just as he himself had.
Eventually there came the jangle of keys at a cell door, and then a few gruffly barked orders to be silent, followed by the none-too-gentle impact of fists and feet on flesh. The screams cut off, wound down into a whimpering and gasping. Spartacus sat back down on the bench where he slept, listening to the confusion of movement and the grumble and growl of half-heard voices. In the glow of his single torch he watched as a black scorpion scuttled across the wall of his cell and disappeared into a crack between the stones.
Eventually he heard movement outside his cell again. Jumping to his feet he saw the guards passing by and then returning moments later with Oenomaus in tow.
“Doctore,” Spartacus said. “Who screams?”
Oenomaus glanced at him and raised a hand as he hurried past.
“Patience,” he said. It was the only word Spartacus heard him speak. He completely ignored the entreaties of the other men.
Spartacus returned to his bunk and lay down. He felt cold and then hot, as though on the verge of fever, and his limbs throbbed with fatigue. Though he had felt this way, off and on, for several days and nights now, he told himself it was simply that his humors were a little unbalanced by the shock of being woken so suddenly, and he closed his eyes. He surprised himself by slipping almost instantly into a restless sleep, only realizing he had done so when he heard the rattle of a key in the lock of his door.
He roused himself, sitting up as Oenomaus entered, accompanied by Ashur.
“How fares mind and body?” Oenomaus asked him.
It was an odd question. Though the men respected Doctore, he was a hard taskmaster and they were not accustomed to him adopting the role of nursemaid.
Spartacus nodded, resisting the urge to rub his tingling limbs.
“I suffer from curiosity only. Who screams sounds of affliction?”
Oenomaus looked troubled.
“Felix,” he replied.
“He suffers injury?”
“In mind only.”
Spartacus glanced at Ashur. There was something going on here that he was not aware of, something he was missing.
“What stands cause?”
It was Ashur who answered.
“A fever-dream. One he claims so vivid that it revealed waking glimpse into Hades itself.”
Spartacus remained unmoved.
“He is new to ludus. Incarceration in unfamiliar surroundings, severe demands on body and mind by training-I mean no disrespect, Doctore …”
Oenomaus nodded.
“… this place takes toll on mind not yet hardened to life as gladiator. Felix soon faces Final Test. Adding to concern that-”
“Doubtful Felix’s condition result of mundane anxieties,” Ashur interrupted.
Spartacus narrowed his eyes.
“Speak and make thoughts clear.”
Lowering his voice to a whisper, Ashur said, “The man is bewitched.”
For a moment Spartacus did not react. He was uncertain how to. He looked at Oenomaus, who remained stony-faced.
“Do you hold such opinion, Doctore?”
The veteran frowned, as though forced to deal with thoughts he was unwilling to entertain.
“I grasp only uncertainty,” he said eventually.
Ashur’s eyes possessed certainty.
“I hold none. The evidence without question.”
“What evidence?” Spartacus asked.
“Felix was gripped by terrifying vision, of a man composed of darkness, eyes burning red fire. Felix spoke of him as if evil spirit in human form. Able to penetrate veil of sleep to pluck soul from body and drag it down to Hades’s deepest eternal pit.”
Spartacus was silent for a moment. He did not scoff; he knew the power of dreams. But he was skeptical all the same. Unlike many of his people-and Romans, and Gauls, and Syrians, and all manner of other men too-he did not adhere so readily to the idea of dreams as omens and portents. Nor did he believe that evil spirits (if they existed at all) could adopt human form and steal a man’s soul in the way a street dog might steal a sausage from a market stall.
“Perhaps tale you told of Mantilus inflamed fears already present in mind and made them monsters,” he suggested.
Ashur shook his head irritably.
“It is not just tonight’s disturbance that stands evidence.”
The crippled ex-gladiator exchanged a look with Oenomaus. The statuesque African expelled a deep sigh.
“Dominus summoned me after games of evening past. His spirits high following defeat of Solonius’s gladiators, but admitting to confusion as to nature of the losses suffered by rival. He told of Solonius’s men fighting as if fresh recruits absent skill. Movement burdened by weight, tepid wielding of weapons during attack, slow lifting of shields in defense.”
Spartacus shrugged.
“Perhaps dominus spins tale to degrade Solonius. It is known their exchanges stand more blows with daggers than words from mouth.”
Oenomaus shook his head.
“Dominus spoke not to revel in humiliation of rival’s defeat, but as a lanista, leveling assessment upon wares of another. His puzzlement towards its display standing genuine.”
“I don’t see how story lends proof of otherworldly assertions.”
“Are all Thracians so slow of mind?” Ashur asked, shaking his head with a smile. “Solonius’s men fell to spell weaved by the creature Mantilus. Ensuring inferior performance in the arena. And now Felix joins them.” “Why Felix?” Spartacus asked with a frown. “He is but untested gladiator. What advantage would it give Hieronymus?”
“Felix does not suffer in isolation,” Oenomaus rumbled with some reluctance. “Many have been troubled during slumber in recent nights. I myself experience similar affliction. My habit of sleep is steady one absent dreams, the hours of falling to it and waking precise ones. Yet such discipline deserts of late. I lie sleepless, ears disturbed by men crying out in terror. Men who weep and thrash bodies about.”
Spartacus shrugged.
“Sleep does not come easy upon stone floors,” he said.
Ashur shook his head, with increasing irritation this time.
“Ashur moves freely during night, sleep often aggrieved by wounded leg. I am familiar with night sounds of ludus, and this stands different. It is surely sorcery, the influence of Mantilus extending far beyond his master’s ludus.”
“If the men hear your crazed words they will believe,” Spartacus snapped. “It will not be to their advantage.”
Ashur raised his hands.
“Ashur’s intention is silence. It disfavors him to undermine the House of Batiatus. Yet concealment of tale will only delay appearance of sorcery to all. The men who yet stand unafflicted speak of tired limbs and minds fatigued.”
Spartacus was silent for a moment. What Ashur had said was true. There
