“Can you... help...?” she breathed in his ear.
His hand found the place where her legs met, sliding in between them, rubbing mechnically, joylessly for the merest moment. He then grabbed her hair and pulled her head back, pushing her roughly onto the bed.
“Quintus!” she protested. “Such things take preparation.”
“And there is nobody here to prepare you.”
“Remember when we were young, and we would prepare each other?” She smiled at him teasingly.
“I do,” he sighed. “But that is what slaves are for.”
“Then begin,” Lucretia said, her face turned away from him. “Or occupy yourself elsewhere until we are returned to our Capuan comforts.”
Verres dozed alone. He dreamed of quivering slave girls and fountains of wine. He dreamed of Sicilian riches and the plunder due a governor. The shutters to his room hung partly open to let in the night breeze, which blew unheeded through his hair.
“Verres!” came a stage whisper from the window.
Verres sat up, confused, and banished thoughts from his mind of the warm, wet and willing.
“Who is there?”
“Timarchides. I desire only to talk.”
“Can this not wait until the morning? It is but a time for wolves and whores, and guards with poor luck.”
“This cannot wait.”
“We have the magistrate tomorrow morning. You will be a man of means. Wait until then.”
“It concerns the magistrate,” Timarchides said. “We are undone.”
Rubbing his eyes, Verres climbed unsteadily to his feet, willing them to manoeuvre him to the window. He allowed his gaze to settle, with errant unsteadiness, on the face of Timarchides.
“What is it, then? Timarchides, you bring all the fretting of a wife, absent her amatory benefits.”
“The quaestor moves against us.”
“Whatever for?”
“In the name of Batiatus. He suspects us.”
“I care not if he suspects. What is in his arsenal?”
“Testimonies of slaves. The ingenuities of Cicero as lawyer. Those windows in our scheme that are as yet unshuttered.”
“Then it is time to shutter them.”
“And risk further investigation?”
“We sail shortly, and I am untouchable in Sicilia. Remove obstacles and see targets hit. Batiatus, Successa, and the Getae witch. It will ease our arguments tomorrow.”
“And Cicero?”
Verres thought long and hard.
“As an inquisitor, he seems like an unruly dog that will not give up a bone once proffered.”
“Then him, too?”
“Not in this house. Outside. Make him disappear.”
XV
SICARII NOCTE
HE BANGED ON THE DOOR, NOT CEASING LONG ENOUGH FOR A reasonable reply before banging on it again.
“Open your doors!” he bellowed. “And then open your legs!”
Welcome silence briefly reigned, before he reached to hammer his fist on the door again, only to find it opening before him.
A woman’s bright eyes peered at him over the top of her veil.
He stood, a wiry Roman in his toga, a hulking Carthaginian by his side.
“The hour is late,” the veiled woman said.
“It is! What kind of brothel is this place?”
“One whose staff sometimes needs sleep,” she said firmly.
“My cock knows not night or day,” he boasted, snickering alone at his own wit.
“Do you have coin?” she asked, businesslike and brisk.
“Of course.” He seemed insulted at the implication that he did not.
“Then I am sure we can accommodate you... Batiatus?”
“Apologies, lady, you have me at a disadvantage. It is the veil.”
“As well it should. I am Successa and the veil does me no credit by its removal.”
“Of course, the funeral! My mind recalls.”
She beckoned him into a courtyard illuminated only by the barest, dying flickers of red lanterns. He raised his hand behind him, signaling to Barca the bodyguard to wait outside.
Barca looked about him on the veranda, found a bench on which to recline, and wrapped himself in a discarded blanket, expecting no trouble till dawn. He shifted a couple of times for comfort, and then began to snore.
Within, a lone figure, stout and heavy-set, mopped the floor without looking up. Batiatus wondered if the janitrix was on the menu, and hoped the establishment had better merchandise. He stared instead at the rear of Successa as she led the way.
“What brings you here tonight?” Successa asked.
“Cunt,” Batiatus grunted.
“I see I need not offer you any more wine. Any particular kind?”
“A willing one, requiring no maintenance. There was a dancing girl, at the cena libera yesterday’s eve.”
“We sent several dancing girls. All from Pompeii, all equipped with the organ you so delicately describe.”
“Golden hair. White skin. Lips like she could suck the face off a denarius.”
“That would be Valeria. So different in appearance from your good wife.”
“Let me have her, and taste youth once more.”
“I shall have her brought to you, as the villa of Pelorus is so close at hand.”
“No, here, here.”
“That is no cheaper.”
“I shall have the coin. I shall have the coin soon enough, once the magistrate has had his say.”
“How so?”
“The House of Pelorus shall be mine.”
“The House of Pelorus is cursed.”
“We have expelled those demons.”
“Not I. They haunt me in every mirror.”
Lacking windows except at the topmost edges of the cells, the corridor of the ludus sleeping quarters was black with the night. Occasional moonbeams shone through the dust, between the bars, stretching their dim light into the corridor. But the torches were dead and the lanterns dismounted.
Most of the cells were deserted, emptied by the catastrophe of the Neapolis games. A blond Roman snored in one, lost in dreams of freedom, not hearing the light footfalls that approached.
A figure peered into Varro’s cell, and then moved on, its steps creeping with careful deliberation, barely rustling the rushes, barely scuffing the sand.
Somewhere, a female moaned in her sleep. The figure sped up its movements, darting toward the far end of the corridor, where the woman Medea lay chained on the floor of her cell.
The key did not jangle, as it had no fellows. It was a single large slab of iron, designed to open the simple locks of any of the cells. He fumbled at the lock, seemingly no longer caring about the noise.
Medea opened her eyes.
“Who is there?” she asked.
“Nemesis,” he whispered.
“Nemesis is a woman,” she yawned.
“Not for you. Not tonight.”
He drew his knife with an audible scrape.
“A sicarius?” she observed, without emotion. “A nocturnal knife-man, sent to end me?”
“Be quiet, and I shall be quick,” he whispered, advancing into the cell.
She climbed to her feet, her chains scraping on the stones.
“I will not make your task easy,” she said.
“You should welcome death,” he said.
“I will,” she said. “But you are a Roman, so I will take you first.”
Her chains rattled again, spooking him. She saw only the nervous jerk of his arms in the moonlight, as he sought to ward off a blow that never came. It was the reflex of a man accustomed to fighting.
“You are a large man,” she said. “And I am chained.”
“Fairness concerns me not,” he said, hesitating, peering in the half-light, circling her, unsure of the length of the chains.
“But you still fret that I have the advantage,” she said.
“I do not.”
“Then m
ake your play.” She snapped her chains as if they were a whip, startling the sicarius in the dark. He lunged and she grabbed at him, propelling him back toward the bars of the cage. He kicked her away, and she came at him again, her chains snapping taut a safe distance from him.
He leaned against the bars and chuckled.
“You cannot reach me,” he smirked.
Medea stopped struggling against her chains, and stood in the dark, her hands on her hips.
“I do not need to,” she said.
He frowned at the odd reply, and drew himself up, ready to strike again, but something enfolded him. He stared down in surprise to see a strong, tanned arm, reaching through the bars behind him, enveloping his chest, grabbing fast onto his neck. He made as if to protest, but the air was choked out of him, his throat held tight, the arm pressing down on his windpipe, dragging him against the bars.
Unseen in the dark, the face of the sicarius turned red, his eyes bulging as the grip grew ever tighter, his head was forced against the sharp-edged, rusty cell bars, drawing blood. His legs thrashed impotently as something gave way in his neck with a distant pop, and then he went limp.
True to his training, Spartacus drew several breaths, waiting for any telltale signs of fakery. Only when he sensed the body was truly dead did he let it drop to the floor.
“It seems I owe you my life again, Thracian,” Medea said softly. “But as a slave I have nothing to give, except that which you do not desire to take.”
“You have the key,” Spartacus pointed out. “Throw me the key.”
Medea scrambled across the floor, dragging her chains to their maximum extent, her arm straining to reach the fallen key. Her fingers nudged against it, found purchase and drew it into her grip. She hurled it over, through the bars and into Spartacus’s cell.
He wasted no time, shoving his arms through the bars at the front, twisting in order to get the key in the lock.
“That was the only key,” Medea said. “And it is clearly too large for my manacles.”
“I do not seek to escape,” Spartacus said, not meeting her gaze. His eyes concentrated on the task at hand as the key slid ponderously into the lock.
“Do not lie to me, Thracian,” Medea said. “Give me that, at least. Run. Run while you can, and I shall not hold it against you.”
“I am not escaping,” Spartacus repeated, turning the key inch by inch, a process made tortuously slow by the need to bend his hand back on itself.
“Then find the key to my manacles,” Medea said. “And I will ‘not escape’ with you.”
“There is no time,” Spartacus responded as the lock clunked out of place. He kicked the cell door open and sprinted into the darkened corridor.
Medea said something incredibly obscene in the language of the Getae. But there was nobody there to hear it. She peered expectantly down the hall, but heard nothing save for the Thracian’s receding footsteps.
Eventually, she returned to her pallet and curled up to sleep, her back turned to the dead body slumped against the far wall of her cell.
Batiatus lay back, breathing heavily on the pallet, spent.
“You were right,” he panted through laughter.
“Concerning my accomplishments?” Successa smiled.
“Indeed,” he said, barely able to gulp air. “You are the Champion of... the Champion of... Fucking.”
He heard her reply tugged by a smile, even though he could not see her.
“All cats are gray in the dark. My career yet has a course to run.”
“Undoubtedly,” he agreed, draping his arm around her, feeling her draw closer to him. “You are a mistress of mistresses. You did well to dissuade me out of that stupid little girl.”
“Valeria is a fine young woman,” Successa said in polite disagreement. “But age brings sophistication.”
“Something to which I aspire in all things. In bed. In business. In the course of honors.”
“Really?” Successa propped herself up on one arm, intrigued. “You seek political office?”
“In Rome any man may become anything, given enough time, and luck, and virtue.”
“Any man?”
“Well, no, not any man,” he conceded. “There are those who are subject to infamia.”
“What brings a bad reputation?” Successa asked. “In a world where men murder each other for the entertainment of the crowd?”
“A public official who accepts bribes; a soldier who flees the battlefield. Those who sell their flesh for the entertainment of others.”
“So I shall never be a Vestal virgin,” she sighed in mock disappointment.
“You are eminently disqualified,” he agreed.
“And what of the lanista?”
“What of me? My reputation is unsullied!”
Successa laughed. “You trade in men like a madame pimps her whores. Unlikely to be the sort of man to be welcomed into virtuous circles.”
“You make comparison to prostitutes and panderers, but surely this is merely a matter of perspective,” Batiatus declaimed, as if addressing an imaginary crowd. “Regard us instead as generals with flexible armies? As warriors who fight to win people’s hearts? The lanista performs a noble function. He occupies the rabble, true enough, but he instils in them a deep-seated respect for the martial virtues upon which Rome was founded. In the hands of the lanista, our people are regularly reminded of the power of the sword. In the hands of the lanista, we are taught repeatedly the lesson that death may be tamed for the pleasure of Rome, and that it is our destiny to witness bloodshed and pain, but to walk away from it sated.”
“Well, you could say that.”
“Gratitude!”
“Or you could say the same of the whores. Let me think, now... Why, yes, you could say that whores are good for Rome because they present fine scabbards for Roman swords. That they allow you to remember your position in the hierarchy by presenting themselves for your pleasure.”
“Now you speak foolishly.”
“Without the noble whore, where would you be? They remind you that whatever the world has to offer, it is there for the taking. The ugliest of Romans, the most pock-marked, disease-ridden citizen, may fuck a Grecian goddess if he has coin to pay for it.”
“And possession of a heavy purse is a Roman virtue.”
“Roman virtue surely leads to the acquisition of wealth.”
“Which allows one to acquire prostitutes.”
“Among other things,” she said.
A lamp smashed against the wall, its flaming oil licking swiftly against a hempen curtain. Suddenly, the room was illuminated, as yellow flames curled and flickered up the wall.
“Put it out, Tiro,” Cicero murmured sleepily, rubbing his eyes. Seeing that the flames were rising faster than expected, he dragged himself to an upright position.
“Tiro!” he said, still not awake.
“Dominus!” his slave answered with a panicked voice. Cicero turned to look, and saw a black-clad figure lurching toward him. He held up his hands to ward off the attack, only for Tiro himself to stand in the way.
Cicero watched, dumbly, as Tiro and the attacker grappled. The boy was no match for the bigger man, and struggled fitfully as he was first pinned, then lifted and flung at the far wall. He slid to the floor and lay there unmoving.
Reluctantly comprehending that this truly was no dream, Cicero drew himself to his feet.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, only then seeing the short, curved knife in the shadow’s hand.
“Marcus Tullius Cicero,” said the unknown figure. “Come with me.”
“Absent cause or reason? I think not.”
“Come with me, dead or alive,” the man hissed.
“Is that a Gaulish accent?” Cicero mused, trying very hard not to look at the figure of Spartacus, who had appeared at the doorway and was now stealthily advancing on the would-be killer.
“Silence,” the man said.
“It is!” Cicero said. “What i
s a man of Gaul doing so far from home, I wonder...?”
“Dying?” Spartacus suggested, as he locked his arms around the man’s neck.
The man’s eyes widened, his knife-hand stabbed backward, but the blunt edge of the blade bumped harmlessly against Spartacus’s skin. The gladiator tightened his grip. Desperately, the Gaul propelled himself backward against the wall, smashing the Thracian into it, causing the plaster to crack away from him in a spidery star. Before Spartacus had time to yell, he was lifted and smashed again. Chunks of the white walls caved away, revealing terracotta bricks beneath.
But the firm purchase of the wall gave Spartacus extra leverage, allowing him to drive his forearms yet closer together, pushing ever harder against the man’s neck, until it suddenly gave way, and the Gaul’s head lolled, unseeing, as he slumped to the ground.
“Thracian!” Cicero said happily. “I owe you my life, it seems.”
“Where is my dominus?” Spartacus demanded.
“I know not.”
Tiro the youthful slave struggled to his feet, pressing tenderly at the bump on his head.
“You!” Spartacus said, throwing him the key. “Unlock Varro. Set him to your protection.”
“Varro...?” the youth mumbled.
“The blond gladiator!” Spartacus shouted.
“Do as he says, Tiro,” Cicero said.
Spartacus did not wait for any further acknowledgment, running instead for Lucretia’s bedchamber, leaving Cicero to pat fussily at the burning curtains.
“What is happening?” Lucretia demanded drowsily as Spartacus burst into her room.
“Where is dominus?”
“For what meaning do you stand before me absent guard?”
Spartacus grabbed her hands, causing her to gasp in surprise.
“Where is he?”
There was a knock at the door.
“I believe it unlikely that I would receive two midnight callers,” Successa said.
“Perhaps your fame spreads,” Batiatus replied.
The knock came again, louder this time.
“Let your slaves answer it,” he mumbled, turning his head back toward the pillow.
“They are largely employed this night at the House of Pelorus,” she replied, tugging on her gown. “I, alone, am not permitted to cross its threshold.”
Spartacus - Swords and Ashes Page 22