by Mark Morris
Spartacus stepped forward and was handed a sword by a slave. He took it without a word, his stance relaxed, his face implacable. The traitorous guard glanced at him warily, but his voice when he addressed Batiatus was still defiant.
“I am Roman and demand fair trial. I will not be made to brawl in dirt like common slave.”
Batiatus spread his hands and said in a reasonable voice, “Judgement is given, along with choice. Now yours to make alone. Fight and perhaps live. Or receive certain death.” He glanced at his champion. “Do you stand ready, Spartacus?”
“Yes, dominus.”
Batiatus gave a sharp nod. “Then begin.”
With a smile of satisfaction, Batiatus re-entered the villa, the slaves pulling the double doors closed behind him. He found Lucretia bathing, Naevia gently rubbing warm oil into her shoulders and back to bring the dirt and sweat to the surface, before scraping it carefully off with a strigil.
Perching on the edge of the bath, Batiatus dabbled his fingers in the milky water. He dried them on a cloth proffered by a slave, then helped himself to a fig from a wooden bowl.
“Has the deed been done?” Lucretia said.
Batiatus nodded.
“The treacherous dog has had yelp forever silenced.”
She arched an eyebrow.
“Did he fight well?”
The question made Batiatus laugh so hard that the fig he was eating flew out of his mouth and spattered on the floor, where it was quickly cleared away by a slave.
“He fought like whipped mule, and crawled as one too. Spartacus saw more of his ass than face. The men chomped at bit to see the traitor’s heart borne aloft by the champion’s sword. It was joyous spectacle.”
Lucretia’s smile was thin and cruel.
“I wish I had seen it.”
“The sight would have brought flame to cheek.”
Her eyes flashed dangerously.
“You don’t think wife’s skin pallid do you?”
Batiatus’s response was immediate.
“Your skin is finest porcelain. Venus herself shamed by it.”
Apparently mollified, Lucretia said, “How will you avenge against Hieronymus and his vile creature?”
Batiatus’s smile widened, relishing the prospect of it.
“Plan is in motion as we speak, messenger already despatched.”
“Does wily husband lay trap?” Lucretia smirked.
“One laced with honey. Temptation that clenching Greek cunt will find impossible to resist.”
“Good Hieronymus!” Batiatus exclaimed, his arms spread wide in greeting, his face wreathed in smiles. “And noble Crassus in addition! How does the day find you both?”
“The day finds me in rude health,” Hieronymus replied, the familiar grin stretching his face. Crassus mumbled something which Batiatus didn’t quite catch.
“And you, good Batiatus?” Hieronymus enquired. “Fortune favors, I hope.”
“As never before,” replied Batiatus, but he allowed a small cloud of doubt to pass across his features—one that he fully intended Hieronymus to see.
“It gladdens heart to hear it,” the merchant said, humor flashing in his dark eyes. Behind him the ever-present Mantilus stood in silence, a shade from the underworld lurking always at his shoulder.
“Let us take refreshment while we await further company,” Batiatus said, ushering them into the atrium with a small wave of the hand. “Would you care for water to assuage thirst on such hot day—or wine perhaps?”
“Wine,” Hieronymus said quickly. “This will be cause for celebration after all.”
“All good sport is celebration,” Batiatus said, waving forward a slave bearing a jug of wine, “though this occasion will have somber cause—the passing of much-loved citizen of Capua.”
“Ah yes,” said Hieronymus sadly. “In whose memory do games honor?”
Batiatus gestured vaguely.
“The editor will arrive soon to furnish answer to that.” He glanced at Crassus. “Do you care for wine too, good Crassus?”
“A little early to be absent wit,” Crassus replied with rare, though grim, humor. “Water will suffice.”
Hieronymus looked momentarily alarmed, the grin almost slipping from his face. Restoring it quickly as Batiatus glanced guilelessly at him, he said, “Come my friend, let’s not stand formal. Share wine in recognition of bond between good friends who favor the arena, ever strengthening.”
Crassus frowned. “I am sure the offer well meant, but I desire only water.”
“The quench of water it is then!” Batiatus exclaimed. Beaming, he said, “I think you will relish its flavor, good Crassus. Lucretia and I import from Rome for our own use.”
Hearing this, Hieronymus looked relieved.
“Wise decision. I understand taste of local waters stands a little … brackish.”
Batiatus dismissed the question with a wave of the hand.
“A thing I cannot answer, as it passes only lips of slaves.” He beckoned a slave forward to provide Crassus with water, and then said, “Ah! Further guests arrive. I must excuse presence but a moment.”
Every inch the genial and generous host, he moved across the atrium to greet Solonius and the man who accompanied him as they were shown into the house. This second man, though younger than Batiatus, was portly, balding and red-faced. He dabbed sweat from his rosy cheeks as Solonius introduced him.
“This summer oppresses intolerably, does it not?” the newcomer said by way of greeting.
“Days too hot and nights too cold,” Batiatus agreed, nodding in sympathy. “But occasional rains do bring welcome relief.”
The man’s eyes twinkled.
“Rains bestowed by the gods in payment for your champion’s defeat of Theokoles.”
Batiatus inclined his head modestly.
“Modest service to good citizens of Capua. Come and allow introductions to other guests.”
He led Solonius and the portly man across to where Hieronymus and Crassus stood sipping their drinks.
“Good friends,” he said, “may I present Gaius Julius Brutilius, renowned noble of Capua. He imparts honor to all our houses with request to stage games in memory of revered father. Good Brutilius, allow me to present Leonidas Hieronymus, lanista of Capua, and his patron, Marcus Licinius Crassus. Yet in its infancy, good Hieronymus’s ludus is already talk of the city.”
Hieronymus smiled modestly.
“You flatter.”
“I speak blunt truth,” Batiatus replied.
As though finding all the mutual sycophancy tiresome, perhaps even nauseating, Crassus said tersely, “What is your proposal, Brutilius?”
The portly man drew himself up to his full height and puffed out his chest. The Capuan seemed a little overawed at being in such exalted company.
“My beloved father, Titus Augustus Brutilius, was loyal servant to city of Capua. Magistrate and supplier of slaves for many years to the houses of Batiatus and Solonius among many others, his was hand that guided and shaped lives. A hand that dealt wisdom and good fortune to all who encountered him.”
“A man of true greatness,” Solonius murmured, and Batiatus nodded sagely.
“In recognition of such greatness,” Brutilius continued, “I would stage noble contest between the three finest gladiatorial houses from the city he loved. I would honor glorious memory with blood and spectacle, in knowledge that his name will remain forever on lips of the citizens of Capua.”
“A noble sentiment,” Batiatus breathed. “What do you say to it, good Solonius?”
Solonius was nodding, blinking hard as though his brimming emotions had momentarily rendered him lost for words. Finally he said, “The House of Solonius would consider it great honor to fight in recognition of father’s honored name, Brutilius.”
Brutilius nodded graciously.
Batiatus cast Hieronymus and Crassus an almost casual glance.
“Does proposal also please good Hieronymus?”
�
�It does indeed,” Hieronymus said.
“I would not force you to feel obligation,” Batiatus said generously. “Both good Solonius and myself recognize great demand placed upon ludus of late. Replenishment of stock and the pause to do it essential to health of thriving ludus. If you must decline Brutilius’s generous offer, I am certain our esteemed editor would understand …”
He looked at Brutilius, who nodded.
“Of course.”
Hieronymus waved a hand.
“Gratitude for concern, good Batiatus, but recent games see prosperous times.”
“Only if you carry certainty,” Batiatus said. “It would stand no inconvenience to locate less prominent lanista eager for elevation.”
Solonius smiled thinly.
“It seems Batiatus makes attempt to persuade for reasons beyond simple kindness.”
Batiatus frowned.
“I do not take good Solonius’s meaning.”
“I’m sure you do,” Solonius countered silkily. “Were it not for victory in primus at most recent games, House of Batiatus would have seen itself much reduced in fortune.”
Batiatus reddened, but tried to sound dismissive.
“A common peril of dangerous occupation.”
“But a peril that on this occasion would have had catastrophic effect, with recovery difficult to find. If Spartacus found head removed from body, such defeat would have perhaps stood as final one for ludus of Batiatus.”
Aware that all eyes were on him, Batiatus laughed, albeit a little too loudly to be convincing.
“Opinion spewed forth with fountain of ignorance,” Batiatus said.
Solonius smirked.
“I am sure you are right, Batiatus.”
“I am right,” Batiatus almost snarled. Then, recovering himself with an effort, he smiled again. Lightly he said, “Surely prattle in street speaks not just of the House of Batiatus? I have heard it that your own was brought to knee by recent…” He hesitated, then continued pleasantly, “… Would I be off the mark if I were to offer ‘annihilation’ as description for what befell it?”
Solonius’s smirk became fixed. He gazed at Batiatus for a long moment, his expression unflinching. Then, finally, he said, “I do not deny the loss a … severe one. But one accepts such trials with grace, in hopes that the gods will be kind enough to see forthcoming games provide opportunity to recoup recent losses.”
“Indeed,” Batiatus said pointedly. “May all of us find prosperity in them. Will your men be primed for challenge on next occasion? Previous match saw them out of depth. It would make heart bleed to see them return to sands in similar state.”
“Past experience of victory and blood will fortify them,” Solonius muttered.
Batiatus reached out and clapped him on the shoulder with enough force to make Solonius’s eyes flicker.
“I am certain you are right,” he said earnestly.
There was silence for a moment, Brutilius looking a little bewilderedly from Batiatus to Solonius, as though unable to understand how the jovial atmosphere of just a few minutes before had become so laced with tension. In an obvious attempt to break the mood, he declared, “Prospect of laying eyes upon your fearsome Thracian stirs the blood.”
Solonius looked at Brutilius, his eyes hooded, lizard-like, and then he turned his attention back to Batiatus.
“Yes,” he said softly, “how does your valiant Champion stand in condition?”
“Never better,” Batiatus declared.
“Then market gossips prove mistaken.”
Batiatus frowned.
“What is it such ignorant minds spill carelessly in the street?”
Solonius shrugged as if it was of no consequence.
“They speak ill of performance in recent primus. Capua whispers that his was merely fortuitous victory, that he stood mere shadow of the gladiator who bested Theokoles.”
Batiatus matched Solonius’s shrug with one of his own.
“Each opponent dictates manner of combat employed to defeat him. Spartacus’s strength lies in his cunning, his ability to adapt to circumstance. Some opponents require less effort spent than others.”
Crassus took a sip of his water and sniffed.
“I confess I found impression made was rather light.”
Brutilius seemed fascinated by the exchange of conflicting opinions.
“If Batiatus will permit…” he began hesitantly.
Batiatus gestured for him to continue.
“… I would wish to see your Champion.”
Batiatus looked for a moment as if he was about to refuse Brutilius’s request, and then he smiled.
“I will summon him presently.”
“Do not trouble yourself,” Brutilius said. “I would see him in action. Do your men train today?”
“And every other,” Batiatus confirmed.
“Then perhaps we could observe him in his natural enclosure.”
Batiatus hesitated.
“Unless good Batiatus has something of note that requires hiding,” Solonius suggested silkily. “Perhaps he fears his Thracian may disappoint?”
“Or perhaps he suspects we seek advantage by observing his champion’s preparations?” Hieronymus added, the wide smile never leaving his face.
“I hold no such notion,” Batiatus blustered. ‘The House of Batiatus is averse to tricks and concealment. You are most welcome to witness preparations.”
“Might we do such a thing now?” Crassus murmured.
Batiatus looked momentarily trapped, but then he nodded.
“If you desire it.”
He led his guests to the double doors, which opened on to the balcony overlooking the practice square, nodding curtly to the slaves to push them open. As soon as they did so, the shouts of the men and the clatter and clash of weapons drifted up from below.
Batiatus grimaced as Oenomaus’s voice rang out, accompanied by the crack of his whip: “Hasten movements or invite death in the arena. Varro, you stand fixed to earth as though roots sprout from feet. Are you tree or gladiator?”
“The men tire …” Batiatus murmured, and gestured up at the sky, from which the white disk of the sun blazed down. “The heat intense at this hour.”
“As it will be upon the sands in the arena,” Solonius pointed out.
Batiatus clenched his jaw and said nothing, merely gestured his guests forward with a flick of his fingers.
Hands curled around the balcony rail, all five men looked down on to the flat, sandy area below, where the men of the ludus were going through their daily paces. What was immediately evident was how tired they looked, how sluggish. Despite Oenomaus’s threats, and the frequent crack of his whip, they stumbled and blundered ineffectually about, as if half-asleep.
Clearly nonplussed, Brutilius asked, “Which is Spartacus?”
Batiatus pointed. “He spars with Varro, the blond fighter.”
“Where is Spartacus’s shield?”
“He requires no shield. His defense lies in swiftness of movement, his shield hand employed with second weapon to double effectiveness in combat.”
No sooner had Batiatus finished boasting of his Champion’s agility than Spartacus stumbled, tripping over his own feet. He desperately tried to right himself, but succeeded only in ramming one of his swords in to the ground with such force that the wooden blade snapped in two, pitching him sideways. He crashed to the ground, blinded and choking as a cloud of sand billowed up and coated his sweat-covered face. With a cry of triumph, Varro leaped forward, pinned him to the ground by planting a foot on his chest and jabbed his throat with the point of his sword.
“Your life is mine, brother,” he cried.
There was laughter and ironic applause from above. Varro and a still-spluttering Spartacus looked up. Solonius stood with his head thrown back, laughing uproariously. To the right of Solonius stood Batiatus, his face puce with fury. Standing to his right were three other men—Hieronymus, who was grinning widely; Crassus, who wore an expression
of insufferable smugness; and Brutilius, who looked as though he couldn’t make up his mind whether to be amused or disappointed.
Still laughing, Solonius’s voice echoed across the suddenly silent training ground.
“Majestic display, good Batiatus. Your champion appears as legend that precedes him, to be sure.”
Tight-lipped, Batiatus muttered, “I admit recent period of illness has left many of the men laid low as result.”
“If you wish to withdraw from contest …” Hieronymus suggested.
Vehemently Batiatus shook his head.
“And deny good Brutilius the presence of Capua’s champion? Unthinkable.” He waved a hand airily. “The men are strong, proven resilient from hard training under firm hand. Current malaise will pass, and the men will restore to full strength.”
Hieronymus laid a hand on his arm. His eyes were nothing but kindly.
“I don’t doubt the truth of it,” he said.
Lucretia wrinkled her nose at the pungent reek of incense.
“Does the House of Solonius now retain stable of whores in addition?” she muttered. “The vulgarity of the man astounds.”
It was the night before the games, and Solonius had invited Batiatus and Lucretia to a lavish party at his home to mark the coming contest. As the lanista and his wife entered the villa, its ostentation immediately apparent in the excessively elaborate wall friezes and the over-use of gold leaf to enhance everything from the abundance of statuary to the exposed breasts of the female slaves, they were assailed by music that was too strident, and a succession of tables groaning too heavily with heaped platters of food to be considered anything other than capriciously wasteful. Additionally, in Batiatus’s opinion, the zeal with which slaves thrust goblets into their hands and insisted on keeping them topped up with wine that tasted of bull’s piss bordered on the insolent, thus rankling him further—so much so, in fact that by the time Batiatus spotted their host, through a bacchanalian display of over-endowed female performers fingering their cunts with such enthusiasm that he felt certain they were about to produce floods of gold coins from between their swollen labia, he was scowling with ill-temper.