“One of the ‘dice’ yet lives,” Verres said, pointing to the approaching figure, blood-stained but whole, darting along the outer harbor wall.
“We should wait for him!”
“And miss wind and tide? They wait for no man.”
The lone surviving slave of the House of Pelorus, seeing the ship receding, hurled off his clothes as he ran toward the sea. Wearing nothing but a loincloth, he cast aside his knife and plunged into the water, swimming after the ship in a powerful crawl.
“Fortuna smiles,” Timarchides noted. “It is the Sardinian boy!”
“A strong swimmer, then,” Verres noted, as the boy drew closer. His arms began to flag, but he was almost upon the ship, his hands reaching up, flailing for a rope to grab.
“What news of the others?” Verres called to the boy.
“Dead, dominus, all dead,” came the reply from amid the waves.
“You are all that survives?”
“I am,” the boy answered, returning to his diligent, steady crawl through the water, edging ever closer.
Verres looked dolefully at Timarchides.
“He is the last,” Verres said. “He is the last survivor that may yet, on some future day, relate truth of our machinations to a quaestor in hope of mercy or manumission. He is the last of the House of Pelorus that might reveal the depths of your deception, and consign you once more to the slavery whence you came. What would you do?”
Timarchides stared at Verres for a moment, and then snatched up a rope, throwing one end into the water. He hung tightly onto the hawser as the boy clambered up, gasping with the effort, his lungs heaving with great exertion.
“You did well,” Timarchides said, as the boy reached the gunwhales.
The Sardinian boy smiled, panting, with relief and elation.
Then Timarchides snatched up a knife, and slashed the boy slave’s throat in one sweeping deadly movement. A wounded, pleading look came into the boy’s eyes as he tumbled from the ship, splashing red into the waters of the bay of Neapolis.
Timarchides watched the body as it floated face-down, a branded “P” on its right forearm, matching the faded one that yet persisted on his own. The ship began to leave it behind, sailing ever farther out to sea, leaving the body where it fell, drifting on the waters.
Verres laid a conciliatory hand on the freedman’s shoulder.
“Death comes to us all, Timarchides, but not freedom. Think on that as we sail to Sicilia.”
Timarchides shook off his hand, and stared at the churning waters of a bruised sea.
“The story of Rome is the story of us,” Verres said. “Of you and me. The story is of the freemen of Rome. There is no space for slaves. They are invisible. No one has care for thoughts of a slave. His hopes. His dreams. His desires. No more worthy of our consideration than the dreams of an insect. You are free. Be free.”
As the ship’s prow turned to face the harbor mouth, her sails filled with a strong breeze, propelling the ship forward, firstly at a crawl, and then with the increasing wash of broken waves against the hull.
XVIII
RECONCILIATUM
HE LAY ON THE FIRM WOODEN TABLE, AS HE HAD LAIN FOR days, his chest barely moving in halting breaths. The early signs of a beard poked through the clammy skin of his face. His hair, usually cropped close like a Roman warrior, had begun to grow out toward its original Gaulish mane. His eyes stared ahead, at the ceiling, unseeing. His hands were folded gently on his stomach, pressing on the sodden bandages, sticky with blood and pus.
When the door opened, he made no sign of noticing it. He stayed on the table, almost as still as Pelorus had been on the bier.
The footsteps that approached were light, dainty, unaccompanied by the clack of hobnails or the slap of hardened sole leather. They were the steps of feet shod in mouseskin or deerskin, supporting a frame far lighter than the average inmate of the ludus. The newly arrived figure halted, its passage marked by the continued waft of draping silken sleeves, and the unmistakeable scent of Egyptian musks.
“Crixus,” she said.
On the table, his lips twitched. His eyes showed no emotion or reaction, but his mouth moved the tiniest degree.
“Crixus,” she whispered.
There was no further movement from him, save the faintest sigh in the slowly moving chest.
“The medicus will return presently. I do not have long.”
She rested her hand on his shoulder, thought better of it, and returned with a damp cloth, dabbing fitfully at the grime on his torso.
“It gladdens my heart to see that you yet live.”
There was another shudder, but still no reaction from his eyes. She waved her hand experimentally in front of his face, but got nothing save the faintest touch of his labored breath.
“The gods will see you well,” she said.
The door opened.
“Domina!” the medicus exclaimed.
“Medicus,” she said half-laughing, half-gasping. “I only thought to—”
“It does you credit that you take such eager interest in your chattels!” the medicus said, oblivious.
Lucretia drew herself to her full height, the cloth forgotten, her softened features hardening into a businesslike demeanour.
“Crixus is valuable investment,” she said, coldly. “If he cannot fight again, the House of Batiatus will have lost substantial sum.”
“Further calculated by your presence here,” the medicus said, “following long journey from Neapolis.”
“Calculations made greater with the cost of your life if Crixus falls,” Lucretia spat.
And with that she was gone.
On the table, the still form of Crixus seemed to twitch in his open-eyed sleep.
“I only hope,” the medicus said, “the gods watch over you as closely as your mistress.” He lifted the bandage on the stomach, wincing at the sight of the festering wound.
“Ashur,” Varro called. “Ashur!”
The nervy Syrian ducked into an alcove in fear, peering behind him to determine the identity of the man that sought him.
“Cease tongue,” he hissed. “Barca seeks me out, eager for winnings from the last game in Capua.”
“I care not,” Varro said. “I seek you, too, not to take coin but to give it.”
“To what end?” Ashur said, straightening himself and dusting off his robe.
“I seek the company of a woman,” Varro said. “The finest woman you can in the flesh markets, and bring her to the ludus for my enjoyment.”
“I shall see it done,” Ashur said. “And welcome the opportunity to be absent the ludus a few moments longer.”
He made as if to leave, only for Varro to stay his hand.
“And Ashur,” Varro said, “make her a Greek.”
“I have kept them well,” Pietros said.
“So I see,” Barca said, gently caressing the head of a white bird. He placed it back into its cage and securely fastened the door.
“And you, have you kept well?” Pietros said scowling, his gaze fixed on Barca’s bandage.
“It is but scratch,” Barca said with a shrug.
Pietros flung himself into Barca’s arms, his head nestling against the gladiator’s chest.
“I had a dream while you were away.”
“A dream is a dream, gone by morning.”
“I saw you gutted and still, lying in water, your blood seeped away. I feared that I would never see you again.”
“I am here, Pietros. Safely returned.”
“I gave Naevia coin for offering. To hasten your safe return.”
“Mercury is no god of mine,” Barca said gruffly.
“He is the god of all travelers, whether they believe in him or not.”
Barca tightened his arms around Pietros and stroked the boy’s curly hair.
“I, too, had a dream, Pietros,” he said. “You were happy. You and I stood as freemen near where Carthage once stood. Rome’s new colony close by. We were out in fields, w
ringing crops from red dust.”
“Both of us?”
“Yes. My arena battles having bought freedom for us both. Our toil and sweat turned us into farmers.”
“It is a long way from the ludus and the arena.”
“It is not a long way,” Barca said. “It is but days away. Ashur owes me the balance of the coin I require. We have but another day in chains, but perhaps years of labor.”
“But labor as freemen.”
“As freemen. Now, is that a better dream?”
“It is.”
The rains pelted down, as they had done for days. But Batiatus breathed deeply and smiled.
“The festering odors of Neapolis,” he said, “replaced by the land of my fathers.”
He looked at Spartacus for acknowledgment, and saw only a Thracian deep in thought.
“Put the fate of the Getae witch from your mind, Spartacus. She died as she wanted, costing a good Roman precious coin. Costing me precious coin!”
“I think only of her portents of posterity.”
“Pay it no heed. She was a charlatan. A barbarian mumbling of futures yet unseen to earn her keep.”
“She offered a future for Rome, to replace that lost in the Capitoline fire.”
“Tailored no doubt to her audience, as any good conjuror does. Mention of Thrace purely because you were at her side. Mention of greater Greece simply because that was where we found ourselves, close to the heel and toe of Italia.”
“And what kind of legion is ‘hell-bound’?”
“Any legion in Neapolis, considering the Vulcan caves of its surroundings.”
“A Saturnalia?”
“A final Saturnalia! Slaves and masters changing places. What better incitement for an audience in chains to pay to hear more?”
“But she was dying. There was nothing for her to gain.”
“Nothing save seeds of discord sown from the afterlife. ‘Seven hills’ in peril! Indeed! She speaks of the seven hills of Rome knowing that it will affright good citizens as dogs bark at horses. It surprises me, Spartacus, that you dwell on such artifice and contradictions.”
“Apologies, dominus.”
“Ah, but now I see. She told you something else, did she not?”
“She said that I would see my wife again.”
“And if that prophecy is to be believed, then you must accord unwarranted credence to her other utterings. Peace, Spartacus, you shall see your wife again because I, Batiatus, have willed it so. Not the Fates. And not a dying savage. Now, prepare yourself. I predict that I shall proclaim you as the Champion of Capua. And that is a prophecy that shall surely come to pass.”
Sailors called it the Afer Ventus, the wind out of Africa. Sometimes it brought dry dust that stung the throat and clung to the clothes. Sometimes it brought blustery days and clouds that sped across the sky like sheep fleeing Apollo. Sometimes it brought ships.
Household slaves cursed it for the dirt it brought to laundry drying on lines. Sailors from the east welcomed it for the opportunity it offered, even as it grew stormy. Sail past the toe of Italia, into Sicilian waters, and you were sure to meet the Afer Ventus blowing toward the north-east. Even if it rained, even if the waters rose and swelled like Neptune in anger, you could point your ship at the coast of Italia and ride ahead of the storm.
No ships were leaving Neapolis. The storms were too dangerous, the risk too great. One might, if one were religiously inclined, burn incense and make offerings at temples of Neptune and Mercury, but the priests were always disconcertingly vague about the amount required to guarantee safe passage. Better to ride it out in the harbor, or send goods along the soggy land routes.
But some ships still dared to arrive. Some ships, caught at sea as the storms rose, chose to forge on ahead to their destination, heedless of the rain, fearless, or at least apparently fearless, of the danger to life and limb.
This was one such ship. This was the last ship likely to arrive for at least a week. She had been a dot on the horizon, but her sails swiftly grew in size. When they were visible through the pitching waters—and they frequently were not—they bobbed on the horizon, but grew ever closer to the safe haven of Neapolis.
Her sailors drew in her sailcloths. They threw lines to the slave-rowed cutters that towed her in. They steered her to the best of their abilities as the rope-ringed hull thumped noisily against the similarly wrapped dockside. On land and on deck, the sailors heaved on ropes, lashing the ship against the shore, lest Neptune have one final laugh by dashing the vessel against the land.
She was safe. She had reached a sanctuary harbor. She was almost on Italian soil.
They began unloading their cargoes. Syrian silks and Greek wines, Egyptian incense and perfumes, olive oil and crocodile skins. The scribes tallied the manifest, making marks on their wax boards, so that the harbormaster knew the correct tariffs.
The unloading was slow. But the captain himself soon edged ashore along the gangplank, dragging one other cargo in transit: a woman.
Her hands were chained. Her face was hidden beneath a man’s rain cloak, bestowed upon her by some kindly mariner. She was barefoot, her feet etched in patterns by raindrops falling on earlier filth.
The dockside scribe stopped the captain as his feet touched the flagstones of the quay.
“There is no slave on your manifest,” the scribe said. “You registered no living cargo.”
“This slave is not mine,” the captain said. “She is registered as the possession of her receiver.”
The scribe frowned, his eyes scanning over his wax tablet.
“I see no record of her.”
“She was a late arrival. A trans-shipment taken as a favor. Bound for the House of Pelorus.”
“What is her destination now?”
“Absent Pelorus, we must send her on to his heir in Capua. Mark her for the House of Batiatus.”
“Her name?”
“Sura.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
NEARLY THIRTY YEARS AGO, TED READ WOULD FLY OFF ON WILD tangents about Roman folklore when he was supposed to be teaching a Latin class. He would laugh to see his name here. At Titan Books, Adam Newell noted my enthusiasm for Spartacus, and Cath Trechman bought me at the auction block. I was then inspected by Jo Boylett... what a thought. At Starz Entertainment, Allison Miller meticulously knifed anything that did not sound like it came from the show. This book owes much to the cast and crew of Spartacus: Blood and Sand—knowingly obscene, carefully vulgar, garishly hued, conscientiously Latinate—who created such a memorable and distinctive look, feel and sound for the show. I heard their voices while I worked, even that one that is now silent. Gratitude.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
J. M. CLEMENTS IS THE AUTHOR OF OVER THIRTY BOOKS, including Pirate King, Marco Polo and A Brief History of the Vikings. He has also written a dozen audio books and radio plays, including Robin Hood: The Deer Hunters, Highlander: The Secret of the Sword and Doctor Who: The Destroyer of Delights.
* * *
COMING SOON FROM TITAN BOOKS
SPARTACUS
MORITURI
PAUL KEARNEY
Batiatus and Solonius vie with each other for the favor of one Marcus Licinius Crassus, a nobleman who aims at the Praetorship. Grieving for his wife, Spartacus, the Champion of Capua, shows a fearsome level of aggression in these combats, taking each bout closer and closer to a violent death—only Varro stops him from committing murder.
Thrilled by the bloody violence of the fights, Crassus decides to set up his own gladiatorial school. He ships in suitable candidates from all over the Republic, and so harsh is their training that they become known as the ‘Morituri’—those who are about to die.
In the arena, the Batiati are ground down by injury and death, while the Morituri’s numbers never seem to shrink. Can the ludus survive against such odds?
* * *
Table of Contents
I THE IDES OF SEPTEMBER
II JUPITER PLUVIUS
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br /> III HOSPES
IV IMAGINES
V BUSTUARII
VI CENA LIBERA
VII ROMA AETERNA
VIII VENATIO
IX MERIDIANUM SPECTACULUM
X AD BESTIAS
XI PRIMUS
XII SPOLIARIUM
XIII ARGUMENTA
XIV FENESTRAE
XV SICARII NOCTE
XVI GLADII ET CINERES
XVII POSTERITAS
XVIII RECONCILIATUM
Acknowledgments
About THE AUTHOR
Spartacus - Swords and Ashes Page 27