Spartacus: Morituri

response will be?”

“He need not know,” the medicus whimpered.

Crixus bared his teeth.

“He will know.”

The medicus resembled a trapped animal, fear and resentment fluttering across his features. His eyes darted left and right, as though hunting for a means of escape, and then, as if accepting his fate, he sighed and stood up.

“If Charon awaits beyond this door, be assured my spirit will return to haunt you,” he muttered.

“I shall honor it for its bravery,” Crixus said drily.

The medicus shot him a sour look and sidled away.

Crixus waited, half-expecting to hear a roar of discovery, or perhaps even the sounds of a struggle, or scampering feet, or a scream of pain. However, a few minutes later the medicus returned, licking his lips and looking relieved.

“I saw no one,” he said. “Your brothers sleep sound and gates remain locked. Your mind must have taken flight.”

“Someone was there,” Crixus said firmly. He pondered on it a moment, a frown on his face, and then impatiently he gestured across the room. “But if words are true and ludus empty, then nothing more can be done. Now fetch water before throat crumbles to dust.”

Spartacus feinted and lunged, the sword in his left hand sliding through the gap between Varro’s shield and his sword arm. Varro grunted as the blade, blunted for bouts such as these, jabbed him in the ribs. It was only a glancing blow, however, for as the sword connected, the burly blond Roman was already spinning away, which in turn caused Spartacus to stumble forward slightly at the sudden lack of resistance. Varro sought to gain advantage by sweeping his own sword up and across Spartacus’s midriff, a slashing blow which, in the arena, would have been designed to part the flesh of his opponent’s belly, spilling his guts on to the sand.

Spartacus, though, had not become Champion of Capua by succumbing to such elementary tactics. Even as Varro’s sword was sweeping upward, the sword in the Thracian’s right hand was sweeping down to block it. The clash of blades elicited a ripple of gasps and squeals from the crowd, more so when Spartacus, regaining his balance, turned nimbly and converted defense into attack by striking at Varro’s suddenly exposed legs with his lefthanded sword. Varro winced as the blow-which in the arena would have severed the tendons behind his knee, effectively ending his chance of victory, and therefore his life-drew a stripe of blood across his sweating flesh. He caught Spartacus’s eye and gave an ironic grimace. Spartacus responded with the briefest of winks, though kept his face straight.

Crossing his twin swords in front of him, Spartacus then gave a mighty heave, pushing Varro away. Varro staggered backward, causing a knot of Roman women behind him to squeal in terrified glee. Regaining his balance, Varro rolled his shoulders like a bull and rushed immediately back into the fray, his shield deflecting Spartacus’s parry as the two friends clashed again. There followed a quick exchange of blows and counter-blows, the zing and clash of iron on iron thrumming in the heavily perfumed air.

Spartacus knew that he and Varro were putting on a good show for Batiatus’s guests, but he couldn’t deny that he felt unaccountably tired. His limbs were heavy, his muscles oddly cramped and dense, as if his body was filled with rocks, and the sweat was rolling off him, slick and harsh-smelling.

Varro, too, was suffering, Spartacus could tell. Supremely fit and surprisingly nimble for such a big man, today he was lumbering about the floor like an amateur, his face red as he puffed and gasped, his curly blond hair dark with sweat. Ordinarily his defense work-when he put his mind to it and reined in his natural eagerness to go on the attack-was excellent. On any other day he would not have allowed Spartacus’s sword to bruise his ribs, or to open the wound behind his knee-blows which in the arena could both have proved fatal. As the two men separated again, circling each other warily as though looking for an opening-though in reality using the momentary respite to gather what reserves of strength they could-Varro flashed him a look which Spartacus read immediately: What ails us?

Spartacus blinked-I know not-and then saw a look of weary compliance appear on his friend’s face: Let us end this quickly.

Willing his muscles to respond, Spartacus darted forward, his twin swords moving in a blur, delivering a flurry of thrusts and slashes. Varro countered, blocking one blow after another, the air again ringing with the impact of iron upon iron. The watching audience gasped and clapped in delight, little knowing that the rapid interchange, the skillful and seemingly instinctive display of attack and defense, was carefully orchestrated to elicit maximum dramatic impact from the encounter, but to inflict the minimum amount of damage.

Finally Spartacus feinted and lunged forward, tucking in his head and barging into Varro side-on, using his shoulder as a battering ram. Varro’s arm jerked back, his own shield slamming against his body. Again he staggered, and then slipped in a patch of oily sweat beneath his heel. Unable to regain his balance this time, he crashed to the floor, arms akimbo, exposing his broad chest. Instantly Spartacus leaped on him, knees pinioning his arms, crossed swords at his throat.

There was a moment of silence, a moment when the crowd stood in thrilled anticipation, half-believing that the Thracian Champion would sever his opponent’s head from his body. Then Spartacus relaxed and stood up, shifting both swords to his left hand. He offered his right to Varro, who grasped it and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet. As the crowd applauded in appreciation, Varro gave Spartacus a rueful look, and then clapped him on the back before both men turned to acknowledge their audience.

Spartacus’s gaze shifted to Batiatus, who was applauding along with everyone else and lustily proclaiming at the might and skill of his gladiators. However, when Batiatus caught his eye, Spartacus could see that the lanista was troubled. He raised his eyebrows at Spartacus as if to ask him what was wrong. Spartacus answered him as he had answered Varro, with a blink and the merest twitch of his head: I know not.

VIII

Like the rest of the men, Spartacus was out on the training ground just after sunrise the following morning, limbering up with some light sparring before breakfast. Varro partnered him, still wincing each time the skin stretched over the purple-black bruise tracing the line of one of his ribs, but cheerful enough in spite of it.

“If I look as you this morning, perhaps wise to place coin in mouth now, to stand ready for Charon,” he joked.

Spartacus found it an effort to raise a smile in response.

“Unfortunately dreams were nothing but torment last night.”

Varro’s face became serious. Glancing around he said, “It seems you were not alone in such suffering.”

Spartacus followed his friend’s gaze. His head had been so full of dark thoughts, and his limbs so drained of vigor that morning that he had been barely aware of his surroundings. Now he saw that the other men of the brotherhood were evidently suffering similar symptoms to his own, that the malaise which had been lingering in the ludus these past days and weeks had suddenly grown and spread. The movements of his fellow gladiators were especially slow and cumbersome today, their limbs heavy, their heads drooping. Many bore slack expressions on their faces, their eyes haunted or distracted, as if terrible thoughts or memories raged in their minds.

Oenomaus stalked among them, cracking his whip, shouting orders, but even he seemed to move ponderously this morning, and his voice, usually so commanding, sounded strained, brittle.

Spartacus remembered the fetish that Oenomaus had thrown from the cliff yesterday. He had hoped that disposing of the thing might prove a turning point, that the men might regard it as a positive sign, and respond accordingly. But in truth its removal seemed to have had the opposite effect; indeed he himself could no longer deny that the malaise, whatever its origin, was affecting him too. He still stubbornly refused to believe in sorcery, however, even after his unnerving encounter with Mantilus the previous night. But it was equally difficult to believe that whatever was affecting the men was nothing but a bout of common fever or some similar illness.

Even so, Spartacus knew that until a definite reason for the malaise was discovered (either that or it passed of its own accord), all he could do was simply to carry on, to fight against his own physical and mental limitations,