Spartacus: Morituri

began to choke and splutter.

“Do you find yourself unwell, good Brutilius?” Batiatus said icily, appearing beside him. “Perhaps the wine too harsh for such refined palate?”

Brutilius, now bent over double, continued to choke. One of the young men stepped forward and half- heartedly patted him on the back. When the portly man finally straightened up, his face was almost the same color as the wine in his goblet and tears were streaming from his eyes. He opened his mouth to reply, but only a thin croak emerged.

“Apologies,” Batiatus said, leaning forward and cupping his ear. “Your words are lost in enveloping clamor.”

“I fear good Brutilius overcome with mirth,” Crassus said drily.

Batiatus stared at him, his gaze unwavering.

“For mirth is it? What brings it on? I would share in the benefit of such amusement.”

The three young men shuffled in embarrassment. Hieronymus, who had yet to say a word, simply grinned at Batiatus, as if a show of overt friendliness was enough to absolve him from responsibility. Crassus alone returned Batiatus’s gaze without flinching. His reply too was blunt and without apology.

“I confess we were finding merriment at expense of your champion. Tell us, does condition of stumbling Thracian improve?”

One of the young men, unable to help himself, snorted laughter.

Batiatus turned his cold gaze upon him, and the man seemed visibly to wither.

“His condition is robust as usual,” he said.

“Good to hear that recovery from recent … misfortunes, arrives absent long delay,” Hieronymus said.

Batiatus hesitated a moment, and then finally said, “Quick enough that appearance in tomorrow’s primus will not be affected.”

“Surely his strength has not fully returned?” Crassus pressed.

Batiatus sighed as if he considered confessing the truth of that, then seemed to think better of what he was about to say, and shook his head almost angrily. “Spartacus will raise himself for the games-as will all my warriors. If they do not, then they stand unworthy of the house they serve.”

“Words boldly spoken,” Solonius murmured.

“It is not boldness but certainty of victory,” Batiatus said.

“You intend slight upon opponents with claim that their warriors stand inferior, though your ludus still flows with sickness,” Crassus goaded, looking almost as if he was enjoying himself.

“I intend no insult, good Crassus,” Batiatus replied. “It is not the way of the House of Batiatus to raise fingers in submission before commencement of games.”

“I am sure good Crassus meant no such offense,” Solonius said smoothly. “His words prompted merely by concern for fair contest.”

Batiatus glared at him.

“And how fares Solonius’s own ludus?”

Solonius smiled and shrugged, though the look in his eyes betrayed his uncertainty.

“Quite healthy. Why does Batiatus ask?”

“All talk that assails ears is of impending fall of Champion of Capua, due to diminished prowess-but good Solonious should not find comfort behind street gossip in hopes of concealing weakness of own ludus.”

Solonius looked momentarily lost for words. Brutilius, all but recovered now, frowned at him.

“I trust my father will be truly honored by tomorrow’s contest,” he said.

Solonius bowed. “There is nothing to fear in that regard, Brutilius. His glorious name will stir the hearts of all our gladiators, such that their skill and ferocity will spill boundless into the arena.”

“And you will witness my champion stride into it absent stumble,” Batiatus promised. He glared at the young men, who cowered beneath his wrath. “He will rage as storm in human shape, sweeping all before him.”

“Bold words become rash ones,” Solonius muttered. “Your champion is not the gladiator he was. Storm, yes — but I fear it one that has blown itself out.”

Batiatus shook his head.

“False gossip deceives ear my friend. Spartacus’s crown will not slip tomorrow. Additional laurels will be laid atop it, I am certain of that.”

Brutilius narrowed his eyes shrewdly and poked a fat finger in Batiatus’s direction.

“Certain enough to wager all that you own-coin, villa, ludus … everything?”

The arrogance slipped from Batiatus’s face-but only for a moment. He looked at the visages around him-at Brutilius and Solonius; at Crassus and Hieronymus; at the three young men whose names he still did not know, and had no particular wish to. All seven of them were looking at him with expressions ranging from wide-eyed curiosity to supercilious contempt. He shrugged with exaggerated casualness.

“Surely, yet who would see such wager proposed?”

Brutilius raised his eyebrows gleefully and looked at Solonius.

“Good Solonius? Words of doubt towards the Thracian’s chances were expressed with eloquence. Do you weight them with enough conviction to add coin to the scale?”

Solonius looked alarmed. Holding up his hands he said bluffly, “I do not wish to see friend ruined by careless boasting.”

Batiatus grunted contemptuously. Brutilius pouted in evident disappointment.

“I will take the wager,” Hieronymus said.

All eyes turned to him. The Greek merchant was smiling at Batiatus, as if doing him a favor. Brutilius giggled like a child, his eyes shining.

“The contest begins to soar to great heights of appeal,” he said. “You understand the nature of agreement?”

Hieronymus nodded. “If my gladiators win the primus, Batiatus forfeits all-”

“All that he owns,” Crassus interrupted with a sudden and terrifying wolf-like grin that caused the three young men to each take an involuntary step back at the sight of it, “to leave him destitute.”

“And if Batiatus’s men prevail,” Hieronymus continued, “then I shall match the value of his entire fortune with equivalent sum.” He shrugged. “A simple wager.”

“And if Solonius should take the primus?” one of the young men asked.

Brutilius shrugged. “Then the wager is forfeit. Neither man wins-but Solonius takes the glory.”

The young men all nodded eagerly, clearly excited by the prospect of Batiatus’s ruination, but Solonius’s face was a mask of exaggerated concern.

“Do you still stand certain, beyond reappraisal of such agreement?” he said to Batiatus. “The risk of it stands great. To venture possibility towards losing all that you possess, on the back of ailing Thracian…”

Batiatus looked pale, but at Solonius’s words his face set hard.

“Spartacus will prevail,” he said stubbornly. “His victory assured by the gods.”

“One hopes decree of gods as solid as good Batiatus’s confidence,” Brutilius said gleefully.

“If not, then he falls with his Thracian,” Crassus purred.

Lucretia slipped through the reveling crowd, every few moments catching a glimpse of her husband and the group of men he was talking to, an unmoving tableau within the mass of weaving bodies. She was moving toward them, but did not want to be spotted by them, and was therefore grateful that both Solonius and Hieronymus had their backs to her, and that Crassus was half-hidden by the column beside which he was standing.

Around her the party was becoming wilder, many of the drunken attendees-those that weren’t passed out in a stupor or throwing up in the atrium pool, that was — having sex with slaves or each other. One very young man, who looked barely old enough to wear the toga virilis, fell against her, pawing at her breasts and trying to stick his tongue in her mouth. In different circumstances Lucretia might have dragged him in to a quiet corner for a little mutual fumbling, but right at that moment he was nothing but an irritation. Struggling free of his clumsy embrace,