by Mark Morris
The threat of physical violence was enough to spur Athenais into action. Bobbing her head, eyes downcast, she hurried forward to take Lucretia’s proffered goblet. With an expression of utter fear and misery on her face she scurried from the room. Lucretia hesitated for a moment, and then, with a final glance at Mantilus and the group of men clustered around the column, who had not even noticed the girl’s departure, she hurried after her.
XIII
THE SUN BLAZED FROM AN AZURE SKY OF SUCH PERFECTION that the mere sight of it filled Batiatus with a deep sense of serenity and well-being. The arena seemed to glow with light beneath its benign gaze, and the freshly laid sand to shine like gold.
After a prolonged period of rain, enough to replenish the streams and rivers, and thus avert the drought which had begun to reach critical levels in Capua, and indeed had resulted in the deaths of dozens of its poorer citizens, the late summer had settled into a period of unsettled weather. A few days of glorious sunshine would be interspersed with a day or two of high winds and torrential downpours, as if the gods were sending reminders of the colder weather to come.
Today, though, the gods were being kind, and Batiatus—buoyant despite the wager he had agreed with Hieronymus the previous evening—was not hesitant in telling Brutilius so.
“Glorious conditions surely prove true indication of regard the gods hold for esteemed father,” he declared, gesturing expansively around him. “They smile down upon us, bestowing wonders of creation.”
Brutilius, nursing a hangover so crippling that even the tiniest nod caused him unbelievable pain, merely grimaced in lieu of a smile, and crooked a finger to bid the slave that was fanning him to waft with more vigor.
Lucretia, sitting beside her husband in the pulvinus, laid aside her own hand-held fan for a moment to touch Batiatus’s arm.
“What is it?” he asked her.
“It is indeed glorious day, but uncommonly hot as well—I fear dear Brutilius suffers its harsher effects.” She turned in her seat and gestured toward Athenais, who was standing among the slaves at the rear of the pulvinus. “Bring water,” she ordered, and then, as though it was an after-thought, “of abundant quantity. Enough for all.”
Athenais gave a small bow, and hurried away to do her bidding.
Leaning forward to address not only Brutilius and his wife, but also Solonius, Hieronymus and Marcus Crassus, who were sitting beyond them, she said, “Please share water with us. Imported from Rome at great cost. An extravagance, but one essential to good health and countenance. I have not encountered any so clear in appearance or sweet of taste.”
“Most kind,” Brutilius’s wife said. Her face was a carefully applied mask of white lead and red ocher, but her bloodshot eyes served as a testament to the previous night’s excesses.
“Such opulent description for plain liquid,” Solonius said. “Let us hope such luxuries will not be found out of reach at conclusion of today’s festivities.”
Lucretia smiled politely, puzzlement on her face.
“Apologies, good Solonius. I do not understand your meaning.”
Solonius paused, his lips twitching in a small smirk.
“The apologies are mine to bestow. It appears I speak out of turn, before husband breaks news.”
Despite his hangover, Brutilius chuckled. “It seems jaws pry open with contest yet to start. The cobras ever snapping.”
Brutilius’s wife was all sympathy towards Lucretia.
“The hissing of proud men, lending cover to foolish insecurities,” she said. “They are like children, are they not?”
Lucretia turned to Batiatus, her eyes flashing dangerously.
“What news does husband possess? It seems known to all but loving wife,” Lucretia said.
Batiatus looked distinctly uncomfortable, but laughed and flicked a hand, as though waving away a fly.
“It stands as nothing,” he said. “A trifle.”
“More than that, I think,” Crassus chimed in from the far end of the pulvinus, his voice dry and clipped, his face like stone.
Lucretia looked positively murderous now. She glanced from her husband to Crassus and back again.
“I think it time news was shared, whether trifle or not,” she said in a voice that broached no argument.
Batiatus sighed. “A simple wager with Hieronymus. Gesture of faith towards might of my warriors. It is of little concern.”
Brutilius was incredulous. “If such wager warrants little concern, then I offer admiration of courage, good Batiatus.”
“Perhaps it reveals not courage but foolishness,” Crassus remarked.
“It reveals neither,” Batiatus retorted. “Merely confidence towards victory and conviction that Spartacus will prevail.”
“Spartacus?” Lucretia grimaced as though the word left a bad taste in her mouth. “Once again fortune hinges on wayward Thracian, but it seems the stakes raised to ever greater height,” she murmured. Then she asked, “What is the sum of wager?”
Brutilius gave a small, delighted whoop of alarm at the thought of how Lucretia would react when she discovered the full extent of her husband’s folly. And then he immediately seemed to regret his enthusiasm, closing his eyes and pressing a chubby hand to his throbbing head.
Batiatus gritted his teeth and threw a look of hatred at Solonius. As though the words were being chiseled from his very soul, he muttered, “All that we own.”
Lucretia’s eyes widened, her face incredulous.
“All that we own,” Lucretia repeated in a quiet stunned voice.
Batiatus gave a single terse nod.
“I assume the meaning applies to coin?” she whispered.
Crassus’s reply, as ever, was without inflection, and yet its very bluntness seemed to convey cruelty far more eloquently than any sneering riposte ever could.
“Your assumption is incorrect. Money, property, possessions, slaves. All of it. Add to it every drop of Roman water and Falernian wine you intended to pass lips. All will pass into the hands of Hieronymus should your champion fall this day.” His smile was thin and cold. “Confers a certain spice upon proceedings, does it not?”
For a moment Lucretia was speechless, her lips struggling to form the shapes of words that were jammed somewhere in the base of her throat. She blinked rapidly, as if the heat of the sun had become too much for her and she was about to pass out.
Finally she took a gulp of air, which seemed to remove the obstruction in her gullet.
“You offer up our life without so much as mention of it?” she hissed at Batiatus.
Batiatus frowned, clearly uncertain whether to be offhand or conciliatory.
“It is not offering but negligent possibility,” he said, lowering his voice in the hope of keeping the discussion between them private. “Wager is sound and the gods smile upon us. Consider that victory shall see our worth double. Hieronymus’s coin will pay off all debts, provide the finest clothes and jewelry from Rome. Think of…”
“How can I think of anything but risk of poverty? Thoughts plummet even further to consideration of slavery.”
“Raise them above such nonsense,” Batiatus said stubbornly.
“How can you possess such certainty?”
“Spartacus will prevail.”
She glared at him.
“Your faith in the Thracian remains ever misplaced. He is not forged by the gods. All champions can fall.” Batiatus sneaked a look across at Hieronymus. He leaned closer to Lucretia, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“That fucking Greek sought to dishonor our ludus. For this he will pay, the loftiest of stakes against it.”
Lucretia rolled her eyes.
“You forget that Solonius attempted to have you killed. Yet he prospers amidst promises of revenge yet unfulfilled.”
“Solonius’s day will come. But today there is honor to be won in the arena, beyond the satisfying of personal vengeance against rival.”
“If you find the arena so sacred then why wager our li
ves against possibility of never returning to it except as spectators?” she said, scorn in her voice.
Batiatus nodded proudly. “It is the battleground of the gods, worthy of risking all for the taking of highest reward. Hieronymus’s attempts to gain ascendancy have brought great injury to our house. He must be punished and crimes exposed. The wager stands.”
Lucretia looked at her husband for a long moment, her face grim.
“You stand fearless enough to gamble but not to share true price of it with wife.”
“It is not a gamble but a certainty.”
“As you have mentioned. But it hangs on Spartacus. If he falls he takes us with him.”
Batiatus remained stubborn.
“The fall will belong to Hieronymus. And it will elicit shower of coin upon us.”
Lucretia sighed. “The Greek shares loyal partnership with Crassus. If Hieronymus falls, then what of Crassus following after?”
Batiatus shrugged. “I do not wager against Crassus. But if revealed that he bore knowledge of Mantilus’s sabotage … then any disgrace he receives will be deserved.”
Closing her eyes for a moment, Lucretia let out a long sigh and said, “You play a dangerous game, husband. To make enemy of Crassus is to make one of Rome itself.”
“If Crassus stands an enemy, then it is of his choosing,” Batiatus replied.
Lucretia looked thoughtful for a long moment, her gaze leaving her husband’s face and staring out across the golden sand of the arena.
“I would rather plunge knife into heart than see everything we’ve earned forfeited to that greasy fucking merchant.”
Batiatus nodded. “If such a thing came to pass, I would use the knife against our enemies first. Whatever this day brings, you and I will stand together, Lucretia.”
There was the clinking of jugs behind them. Lucretia straightened up and turned her head.
“Water at last arrives!” she cried. Smiling sweetly, she reached across Batiatus’s body and touched Brutilius’s arm. “Stow your fear, good Brutilius. The sweet taste of Rome will restore health.”
“I would see the blood shed by Spartacus in the arena added to it,” Batiatus added defiantly.
In the dank, shadowy cells beneath the killing ground, the men of Batiatus’s ludus were once again preparing for battle. However, there was a very different atmosphere among them this time than there had been on the last occasion they had taken to the sands.
No longer laid low by the poisoned water from the mountain pool, they felt strong, confident, well rested, their minds clear and focused only on taking revenge on Hieronymus and achieving personal glory within the arena. Their ranks may have been diminished by death and injury, but those that remained—some virtually untried in competition, but trained to the peak of fitness and self-discipline beneath the crack of Oenomaus’s whip—still believed themselves more than a match for the so-called Morituri, described by Oenomaus as an ill-prepared rabble who had brought nothing but shame to the gladiatorial code of honor. Strutting on the training ground like a caged panther, his whip curled tight in his fist, and his bony, angular face taut with fury, the veteran gladiator’s contempt of their forthcoming opponents had been fearsome to behold.
“Such scum are not worthy of the title gladiator,” he had snarled. “Their victories achieved not by skill, but by deception and manipulation. Attempting to weaken their opponents outside the field of combat.” His glare had swept across the men like fire, scorching each and every one of them. “Do we fall to such men?”
“No!” the gladiators roared.
“No,” Oenomaus agreed grimly, “we do not. We despatch them to the underworld. Dominus decrees Hieronymus must be taught firm lesson absent decorous show for the crowd. A ruthless lesson carrying example of glorious sport, unsullied by deception and trickery.” He spun toward a gladiator, who was half-raising a hand. “Ask your fucking question.”
The man, a red-bearded Celt, who had passed the Final Test only days before Mantilus had begun to poison the water, and who had subsequently suffered from its effects more than most, said, “Will the crowd hurl abuse if we despatch opponents without pageantry? Games concluded too quickly without spectacle will deny full satisfaction.”
“If the crowd hurls abuse then judgement will land on Hieronymus for supply of inferior opposition. The glory of the day will be yours.”
As ever, while others among the Brotherhood strutted and roared and psyched themselves up for the contest ahead, Spartacus sat quietly, contemplatively, conserving his energy. Varro—his partner in the primus for the second time in a row—perched beside him, by far the more loquacious of the two.
“I hope you don’t plan to unleash the maneuver displayed to dominus’s guests during training,” Varro said with a smile on his face.
Spartacus, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, turned and squinted up at his friend.
“Which maneuver would that be?”
“The one where you trip over your own feet, bury sword in sand and roll like helpless turtle on your back? It would reduce opponents to such state of writhing mirth they would be helpless beneath my sword.”
Spartacus laughed. “I agree it was impressive tactic. Perhaps dominus’s guests were convinced enough by stumbling display for Hieronymus to seize mind with thoughts of superiority above our men.”
Varro looked up as footsteps approached their cell, and saw Oenomaus striding along the dimly lit corridor toward them.
“We will find out soon enough,” he said.
In the upper tier of the stands almost directly opposite the pulvinus a fight broke out. Batiatus watched with halfhearted interest as two men, one a half-naked giant who seemed to be compensating for the lack of hair on his head with a thick tangle of beard that spread like a bib across his bare chest, and the other younger, thinner and more agile, began to exchange punches, urged on by a pair of shrieking doxies, their exposed tits swaying like water bags.
Within seconds a ripple effect radiated out from the center of conflict, and other spectators, fueled by cheap wine and made irritable by the baking heat, began to join in.
“The rabble grows restless,” Lucretia noted, sounding bored.
Brutilius, his hangover now ebbing, rolled his eyes.
“Disgraceful display. Is this respect for my father’s name? Are they so ungrateful for entertainment provided?”
“Their heads absent thought like animals,” Lucretia said. “They fall to base instincts when eyes lack blood upon which to leer.”
Brutilius and his wife nodded sagely, as though she had spoken with great wisdom.
Solonius, his lips curled in a smile, said, “The burden of providing it to them stands a substantial one does it not, dear Batiatus? The citizens of Capua see risk of withering for want of entertainment in our absence.”
Batiatus inclined his head modestly.
“Ours is profession offering great gifts. Yet we provide more than mere frivolous distraction. Without games, there would be greater void of meaning in the lives of those thronged before us. They would find the search for excitement, glory, and honor a frustrating one.”
“Truly you have been placed upon earth by the gods themselves,” Crassus muttered.
Batiatus clenched his teeth on a cutting riposte, and instead mustered a smile.
“As have you yourself good Crassus,” he said. “We lanistae provide much of course—but you are great statesman and politician. A provider of stability and welfare to the public. You too serve the people with wisdom and honor do you not?”
“The word is relentless in assault upon ear,” Brutilius’s wife commented. “There seems talk of little else today.”
Batiatus spread his hands.
“Apologies if my talk of the virtue grows tedious. But it is quality all here cradle to breast like hungry infant. Surely you agree, Hieronymus?”
Hieronymus turned his dark eyes on Batiatus.
“Without doubt,” he said, hiding as ever behind
his wide smile.
Batiatus smiled back at him, but his was a thin affair, which failed to reach his eyes.
The sun was at its height, beating down mercilessly upon the sand and upon the exposed heads of the unsheltered crowd. The morning’s festivities had started with a procession, Brutilius at its head in a chariot pulled by four white horses, waving to the throng as they clapped and cheered along to the musicians behind him. Though the editor of the games had been smiling widely, in truth his teeth had been clenched in pain and his eyes half-closed, as each blast on the cornus and each pound on the drums had sent a separate stab of agony through the tender meat of his thumping brain.
Trundling behind the musicians had been a number of wheeled cages, flanked by the bestiarii in their leather vestments and protective leggings, within which tigers, lions, wolves and even a polar bear prowled back and forth, and occasionally threw themselves against the bars with shuddering impacts that drew squeals of delight from the watching children.
Finally, bringing up the rear, had been a bedraggled display of that day’s sacrifices—criminals such as thieves and murderers, all of them beaten, filthy and half-naked, chained together at hands and feet. They had shuffled and limped along bewilderedly, squinting up at the sun, too exhausted to dodge the various missiles which had rained down upon their heads—bones and fish-guts, rotten vegetables, and excrement both human and animal.
After the procession had come the mock fights and the animal displays, and then the first of the executions — the damnatio ad bestias, in which half a dozen chained prisoners had been pitted against a pack of hungry wolves. For a while the watching hordes had been captivated by the glorious sight of fellow human beings being ripped apart, and had laughed and cheered at their inhuman screams of agony, but now they were bored again, eager for more bloodshed.
Up in the pulvinus, the dignitaries had just finished a light lunch of fish, sausages, eggs, bread and olives, which the slaves were now in the process of clearing away.
As Athenais refilled water cups, Batiatus reached for a honey-fried date stuffed with nuts and peppercorns and popped it into his mouth. Chewing, and eyeing the fight in the opposite stand, which had now become a full-scale brawl, he said, “Perhaps we should commence with proper event lest citizens find their own diverting pursuits.”