she lifted her arm and elbowed him smartly in the face. She heard a satisfying crack, but was moving away from him without looking behind her even as he was tumbling backward into the crowd, blood gushing from his broken nose.
Someone else she didn’t want to be seen by was Mantilus, who was standing motionless against the wall a little way beyond her target, the girl with the frightened eyes and the bruised wrists. Finding out that Hieronymus’s creature had laid their ludus low not with magic but with poison, and that-in the opinion of her husband-he was not in reality blind, despite his milky-white pupils, had reduced him greatly in her eyes. Now he seemed no longer a fearsome spirit of the underworld, beholden with terrifying powers, but merely a withered, ugly brute, a scarred and scuttling monkey despatched by Hieronymus to carry out his dirty work. Lucretia would have liked nothing more than to stick a knife in his gut and twist it, to see the shock on his hideous face and feel his thin, hot blood splash out over her hands and form a spreading pool on the floor. But Batiatus had warned her to contain her wrath, that their ultimate satisfaction would come from taking their time, and playing the long game. Lucretia knew that he was right, but even so she itched for blood. And if she could be the one wielding the blade that released it from his body, then so much the better.
Still eyeing the knot of men by the pillar and the goblin-like figure of Mantilus standing close by, she continued to edge forward through the crowd until she was within earshot of the girl. Quickly she finished the wine in her goblet and waved away a slave who scurried forward to replenish it. Hoping that Mantilus’s ears would not be sharp enough to pick out her individual voice among the clamor of the crowd, she hissed, “Slave! I would have words.”
The bruised slave-Batiatus had told her that her name was Athenais-continued to stare straight ahead, as if in a trance, clearly unaware that she was being addressed. Lucretia was not used to being ignored by slaves, but fought down her irritation. Raising her voice as much as she dared, she tried again: “Attend when I speak at you!”
This time Athenais blinked and looked at her. She wore a terrified expression, as if she lived in constant fear of such a summons. Her lips moved but her voice was so low that it was lost among the laughter and the raucous conversation.
Lucretia raised her arm, thrusting her goblet toward the girl.
“Fetch wine,” she commanded.
The girl looked trapped. Her eyes flickered toward the thick white column several feet away, behind which her master and his friends were deep in conversation. Then she looked back at Lucretia and raised an arm, pointing with a trembling finger.
“I beg that there are other slaves present-” the girl began tentatively, her voice barely audible.
“I don’t want sour piss pressed from rotten grapes by diseased feet of slaves,” Lucretia interrupted impatiently. “I desire good wine, from Solonius’s private stock. Fetch it.”
Athenais was shaking now, torn between complying with a direct command and obeying the strict instructions of her master to stand in attendance until required.
“Please, my dominus-” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the column.
“If your dominus asks of whereabouts, I will tell him of errand. Now hurry before I arrange flogging for insolence.”
The threat of physical violence was enough to spur Athenais into action. Bobbing her head, eyes downcast, she hurried forward to take Lucretia’s proffered goblet. With an expression of utter fear and misery on her face she scurried from the room. Lucretia hesitated for a moment, and then, with a final glance at Mantilus and the group of men clustered around the column, who had not even noticed the girl’s departure, she hurried after her.
XIII
The sun blazed from an azure sky of such perfection that the mere sight of it filled Batiatus with a deep sense of serenity and well-being. The arena seemed to glow with light beneath its benign gaze, and the freshly laid sand to shine like gold.
After a prolonged period of rain, enough to replenish the streams and rivers, and thus avert the drought which had begun to reach critical levels in Capua, and indeed had resulted in the deaths of dozens of its poorer citizens, the late summer had settled into a period of unsettled weather. A few days of glorious sunshine would be interspersed with a day or two of high winds and torrential downpours, as if the gods were sending reminders of the colder weather to come.
Today, though, the gods were being kind, and Batiatus-buoyant despite the wager he had agreed with Hieronymus the previous evening-was not hesitant in telling Brutilius so.
“Glorious conditions surely prove true indication of regard the gods hold for esteemed father,” he declared, gesturing expansively around him. “They smile down upon us, bestowing wonders of creation.”
Brutilius, nursing a hangover so crippling that even the tiniest nod caused him unbelievable pain, merely grimaced in lieu of a smile, and crooked a finger to bid the slave that was fanning him to waft with more vigor.
Lucretia, sitting beside her husband in the pulvinus, laid aside her own hand-held fan for a moment to touch Batiatus’s arm.
“What is it?” he asked her.
“It is indeed glorious day, but uncommonly hot as well-I fear dear Brutilius suffers its harsher effects.” She turned in her seat and gestured toward Athenais, who was standing among the slaves at the rear of the pulvinus. “Bring water,” she ordered, and then, as though it was an after-thought, “of abundant quantity. Enough for all.”
Athenais gave a small bow, and hurried away to do her bidding.
Leaning forward to address not only Brutilius and his wife, but also Solonius, Hieronymus and Marcus Crassus, who were sitting beyond them, she said, “Please share water with us. Imported from Rome at great cost. An extravagance, but one essential to good health and countenance. I have not encountered any so clear in appearance or sweet of taste.”
“Most kind,” Brutilius’s wife said. Her face was a carefully applied mask of white lead and red ocher, but her bloodshot eyes served as a testament to the previous night’s excesses.
“Such opulent description for plain liquid,” Solonius said. “Let us hope such luxuries will not be found out of reach at conclusion of today’s festivities.”
Lucretia smiled politely, puzzlement on her face.
“Apologies, good Solonius. I do not understand your meaning.”
Solonius paused, his lips twitching in a small smirk.
“The apologies are mine to bestow. It appears I speak out of turn, before husband breaks news.”
Despite his hangover, Brutilius chuckled. “It seems jaws pry open with contest yet to start. The cobras ever snapping.”
Brutilius’s wife was all sympathy towards Lucretia.
“The hissing of proud men, lending cover to foolish insecurities,” she said. “They are like children, are they not?”
Lucretia turned to Batiatus, her eyes flashing dangerously.
“What news does husband possess? It seems known to all but loving wife,” Lucretia said.
Batiatus looked distinctly uncomfortable, but laughed and flicked a hand, as though waving away a fly.
“It stands as nothing,” he said. “A trifle.”
“More than that, I think,” Crassus chimed in from the far end of the pulvinus, his voice dry and clipped, his face like stone.
Lucretia looked positively murderous now. She glanced from her husband to Crassus and back again.
“I think it time news was shared, whether trifle or not,” she said in a voice that broached no argument.
Batiatus sighed. “A simple wager with Hieronymus. Gesture of faith towards might of my warriors. It is of little concern.”
