Spartacus: Morituri

“Recent events test us all. Ailments of body and mind fashion rumors of dread-of spirits and sorcerers despatched from the underworld. Even murmurings of curse laid upon the House of Batiatus peck at brains like nagging vulture.

“Such rumors can now wither and come to rest. Gratitude is owed your champion, Spartacus, whose wisdom in the matter matched only by his prowess in the arena. The House of Batiatus uncovers the truth.”

He paused as a rumble of speculation rippled among the men, as heads turned to regard Spartacus, whose face remained impassive, his blue eyes fixed on Batiatus alone.

At last, nodding sagely, Batiatus continued, “There is no curse upon us. You gladiators have been dosed not with measure of sorcery-but with poison!”

This time the ripple became a rising babble, the men gaping up at Batiatus and at each other in amazement. Doctore stepped forward and cracked his whip, his face like thunder.

“Silence! Dominus did not grant leave to speak!” he bellowed.

Instantly the men quietened, glancing apprehensively up at their master, realizing that they had overstepped the mark. Batiatus, however, raised his hands once again, clearly still in an expansive and forgiving mood.

“Your agitation well founded,” he said. “Indeed, I share it. Heart is saddened and enraged upon discovery that a fellow lanista has soiled honorable profession. He uses means of advancement better fit for those who dwell in gutter among shit and rats.

“I thought Hieronymus an honorable man. I invited him to house, to partake of wine and hospitality. My own gladiators provided entertainment.” He raised his voice in outrage, jabbing a finger at the sky. “Despite this extension of hand in courtesy and friendship, he spits in my face. And seeks to snatch glory from my noble warriors not by sword and spear but by foul concoction wrought from exotic herbs, secreted in food we eat and water we drink.” He shook his head, as if he could not conceive of such villainy. “Are these the actions of an honorable man?”

Roused to anger by his words, the men below clenched their fists and punched the air, shouting out their denials.

“I agree they are not,” Batiatus agreed. “These are not honorable actions. But be assured, the House of Batiatus will have vengeance. Hieronymus will wish eyes never laid on gates of Capua. He will pay for attempting to infect blood and sand we hold dear with stinking filth of his vile machinations.”

As the men roared their approval, Batiatus looked down at them, a benevolent god, nodding in accord. At length he raised his hands once again.

“From this moment we partake only of pure water and untainted food. And we train as never before. When next we face Hieronymus’s morituri-as we shall soon-we will destroy them, leaving nothing but butchered meat fit for feeding fucking pigs!”

More cheering, more clenched fists. Batiatus indulged it for a minute or so and then adopted a somber expression.

“It pains heart that not all who serve the House of Batiatus will enjoy the teaching of this lesson. There is one among us who turned hand against us, choosing betrayal above honor, for mere glint of coin. If not for this snake, many of your brothers would still stand alongside you today. Let his punishment serve as example of reward for dishonor. And with it, conclude dark moment that fell upon this house to set upon new path to glorious victory!”

With that a man was dragged out on to the practice square and thrown to his knees on the sandy ground. Naked but for a filthy loincloth, his torso was scored with cuts and blotched with ugly purple-black bruises. He looked around in a daze, his bottom lip split open and the plum-colored flesh around his left eye so swollen that the eye itself was nothing but a narrow sliver of red in its center. Blood ran down the right-hand side of his face from an ear that appeared to have been chewed, as if by a wild animal.

The man lowered his head and spat a black crust of blood on to the sand.

“Get up you unfaithful cunt,” Batiatus snarled down at him.

Raising his head, which wobbled unsteadily, as though about to topple from his shoulders, the man looked around, trying to pinpoint the source of the voice. Finally he spotted Batiatus on the balcony above.

“I give no fuck for this house,” he slurred.

Batiatus gave a single sharp nod to Oenomaus, who strode forward and grabbed the man by his hair. The man yelped as he was hauled to his feet, eliciting a ripple of guttural laughter from the watching gladiators. He tried to claw at Doctore’s hand, but the African’s grip was immovable. Only when the man was standing upright, on his own two feet, did he let go of him.

“Give the traitor a sword,” Batiatus ordered.

A slave hurried out of the refectory with a sword-not a wooden practice one, but a real one-and handed it to Doctore. With a sneer of contempt the veteran gladiator threw it at the man’s feet.

“Pick it up,” Batiatus said.

The man again looked up at him, tilting his head so that he could see Batiatus clearly with his good eye.

“What for?” he replied defiantly.

Batiatus shrugged.

“There is no obligation to do so. The choice yours. But note in the giving of choice that, unlike your master, I am an honorable man. And offer opportunity to walk free from the house you shit upon.”

The man stared at him for a long moment, and then he looked down at the sword at his feet. With a sigh he picked it up, but held it loosely, as though already resigned to his fate.

“Your decision to serve Hieronymus for selfish gain has grieved my gladiators,” Batiatus said. “Several of their brothers lie dead, glory denied by your actions. For this they would see justice done. But so great is their honor that it dictates giving you a chance.” He smiled a slow, grim smile. “You will face our champion in combat. Prevail and walk free. Lose…” He shrugged. “… and your ravaged body will be discovered on lower slopes, regrettable victim of accident.” He twisted his features into a mockery of sadness. “A terrible tragedy befallen innocent man.”

Spartacus stepped forward and was handed a sword by a slave. He took it without a word, his stance relaxed, his face implacable. The traitorous guard glanced at him warily, but his voice when he addressed Batiatus was still defiant.

“I am Roman and demand fair trial. I will not be made to brawl in dirt like common slave.”

Batiatus spread his hands and said in a reasonable voice, “Judgement is given, along with choice. Now yours to make alone. Fight and perhaps live. Or receive certain death.” He glanced at his champion. “Do you stand ready, Spartacus?”

“Yes, dominus.”

Batiatus gave a sharp nod. “Then begin.”

With a smile of satisfaction, Batiatus re-entered the villa, the slaves pulling the double doors closed behind him. He found Lucretia bathing, Naevia gently rubbing warm oil into her shoulders and back to bring the dirt and sweat to the surface, before scraping it carefully off with a strigil.

Perching on the edge of the bath, Batiatus dabbled his fingers in the milky water. He dried them on a cloth proffered by a slave, then helped himself to a fig from a wooden bowl.

“Has the deed been done?” Lucretia said.

Batiatus nodded.

“The treacherous dog has had yelp forever silenced.”

She arched an eyebrow.

“Did he fight well?”

The question made Batiatus laugh so hard that the fig he was eating flew out of his mouth and spattered on the floor, where it was quickly cleared away by a slave.

“He fought like whipped mule, and crawled as one too. Spartacus saw more of his ass than face. The men chomped at bit to see the traitor’s heart borne aloft by the champion’s sword. It was joyous spectacle.”

Lucretia’s smile was thin and cruel.

“I wish I had seen it.”