Spartacus: Morituri

not feel so tired and confused, then perhaps the message would become clearer. But his distracted thoughts felt merely an extension of the mysterious aching lethargy in his bones that made him feel as old and slow as some of the former slaves he saw begging on the streets, cruelly discarded by their masters because they could no longer perform the duties required of them. At present it was only his own pride and indomitable will that enabled him to rise from his bed day after day, and to cajole the men through the rigorous routines required to give them a chance of continuing survival within the arena.

However, though Oenomaus had kept shouting at them, kept pushing them, kept cracking his whip, it had become abundantly plain to him as the days progressed that he was fighting a losing battle. Despite this he had vowed to himself that he would not succumb-that it was not in his nature to do so. Instead he would forge on with every ounce of strength at his disposal, in the stubborn belief that eventually, together, they would all break through the invisible barrier to the other side, or die trying. What angered him, and disappointed him, was that so few of the men seemed to share his conviction and determination. There was Spartacus, of course, the hardheaded but untrustworthy Thracian. And Varro, who was strong as a bull, but lacked finesse. There was Crixus, but he was currently incapacitated by injury. And there was the German, Agron, who was single-minded, fierce and brave, but whose progress thus far had been hampered by his less able brother, Duro.

But now that the Carthaginian, loyal Barca, had apparently procured his freedom (although the abruptness of his departure niggled at Oenomaus like an aching tooth), those four were perhaps the only men of the ludus on whom he could truly rely to give of their best, despite the reduced circumstances in which they currently found themselves. It was a troubling situation, but one from which he hoped the House of Batiatus might ultimately prosper. Sometimes it took a crisis to reveal the true nature of a warrior’s-or in this case an entire ludus’s — strengths and weaknesses, and sometimes a quick cull was more beneficial in the long run than a slow and lengthy decline.

Such was Oenomaus’s state of mind as he looked out at the sand, already streaked by the blood of beasts slain for the audience’s amusement, and readied himself to watch the preliminary bouts of today’s contest. Already the first of the gladiators were out, the cheers or jeers of the crowd ringing in their ears as they were announced by their respective lanistae. In moments the games proper would begin, and the House of Batiatus would rise or fall by the sword as surely as the men who fought in its name.

Sensing rather than hearing a presence behind him, Oenomaus half-turned his head. Even as he did so, he knew that if the newcomer had been an assassin he would have been dead by now, such was the rate at which his reflexes had slowed these past weeks. Although he was relieved to see that the man shuffling into view behind him apparently meant him no immediate harm, he found his presence less than welcoming all the same. In the shadows of the tunnel, the pale eyes of Hieronymus’s attendant, Mantilus, seemed to glow like white fire.

“Do you require aid to locate pulvinus, where your master sits?” Oenomaus asked him, refusing to be intimidated.

Mantilus ignored him, inclining his head only slightly to indicate that he was aware of Oenomaus’s presence.

“This area is for gladiators and the men who instruct them,” Oenomaus said, narrowing his eyes as Mantilus approached. The man appeared to be whispering or chanting quietly to himself, and Oenomaus found the constant movement of his pierced and purple lips disconcerting. However, with the bellowing of the crowd and the clashing impact of iron weapons beyond the gate drowning out all lesser sounds, it was impossible to ascertain whether the scarred attendant was making any noise.

Despite himself, Oenomaus took a step back from Mantilus as the man came level with him. He did not believe all the recent talk of sorcery, but he could not deny that to be touched by the man, to feel his long-fingered hands scuttling over his skin, would be a loathsome prospect. He had faced more fearsome foes in the arena, and yet there was something about this creature-some indefinable quality beyond even his bizarre appearance- that was oddly discomfiting. Even so, if Oenomaus had known for certain that Mantilus was responsible for the current reduced state of the men in his care-even if he discovered that the attendant was using dark abilities hitherto unknown, and possibly bestowed by evil spirits- he would have had no hesitation in striking the man down where he stood, or dying in the attempt.

He watched, distastefully and suspiciously, as Mantilus walked up to the vast gates leading into the arena and pressed his wiry body against one of them. He reached up his scarred hands and curled his fingers through the bars, the movement reminding Oenomaus unpleasantly of a vine curling its fronds through the stonework of an old building, widening cracks and undermining the structure. He was even more perturbed by the way that Mantilus pressed his face to the cross-hatched bars, still mouthing his silent imprecations.

It was as if he was casting spells, Oenomaus thought. As if he was attempting to influence proceedings in the arena with the potency of words alone.

Batiatus winced as another of his gladiators crashed to the ground. Spiculus, a Massylian from eastern Numidia, who had only recently passed the Final Test, had been too slow to dodge the net cast by Hieronymus’s lithe, lank-haired retiarius. Now he was desperately trying to untangle himself as the netman closed in, hefting his trident. Spiculus’s gladius was just out of his reach, having flown from his hand when he had fallen, and all he currently had to defend himself with was his rectangular shield.

“Come on you flailing shit,” Batiatus muttered, watching from the balcony, as Spiculus frantically kicked his legs and tore at the net with his free hand. But the Massylian warrior only seemed to be entangling himself still further by his efforts. The retiarius circled him slowly, a wild beast moving in for the kill.

Finally the retiarius sprang forward, jabbing down with his trident. Desperately Spiculus raised his shield to meet it and the three lethal prongs clanged against the metal, scoring deep scratches on its surface. The retiarius feinted, and came again, and this time his trident pierced the side of Spiculus’s thigh. The murmillo howled in pain and instantly extended two fingers in the familiar gesture of surrender. The crowd booed and jeered, and Batiatus closed his eyes. Hieronymus reached over and patted him on the shoulder, then stood up.

Now it was at the crowd’s behest whether Spiculus lived or died. From their reaction, Batiatus was certain what their response would be. Sure enough, the still-jeering mob gave him the thumbs down, and Hieronymus nodded to the waiting retiarius. Batiatus looked away, not out of squeamishness but because he had no wish to see yet more of his hard-earned coin draining away, as Hieronymus’s man leaped forward and buried his trident in Spiculus’s throat.

The crowd screamed out in blood-lust and wild approval as Spiculus’s body bucked and jerked for a few moments, then became still. The retiarius strode forward and wrenched his trident from Spiculus’s throat, releasing an arterial spray of blood. As he prowled the arena, roaring in victory, holding aloft the weapon which had ended the Numidian murmillo’s life, Hieronymus leaned in to address Batiatus.

“Most unfortunate,” he said consolingly. “Your man showed early promise.”

Batiatus clenched his teeth in a rictus grin.

“Simple mistakes merely indicated his lack of experience. Your warriors fight well, good Hieronymus. A credit to your training methods.”

Hieronymus raised a hand, accepting the compliment with easy grace.

“I will not deny a certain eye for talented prospects, but I cannot claim full credit. Good Crassus here has been generous enough to bestow his experience in battle.”

“You have feeling for work of a doctore?” Batiatus called across to the Roman nobleman a little sourly, earning a surreptitious poke in the back from Lucretia sitting behind him.

Crassus turned, his face deadpan, his gray eyes brimming with scorn.

“It affords amusement to act as Hieronymus’s tactician — only in advisory capacity of course. A mere passing of the time.”

“Of course,” Batiatus replied, his voice equally cold. “Forgive my tone if it leaned to implication of anything but.”

Crassus remained silent, regarding Batiatus with the stare of a butcher wondering how best to slice and present a slaughtered beast.

“Crassus only adds to sound methods already employed within ludus. Mantilus stands a great source assuring victory,” Hieronymus said, smoothing over the momentary awkwardness.