Spartacus: Morituri

Mantilus’s restless hands eventually ceased their twitching dance and drifted slowly to his sides. He did not step back from Spartacus immediately, however. Instead he stood almost nose to nose with the gladiator, and though his eyes were white and blind, he locked his gaze with Spartacus’s own.

Spartacus, for his part, did not flinch. His blue eyes unblinking, he stared impassively back.

It was the clash of swords that roused Crixus. They penetrated his fever dreams like the sweetest music, calling him from slumber. For what seemed an eternity now, he had been lying on the medicus’s slab, barely able to move. The slightest attempt had caused pain to rip through his ravaged body; pain so unbearable that sweat had instantly lathered him each time he had re-awakened it, and a surging river of unconsciousness, like Lethe itself, had coursed through his mind, overwhelming his senses.

For many weeks he had slipped from one infection, and from one fever, to another, surviving only by the strength of his iron will. It was rage and determination that kept him going-the rage of losing his status as Champion of Capua to the upstart Thracian, and the determination that his torn body would knit itself back together, in order that he might eventually return to the arena not only as strong, but even stronger than he had ever been before, and thus regain his rightful position.

By killing Theokoles, Spartacus had saved his life, but Crixus hated him all the same. He would rather have died in glorious combat than survive as the inferior warrior- which is what his once adoring audience now no doubt perceived him to be. “Crixus the Fallen” Ashur had named him with a sneer, a title which Crixus intended to repudiate at the earliest opportunity. Though he little knew it, Ashur had actually done Crixus a favor by mocking him. If nothing else, it would hasten his recovery if only so that he could more swiftly fulfill his ambition of wrapping his hands round the neck of the little Syrian shit and choking the life out of him.

For now, though, Crixus needed to be patient-which he found far from an easy task. Patience was a virtue he held in very short supply. If it hadn’t been for the company and attentions of Naevia he might have lost his mind completely. He wished she could be with him now, but she was up in the villa, tending to the needs of the household, and its guests. Crixus imagined the scene: the notables of Capua stuffing their faces and gulping good wine, while Spartacus, Varro, and the other men of the mark flexed their muscles for the women, and kept the men entertained with demonstration bouts of gladiatorial swordplay.

If Crixus had been less stoic, he would have been weeping tears of anger and frustration now. To him it mattered not that the majority of Romans openly regarded gladiators as little better than performing apes-apes whose lives were of no consequence, and whose spilt blood provided them with nothing but amusement. Crixus was proud to be a gladiator, and he cared not if certain members of society derided him for it. In fact, he secretly believed that those who belittled him in public envied and admired him in private. In his view there was nothing more glorious than stepping out into the arena with your own name, bellowed over and over by a delirious crowd, echoing from the walls around you. A gladiator’s life may often be a short one, but how many men in their lifetimes truly got to know what it felt like to be hailed a hero?

The ludus at this hour was quiet, those who were not performing up above languishing in their cells. The silence was not an easy one, however. Despite Doctore’s stern words, the men were yet fearful, many still believing themselves victims of sorcery. Crixus had never known such an atmosphere pervade the House of Batiatus; it saddened and disgusted him that so many of his brothers had succumbed to dread. He, by contrast, believed himself impervious to fear. If ordered to do so, he would willingly have fought against spirits and shades in the arenas of Hades itself.

His meandering thoughts were interrupted by a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision. Turning his head he was just in time to glimpse a dark shape, silent as a phantom, flitting past the open doorway of the sick room.

“Medicus?” he called.

There was no reply.

Irritably he tried again.

“Medicus! I am in need of water.”

Silence.

His temper getting the better of him, Crixus jammed his elbows against the hard slab beneath him and tried to raise himself into a sitting position. Instantly the wounds in his chest, back and abdomen flared like a spark in dry tinder. He screamed out, as much in frustration as agony, and slumped back. For a moment his head pounded like a drum, and then as the pain ebbed a little he roared out, “Medicus! Crawl from hole like fucking rat!”

This time his summons was answered. Scampering footsteps approached, and then the medicus, a scrawny, sweaty man, eyes raw from sleep, was at his side.

“What is it?” he snapped bad-temperedly.

Crixus scowled. “Come out when fucking called.”

“I am not your slave,” the medicus said.

“You are domina’s slave. And if I die your life will be forfeit.”

“You will not die,” the medicus said, the expression on his face suggesting that this was not altogether a good thing. “You gain strength with passing days. Now you must simply permit healing to take course.”

“I may yet die of thirst,” Crixus retorted, “if repeated calls go ignored.”

“I was sleeping,” the medicus answered. “I have slaved tirelessly over broken body these last weeks. I was merely seeking to redress balance.”

Crixus frowned. “Do not attempt to deceive. I saw you pass by door.”

The medicus gave him an exasperated look.

“When was this?”

“Moments before I called your name.”

“Impossible,” the medicus said, shaking his head. “It was your howl that plucked me from arms of Morpheus.”

“Do not lie to me,” Crixus barked. “I know what my eyes saw.”

“It must have been someone else.”

“Who else wanders the corridors?”

The medicus shrugged.

“Household guard perhaps?”

Crixus dismissed the notion with a sneer.

“They move in pairs, clattering like dice in cup.”

“Well … Doctore then?”

Crixus shook his head.

“In the villa above.”

The medicus threw up his hands.

“Then mysterious figure lies in imagination. Product of fever-dream.”

“My head is clear,” Crixus said. His eyes narrowed. “Someone passed by door. I am certain of it.”

All at once the medicus looked uneasy.

“Out with it,” Crixus growled.

In a hushed voice, eyes sliding toward the open doorway, the medicus said, “You have heard recent mumblings?”

“Of spirits and shades?” Crixus said, and snorted contemptuously. “Feeble-minded gibberish.”

The medicus’s sweaty skin gleamed in the half-light.

“But you saw shape at the door. A walking shadow.”

“I saw something pass.”

“What was it then? A man?”

Crixus hesitated.

“It passed too quickly for certainty. I saw only a dark shape. Perhaps a man.”

The medicus hunched his shoulders and drew in his limbs, like a spider curling into a protective ball.

“What shall we do?”

“I can do nothing,” Crixus said.

The medicus’s eyes widened.

Crixus pressed, “If intruder stalks ludus, and dominus discovers you allowed free passage, what do you think