Spartacus: Morituri

“I do not own gladiators. Solonius appears the man to ask.”

“And ask we shall-if he makes appearance.”

There was a natural pause as they all drank wine.

Then his eyes twinkling, the ready smile appearing on his face once again-a smile that secretly Batiatus would have relished battering into a mass of bloodied and splintered teeth-Hieronymus said, “When shall opportunity present to view future opposition?”

“Soon, good Hieronymus,” Batiatus promised. “I delay not for sinister purpose, but to whet appetite of the crowd and make full spectacle of entrance.”

“A true purveyor of pageantry. There is much to learn from your methods.”

“And from yours, no doubt,” Batiatus said, and waved a casual hand when Crassus looked at him sharply. “If you intend to hold role of lanista as permanent with other concerns?”

“I do,” said Hieronymus. “There is much coin to be had from it.”

Batiatus bared his teeth in a grin and raised his goblet.

“Here’s to much coin and the gaining of it,” he said.

On the far side of the atrium, Ilithyia popped an olive into her mouth. Spitting the stone into the pool, where slave girls were undulating slowly like water-nymphs, she waited impatiently until Lucretia had finished her conversation with Magistrate Calavius-a cadaverous bore who Ilithyia avoided speaking to whenever possible-and then drew her hostess aside.

“Are you well, Ilithyia?” Lucretia asked. “Your face pales.”

Ilithyia’s eyes flickered to her left. “You do see that creature, do you not? Please say that you do.”

Lucretia followed the direction of her friend’s gaze. All she saw was a sea of bobbing heads. Her eyes slid from one face to another, many of which were employing their mouths to quaff her wine, or devour her food, or talk animatedly, or utter uproarious laughter at some amusing comment from a companion. She saw nothing to engender a sense of fear or alarm. It was a good party, and she congratulated herself on her aptitude as a hostess.

“What do my eyes seek?” She smiled wickedly. “An illicit lover to avoid? Local milliner owed extensive coin?”

Ilithyia shook her head irritably.

“You speak trivialities. Cast eyes by the wall. Lurking in shadow beside likeness of Minerva.”

Lucretia craned her neck-and suddenly, between a pair of bobbing heads, she caught sight of the scarred, silent figure that Ilithyia had indicated. She shivered. The man resembled a partly withered corpse propped against the wall, or some form of simian shade.

“You do see him, do you not?” Ilithyia said in a small voice.

Lucretia opened her mouth to reply that yes, of course she did-and then she paused. All at once she realized why the senator’s daughter must be asking her the question. Ilithyia must think that Mantilus was some minion of the underworld, despatched by Charon, the journey made in order to claim her soul.

Innocently, Lucretia said, “I see no one. The place you indicate is but a section of empty wall.”

Ilithyia’s eyes widened and she clutched Lucretia’s hands.

“It cannot be. I am yet too young to see vision of death. Too young to die.”

“Die?” Lucretia said with a small laugh. “You jest of death amidst celebration.”

“Yet death joins the occasion. And if I am only to see him, it must mean he comes for me.”

“Tell me again where your eyes rest.”

Ilithyia glanced across at where Mantilus was standing, and looked quickly away again.

In a whisper she said, “Between pillar and Minerva’s likeness. Fear clenches heart, Lucretia.”

Lucretia made a show of peering across the room, raising herself on tiptoe and narrowing her eyes. She allowed the time to stretch out, aware of the strong grip of Ilithyia’s fingers as the younger woman clutched at her for comfort, and the stricken look on her face. Finally she broke the moment with a laugh.

“Oh, I see where eyes fall now. Apologies for my foolishness.”

A flicker of hope dawned on Ilithyia’s face.

“So you do see him?”

“Of course,” Lucretia said as if the matter had never been in doubt. “It is Mantilus. Attendant to Hieronymus.”

Abruptly Ilithyia released Lucretia’s hands. She stood upright, arching her long, swan-like neck as she again turned to scrutinize the scarred man standing silently in the shadows. The fearful expression on her face hardened into one of suspicion and resentment. She turned back to glare at Lucretia, who smiled at her in guileless sympathy.

“Hieronymus’s attendant?” she said.

Lucretia nodded. “I am surprised you have not heard of him. He is quite the object of local chatter.”

“You must think me very foolish,” Ilithyia said in a curt voice.

Lucretia looked astonished.

“Dearest Ilithyia, the very idea impossible.”

Ilithyia sniffed. “I feel faint. The stuffiness of this villa, no doubt. Unwashed Capuan bodies pressing together. I’m not used to such confinement.” She nodded contemptuously at a slave topping up wine goblets from a jug. “The rough local grape you serve cannot help the matter. Palate stands accustomed to more refined vintage.”

Lucretia refused to rise to Ilithyia’s spiteful jibes.

“Of course,” she purred. “Poor dear friend. Your sufferings pain me. I see why laying eyes on Hieronymus’s creature gave you shock.”

Like a child snapping in anger one moment and distracted the next, the petulant look slipped from Ilithyia’s face. Leaning in to Lucretia, she giggled, “He is a creature, isn’t he? More beast than man.”

“A fearsome sight,” Lucretia agreed.

Ilithyia’s voice dropped even lower.

“What must swing between his legs? A cock like that of men, or some other instrument?”

Like a mother indulging an infant, Lucretia too giggled. She brushed her cheek against Ilithyia’s as she murmured into her ear.

“Perhaps he possesses black horn like that of a bull. Or cluster of writhing appendages like tentacles of squid.”

Ilithyia gave a small shriek, quickly stifled, her eyes positively shining with gleeful horror at the prospect. The two women turned to sneak another look at the scarred man-and the giggles dried in their throats.

As though aware that he was the topic of their discussion-and their ridicule-Mantilus had turned his head and appeared to be staring at them. His white eyes shone out from his dark face like tiny twin moons and his purple lips stretched in a leering smile. As they stared, transfixed, they were horrified to see his mouth open and a forked tongue flicker out, as though he were tasting their fear on the air.

“He truly is a denizen of the underworld,” Ilithyia squeaked.

Shuddering and clutching at one another, the women fled from the room.

Oenomaus was lying on his bunk, waiting to be summoned, along with the pick of Batiatus’s gladiators, to the villa. Faintly he could hear the sounds of celebration drifting down from above-the rumble of conversation, the occasional sharp tinkle of laughter. He closed his eyes, retreating into the cool interior of his own thoughts, and breathed deeply, slowly, in an effort to relax not only his limbs but his mind too. However, the unnamed anxiety was still there, at the back of his mind, like a rat gnawing its way through the thick stone wall toward him, sliver by sliver.

A frown crinkled his forehead. He would not give in to his doubts, his fears, his paranoia; he would not. He would remain strong. For the ludus. For the men. For himself.

He heard footsteps approaching his cell. The house-guards, coming to tell him that it was time. He opened his eyes, breathed out slowly once more, in an effort to expunge the troublesome thoughts in his head, and tried