Spartacus: Morituri

exasperation he said, “The Thracian tires mind with strain of thought when he should direct efforts to training and fighting.” Then he dropped his eyes and fixed Spartacus with a steely gaze. “Speak.”

“Where is the origin of the ludus’s water supply?” Spartacus asked.

“A pool serviced by spring further down the mountain, collected each new day-” Batiatus abruptly fell silent, his eyes widening, as he realized what Spartacus was suggesting.

“And the water that serves villa?”

Now Batiatus looked thoughtful. “We bathe in water that the men below drink, but drinking water supplied to villa is imported from particular source outside city walls.”

Spartacus nodded, clearly satisfied by Batiatus’s reply.

“This would provide explanation for why you have not suffered the same ill effects.”

“You think Mantilus was set to task by Hieronymus to taint stream?”

Spartacus nodded again.

“If true then that which sustains the lives of the men has instead been robbing us of it.”

Batiatus’s features twisted suddenly and he smashed his desk with a clenched fist.

“Fucking Greek cunt! I’ll have his bowels plucked out with fish hooks.” Then abruptly his rage vanished as a thought struck him. “What of the house slaves?”

“What of them?”

Batiatus barked a laugh.

“Do you suppose they drink fine Roman water? They imbibe from the same source as you, yet they display no affliction.”

Carefully Spartacus said, “Are you certain, dominus?”

Batiatus shrugged. “I detect no debility among them.”

“The illness is not so acute that it would keep them from duties,” Spartacus replied. “I hold doubt they would care to trouble their dominus with grievance of aching limbs and troubled sleep. A gladiator finds himself balanced between life and death in the arena. What could be irksome burden for house slaves to endure could be the push that sends a fighting man to his doom.”

Again Batiatus looked thoughtful. Then he called forward a slave, who appeared in the doorway. The portly African, stripped to the waist, moved across obediently.

“Dominus?” he enquired softly.

“Spill truth, Abbasi,” Batiatus said. “How do you fare?”

The slave, Abbasi, looked wary. His dark eyes flickered from Batiatus to Spartacus, and then back again.

“Dominus?” he said again, uncertain.

“It is a simple question the smallest of minds could provide answer for,” Batiatus said impatiently. “Are you well?”

Unconvincingly Abbasi said, “Quite well, dominus.”

“Your tone carries doubt-speak truth.”

Quietly Spartacus said to the man, “No fault will lie with you. Has there been illness among slaves in the house these past weeks?”

Abbasi hesitated a moment longer, and then reluctantly nodded.

“A little, dominus. But it will soon pass, without need of medicus.”

Batiatus waved him away.

“Carry on. Do not concern yourself with it.”

“Dominus,” Abbasi said with a short bow. With a last troubled glance at Spartacus, he backed away, resuming his position outside the door.

“The water is collected daily?” Spartacus asked.

Batiatus nodded.

“From a pool fed by stream in constant motion.”

“Mantilus must make frequent pilgrimage, lest the effects of poison swiftly fade.”

Baring his teeth like an animal, Batiatus said, “Then we will lie in wait and catch him at task. When his loathsome face appears we will slice it from fucking head and deliver to his master!”

Spartacus raised a hand. “Dominus?”

Batiatus’s face was a mask of fury.

“What is it?”

His own face calm, Spartacus paused, waiting until he had Batiatus’s full attention. Then he said softly, “With dominus’s permission, I would make proposal of different solution …”

XI

For the third time the unseen owl screeched as it plunged from the night sky on to its prey, and for the third time Ashur responded by almost vacating his shivering skin. He swore viciously under his breath, and placed a hand on his chest as if to soothe the wild pounding of his heart.

For what seemed like hours he had been sitting halfway down the mountain, concealed within a thicket of bushes. From here he was able to overlook the pool which supplied the ludus with water without being spotted. Each time he moved-which he did regularly to ease his aching back and prevent the muscles in his limbs from seizing up with cold-thorns snagged in his clothes and scratched at his tender flesh. Several times he had heard the rustling movement of animals somewhere out in the darkness, and he had frozen rigid, his mind full of images of beasts he had only ever seen in the arena-wolves and lions and bears.

Despite the relative freedom he was allowed by Batiatus, and the trust that was placed in him to undertake tasks in the city alone, at that moment Ashur cursed his privileged status, and envied his more restricted gladiatorial brethren. He imagined them all curled up in their warm cells right now-warm in comparison to his present location, at any rate-snoozing away the last few hours of darkness, and dreaming of glory within the arena. How he wished he could be there among them. But instead he was stuck here, with nothing but a thin cloak to protect him from the bone-aching cold, and wild animals prowling in the darkness, and-most terrifying of all- the prospect of encountering the creature he had been sent here to spy upon. Batiatus had told Ashur that he was certain that Mantilus would make an appearance at some time today, and that it was Ashur’s duty to observe what he did without being seen, and then to report his findings back to Batiatus.

Despite the almost unthinkable repercussions that would have followed had he refused the task, Ashur’s first instinct had been to do just that. The prospect of being out on this mountainside in the dark, waiting for Hieronymus’s creature to make an appearance, had turned his mouth bone-dry. Because in spite of what Batiatus had told him, Ashur still believed that Mantilus was an evil spirit, or at any rate something far more terrifying than a mere man. And as such, the scarred attendant was surely capable of inflicting terrible things upon a mortal man, things that Ashur hardly dared to contemplate, but which he felt sure would be infinitely worse than the simple finality of death.

The only reason Ashur had not refused Batiatus’s order in the end was not simply out of a sense of duty and loyalty, but also because, as usual, he had played the odds. If he said no to Batiatus then he would suffer for it, that much was certain. But at least by accepting the task, he was presented with certain choices and possibilities. One possibility was that Mantilus might not turn up at all; another was that the attendant might turn up, but that he might not detect Ashur’s presence; yet another was that, even if he did detect Ashur’s presence, he might consider him so paltry a threat that he would deem him unworthy of attention.

And if the worst came to the worst, then at least Ashur would still have the option to either run or fight- though sitting out here alone in the darkness that notion now seemed absurd.

Another possibility, of course, was that Ashur might freeze to death, and be found the next morning, his body rigid as stone, his blood frozen to red ice in his veins. In some ways that seemed almost desirable-it would stop him fretting at any rate, and place him beyond the clutches of the creature-though his sense of self- preservation still resulted in him rubbing his arms and legs vigorously at regular intervals in the hope of massaging some warmth into them.