accord both acknowledgement and their own superiority with one small gesture.
Hieronymus was bearded, like many Greeks, and he wore a woollen peplos despite the warmth of the day. He was a large man, brown-skinned like a hazelnut, with olive-black eyes, and a ready smile which Batiatus instantly distrusted. He wore gold earrings, which no Roman would ever countenance, and Batiatus could almost smell the stink of coin coming off him. A rich man, even if only a provincial.
Although Batiatus barely allowed his eyes to flicker from the Sicel’s face, it was the figure who entered silently in Hieronymus’s wake who most interested him. Batiatus had never seen his like. He was darker skinned than his master, and clothed in a loose-fitting robe that seemed to be woven from multi-colored strips of some coarse material, like horsehair. The robe, tied at the waist by a black sash, was open at the front to expose a chest and torso deeply scarred with what appeared to be sigils and runic symbols, the origin of which Batiatus could only guess at.
It was the man’s head, however, that was the most astonishing and unsettling element of his appearance. Like his upper body, his cheeks, forehead, throat and the crown of his hairless head were similarly scarred with esoteric symbols. The center of his lip was pierced with a gold ring, which matched the ones in his master’s ears. His eyes were as pale as ass’s milk, suggesting blindness, and his thin, almost purple lips were in constant motion, as though he murmured silently to himself, revealing glimpses of a tongue which Batiatus could have sworn was riven in the center, forked like that of a snake.
“Any with interest in glory of the arena could not but be familiar with the House of Batiatus,” Hieronymus was saying, recapturing the lanista’s attention. “My own interest in the games nudges toward strong affection. I have even been moved to sponsor my own gladiators on occasion. Though merely in the provinces, far from the profession’s beating heart in Capua. Where I had good fortune to witness good Batiatus’s Thracian triumph over the legendary Theokoles. The event a pinnacle for any lanista.”
Batiatus bowed again, a little less frostily this time. In the corner of his eye, Hieronymus’s attendant was a dark shape, like an earthbound rain cloud, the girl Athenais a blue shimmer on his other side.
“When you find yourself free, you must honor my house with your presence,” he said to Hieronymus. “My wife and I would delight in hosting a man sharing in such passion. Unfortunately I must take leave at present. Pressing business awaits. I would take the girl from your hands, Albanus and would make arrangement to complete the transaction soon.” He turned to depart.
Albanus licked his lips. “Nothing would please more than to see her sold to you. Our friendship ever upon my mind. But good Hieronymus expresses equal interest in purchasing the girl.”
Batiatus smiled. “We appear to stand alike in many interests. Private confines of Albanus’s garden expand to become crowded market.” He ran through the calculations in his head, studied the girl again, noting the exquisite line of her neck, and the way her nipples imprinted themselves on the thin silk. When the breeze pressed it against her flesh he did not need to see her naked, for every dimple in her body was on display.
“It seems crime to speak of coin towards such exquisite creature,” Hieronymus murmured. He touched the girl’s chin, raising her head slightly. The heavy black hair fell back to reveal a pink ear, as translucent as a seashell.
“Five hundred sesterces,” Batiatus said. He felt a quickening of anger, like he always did before the arena. This was the same-this, also, was a form of combat.
‘Five hundred?” Albanus asked. ‘I take heart to know our friendship stands secure enough against such jest.”
“The sum equal to half year’s pay for a legionary. Hardly a jest.”
“One thousand,” Hieronymus said, with a little shrug, as if apologizing.
Batiatus bared his teeth, and turned it into a smile.
“Fifteen hundred.” It was more, far more than he had come here to pay, but he was not about to be outbid in his own city by a fucking Greek with rings in his ears and a creature of Hades crouching at his heels.
Hieronymus sighed slightly. He ran a long-nailed finger down the girl’s torso, and she stiffened under the touch. For a moment, all three men were staring at her. The blush rose in her white skin, her eyes averted. Suddenly Batiatus knew he wanted this girl kneeling before him, those rose-pink lips around his cock. He had to have her.
‘Two thousand,” Hieronymus said.
‘Three,” Batiatus riposted. He could feel sweat in the small of his back.
‘Four,” Hieronymus said with a cat-like smile.
Batiatus looked at Albanus. The Syrian’s face was ashine with cupidity. Clearly, he had planned this.
Batiatus felt fury burn in his gullet. He could not-he
“Five thousand,” he said at last, unable to help himself. Hieronymus opened his hands in a gesture of apology, and for a moment Batiatus’s heart leapt. But then the Greek said quietly, “Six thousand.”
And it was over.
“That goat-fucking Syrian pimp. The festering cock gave performance worthy of amphitheater,” Batiatus raged.
He shoved his way through the crowded street, shouting to be heard over the clamor of noise emanating from the open-fronted shops and the clatter of wooden wheels in the cobbled ruts of the roadway. Ashur limped quickly at his master’s side, grimacing and gripping his crippled leg. A former gladiator in Batiatus’s ludus, he had been crippled in the arena by the Gaul, Crixus — another of Batiatus’s gladiators. Ashur had served as his master’s book-keeper and sometime henchman ever since that defeat.
“My presence cast merely for inflation of price,” Batiatus continued. “I offer to put coin in Albanus’s hand only to see him maneuver larger amount into the other tucked behind his back. May the gods rot his balls off. Ashur, tell something of import about that Greek maggot or by Juno’s cunt I’ll have your good leg mangled to match the crippled one.”
“If dominus would care to slow pace,” Ashur gasped. “Ashur could turn from distracting pain to sharing of knowledge on crowded streets.”
Batiatus glared at him. “Very well. Perhaps yet another appeal to my patience will finally reap reward.”
They halted in the lee of a tufa-block building, standing still whilst the torrent of humanity passed by in the heat and dust of the street. Ashur had a dark, feline face alight with intelligence and cunning. But there was more than good humor in his eyes. He had known murder, in and out of the arena, and he was as good with numbers as any hired scribe.
“Words were loosened from one of the Syrian’s men.”
“With my coin I trust,” Batiatus grunted.
“One sesterce, dominus, an old coin, nicked and bent-”
“Enough. Just tell me what it bought,” Batiatus interrupted.
Ashur paused, half-raising his hands, as if to deliver news of great import.
“Hieronymus is very rich with coin, dominus.”
Batiatus gave him a withering look. “You offered coin for knowledge easily gained by turning eyes on the man.”
Quickly Ashur said, “He has made purchase of house by river Volturnus, and much land along with it.”
Now Batiatus looked thoughtful. “He seeks permanent residence in Capua. What else?”
“He profits as money changer in the east, in Ephesus or Pergamon. Powerful men counted among his clients. One reported to sit high in the Senate in Rome.”
Batiatus’s eyes lit up with interest. Here was a potential means to his own elevation.
“What is the elevated man’s name?” he demanded.
“Alas, Albanus’s man spoke nothing more of note, despite Ashur’s entreaties.”
Batiatus was disappointed. He gave a curt nod.
“And what of the dark creature attending the man with powerful friends?”
Ashur inclined his head to indicate his ignorance.
“Further investigation needed to glean such information, dominus.”
“Set yourself to it.” Batiatus sighed. “I would have revealing of that mystery as well as the names of Hieronymus’s powerful friends. A man doesn’t gain such friends without wiggling his fingers in assholes. Find out
