Spartacus: Morituri

and refuse to succumb to them. But it was hard. He was finding it increasingly difficult to think clearly, not least because his sleep was so disrupted by bad dreams. Try as he might to hold himself together he felt himself being gradually ground down, whittled away piece by piece.

Before he could discuss the matter further with Varro, Oenomaus’s voice rang out across the practice square, ordering the men to attend. At a nudge from Varro, Spartacus turned, and saw that Batiatus had appeared on the balcony above. His master looked a little worse for wear. He squinted into the morning light as if resenting the rising sun and then cleared his throat. Looking down, he coaxed his features into a triumphant smile and said, “My titans! How do you fare this morning? Spartacus!”

It was not usual for Batiatus to be up and about so early, enquiring on the health of his men. He was clearly still deeply concerned after the display he had witnessed the previous night. Despite Spartacus and Varro’s strenuous, and largely successful, efforts to entertain dominus’s guests, the limitations of their performance had not been lost on the eagle-eyed lanista.

“I am well, dominus,” Spartacus said.

“You have recovered from last night’s exertions?”

“Yes, dominus.”

Batiatus looked shrewdly down at him.

“Good. And what of the rest? How stands Tetraides?”

The giant Greek looked startled to be picked out.

“I am also well, dominus.”

“Let us see an end to shit about spirits and sorcerers.” The lightness of Batiatus’s tone belied his words.

“Yes, dominus,” said the Greek uneasily, and then hastily added, “temporary aberration of mind, now conquered.”

“I gather your champion aided in the effort?” Batiatus said, grinning nastily.

Tetraides fingered the still-healing cuts and bruises on his face and his eyes flickered to meet Spartacus’s for a split-second.

“Yes, dominus.”

“It pleases to hear it. Now let us put foolishness behind and set to purpose. Any who poisons air of my ludus with further talk of foul magic will find himself entering arena with hands empty of all but severed cock! Do my words find understanding?”

“Yes, dominus!” the men shouted.

Batiatus nodded in satisfaction.

“A rousing response to greet ears. Let us hope your next visit to the arena elicits equal fervor.” He paused, his gaze sweeping the training yard, as if searching for weaknesses. Finally he said, “After fallow season, it will satisfy warriors hungry for blood to learn that contest has been arranged with the House of Hieronymus. With Solonius’s ill-trained rabble found sadly wanting in recent games, good Hieronymus expresses desire for his stable to take to the sands against real gladiators.” He raised a fist in the air. “We will demonstrate to this unbled virgin that his debut was but false fucking. We will grant him his first! And relieve him of heavy purse in the act! Let us pick apart his ludus so that he will be sent scurrying to market for hasty replacements.” His voice gradually rose until it became a bellow of intent, a call to war. “Let us sweep away opposition and build a fucking empire of blood and glory in this very house! Let our names become legend and make mortal men quake in fear at the speaking of them!”

The cheering was wild and protracted, some of the men even momentarily forgetting their lethargy and jumping up and down. Batiatus grinned down pugnaciously, his arms spread wide as though bathing in hero worship, or even inviting a challenge.

Spartacus, with Varro beside him, applauded just as enthusiastically as the rest of the men-but when he caught his friend’s eye he saw the doubt that was in his heart reflected there too. Sensing another face turned toward him, he saw the same doubt reflected on the face of Oenomaus-and he knew that, if nothing else, this alone was proof enough that despite his lanista’s defiant words, there was still much that was wrong in the House of Batiatus.

Spartacus and Varro sat apart from the others, eating their bread and porridge. The usual banter that rang around the refectory was today absent, replaced only by the sound of spoons clicking and scraping against earthenware bowls and the stolid sound of chewing. Here and there little knots of men spoke in murmurs, their heads together like conspirators afraid of being overheard. Most, however, were silent, staring straight ahead or down into their bowls, as if lost in their own thoughts.

Stealing a glance at Doctore, who was leaning against the wall with his whip curled in his left hand, a brooding, watchful presence, Varro muttered, “I see on your face that you share similar thoughts.”

“Does it display so transparent?” Spartacus asked. “Or perhaps you prove able to read minds now.”

Varro snorted a laugh and shoveled food into his mouth. His voice muffled by porridge, he said, “You think as I do. Upcoming games appear ill-advised.”

“Games are our purpose,” Spartacus said blandly.

Varro gave him a pointed look.

“You deny state of the men makes timing unfortunate?”

Spartacus sighed. “Perhaps it is what’s needed to shake us from present state.”

“Perhaps if such state could be blamed on fatigue needing only spirited exertion to see it gone. But I no longer hold certainty of it.”

“You believe this the result of sorcery?” Spartacus said, gesturing around him with a wave of his spoon.

Varro’s eyes slid away from his friend’s.

“Thoughts stand divided.”

Spartacus was silent for a moment, and then he said, “You heard words spoken by dominus. Such thoughts given voice will not be tolerated.”

“They will not be lent my voice.” Varro’s eyes flickered up to meet Spartacus’s. “How do your thoughts fall on the matter?”

“I do not believe in evil spirits,” Spartacus repeated stubbornly. Then he sighed. “But I do believe explanation eludes us.” He was about to add more when he glanced over Varro’s shoulder-and froze.

“Spartacus?” Varro hissed, alarmed at the expression on his friend’s face. “What worries mind?”

Spartacus tried to reply, but his throat had tightened, strangling his voice. Furthermore the porridge in his mouth had dried to a lump of sticky dust, and a pounding, which he realized was the thump of his own heart in his chest, was growing louder in his ears.

Sura, his dead wife, had entered the mess hall through the open doorway that led into the main part of the ludus. She was leaning now against the wall, as solid and as beautiful as she had been in life. She was looking right at him, her chin tilted back, the expression on her face one of invitation. She licked her lips, her glossy black hair tumbling about her shoulders. Spartacus began to rise from his seat, intending to go to her and take her in his arms.

Varro grabbed his wrist.

“What do you see?”

With an effort Spartacus swallowed the food in his mouth and managed to find his voice.

“Sura,” he croaked. “It is Sura.”

Varro twisted in his seat and looked behind him. After a moment he said, “You are mistaken. There is no one there.”

Spartacus felt a flash of irritation and shook himself free of Varro’s grip.

“She is there,” he said. “I must go to her.”

“No,” Varro said, “you must not. It is but a shade, Spartacus. Either of your own making or some enticement from the underworld. Gather wits and look again. Dominus will punish any who fall prey to visions. As champion, he appoints you set example to the brotherhood.”

Spartacus glanced down at his friend, knowing that what he was saying was true, and yet at the same time