Spartacus - Swords and Ashes

by J. M. Clements

  “Bustuarii! Bustuarii!” they cried, calling out the name of gladiators of old, those men who would fight in honor of a departed dignitary, shedding their own warm blood in memory of one whose blood was already cold. The children, unimpeded by their exertions, as if they could run and jump forever, were first to find the greenwood altar, rushing ahead of the procession to secure the best places to sit.

  The priests came behind them, jingling their bells to dispel evil spirits, chanting in a Latin so old that its meaning eluded many of the attendees. Their faces were hooded, their rituals occluded, such that their meaning seemed to only carry weight to the priests themselves. They reached the greenwood altar, turning to face the assembled gladiators, and then moved on, on a course of their own.

  Timarchides took off the mask of Pelorus, reverently laying it atop the bier. He then grabbed at a box by the altar, swiftly pulling on the armor of an earlier generation, a battered old set of the kind of soldier’s garb that had been commonplace when Batiatus was a boy. He and his three fellows stood with shields and swords, eyeing their opponents with the calm, assessing gaze of men who knew that the battle had already begun. They watched their stances, looked for limps and tan-marks where bandages might have recently been removed. They studied practice swings for telltale over- or under-extensions, and brooded all the while on how to bring their opponents down.

  Batiatus and his fellow bearers made the last ascent, lifting the bier high above their shoulders in order to place it atop the pyre. There was a final strain, a last farcical panic that the bier might tumble and take its load with it, and then Pelorus was placed firmly on top of the pile of wood and incense.

  Verres draped a cloth over his head, in the manner of a priest reading the auspices. He glanced across at Spartacus, who gave him a discreet nod of readiness. Verres turned to Timarchides, and received an identical, discreet signal.

  “The name of Marcus Pelorus has been declaimed from his death bed,” Verres shouted over the hum of the crowd. “His house purged of spirits of malicious intent. Now it but remains for us, his friends and associates, to see him on his journey to the afterlife, so that we may feast in his memory.”

  While Verres spoke, Timarchides carefully ascended a ladder that was propped against the bier. He held a burning torch in his hand, and the nearby cypress branches bent gently beneath the leaning weight, until he reached the top. There, he reached out and tenderly opened each of the corpse’s eyes.

  “The eyes are open,” Verres intoned solemnly. “And our friend prepares for the hereafter.”

  As the priests shook their bells, intoning grim portents of the afterlife, Verres nodded at the freedman, and Timarchides set the torch to the stacks of wood.

  There was a brief, tense movement as the woodpile gave off only the twisting smoke of wettened branches. But then, something caught within the stacks, causing red and yellow flames to flicker deep within. There was soon the hiss and pop of oils released from jars, and the crack of breaking glass.

  Timarchides descended the ladder as solemnly as he could, but with the slightest hint of agitation at the growing heat. When he reached the bottom, he took his helmet from the waiting gladiators, and began to tie it fast upon his head.

  “It is fitting that Timarchides, the man who was so dear to Pelorus in life, should appear here at his graveside as we lay him to rest,” Verres said.

  The jingling of the priest’s bells faded into the distance as they began their customary journey around the edges of the cemetery. Nobody paid them any heed.

  “Timarchides wears the accoutrements of a gladiator one final time,” Verres continued, “to honor his former master, and lifelong dearest friend.”

  Batiatus exchanged a confused glance with Lucretia, who now stood beside him.

  “Were they lovers?” he whispered.

  “A thought known to them alone,” Lucretia responded with a shrug.

  “One not shared with me in our days together,” Batiatus hissed into her ear.

  “There have been many since, spent here in Neapolis.”

  Up on the dais, Verres continued to praise dear, dear Pelorus, the lanista made good, the supporter of local businesses and politicians. He thanked him for his generosity in life and lamented his untimely death.

  Batiatus maintained a civil countenance, but scowled nonetheless at the tales of a man who was a stranger to him. There was no talk here of Pelorus the rowdy young man; Pelorus the dutiful student of swordsmanship, who once boasted that he would grow up to train warriors himself; Pelorus, the beloved friend of House Batiatus, whose greatest deed was to save the life of Titus Lentulus Batiatus, the paterfamilias. Pelorus, who was rewarded for this action with that most precious of treasures: freedom itself—of this there was no mention.

  Batiatus chewed sulkily on the inside of his cheek, wondering if any man in Neapolis even knew that Pelorus had once been a slave. He turned to his wife to whisper another unhappy criticism of the eulogy, but was stopped in his tracks by Verres’s next words.

  “...and so,” Verres was saying, “the time approaches for us to bid final farewell to our dear friend Pelorus. A man who departed this world leaving no family nor any heir, but who with his dying breath entrusted to me the honored role of familiae emptor, disburser of his estate. A role I vow to fulfil swiftly and without prejudice.” As he spoke, Verres nodded at the solemn Timarchides, and Batiatus caught the faintest of acknowledgments in return.

  It was as if a sun had burst within the chest of Batiatus. He looked around him in frustration, unable to speak out of turn, unable to run from his position. Rooted to the spot amid the other mourners, he dared not leave his position. He looked at Lucretia, but was unable to attract her attention.

  Red faced and shaking, Batiatus glared across the cemetery at his two gladiators, his eyes wide, willing one of them to meet his gaze.

  “Batiatus looks not himself,” Spartacus mumbled out of the side of his mouth.

  Varro glanced over at their master, in time to see the lanista’s hand emerging from beneath the long sleeves of his mourning robe. His thumb jerked in a gesture that no gladiator could mistake.

  “Does he not signal the delivery of the death blow, before battle is even joined?” Varro asked.

  Spartacus met his master’s stare, and watched as Batiatus’s eyes grew comically wider, rolling repeatedly in the direction of the unsuspecting Timarchides.

  “He is a most unclear oracle,” Spartacus said, implacably. “Perhaps he is transforming into a frog.”

  Varro stifled a chuckle.

  Batiatus scratched at his neck, his gaze still locked on Spartacus. As the Thracian watched, Batiatus carefully drew his finger across his throat and then turned away, to stare directly at Timarchides.

  “He wants the Greek dead,” Spartacus whispered.

  “This is a fight for exhibition,” Varro hissed back. “Nobody is supposed to die today.”

  “He would have it otherwise,” Spartacus replied.

  The funeral pyre was now in full effect, the flames leaping high above it, the body of Pelorus already invisible beneath them. Rolling clouds of smoke issued forth from the lowermost levels, where the wood remained wet. Hissing could be heard from within, as cypress wood gave up its resin, imparting a pine aroma to the proceedings.

  A gust of wind shoved a pall of smoke closer to the crowd, who backed away, protesting.

  All eyes were locked on the two squads of four men who stood ready to fight.

  Nobody gave the word. But the fight began.

  They advanced. The “Romans” locked their shields, forming a small imitation of a legion’s front line.

  Spartacus launched himself at the line before they could get their spears in place, smacking into the shields with the spear-points safely behind him. The force of his charge immediately broke his opponents into two pairs, the men staggering back.

  Ignoring one couple, Spartacus flailed against Timarchides himself and his surprised lieutenant. At hi
s back, he heard the clang and clatter as Varro and his fellow gladiators pressed against the other two—and a sudden scream.

  Spartacus glanced behind, and caught a fleeting glimpse of Bebryx reeling with a spear in his shoulder his face contorted with pain, before he turned back to face his chosen foe.

  Lucretia shot a concerned look at Batiatus.

  “I know your thoughts,” he muttered. “Your expectation cannot be for me to intervene.”

  Bebryx, the spear protruding from his shoulder, let go of his sword. He dropped to his knees, clutching at the spear. Its haft smacked into the ground, levering the point deep into the wound and causing Bebryx to scream in agony again.

  Varro backed away so that he stood between his opponents and the wounded gladiator. He flung the pointless round shield at the “Romans,” and grabbed the hilt of his own sword with both hands, swinging it straight for their heads.

  Cycnus grappled his opponent, the two men shoving together, grunting with effort. Cycnus drew back his sword arm, repositioning the blade ready to stab, when, suddenly, his opponent grabbed one of the horns on his helmet, and tugged downwards.

  Spartacus caught a look in Cycnus’s eyes, a momentary spark of realization, as the gladiator was dragged headfirst. He tried to struggle to his feet, but his opponent had a tight wrestling hold on both his head and his torso. Cycnus roared in frustration, his free hand flailing, trying to punch a soft spot in his assailant. Instead, his knuckles scraped on unyielding armor. The man in soldier’s armor raised his sword to stab into Cycnus’s pinned neck, and a snarling Cycnus raised the two fingers of surrender.

  The soldier did not even halt, but plunged his sword into Cycnus’s throat. Silencing his angry growls in an instant, the blade pierced straight through the throat and the bones of the neck.

  A cry escaped Lucretia’s lips, her mouth agape in surprise at the unexpected death. A fountain of blood sprayed across the killing ground, spattering in hissing droplets on the ever-growing fire, tainting the air with the sudden tang of copper.

  Batiatus sank onto his haunches, one hand held despairingly over his left eye, as if he could barely endure the sight.

  “We cannot afford such losses as these!” Lucretia said.

  Batiatus sat meekly by the sidelines. Lucretia yelled at Timarchides to call an end to the bloodshed, but her voice was drowned out by the crackle of the fire, the continued dirge of the musicians, the clash of blades, and the shouts of the crowd.

  The killer of Cycnus tugged brutally at his blade, pulling off his victim’s head, and holding it aloft by one of the helmet horns, the head still held in place by its strong leather chin strap. A drizzle of blood fell from the severed neck and spattered the killer’s arms.

  The victorious gladiator laughed as he brandished the grisly trophy, and then spun to cast it upon the flames.

  Spartacus and Varro stood back to back, the two of them still facing four opponents. At their feet, Bebryx moaned in pain, his hands grasping the blood-wet spear in his shoulder.

  “The odds fall out of favor,” Varro muttered.

  Spartacus said nothing for a few moments. He glared in turn at each of the men who faced him as he and Varro spun in small circles.

  “I have won victory against worse,” Spartacus muttered.

  Cackling, Cycnus’s killer drew close to Spartacus, his sword arm outstretched, his other hand held far away from his body.

  “Mark the others,” Spartacus said to Varro. “I am for this one.”

  The man stopped laughing, but still drew near, his eyes staring deep into Spartacus’s own, his arms held wide, presenting a tantalizing target.

  Spartacus feinted, watching his opponent’s left arm twitch in response to an attack that never came.

  Spartacus smiled to himself, and lunged for real.

  The man darted to the side, his left arm coming up to grab at the horn of Spartacus’s helmet, tugging savagely down as he had done to the luckless Cycnus. But the helmet came off clean in his hand, throwing him off balance, sending him tumbling back onto the grass, his arms crossed protectively over his body, warding against a blow that never came.

  For Spartacus had immediately wheeled and plunged his sword into the neck of one of the other attackers, a man who had been too busy watching the scuffle to parry an unexpected blow. The crowd roared.

  While Varro railed against the remaining two, keeping them at bay, Spartacus turned back to the fallen man, who was struggling to his feet.

  Spartacus kicked away his sword arm, dropping to his knees on the man’s bicep, cracking the bone even as he lifted his sword to strike downward.

  His victim tried to ward off the blow, shoving the stolen helmet in front of him. Spartacus’s sword glanced off its curves, missing the man’s face, but plunging deep into his chest.

  The sword was stuck fast. Spartacus wasted no time wrenching it free, instead he snatched up his victim’s Roman sword—and that of the other fallen opponent.

  Now it was two against two. His paired new swords threshing in an unstoppable onslaught, Spartacus cut and slashed against his remaining opponent, pushing him back under a hail of blows, forcing him perilously close to the mounting flames. The man stumbled against the edges of the pyre, pushing up a cloud of red embers that danced in the smoke around the fighters like angry flies. There were choking coughs from among the crowd of onlookers, but few dared to give up their place. Ilithyia retreated, one hand over her mouth, another clutching at her hair, but among the rest of the crowd, there was barely a rustle.

  Varro was face to face with Timarchides. The two men shifted, each sizing up the other. Timarchides made to thrust with his sword, revealing it as a feint only at the last moment, as the edge of his shield shoved up toward Varro’s face. Varro darted to the side, spinning so as to wheel upon the Greek with the full force of his sword, wielded with two hands.

  Beside the pyre, the heat of the flames stung Spartacus’s flesh. He saw his adversary struggle and shift as the warmth infested his armor plates. Sweat poured from their bodies as the two men labored against the heat like blacksmiths in a furnace. Spartacus’s opponent flinched, and the Thracian saw his moment, driving forward with both swords, shoving the other man back into the flames. Parallel, his twin swords rammed through the gaps in his rival’s shoulder armor into the vulnerable flesh, traveling straight through his body and sticking fast in the burning logs.

  The flames leapt up, crackling along the hairs on Spartacus’s arms. He let go his grip on the two hilts, stumbling back from the shimmering heat as his opponent began to scream. Pinned to the heart of the fire, the man struggled to pull at the blades, even as the flames caught on his hair and in the padding beneath his armor.

  “SET ME FREE!” the trapped gladiator yelled. “FREE ME!”

  Backing away, his eyes still on his victim as though he was hypnotized by the grim sight, Spartacus tripped into a sitting position. He stared open-mouthed at the other gladiator’s dreadful torment. The man screamed for mercy, pleaded in vain for the gods to save him even as Vulcan claimed him.

  “Finish him!” Verres shouted angrily.

  Spartacus looked back at Verres, and saw him animatedly giving the signal for execution, even as the doomed man shrieked for merciful death.

  “This is misery without end,” Lucretia muttered.

  “An end made worse by burning fool, pulling down the pyre with his struggles,” Batiatus wailed, casting about him as though the roaring crowd could provide a solution. Even as he spoke, the struggling human torch tried to drag himself from the flames. He brought the impaling swords with him, pulling one of the flaming logs dangerously out of alignment as he moved. From within the pyre there came the noise of clattering wood and the whump of pine needles exploding in the heat. Atop the bonfire, Pelorus’s bier teetered threateningly.

  Varro did not see it. He pounded with his blade on Timarchides’s shield, the distant red flames wreathed behind his head.

  Spartacus scrabbled around
in search of a weapon. His own purloined swords were jammed fast within the doomed man, their blades already poker-hot within the flames. His former blade was still stuck in the chest of his earlier victim, while Varro had need of his own as he railed against the retreating Timarchides.

  Then, Spartacus spied the crawling form of the injured Bebryx, the spear still lodged in him. The wounded gladiator inched in an agonised slither away from the killing ground, toward the crowd. Striding over to him, Spartacus kicked the protesting Bebryx onto his back, and grabbed at the haft of the spear with both hands.

  Bebryx cries truncated with a scream as Spartacus wrenched the spear free from his shoulder. As Bebryx collapsed to the ground, whimpering, Spartacus flung the spear toward the burning man, pinning him to the fire one more time, but now in sudden silence.

  Varro’s sword rang on Timarchides’s shield, their combat the sole noise now but for the roar of the fire.

  There was a lull, barely noticeable in the rain of blows, in which Timarchides shoved back, punching with the hand that held his sword, slamming into the side of the blond gladiator’s unprotected head. As Varro fell, his grip loosened on his sword, and he grabbed instead at Timarchides’s wrists, dragging the Greek down with him to the earth.

  Varro and Timarchides grunted and strained on the ground. Too close for sword thrusts, each grappled with the other’s hands, their weapons dropped, and Timarchides’s shield dangling forgotten from his armor. Timarchides seemed to gain the upper hand, clambering on top of the other man, only to roll head over heels, Varro’s legs propelling him up and over. Their hands locked in a violent parody of a lovers’ embrace, they rolled back to face one another, wrestling to a stalemate, their legs locked, their arms immobile.