husband.
“Observe, Quintus,” she hissed. “It may be to your advantage.”
Batiatus sighed and made a big show of raising himself upright. He peered down into the arena, just in time to see a gladiator with long, matted hair, who appeared to be carrying too much weight, drive a trident through the throat of one lying on his back, pinning the man to the sand in a gush of blood. As the crowd rose as one, screaming their approval, he shrugged.
“It is the opening bout. Solonius allows Greek to draw early blood. This holds no surprise.”
“Lay eyes on Solonius,” Lucretia urged.
Batiatus glanced across at the wiry lanista. To his surprise, Solonius looked not merely troubled, but severely anxious. As Batiatus watched, he saw a bead of sweat form at the side of Solonius’s temple and trickle down his face. Then he saw Solonius remove it with an angry flick of his finger.
“He reacts with nerves merely for show,” Batiatus said, though there was doubt in his voice. “He would not have Hieronymus suspect manipulation.”
“You did not witness his gladiators, Quintus. Solonius’s men were slow and clumsy. They fought poorly.”
“Then he has ordered them forfeit, or face less honorable death.”
“That stands hard to believe. Solonius’s hand is sly, possessed of lighter touch than such obvious conduct.”
Batiatus looked thoughtful. What Lucretia had said was true. Solonius would be prepared to shoulder a few minor losses in today’s contest, but he would still instruct his gladiators to fight well in the losing of them.
He watched the next several bouts with mounting interest. As Lucretia had said, Solonius’s men looked uncharacteristically lethargic, stumbling around the arena as if they had weights attached to their ankles. Their lunges were clumsy, and easily evaded by their opponents. And they were equally slow to defend themselves, as a result of which Solonius quickly began to suffer defeat after ignominious defeat.
Hieronymus’s men, for their part, were as willing, fearless and savage as Batiatus would expect of barbarian warriors, but to his trained eye it was clear that few of them were yet ready for the arena. They had neither the skill, dexterity, nor speed of his own men-and neither should they have been a match for Solonius’s gladiators, who, despite Batiatus’s often scathing words, had proven themselves more than worthy opponents over the years.
So what was wrong? It was a mystery-but a welcome one. Batiatus’s glee mounted as one of Solonius’s gladiators after another was cut down. By contrast Solonius slowly became a shadow of his former grandiloquent self, his shoulders sagging further with each fresh defeat, his waxen face etched in mounting misery.
“Perhaps you are right. It appears the peacock has lost strut,” Batiatus muttered into Lucretia’s ear. She uttered a high, tinkling laugh, the sound of which caused Solonius to jerk his head toward them.
Batiatus caught his eye and beamed. Raising a cup of wine in salute, he called, “A fine contest, Solonius! Tell me, have you adopted new training methods for your gladiators? Or new diet perhaps, abundant amount of indulgent sweetmeats?”
There was a ripple of laughter from the dignitaries in the pulvinus. Solonius gritted his teeth in a rictus grin.
“I confess that losses pain the heart,” he replied. “If feelings were otherwise I would not be foremost lanista in Capua. My expert eye gleams that good Hieronymus has trained his warriors well, rather than holding that mine display reduced skill.”
“I would venture both observations hold sway,” Batiatus countered cheerfully. “Hieronymus without doubt makes excellent progress in limited time before contest. His men truly raise status and glory of his house to exalted heights. But heart saddens that they stand forced to display new-found skill against inferior opposition. Would that they were able to test mettle against
He bellowed, raising his hand in a flourish, as though introducing Spartacus to the arena. He knew it was a shameful display, one that might see him ostracized by those among Solonius’s guests who were of a somewhat genteel disposition, and would therefore be repelled by what they would undoubtedly consider his brutishness. But it was a calculated risk, and one that he felt was well worth taking. Crassus’s undoubted interest in the arena was Batiatus’s primary concern, and if his overexuberance succeeded in snaring Crassus’s interest at the expense of a few minor notables, then so be it.
As it was, his words had a far greater effect than he could have hoped. A few of the dignitaries in the pulvinus, not to mention a fair number of the rabble in the crowd who were within earshot, responded by turning their heads eagerly toward the blood-streaked sand, as if expecting to see the legendary Thracian striding arrogantly out to take the plaudits of his myriad admirers. Batiatus’s lips twitched in satisfaction as he observed all of their faces fall in disappointment. Clearly he had more than whetted their appetites, as was his intention.
He was even more delighted a moment later when Marcus Crassus, who had initially feigned indifference to his words, staring out across the sand during his exchange with Solonius, now turned and regarded Batiatus directly for the first time.
“I would like to see this Thracian,” he murmured, his rich voice audible even among the tumult of the crowd. “News of his prowess reaches ears even in Rome.”
Batiatus spread his hands in a gesture of both humility and generosity.
“Allow me to place myself at disposal. It would be rare honor to have such esteemed guest at the House of Batiatus.”
Marcus Crassus nodded curtly and raised a hand as though wafting away a fly.
“You shall have it then.”
Batiatus could barely restrain himself from rubbing his hands together in glee.
“My house stands ready, with but the timing at your discretion.”
“A day hence,” Crassus confirmed, and turned back to watch the games.
Flashing a look of triumph at Solonius, Batiatus said, “Your arrival and all proper arrangements much anticipated.”
V
For several moments after he woke up Spartacus had no idea where he was. Though he leaped to his feet like a startled cat, every nerve in his body tingling, his thoughts were absent, his mind scoured clean by the terrible screams that were filling his head. For the present he was a creature of instinct only, and instantly felt himself adopting the tensile, crouching stance of a warrior preparing for battle. He felt too the hairs on his arms and back prickling erect, like those of an animal attempting to make itself look less like prey.
When the attack he had been half-expecting did not come, he felt his senses slowly returning. Looking at the stone walls around him, he realized that he was where he always was at night-locked in his cell in the ludus. He crossed to the door and raised himself to peer through the bars above it. Immediately he saw a pair of Roman guards hurrying past.
“What is happening?” he shouted.
They ignored him.
He listened as the screams continued, ringing around the dingy cell area. They were screams of mortal terror, long and endless and horrible. Spartacus had heard such screams many times before-in battle, and in the arena. He wondered whether the ludus was under attack, but just as quickly dismissed the notion. These were the screams of but a single man. If attackers
