Spartacus: Morituri

that any man here would have joined alongside.”

Tetraides was shaking his head slowly.

“I cannot speak against that, when mind envisions creature sent from underworld itself.”

“I would not run,” Duro boasted.

“No,” Varro remarked drily. “You would have shit and fainted like woman under sun.”

Before the banter could dissipate the effect of his story, Ashur said quickly, “Rumors hover that this creature Mantilus employs dark forces to aid Hieronymus’s new stock of gladiators. What they lack in skill and training they gain in application of sorcery, Mantilus weaving them about like cloak. It is said they fight with savagery, as if creatures from Hades wreaking vengeance against the living. Hieronymus names them Morituri-those who are about to die.”

The murmur of disquiet was palpable now. Oenomaus looked around the bath house, his eyes narrowed.

“Remember that you are all always about to die,” he muttered, his deep voice rumbling. “It is the way of the gladiator.”

“Death should be received in the arena from other mortal men, not from evil spirits of Hades,” Tetraides murmured fearfully. “It is said that if lemures claim you, then soul is lost forever.”

“I fear no such spirits,” Spartacus said. “And I fear stories of spirits even less. Our fears are of our own making, residing here-” He tapped his head. “-thoughts of dread waiting to strike at one’s own mind. If you believe the men of Hieronymus will defeat you then you are beaten before foot hits sand. I would enter arena with clear mind, eyes seeing not monsters and shades, but men-of flesh and bone, that can be cut and broken. Morituri. If they are about to die, then let them. If I find myself against them, I will gladly usher them on their way.”

Oenomaus nodded, eyeing Spartacus approvingly.

“Your champion speaks truth. Half the battle is played not on sand, but in mind. Put these dreams from head and rest your minds. Tomorrow is a new day.”

“One holding games that exclude the House of Batiatus,” Varro murmured sullenly.

“For now,” Oenomaus said. “But your day will come. And you must be ready.”

Batiatus smiled until his face ached, though behind the smile he was grinding his teeth. What he wouldn’t have given to have tipped that grinning rat Solonius over the balcony of the pulvinus, and then to have witnessed lions and bears released into the arena to tear him apart. How he would have laughed and clapped and cheered at the spectacle, even as he was spattered with the lanista’s blood.

Oh, that day was coming, he felt certain of it. But he would have to be patient. For now he must endure the pretense of licking the little fucker’s arsehole, of putting up with his jibes and his put-downs and his ogling of Lucretia’s tits as if such things were mere light banter between friends.

It was none of these things which galled him the most today, however. No, what really made him angry was the fact that Solonius had deliberately arranged the seating at the games in such a way that his opportunity to speak to Crassus had been rendered virtually non-existent. The Roman nobleman had been seated on the front row, beyond his friend Hieronymus, to Solonius’s right. Batiatus and Lucretia, despite their status as “honored guests,” had by contrast been seated on the second row to the far left. Ordinarily this would not have presented too much of a problem, but the pulvinus was uncommonly full today-vulgarly so, in fact. Solonius, of course, had turned the situation to his advantage, claiming that the interest in, and good feeling toward, Hieronymus’s new ludus and Capua’s esteemed visitor was so great that he had allowed his enthusiasm to run away with him, with the result that he had issued invitations to a greater number of Capua’s more influential citizens than he had originally intended.

“I hope you are not overwhelmed by surplus of hospitality,” Solonius had said smarmily to Hieronymus.

“On the contrary,” the merchant had replied, eyeing the minor dignitaries and their families cramming themselves into the pulvinus, and the extra chairs that were having to be found for them, with some alarm. “Generosity of spirit is well received, good Solonius. I’m certain that noble Marcus Crassus would agree?”

Crassus had merely grunted and taken his appointed place. He had resisted being drawn into any lengthy conversations, despite the efforts of several of Solonius’s guests to engage him in such.

Batiatus was wondering whether he would be presented with the opportunity to exchange even so much as a single word with the esteemed visitor. He and Lucretia were currently pinioned beyond a corpulent bore named Cassius Brocchus, his ever-chattering wife and their two obnoxious children.

Lucretia had kept up a pretense of conversation with the couple-which, as far as Batiatus could discern, had been mostly about Capua’s appalling sanitation system-but Batiatus himself, after an initial show of smiling politeness, had now descended into a brooding malaise. From his uncomfortable position he could only watch helplessly as Solonius ingratiated himself with the Sicel merchant and his guest, anointing them with his oily platitudes, his bejeweled fingers glinting as his gestures became ever more extravagant. There was scant consolation in the fact that Crassus seemed just as unresponsive to Solonius’s overtures as he had been to everyone else’s. Such taciturnity was not uncommon for a Roman dignitary, particularly one who hailed from such an exalted family as his.

At last the spiral horns sounded their fanfare and Solonius rose to his feet. He looked around at the cheering crowd, relishing the moment. Then he raised his arms, prompting them to cheer all the louder.

“The cunt basks in attention like lizard in the sun,” Batiatus muttered to Lucretia. “Is crowd so prepared to accept inferior games without complaint?”

“They are satiated by blood,” Lucretia replied. “They have lesser care for its origin.”

Batiatus sneered in disgust and slumped back in his seat.

“Good citizens of Capua,” Solonius shouted, his every word dripping with smugness, “this is a day most glorious for fair city! Games of joyous celebration to express how truly blessed we stand to welcome not one, but two of the most esteemed men to ever grace us with noble presence.”

“The man tugs both cocks with either hand,” Batiatus grumbled, and was waved to silence by Lucretia. He listened with growing disdain as Solonius went on to fawningly extol the virtues of Crassus and Hieronymus, paying little regard to the fact that if he had been in Solonius’s position he would have been doing exactly the same thing.

At last, his toadying over, Solonius called upon Crassus to give the signal for the games to begin. Crassus wafted a weary arm in response, prompting the crowd to cheer wildly and jump up and down. Some of the women bared their breasts in time-honored tradition as the huge, bloodstained gates at each side of the arena were slowly pulled open, and the first of the gladiators emerged from the darkness of the tunnels beyond.

As those in the pulvinus strained forward in their seats to get their first glimpse of the stallions in Hieronymus’s stable, Batiatus remained slumped and disconsolate, his chin propped on his palm. He couldn’t even be bothered to raise his eyes at the commencement of clash of sword on shield, nor at the roars of rage and pain from the arena and the frenzied reactions of the crowd.

It was only when Lucretia plucked at his sleeve, not once but several times, that he looked up.

“What is it?” he snapped. “Must you peck at me like small bird?”

There was a strange look in Lucretia’s eyes and spots of high color on her cheeks that were nothing to do with the carefully applied rouge.

“I think you will find contest of interest,” she said.

“What interest could I have in observing Solonius allowing Hieronymus a few victories to convince him his ludus has worth?”

This was what Batiatus had foretold Lucretia would happen as they had dressed for the games earlier that day. He had predicted that Hieronymus’s gladiators would be too new and raw for skillful combat, and that these games had come too early for them. He had said that Solonius would use the contest to rebuild his tarnished reputation and rake in an abundance of coin at the merchant’s expense.

“He is too wily to humiliate the Greek though. To do so would see him lose favor,” he had added, jabbing his point home with a raised finger. “He will sacrifice a few bouts to sweeten the merchant’s demeanor and keep him tantalized.”

Now, perched on the edge of her uncomfortable wooden seat, Lucretia narrowed her eyes at her