annoyed that Varro was puncturing his impossible dream of being reunited with his wife. When he looked up again, however, Sura was gone, as if too fragile to exist in the face of doubt and reason.
Suddenly overcome by a bone-crushing weariness, he released a deep, heart-felt sigh and sank back onto the bench, ignoring Doctore’s enquiring look from across the room.
Varro reached out and clasped Spartacus’s hand briefly in friendship.
“I can merely imagine full extent of your anguish. Be assured it pains to witness suffering of a brother. I am ready with ear should you require it.”
Spartacus nodded gratefully.
“Gratitude. You are good friend, Varro-for a Roman.”
He grinned to show he was joking. Varro adopted an expression of mock outrage. Before he could come up with a cutting riposte, however, there was a scream from across the room.
Spartacus twisted in his seat to see that Felix, whose dreams had tormented him more than most these past nights, had leaped to his feet and was staring down at his bowl in horror. Next second, the young trainee lunged forward and swept it from the table with such force that it flew across the room, shattering against the wall and spraying some of the men sitting nearby with porridge and shards of broken pottery. As they cried out in protest, Felix, his eyes wide and terrified, backed away from the table, scrabbling at his arms and swiping at his naked chest.
“Get them off!” he screamed.
Doctore strode forward and curled a hand around his shoulder.
“There is nothing-” he began, but Felix twisted in his grip, like a fish on a line, and lashed out at him.
Spartacus knew that for a man whose days in the arena were long behind him, Oenomaus had astonishingly quick reflexes. The Doctore kept himself supremely fit- indeed, he was fitter than most of his younger charges, and still more than a match for the best of the gladiators in Batiatus’s ludus. But like the rest of the men, he too had been debilitated by the recent malaise, as a result of which Felix’s clumsy and instinctive punch connected squarely with his chin, abruptly closing his mouth with a clack of teeth. There was a gasp of shock from the men as Oenomaus blinked in momentary surprise-and then they saw his face set, the muscles around his jaw tightening in an expression of absolute purpose and barely restrained fury.
Dropping his whip, he sprang forward, and next moment Felix was pinned to the floor, his face pressed into the sandy, dirty stone. Despite this he was still struggling, still screaming,
Oenomaus, perched atop the novice’s body like a spider atop a fly, leaned down and placed his mouth next to Felix’s ear. In his deep, commanding voice he said, “Listen well Felix. There is nothing there. Whatever you see, it exists only in mind.”
“No!” Felix whimpered. “They are on me.
Spartacus had moved forward now, and was standing beside Oenomaus, looking down at the struggling trainee.
“What do you see?” he asked.
“Scorpions,” Felix sobbed. “Black scorpions. Erupting from bowl-thousands of them.
Oenomaus looked up at Spartacus, a troubled expression on his face.
“There are no scorpions,” he said firmly. “Heed my words, Felix. Your mind plays tricks.”
Felix’s pinioned body continued to twitch and jerk beneath Oenomaus’s weight, his breath coming in rapid, sobbing gasps. His eyes were frantic, darting everywhere, like those of a rabbit caught in a snare.
“No,” he whispered, “they are here.”
“They are
Felix remained silent.
“Speak the words!” Oenomaus ordered.
“There are … there are no scorpions,” Felix muttered.
“Good. Now repeat these words until you believe them true.”
“There are no scorpions,” Felix whispered. “There are no scorpions. There are no scorpions.”
He repeated the words over and over like a litany as the men stood or sat silently, watching him, their own eyes full not of scorn or amusement, as might ordinarily have been the case, but of doubt and fear. Spartacus glanced at Varro, and saw the anxiety on his friend’s face too.
Men with swords and nets and tridents, ferocious warriors who wanted nothing more than to stab and slash you to death-this was a tangible threat, something easily understood. But an attack such as this-invisible and insidious and impossible to defend against-was something different altogether, and Spartacus could easily understand and sympathize with the terror and uncertainty and disorientation that the men were currently experiencing.
Finally Felix’s body seemed to relax, the twitching and jerking of his trapped limbs settling into immobility. His breathing became less frantic and his eyes began to droop.
“There are no scorpions,” he was still whispering, his voice barely audible now. “There are no scorpions.”
“You find calm?” Oenomaus said.
Felix hesitated a moment, and then nodded.
“And you will hold on to it if I release you?”
Another nod.
“Very well.” Carefully Oenomaus lifted his weight from Felix’s body and stood up. Felix remained on the floor, his cheek pressed to the cold stone, breathing steadily now. Spartacus stepped forward and stretched out a hand, and after a moment Felix rolled slowly on to his back, and then reached out and took it. As Spartacus hauled the young gladiator to his feet, Oenomaus said, “We will speak no more of this. Now eat and then resume-”
Like a motionless hare that suddenly springs to life and bolts away across a field, Felix gave a cry and leaped forward. As he did so he planted one hand on Oenomaus’s chest, one hand on Spartacus’s, and he shoved as hard as he could. Taken by surprise, both men stumbled backward, Oenomaus falling into Tetraides behind him, who raised his hands to steady him, and Spartacus hitting the bench behind him hard with the backs of his knees and abruptly sitting down. Felix, meanwhile, jumped over their outstretched legs and ran at full speed- between the long tables of the open-sided refectory and out on to the training ground.
Once there, he kept running, heading for the opposite side of the practice square, toward the sheer drop on to the uneven slopes of rock and shingle far below. Despite the danger, he gave no indication that he intended to slow his pace, and as he ran he began once again to frantically brush and scrabble at his body.
“Felix!” Doctore bellowed. “I command you to halt!”
But Felix kept running. He seemed to neither know nor care that within seconds he would be plunging to his death.
Belying his heavy limbs, Doctore shoved aside the men inadvertently blocking his path and set off in pursuit of the young trainee. He ran out of the mess hall and into the training square, unfurling his whip as he did so. The rest of the men, Spartacus and Varro among them, surged after him, gathering at the edge of the yard to watch the proceedings. They saw Oenomaus pound to a halt, draw back his arm and then almost casually flick it forward. With a crack the whip unfurled, flying after Felix’s scurrying form like a striking snake, so fast that it was little more than a blur. Almost before Spartacus had time to realize that the whip had found its target and was entwined about Felix’s ankles, Oenomaus was yanking his arm back, like a fisherman with a particularly large catch on the end of his hook. With a grunt, Felix fell, his legs flipping up behind him, his hands sending up a cloud of sand as they impacted with the ground. He lay, panting and helpless, not more than a body’s length from the cliff edge.
Lucretia entered the atrium just as Oenomaus was leaving, escorted by one of the house guards.
“Domina,” Doctore muttered with a short bow, and Lucretia acknowledged him with a nod. As Doctore and the guard marched away, toward the door that opened on to the stone steps leading to the ludus below, Lucretia saw her husband’s head droop, his hand rising to cradle it.
“What unfortunate news troubles my husband?” she asked tentatively.
