus interrupted, “that this ludus has but one opportunity to secure coin in coming month and it lays forty-five thousand paces from this place, in a miserable, stinking, boy-loving, infestation of Greeks!”

  “I thought we liked Neapolis?” Lucretia said with the faintest of smiles.

  “I despise Neapolis!” Batiatus spat. “A filthy backwater population brimming with smug merchants, pushy beggars, and unruly street urchins, built upon slope toward sea. Every journey a torment of travel uphill, through fucking stone stairways.”

  “Surely you must travel downhill at least half the time, beloved?”

  “And yet, all directions lead uphill.”

  “Now who defies reason?”

  “Pelorus was a dear friend,” Batiatus said.

  “You loathed each other,” Lucretia responded.

  “As siblings squabble over pets, we tussled over gladiators. Though given predilections of my Capuan colleagues, my occasional auction-block competition with Pelorus seems now the very pinnacle of amity.”

  “Still, no reason for my involvement in your farewells.”

  “All of Neapolis society will be there.”

  “I care not.”

  “Pelorus shall have in death what he never had in life. Accord as a man of wealth and virtue. Mourners from the patrician class. A funeral fit for a high-ranking Roman citizen.”

  “I repeat. I care not.”

  “Pelorus will not be regarded as mere lanista. Important people shall celebrate his life, Lucretia. Important people.”

  “And you?”

  “Shall be seen as dear friend to the departed, by his other friends. For which I shall require the presence of my wife.”

  “You will find that Neapolis has plenty that can be hired for service.”

  There was a shadow in the doorway. A slave had approached, swiftly and silently, as protocol demanded.

  “What is it, Naevia?” Lucretia said.

  “Apologies, domina, but there is a visitor,” the young girl replied, eyes lowered to the floor.

  Naevia got no further before the subject of her message caught up with her. A figure appeared behind her, wrapped in a coarse cloak, dripping water on Lucretia’s clean flagstones. Underneath the cloak, there was the hint of green Syrian silks, and dainty, pedicured toes.

  “Pardon this intrusion,” a female voice said, lifting her veil to reveal flaxen blonde tresses, coiled into sodden ropes by the rain. Cheeks usually concealed beneath Tyrian rouge were now flushed with their own glow, with specks of dislodged kohl like ashen tears above an exhilarated smile.

  “Ilithyia!” Lucretia exclaimed with exaggerated, mannered delight. “I thought you to be in Rome.”

  “Such was my hope,” Ilithyia said, pushing her wrap into the hands of Batiatus as if he were no more than a cubiculum slave.

  “But muddy tracks and tired bearers conspired to find me here,” Ilithyia sighed deeply, as if it were the end of the world, “scant steps from your yard and your doors.”

  “It pains me that we cannot offer you covered walkway,” Batiatus said, directing his eyes heavenward, “under which to arrive more comfortably.”

  “Quite so,” Ilithyia said.

  “Perhaps decorated in gold,” Batiatus continued to Lucretia under his breath, “and with couches every few paces that you might take your rest.”

  “I thought I might have to walk all the way to Atella to find proper lodging, one closer to civilization,” Ilithyia continued, oblivious.

  “Civilization?” Batiatus muttered.

  “We are delighted to receive you,” Lucretia said, shooting a sidelong glance at her husband.

  “I cannot presume to impose,” Ilithyia said. “After all, we are not mutual hospes. I cannot simply turn up at your door—”

  “Yet here you are!” Batiatus smiled through gritted teeth.

  “Our house is your house,” Lucretia interjected swiftly. “Naevia will see you given proper quarters.” She glanced at her slave to ensure that the message was received.

  “My bearers shall bring my impediments from the litter,” Ilithyia said, following Naevia from the room. “Then, we shall drink and talk of scandalous things!” Ilithyia chuckled conspiratorially, and then was gone.

  Batiatus waited, seething, as Ilithyia’s footsteps receded. He bundled up her cloak and threw it contemptuously into a corner, before wheeling on his wife to hiss in suppressed rage.

  “Even in accepting our hospitality she shits on our name.”

  “We are lucky to hear her speak it.”

  “This is our home. We were spreading myrrh on our lentils when the Romans were still running around the forests sucking off wolves.”

  “Suckling, Quintus. Ilithyia is giddy with the glory of Rome. She speaks without thought.”

  “Oh, she thinks. She thinks all too carefully. Every word carefully placed to cut us down. She forces her way into our house—”

  “Where she is very welcome. She is an emissary of Rome’s great and good.”

  “So she keeps saying.”

  “She is a doorway to aediles and consuls. She has the ears of men of power.”

  “For herself. Not for us, as we
are not hospes. A point she made certain to make.”

  “A matter merely of protocol and politesse.”

  “If you were to knock on her door in Rome, with Deucalion’s deluge pouring out of the sky, with Neptune himself pissing on your head, she would order the gates slammed shut in your face. We are not fit to be accorded hospitality in her home, yet she thrusts herself upon ours as if tavern in—!” Batiatus suddenly stopped speaking, his eyes wide in surprise.

  “What is it?” Lucretia asked, peering behind her, in case her husband had seen a rodent or a spider.

  “Atella,” Batiatus said. “She journeys to Atella.”

  “And?”

  “It is five hours’ march to the south.”

  “Yes, Quintus. A fact known to all.”

  “On the road to Neapolis!”

  Those gladiators who had shields held them over their heads to keep off the rain. Those who did not did the best they could with the flats of wooden swords, or lifted helmet visors. They stood, intently, watching two lone gladiators who stood waiting in the training ground. The storm pelted every man with rain, but none voiced a word of complaint.

  “Now,” Oenomaus bellowed over the noise of the downpour, “observe their footing. Barca, the Carthaginian giant, the strongest and heaviest among you, shall fight as murmillo.” Oenomaus gestured with his hand, and Pietros the slave darted forward with a sword and heavy shield for the Carthaginian.

  “Spartacus,” Oenomaus continued, “is fleet of foot, and not the heaviest of our fighters. He shall fight...” Oenomaus glanced over to the weapons store, where Pietros was already fishing out the sword and light shield of the Thracian style.

  “...as retiarius,” Oenomaus finished. Pietros glanced at him in confusion, as did Spartacus himself.

  “I do not fight with net and trident, Doctore,” Spartacus noted.

  “Indeed you do not, Champion of Capua,” Oenomaus said, “and yet you will come to know them intimately in the arena. Hold them in your hands, so you will know how to defeat them.”

  Pietros scurried over with a fisherman’s net and three-pointed spear. Spartacus hefted the trident experimentally, feeling its strange displacement.

  “Note the unfamiliar weight of the trident,” Oenomaus continued. “Best held either right behind the head or at the far end of the haft. In either mode, an ideal weapon... for spearing fish!”

  The men laughed as Spartacus looked on grimly. Barca laughed loudest of all, swinging both his sword and shield in great, deadly arcs about him.

  “Do I hear a coin bet on Barca, the Beast of Carthage?” Oenomaus called.

  “If I had a coin I would wager it so,” Varro answered.

  Spartacus shot the blond Roman a scowl.

  “Apologies, my friend!” Varro laughed. “You are not destined for fishing.”

  “We shall see,” Oenomaus said, lifting his whip and cracking it through the falling rain. “Begin!”

  Spartacus clutched the net in his fist like a forgotten towel—he had not even had the chance to spread it out and check its dimensions. Barca had no such doubts, charging directly at his foe.

  Spartacus hurled his trident straight at the oncoming Carthaginian.

  The gladiators gasped as Barca barely halted the trident—the triple-points pierced right through his hastily raised shield, and stuck fast. The weight of the trident dragged down Barca’s shield arm, and the Carthaginian fervently tried to shuck the dead weight as the Thracian launched his second attack.

  Spartacus whirled the net around his head, feeling the strong pull of the round lead weights at its edges. He leaned forward and caught Barca’s head with the edge of the net, causing the hulking Carthaginian to yell out in pain and surprise. Barca held out his sword to block the net on its next swing, but Spartacus had stepped another two paces closer, causing his net to wrap around Barca’s sword. Barca pulled back, in an attempt to drag Spartacus and his net closer to him, only for Spartacus to let go of the net altogether.

  Barca’s eyes widened in surprise. He lost his footing on the wet sand and mud, pitching backward and landing with a cry of expelled air on the soft sand. He scrambled to get back to his feet, but slipped a second time, while Spartacus grabbed the fallen trident. The Thracian jammed the business end of the trident—Barca’s impaled shield still attached—into the Carthaginian’s face, temporarily blinding him as Spartacus snatched up Barca’s fallen sword and—

  “Stop!” Oenomaus’ voice rang through the courtyard.

  Spartacus froze mid-action, ready to stab the sword down between the ribs of the man who had previously wielded it. The gladiators clapped politely, while Barca disdainfully scraped wet mud and sand off his body.

  Barca stared silently, as if willing daggers to fall from the sky and stab Spartacus to death.

  “Observe how circumstances can change. Barca fought with his weapons of habit, on ground he thought familiar. Spartacus fought with weapons unfamiliar, and...” even Oenomaus could not resist a smile, “did so in a manner most unorthodox. The change in terrain has served to his advantage.”

  Oenomaus waited for his words to sink in, as the rain continued to spatter down upon the gathering of men. They stared back at him attentively, squinting as the water ran into their eyes.

  “Enough,” Oenomaus declared. “To the baths, let oil replace rain.”

  The gladiators trudged indoors, dawdling only insofar as seemed appropriate, determined to prove that nothing so ineffectual as mere rain could cause them to retreat. Oenomaus was last to leave the square, just as he was habitually the first to arrive there each morning.

  “A moment, doctore,” Batiatus called, as the towering warrior descended the steps toward the steam room.

  “Your will,” Oenomaus said. He stood, the water pooling at his feet, and waited for his master’s instruction.

  “I require five men, in the best condition.”

  “I will set to purpose,” Oenomaus replied. “But the next exhibition is not until—”

  “Not for Capuan rabble,” Batiatus explained. “Those ungrateful vermin will have to wait their turn. A new audience awaits us, in Neapolis.”

  “Ah,” Oenomaus said. “I have heard speak of the death of Pelorus.”

  “Word would not travel so fast,” Batiatus muttered, “if I were to remove tongues with knife.”

  “Older voices recalled days spent under roof of this ludus,” Oenomaus said. “They meant no malice in its telling.”

  “No matter,” Batiatus said. “The men will be on cart tonight, and bound for Atella by mid-morning, and Neapolis by night.”

  “Mercury would struggle to sprint such a course,” Oenomaus observed guardedly.

  “I myself will be spending the next two days in cursed litter,” Batiatus scowled. “Find carter to add human cargo for extra coin.”

  “I shall make preparations for us.”

  “You will remain.”

  “But—”

  “You will train the men in preparation for exhibition here in Capua. Ashur will handle accounts in my absence.”

  Oenomaus looked troubled.

  “And Domina?”

  “Lucretia?” Batiatus laughed. “The woman only wants the wants of her ‘friend.’ And her friend has business in Neapolis. Trust me, doctore, she makes preparation for departure as we speak!”

  III

  HOSPES

  HE DREAMED OF FORESTS IN SNOW, A SUNSET SHOT THROUGH with pink and bright orange that lingered on the ground, and icy trees, making the winter seem warm—until one touched it. He tramped through the trees in armor bought at a high price from Greek merchants. He was one of many Thracian warriors strung out through the forest like grazing deer, their breath lingering on the air like phantoms. Each man bore the round shield and crested helmet of a hoplite, with greaves and spear and leaf-shaped sword.

  The Greeks avoided war in winter. They rarely fought on mountains. Their battles all so conveniently arranged when everyone was available to meet on t
he plains, and before the weather turned bad. Their armor similarly was seasonal, and with little thought of the uses to which it might be put to in cold, forbidding Thrace.

  Buskins beneath the greaves kept much of the cold away from his legs. An animal skin, lashed tightly to his chest, kept snow at bay with its tawny fur. Only his hands felt the cold—barely able to grip the heavy spear as he advanced, just one warrior in the ragged line of Thracians, picking through the forest.

  There was a howling. A distant, mournful howling like that of a wounded wolf. He knew what it was, and that it required hilltops and a strong breeze. He peered through the trees in search of a distant ridge, in time to catch the sight of a dragon’s head flashing bronze in the dying sunlight. It appeared above the hill, a long streamer-flag playing out behind it, more and more of its long metal neck becoming visible as its bearer reached the summit of the hill.

  Another! There was a second dragon head—it, too, a decorative mounting on a long metal tube, held aloft by one of the bestial standard-bearers of the Getae. The winter wind gusted along the hilltop and into the dragon’s mouth, creating the mournful howling, extending the streamers out behind it almost horizontally.

  Sura had warned him of a red serpent. Was this what she had meant?

  He sniffed, the Thracian cold biting at his nostrils, and squinted at the standards on the hills. His fellow auxiliaries stared along with him, peering into the fading light, searching for archers. But there were only the twin metal standards and their characteristic sound... and a chariot, pulled by two horses.

  “The leader of the Getae?” Bronton mused from close by, leaning on his lance.

  “No,” he said. “See how the tattered dress flaps in the wind. See how the arms are raised in incantation, dripping with charms and bones and bracelets. It is one of their warrior-priestesses.”

  The wind dipped, lessening the unearthly lament from the horns, affording the briefest of moments when a human voice could carry down from the hill. It was an unearthly, ululating cry, like the call of some mythical carrion bird. The priestess jumped from her chariot and danced on the hilltop, jerking to a music that only she could hear, stamping on the ground and calling down unseen retribution from the multicolored sky.