Spartacus: Morituri

Brutilius was incredulous. “If such wager warrants little concern, then I offer admiration of courage, good Batiatus.”

“Perhaps it reveals not courage but foolishness,” Crassus remarked.

“It reveals neither,” Batiatus retorted. “Merely confidence towards victory and conviction that Spartacus will prevail.”

“Spartacus?” Lucretia grimaced as though the word left a bad taste in her mouth. “Once again fortune hinges on wayward Thracian, but it seems the stakes raised to ever greater height,” she murmured. Then she asked, “What is the sum of wager?”

Brutilius gave a small, delighted whoop of alarm at the thought of how Lucretia would react when she discovered the full extent of her husband’s folly. And then he immediately seemed to regret his enthusiasm, closing his eyes and pressing a chubby hand to his throbbing head.

Batiatus gritted his teeth and threw a look of hatred at Solonius. As though the words were being chiseled from his very soul, he muttered, “All that we own.”

Lucretia’s eyes widened, her face incredulous.

“All that we own,” Lucretia repeated in a quiet stunned voice.

Batiatus gave a single terse nod.

“I assume the meaning applies to coin?” she whispered.

Crassus’s reply, as ever, was without inflection, and yet its very bluntness seemed to convey cruelty far more eloquently than any sneering riposte ever could.

“Your assumption is incorrect. Money, property, possessions, slaves. All of it. Add to it every drop of Roman water and Falernian wine you intended to pass lips. All will pass into the hands of Hieronymus should your champion fall this day.” His smile was thin and cold. “Confers a certain spice upon proceedings, does it not?”

For a moment Lucretia was speechless, her lips struggling to form the shapes of words that were jammed somewhere in the base of her throat. She blinked rapidly, as if the heat of the sun had become too much for her and she was about to pass out.

Finally she took a gulp of air, which seemed to remove the obstruction in her gullet.

“You offer up our life without so much as mention of it?” she hissed at Batiatus.

Batiatus frowned, clearly uncertain whether to be offhand or conciliatory.

“It is not offering but negligent possibility,” he said, lowering his voice in the hope of keeping the discussion between them private. “Wager is sound and the gods smile upon us. Consider that victory shall see our worth double. Hieronymus’s coin will pay off all debts, provide the finest clothes and jewelry from Rome. Think of…”

“How can I think of anything but risk of poverty? Thoughts plummet even further to consideration of slavery.”

“Raise them above such nonsense,” Batiatus said stubbornly.

“How can you possess such certainty?”

“Spartacus will prevail.”

She glared at him.

“Your faith in the Thracian remains ever misplaced. He is not forged by the gods. All champions can fall.” Batiatus sneaked a look across at Hieronymus. He leaned closer to Lucretia, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“That fucking Greek sought to dishonor our ludus. For this he will pay, the loftiest of stakes against it.”

Lucretia rolled her eyes.

“You forget that Solonius attempted to have you killed. Yet he prospers amidst promises of revenge yet unfulfilled.”

“Solonius’s day will come. But today there is honor to be won in the arena, beyond the satisfying of personal vengeance against rival.”

“If you find the arena so sacred then why wager our lives against possibility of never returning to it except as spectators?” she said, scorn in her voice.

Batiatus nodded proudly. “It is the battleground of the gods, worthy of risking all for the taking of highest reward. Hieronymus’s attempts to gain ascendancy have brought great injury to our house. He must be punished and crimes exposed. The wager stands.”

Lucretia looked at her husband for a long moment, her face grim.

“You stand fearless enough to gamble but not to share true price of it with wife.”

“It is not a gamble but a certainty.”

“As you have mentioned. But it hangs on Spartacus. If he falls he takes us with him.”

Batiatus remained stubborn.

“The fall will belong to Hieronymus. And it will elicit shower of coin upon us.”

Lucretia sighed. “The Greek shares loyal partnership with Crassus. If Hieronymus falls, then what of Crassus following after?”

Batiatus shrugged. “I do not wager against Crassus. But if revealed that he bore knowledge of Mantilus’s sabotage … then any disgrace he receives will be deserved.”

Closing her eyes for a moment, Lucretia let out a long sigh and said, “You play a dangerous game, husband. To make enemy of Crassus is to make one of Rome itself.”

“If Crassus stands an enemy, then it is of his choosing,” Batiatus replied.

Lucretia looked thoughtful for a long moment, her gaze leaving her husband’s face and staring out across the golden sand of the arena.

“I would rather plunge knife into heart than see everything we’ve earned forfeited to that greasy fucking merchant.”

Batiatus nodded. “If such a thing came to pass, I would use the knife against our enemies first. Whatever this day brings, you and I will stand together, Lucretia.”

There was the clinking of jugs behind them. Lucretia straightened up and turned her head.

“Water at last arrives!” she cried. Smiling sweetly, she reached across Batiatus’s body and touched Brutilius’s arm. “Stow your fear, good Brutilius. The sweet taste of Rome will restore health.”

“I would see the blood shed by Spartacus in the arena added to it,” Batiatus added defiantly.

In the dank, shadowy cells beneath the killing ground, the men of Batiatus’s ludus were once again preparing for battle. However, there was a very different atmosphere among them this time than there had been on the last occasion they had taken to the sands.

No longer laid low by the poisoned water from the mountain pool, they felt strong, confident, well rested, their minds clear and focused only on taking revenge on Hieronymus and achieving personal glory within the arena. Their ranks may have been diminished by death and injury, but those that remained-some virtually untried in competition, but trained to the peak of fitness and self-discipline beneath the crack of Oenomaus’s whip-still believed themselves more than a match for the so-called Morituri, described by Oenomaus as an ill-prepared rabble who had brought nothing but shame to the gladiatorial code of honor. Strutting on the training ground like a caged panther, his whip curled tight in his fist, and his bony, angular face taut with fury, the veteran gladiator’s contempt of their forthcoming opponents had been fearsome to behold.

“Such scum are not worthy of the title gladiator,” he had snarled. “Their victories achieved not by skill, but by deception and manipulation. Attempting to weaken their opponents outside the field of combat.” His glare had swept across the men like fire, scorching each and every one of them. “Do we fall to such men?”

“No!” the gladiators roared.

“No,” Oenomaus agreed grimly, “we do not. We despatch them to the underworld. Dominus decrees Hieronymus must be taught firm lesson absent decorous show for the crowd. A ruthless lesson carrying example of glorious sport, unsullied by deception and trickery.” He spun toward a gladiator, who was half-raising a hand. “Ask your fucking question.”

The man, a red-bearded Celt, who had passed the Final Test only days before Mantilus had begun to poison the water, and who had subsequently suffered from its effects more than most, said, “Will the crowd hurl abuse if we despatch opponents without pageantry? Games concluded too quickly without spectacle will deny full satisfaction.”

“If the crowd hurls abuse then judgement will land on Hieronymus for supply of inferior opposition. The