“I wish I held share of that belief,” she said. “I have kept tongue still until now but I was seized by the specter of his influence in this house the night of celebration.”
Batiatus arched an eyebrow.
“I did not bear witness to it.”
“It was but a thing of proximity to the man, not of any dark magic detected.”
“He issued threats toward you?”
“No. But his force was … palpable. Ilithyia also felt effects of unpleasantness.”
“Ilithyia, the spoiled adolescent,” Batiatus said scathingly.
“Would you see ears open and mockery resisted?” Lucretia snapped.
Batiatus gestured for her to continue.
“Spill words. I will keep skeptical tongue still.”
Lucretia took a sip of wine, and then told her husband what had happened on the night in question. However, the recounting of her story proved a frustrating experience. Just as when one is unable to convey in words the stifling atmosphere of utter dread felt in a nightmare, so the telling of her encounter with Mantilus served only to diminish it, to make her seem not justifiably fearful in the face of his overwhelming malevolence, but unaccountably foolish, even a little hysterical, in the presence of what amounted to nothing but a blind old man. Eventually she flapped a hand in angry dismissal.
“Your manner indicates you disregard my words.”
Batiatus widened his eyes.
“A thing I do not mean to convey. I offer only sympathetic ear and agreement that Mantilus uses fearsome demeanor to full advantage.”
“But you think him lacking in darker abilities beyond monstrous effect of visage?”
Batiatus spread his hands in apology.
“Why should I believe otherwise?”
“Cast eyes to your ludus. The evidence amply displayed. If not visible to your eyes, prospect of glittering coin blinds you to it. The affliction that struck down Solonius’s men is now rampant in our stable. Surely not coincidence.”
Batiatus clenched his jaw.
Eventually he said, “If true, what would you have me do?”
Lucretia sighed. “I stand empty of thought,” she admitted.
Batiatus crossed to her, put a hand over hers. This time when he spoke his voice was soft.
“Spartacus will prevail tomorrow, I am certain. Perhaps victory will break the afflicting spell.”
Lucretia looked into her husband’s eyes, her face full of doubt.
“Perhaps,” she murmured unhappily.
IX
“Good Batiatus!” Hieronymus cried, greeting his rival lanista like a long-lost friend. “I hope you fare well.”
“Never better,” Batiatus replied heartily, mustering a grin.
“The heart gladdens to hear it. Your presence has been missed of late. I feared some misfortune had assaulted you.”
“Nothing could be wider of the mark,” Batiatus said glibly. “Affairs of business steal hours, preparations for these games taking their share of course.”
Hieronymus acknowledged the explanation with an exaggerated nod of the head.
“Blood surges in anticipation of fierce contest,” he admitted gleefully.
“As does mine,” Batiatus replied, and glanced beyond the merchant to the white-clad form of Marcus Crassus, staring almost glumly at the currently pristine expanse of sand beneath the pulvinus-sand which soon enough would be stained and spattered with the blood and severed body parts of today’s combatants. Raising his voice, Batiatus asked, “How do you find the Capuan summer, good Crassus?”
Crassus glanced round, seemingly reluctantly.
“I enjoy attentions of exemplary host,” he said, bestowing a stiff smile upon Hieronymus, “but admit to hankering for civilized environs of Rome.”
Batiatus nodded stiffly and took his place beside Hieronymus in the front row of the pulvinus.
Lucretia, tight-lipped and pale with tension, slipped into the seat behind him. Fanning herself, she acknowledged Hieronymus’s murmured greeting and asked a slave for water. As she sipped it she glanced nervously around, and then eventually asked, “Does your attendant Mantilus join us today?”
Hieronymus wafted extravagantly toward the arena.
“He takes his place below, in company with my warriors.”
Batiatus was surprised.
“He is your doctore, as well as your attendant?”
“He satisfies … spiritual requirements of the men,” Hieronymus said with a smile.
“A modern approach,” Batiatus half-joked, evoking a polite chuckle from his fellow lanista. When he glanced over his shoulder at Lucretia, however, he saw his own unease reflected in his wife’s eyes.
The sun blazed down, baking the sand of the arena, but in the cells and corridors beneath the amphitheater itself, the stone walls were cool, even damp to the touch. The area was a hive of activity, gladiators donning their armor and going through their pre-fight rituals. Some practiced their moves, concentration etched on their faces; others merely prowled like tigers, restless for the games to begin. Some lay on stone slabs whilst their muscles were massaged with perfumed oils; others offered prayers to their gods, or simply sat alone in silent contemplation.
Spartacus and Varro sat side by side on a stone bench, conversing quietly. As they had been selected for today’s primus they would be last to take to the sands, and as such had a wait of several hours ahead of them before their eventual crowd-pleasing entrance into the arena.
“How stands your strength?” Varro asked.
Spartacus held out his fist and clenched it. Seemingly dissatisfied with the result, he said, “Sura would say that it lies time for the gods to determine. Today I place myself in their hands.”
Varro breathed out hard through his nose.
“Not exactly words of comfort, my friend.”
“If you wish for comfort, you should have it in the arms of a woman before hour in arena.”
“And drain strength yet further? Unwise advice prior to contest.”
Spartacus chuckled, and Varro along with him. Yet despite the big Roman’s characteristic good humor, Spartacus could see that his friend was worried. He reached out and squeezed Varro’s shoulder.
“Together we shall find strength to defeat our opponents. I will not see Aurelia a widow this day.”
For a moment Varro looked too moved by Spartacus’s words to speak, and then suddenly he smiled.
“You are good friend, Spartacus-for a simple Thracian.”
Spartacus laughed.
Standing alone just inside the gate through which the gladiators made their entrance into the arena, Oenomaus basked in the hot smell of blood and the roar of the crowd. Staring through the diamond-shaped grille onto the gore-streaked sand brought back memories of his own fighting days-the glory and the adrenaline, the sense of being raised to such a pinnacle by the adulation of the people that a man could be made to believe he had the power to walk among the gods.
Today, though, Oenomaus felt far from that elevated position. The dream in which he had been visited by his nemesis, Theokoles, and his beloved wife, Melitta, still clung to him like a shroud. Though he was not a man given to flights of fancy, he could not help but think that it had been significant somehow-a message perhaps, warning him that those around him were not all that they seemed, or that dark days were on their way. If he did
