Batiatus made to stand in protest, but Cicero stayed his arm, a finger raised in a weak parody of the gladiator’s gesture of surrender. Batiatus saw the signal and read it for what it was—a sign that they would have to concede some ground.
“However, I can have no doubt that the intentions of the pious Verres were wholly honorable,” the magistrate continued. “In treatment of the injured lady Successa, he has displayed a noble quality in the dispensation of charity. In his attempt to do right by the freedman Timarchides, he has shown great kindness.”
Verres permitted himself a sly half-smile.
Batiatus stared at Cicero, his nostrils flared in anger.
“Do you misremember whose side you represent?” Batiatus hissed to the quaestor. “This fool has ignored every one of your words.”
“Patience, Batiatus,” Cicero whispered out of the side of his mouth.
“In the matter of the accusations leveled against him,” the magistrate stated, “I remind the plaintiff that Verres became the governor of Sicilia at midnight on the night of the event in question, and that henceforth, even if Cicero were to pursue his insinuations of wrongdoing, the person of Gaius Verres is sacrosanct, protected and above reproach.”
Verres smiled at Batiatus, the smile widening into a grin fit to contain the world.
“In the matter of the estate of the late Marcus Pelorus, I shall retire to deliberate on its best dispensation. It may take some days, considering the light of these crimes peripheral, now entered into the record.”
“If I may speed the process, magistrate?” Verres asked.
The magistrate shrugged and gestured for him to continue.
“Since my duties are not required in the role of familiae emptor, I have no matters to address in it. May I suggest that I withdraw all opposition to the suit of Batiatus, and depart as friend.”
Timarchides leapt to his feet in surprise, grabbing at Verres’s toga.
“You said that purse was mine!”
Verres held out his arms in conciliation.
“Timarchides, please!” he said. “The magistrate has spoken. We must abide by Roman law or we are no better than barbarians.”
“But—”
“What purse?” Helva asked, indicating the pile of scrolls. He held one up for them to see. “You will see from the accounts that the estate of Pelorus is already well discharged, almost into nothingness.”
XVII
POSTERITAS
“DO I DREAM,” BATIATUS SAID, STANDING ON THE STEPS OF THE forum, “or did we just get bent over and fucked?”
“I have no idea of your dreams, Batiatus,” Cicero said, his eyes set ahead. The two men sighed in unison on the steps, and began to dawdle toward the street level. Varro walked behind, ever watchful.
“The magistrate made no note of our evidence,” Batiatus protested. “Rather keeping up the nonsense of the ‘last words’!”
“The magistrate showed himself to be a masterful diplomat,” Cicero replied. “Governors are not truly sacrosanct, but it is beneficial for the smooth running of the state if we assume that they are. Absent a truly monstrous cause, it is better to remove all talk of crime. The magistrate allowed each man to depart unsullied by accusation.”
“But I want Verres fucking sullied! I want him up to his neck in shit! He walks away with head held high.”
“But absent control of the Pelorus estate.”
Something was moving to the side of the two men, something oncoming with the speed of a charging gladiator, something in bright white edged with Greek borders. Batiatus turned to see, and found Varro bodily holding back the angry Timarchides.
“You will pay for this, Cicero,” the freedman snarled.
“Will I?”
“You steal from me. You rob the grave of a great man.”
Timarchides hurled Varro to one side, leaving the blond gladiator reeling in the dirt. But the slave had served his purpose, calming the angry Greek just enough to prevent him coming to blows with a noble Roman. Instead, Cicero faced no more than a pointing finger and a torrent of abuse.
“I merely made investigation into a suspicious abuse of power,” Cicero said calmly, when Timarchides eventually paused for breath.
“Listen well, Timarchides,” Batiatus crowed, “You and Verres have reached agreement’s end, your sullied fingers remain empty as will Pelorus’s house when next you seek shelter!”
“I am disinherited!” Timarchides growled. “Left with nothing!”
“From nothing left nothing!” Batiatus replied. “Returned to the heavy work of arm twisting, save now for Verres in Sicilia.”
“Pelorus would not have desired this.”
“I grow weary of this ludicrous performance,” Cicero said, suddenly impatient. “Pelorus did not want to die.”
Timarchides stood, fists clenched, before them breathing heavily for lack of words and direction. Varro clambered back to his feet, rendering the odds once more against the Greek. Batiatus stared directly into Timarchides’s angry eyes for a moment, before walking away with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“Might I suggest,” Cicero said, “that the freedman Timarchides composes a will forthwith. If you were to die intestate, in the fashion of your former master, then your property would revert to Pelorus, who reverts to Batiatus, and you would end up leaving everything to the man you so despise.”
“Enough of such legal knots,” Timarchides spat. “I depart for Sicilia, and curse you all.”
“Knots of your own making. Matters would be eased if you but had a son.”
“Then I shall go out and sire one tonight!”
“A difficult task when men lay with men.” Cicero called after Timarchides’s retreating back. He sighed with the effort of a day’s work well done, and sauntered after Batiatus, who slowed his pace now that the danger of physical assault was past.
“Cicero, I stand amazed,” the lanista said.
“Do not be,” Cicero said, oddly sour. “There is no victory to be celebrated here.”
“On the contrary, you have executed every action exact.”
“I have done nothing. It is a disaster.”
“You make reference to the business of Verres being governor? An inconvenient ‘window,’ to be sure.”
“The means by which he could be held accountable destroyed, and if he is not accountable then he is removed entirely from deliberations. He disappears. As if Verres was never here.”
“Which means?”
“Which means that Pelorus died by means unknown in a slave attack. Absent will, which means everything lands upon you.”
“My meaning exact! The slaves are dead and purse empty, but the villa is mine!”
Batiatus puffed out his chest and looked around him at the bustle of Neapolis, wondering what to buy first. He hailed a vendor with a pole draped with wineskins.
“Not so, Batiatus,” Cicero said glumly, as the lanista handed over coins. “I possess knowledge enough of legal mind to know where thought alights.”
Batiatus offered him a swig from his celebratory wineskin, but Cicero pushed it away.
“Tell me,” Batiatus said, wiping a red smear of wine across his cheek, “why the result disappoints.”
Cicero backed into the shade, narrowly evading a cart drawn by two horses. He stared after the retreating vehicle, watching as its driver skillfully negotiated its passage through the next junction, and on to the road out of town.
“Look upon that horse, Batiatus. If horse breaks free and charges through street, with whom does the responsibility rest?”
“What is your meaning?” Batiatus asked.
“Is fault with horse?”
“Of course not.”
“And if horse ends life of passing woman and grieving husband seeks redress. Can he seek it from horse?” Cicero asked.
“You expect apology from a horse?”
“That is not possible, you are right,” Cicero said. “So would you stone the horse to death?”
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br /> Though tasked with remaining silent, Varro could not resist a chuckle.
“That is ludicrous,” Batiatus replied. “You cannot lay blame with dumb animal.”
“Then who bears burden of responsibility?”
“The owner of course!”
“And what if criminal is not animal, but slave?”
“He will be killed. In the same manner as the slaves at the House of Pelorus.”
“Ah,” Cicero said. “That is their punishment, but what of damages they did to others?”
Batiatus had been midway through another long gulp of wine. Instead, it somehow caught in his throat, causing him to spit and splutter a pink mist into the street.
“What?” he coughed. “Your meaning is that liability will rest with me for everything?”
“There will be dispensations to Timarchides, to the musicians, to all the guests that claim some blemish or inconvenience, in atonement for the actions of the slaves you have just inherited.”
“It cannot be inheritance if subjects are already in Hades!”
“Oh, but it can. Or rather, their debts are your inheritance! It would surprise me not if the beneficiary of Pelorus’s estate received strong encouragement to honor ‘noble’ Verres’s obligations and was forced to pay pension rashly promised to Successa. With lesser stipends for other whores. And band. And citizens present. There will also be liability for bills outstanding to caterers and vintners.”
“Payment for banquet never attended?”
“Worse than that. Much worse.”
“What could be worse?”
“I must remind you of the funeral games.”
Batiatus clutched at his chest in fright.
“The fucking funeral games! You mean that is mine to pay as well? I owe coin for fucking dead rabbits?”
“The bill was surely charged to the estate of Marcus Pelorus, and as his sole heir...”
“JUPITER’S COCK!”
“Look well at your new villa in Neapolis, Batiatus. Soon obligation will come to dispose of it to honor newfound debts.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Verres called. He stopped in front of them in a litter born by four glowering men in dark robes, two of whom did not seem quite fit to be porters—a boy who seemed too young, and a man who seemed too old. Varro found himself staring at the lead bearer, confused with a sense of familiarity. The old man nodded back, as if in recognition.
“Charon...” Varro breathed.
Timarchides sat by the side of Verres in the litter, staring straight ahead.
“I take my leave of you!” Verres said cheerfully. “I sail for Sicilia. Well played, Cicero. Well played, as in our nocturnal debates. The victory is yours, but the spoils are inconsequential.”
“That is your game, is it not, Verres?” Batiatus snarled. “Everyone your slave. You rape estates. You plunder provinces. You seek the chase. You burn the bridge you crossed. You kick away ladder by which you ascended.”
“You will not be governor of Sicilia forever, Verres,” Cicero said. “I will be there to witness you fall.”
“And I, you,” Verres said, the smile still pasted on. “When time comes Cicero, you will run like frightened deer.”
“I hope very much to die of old age in my bed.”
“Our lives are lived in troubled times, and enemies flock to you like flies to honey,” Verres said, pointedly.
“The price of seeking truth, I fear,” Cicero said. “But I know nothing of the way of the warrior. If chased by man with sword in hand, I shall certainly seek to avoid him. This is not cowardice, but sense.”
“But if he catches you, Cicero. What then?”
“Further debate?” Batiatus muttered. “Another argument, even as he sticks his cock in ass. Leave hold, Cicero, absent cause!”
“If your hypothetical pursuer catches me with his notional sword,” Cicero was saying, “and I theoretically have nowhere left to run?”
“If then,” Verres said, with a nod.
“Then I shall put into practice lessons learned from gladiators. And I shall extend neck to assailant, dying like a Roman, unafraid of the afterlife.”
Verres laughed, and motioned for his bearers to continue on their path. His litter wove through the people and soon passed from sight.
“Dominus!” called a voice. “Dominus!” In a market street full of masters, none paid it heed.
Batiatus offered the wineskin to Cicero, but again the quaestor refused, deep in thought.
“BATIATUS!” shouted the voice, finally gaining the correct dominus’s attention.
Spartacus arrived, panting, manacled by his left arm to Medea.
“What comedia is this?” Batiatus demanded. “Are ears blocked that I find you not standing guard at the house of Pelorus!”
“Your will, dominus,” Spartacus panted. “But doing so uncovered vital news.”
Cicero looked up.
“More vital than that of a slave that deserts his post and runs through the street chained to a murderess?” he said. “My ears are pricked and ready to hear such news.”
“The sicarii last night,” Spartacus said, “were men of the House of Pelorus.”
“How do you know?” Batiatus questioned.
“They all bore his mark.”
“But they are all dead.”
“Not all.”
“They were the undertakers,” Varro said, suddenly.
“Hold tongue, Varro,” Batiatus snapped. “Spartacus, give explanation. How can the men of Pelorus be yet alive? I witnessed their end in the arena.”
“Some,” Spartacus said. “The cells are vast. Did they only contain a small number of gladiators on that night? For that was all that died in the arena.”
“They took upon themselves the garb of the undertakers,” Varro insisted. “And the clowns. They were the cleaners of the arena. Before our eyes unseen—”
“Varro, be silent... Oh...” Batiatus said.
“Even at the games, I heard the damnati protest that not all their brother gladiators were present,” Spartacus said. “Timarchides laughed off accusation, but what if he tried to save those most beloved?”
“The slave speaks sense,” Cicero said. “And it is a scheme worthy of Timarchides, to preserve lives of those fellows of his ludus whom he yet called friends. To kill undertakers, absent witness, and place favored slaves of Pelorus in their stead. They burned evidence and partly melted swords that did the deed, and used undertakers’ mansion as refuge.”
“They leave no evidence,” Spartacus said, “save the bodies of the dead, who cannot testify.”
“And swords lying in ashes,” Varro added, “with ludus mark melted.”
“Yet they marched in procession funereal!” Batiatus sputtered. “With fucking balls forged of iron!”
“Masked and long-sleeved to conceal their brands!” Spartacus agreed. “His favored gladiators mourned him, and some of their number yet work for Timarchides and Verres, as knife-men and bearers. And now the survivors journey to Sicilia, where they will doubtless toil in the entourage of its new governor.”
“Spartacus, Varro,” Batiatus said, “stop them before they reach harbor.”
“We need but one,” Cicero insisted. “Apprehend but one living slave that bears mark of Pelorus, and Verres is undone.”
“Are you sure it is charge ‘monstrous’ enough to warrant case against a governor?” Batiatus asked.
“As sure as I can be,” Cicero said, equivocating as a quaestor must.
“Halt them!” Batiatus shouted.
“Dominus!” Varro said in assent, immediately taking off at a run through the crowd.
“Dominus!” Spartacus said, moving to follow him, Medea at his side.
“Leave the witch!” Batiatus said in annoyance.
“I cannot, dominus,” Spartacus said, raising his chained left hand. Slaved to his actions, Medea was forced to raise her right. “I left key to our chains at the house, that her escape could not be engineered.”
“Then take her with you. It is so fated.”
Batiatus shook his head as the three figures darted through the crowd after the litter, the towering Varro yet visible, Spartacus and the chained Medea soon hidden.
“A diligent slave, that Spartacus,” Cicero commented. “To rush to your side with such immediate purpose.”
“Merely being true to his obligations—to see to the best interests of his master!”
“And what price does he exact for such interference?”
“A very simple coin. A woman.”
“Any woman?”
“Not any woman. His wife. Sold into slavery. To be returned to him on my word.”
“How will you find her?”
“I asked fellow lanistae to bear watch in slave markets for Syrian merchant, selling seer-women from Thrace and its environs.”
“Oh, did you...?”
Batiatus bit on his own knuckle in shock.
“Diana’s crack! Pelorus bought the Getae witch because of me!”
“Because of Spartacus. It all comes back to him.”
“Spartacus does not spin the wheels of fate,” Batiatus scoffed.
“Oh, but he does. Medea would never have entered the House of Pelorus if she were not caught in net you cast for the Thracian’s worthless wife. In your own fashion, you and Spartacus are as much to blame for Pelorus’s death as the witch herself.”
“Absent any other culprit. Although the gods be thanked there are many.”
“Are there? Was it not Spartacus who came to her rescue? And was it not he who revealed to you that Pelorus died with throat slit, and hence precipitated your legal suit?”
“... Spartacus...”
“He controls actions as if you were puppet. Your actions give indication you are master of your destiny, but every element of your mounting misfortune has been at his instigation.”
“He is the Champion of Capua, the bringer of rain! We have an understanding. We have a bargain.”
“Then you had better keep your side of it. Spartacus is yet loyal servant. I would hate to see how such an iron will would cleave to vengeance.”
But Batiatus was lost in thought, listening not to Cicero, but instead gazing at the iron railings that descended from where they were standing, lining a long stone staircase that plummeted for several streets into the distance.
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