Spartacus: Morituri

to swing his legs from the thin mattress, to pivot his body so that he could sit up.

But he couldn’t move! He was paralyzed!

He tried again, but it was as if his body was dead from the neck down; he couldn’t make even so much as a finger twitch. He glanced toward the door. The footsteps were still approaching his cell, but he realized now that there was something odd about them. The rapid clatter of the house-guards’ hob-nailed caligae was a familiar sound, but this was different. These footsteps were slow and booming, as if it was not a man who moved along the corridor toward him, but a giant.

At last the footsteps stopped right outside his door. There was silence for a long moment, a silence during which Oenomaus felt himself becoming overwhelmed by a terrible sense of dread. He was not a man given to panic, nor even fear, and yet all at once both of those emotions rushed through his mind like a rushing tide of white water, threatening to engulf all rational thought. He clenched his teeth, straining his neck muscles as he tried vainly to lift his unresponsive body from the bed. For a gladiator there was nothing worse than losing the ability to defend oneself, to have no choice but to simply lie there, defenseless as a baby, and accept whatever fate had in store.

His head whipped round to look at the door. He hoped against hope that it would prove a sturdy enough barrier to deter the intruder, whoever or whatever it was. He prayed that he would not hear the jangle of keys, and in this, at least, his prayers were answered. He did not hear the jangle of keys-but he did hear something far worse. He heard the creak of the already unlocked door as it was pushed slowly open.

Helpless, he watched the door swinging inwards. It swung toward him, and then back, the dark line between door and frame getting gradually wider as it did so. A vast shadow filled the doorway. Oenomaus saw a huge, powder-white torso, criss-crossed with livid red scar tissue. His mouth went dry as, with ponderous and terrible intent, the massive figure stooped and stepped through the doorway, into his cell.

Oenomaus knew who the figure was instantly, but as he saw the full, awful truth of it for the first time, his throat closed up, and though his mouth dropped open he found that he could not scream. This was Theokoles, the albino giant, the only man who had ever bested Oenomaus in the arena. But this was not the living Theokoles, the roaring, bestial creature who had slaughtered hundreds of men, and who had chosen to continue fighting in the arena even after winning his freedom. No, this was Theokoles as Oenomaus had last seen him, lying dead and bleeding on the sand after being despatched by Spartacus.

This Theokoles, the monster that now stood in his cell, looming over his prostrate body, had no head. All that sprouted from his shoulders was the ragged stump of a neck, edged with long-dried blood, from which a splintered shard of bone protruded. Oenomaus stared at him in horror, his mouth moving soundlessly.

What are you? he wanted to say. Why are you here? But his lungs were frozen, his throat closed, denying him the breath to speak.

For a moment Theokoles simply stood there, his presence impossible, terrible, and yet undeniable. And then there was movement behind him, and another figure slipped into the cell-this one smaller, its face and body swathed in a dark, hooded cloak. All Oenomaus could see of this second figure were its hands — slim and delicate and undoubtedly feminine-but it was enough to send a further stab of dread through him.

Melitta?

The hooded figure neither confirmed nor denied that it was his dead wife, but Oenomaus knew. He watched with utter horror as Melitta reached into the folds of her heavy cloak and slowly drew out the object she had grasped. What was it? A knife? Was this how his life would end? Slaughtered like a helpless animal by his dead wife while the butchered body of his nemesis stood sentinel over him?

But it was not a knife that Melitta drew from her cloak. No, it was the head of Theokoles. She was holding it by its long yellow hair. Its eyes and mouth were closed, and blood was crusted around the rim of its severed neck.

Silently Melitta extended her arm, holding the head out toward him.

Why do you show me this? Oenomaus wanted to ask her. This was not my doing.

Then Theokoles’s dead eyes opened wide and glared at him. Red eyes, burning with madness. The dead albino’s scarred lips parted and his mouth opened, and suddenly Oenomaus was overwhelmed by the appalling stench of the death-pits of Hades. Then Theokoles was roaring at him, the sound carrying with it all the screaming torments of the underworld.

Finally finding his voice, Oenomaus cried out …

… and awoke.

His heart was crashing in his chest, his body lathered with sweat. He looked quickly around his cell. He was alone. Thank the gods, thank the gods.

He sat up, trembling, breathing deeply, thoughts of Melitta, of her beauty and her gentleness, filling his head. He felt grief rising in him, but he swallowed it back down.

Again he heard footsteps approaching his cell. Marching footsteps this time. Hobnails. The sound was almost comforting.

He stood up on legs that were still a little shaky, composing himself in readiness for the evening’s entertainment yet to come.

VII

“Behold whipped dog, still licking his wounds!” Batiatus bellowed, letting rip a drunken gale of laughter.

Solonius, who had just entered the villa, visibly flinched and looked for a moment as if he was seriously contemplating turning round and walking straight back out of the door again.

Batiatus, however, raised his goblet, splashing outrageously expensive wine-that which he had given strict orders to reserve only for himself, Crassus and Hieronymus-over his wrist.

“Drink with us, good Solonius,” he shouted, “in hopes that excellent grape will unknot frown upon brow. We lanistae come together this night to share common bond. Let us celebrate past victories and bemoan ignoble defeats!”

As Solonius moved forward, his face set and suspicious, to join the tight-knit group on the fringes of the main crush of revelers around the atrium pool, Hieronymus murmured, “Surely defeats are best forgotten?”

Batiatus laughed. “Only adversity hardens sinew to set sights yet higher. Don’t you agree, Solonius?”

“Interesting philosophy, certainly,” Solonius muttered with a death’s-head grin.

In a rare moment of inebriated bonhomie, Batiatus indicated to the slave girl entrusted with the Opimian to provide a brimming goblet for his rival. When the newcomer had been presented with it, Batiatus clapped him on the back.

“Drink!” he said, tilting his head and gulping his own wine as though to show the other how it was done. “Good wine soothes troubled fucking mind.”

Solonius complied, first raising his goblet to Crassus and Hieronymus.

“Your good fortune.” He sniffed the wine uncertainly, as though fearing it might be poisoned, and then took an experimental sip. An expression of surprise, swiftly followed by pleasure, scurried across his face, and he took a larger mouthful.

Within minutes the three lanistae were chatting away like old friends, Crassus-a dour presence-perched vulture-like on the periphery.

“Your presence does you credit, Solonius,” Hieronymus said. “I had thought you to save face by remaining within your own walls.”

Before Solonius could respond, Batiatus said loudly, “We lanistae are resilient breed. We hold head high and strut like peacocks, whether in victory or defeat. Is that not so, Solonius?”

Solonius looked at Batiatus as if unsure where the remark was leading. Finally he inclined his head.

“A lanista does not sulk like spoiled child.”

“And the games are but sport,” Batiatus declared. “Representation of life, but not the thing itself.”

“Such flippancy towards the arena,” Crassus remarked.

“Not flippancy, no,” Batiatus replied. “Apologies, good Crassus, but you misunderstand meaning. The arena