Spartacus: Morituri

glory of the day will be yours.”

As ever, while others among the Brotherhood strutted and roared and psyched themselves up for the contest ahead, Spartacus sat quietly, contemplatively, conserving his energy. Varro-his partner in the primus for the second time in a row-perched beside him, by far the more loquacious of the two.

“I hope you don’t plan to unleash the maneuver displayed to dominus’s guests during training,” Varro said with a smile on his face.

Spartacus, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, turned and squinted up at his friend.

“Which maneuver would that be?”

“The one where you trip over your own feet, bury sword in sand and roll like helpless turtle on your back? It would reduce opponents to such state of writhing mirth they would be helpless beneath my sword.”

Spartacus laughed. “I agree it was impressive tactic. Perhaps dominus’s guests were convinced enough by stumbling display for Hieronymus to seize mind with thoughts of superiority above our men.”

Varro looked up as footsteps approached their cell, and saw Oenomaus striding along the dimly lit corridor toward them.

“We will find out soon enough,” he said.

In the upper tier of the stands almost directly opposite the pulvinus a fight broke out. Batiatus watched with halfhearted interest as two men, one a half-naked giant who seemed to be compensating for the lack of hair on his head with a thick tangle of beard that spread like a bib across his bare chest, and the other younger, thinner and more agile, began to exchange punches, urged on by a pair of shrieking doxies, their exposed tits swaying like water bags.

Within seconds a ripple effect radiated out from the center of conflict, and other spectators, fueled by cheap wine and made irritable by the baking heat, began to join in.

“The rabble grows restless,” Lucretia noted, sounding bored.

Brutilius, his hangover now ebbing, rolled his eyes.

“Disgraceful display. Is this respect for my father’s name? Are they so ungrateful for entertainment provided?”

“Their heads absent thought like animals,” Lucretia said. “They fall to base instincts when eyes lack blood upon which to leer.”

Brutilius and his wife nodded sagely, as though she had spoken with great wisdom.

Solonius, his lips curled in a smile, said, “The burden of providing it to them stands a substantial one does it not, dear Batiatus? The citizens of Capua see risk of withering for want of entertainment in our absence.”

Batiatus inclined his head modestly.

“Ours is profession offering great gifts. Yet we provide more than mere frivolous distraction. Without games, there would be greater void of meaning in the lives of those thronged before us. They would find the search for excitement, glory, and honor a frustrating one.”

“Truly you have been placed upon earth by the gods themselves,” Crassus muttered.

Batiatus clenched his teeth on a cutting riposte, and instead mustered a smile.

“As have you yourself good Crassus,” he said. “We lanistae provide much of course-but you are great statesman and politician. A provider of stability and welfare to the public. You too serve the people with wisdom and honor do you not?”

“The word is relentless in assault upon ear,” Brutilius’s wife commented. “There seems talk of little else today.”

Batiatus spread his hands.

“Apologies if my talk of the virtue grows tedious. But it is quality all here cradle to breast like hungry infant. Surely you agree, Hieronymus?”

Hieronymus turned his dark eyes on Batiatus.

“Without doubt,” he said, hiding as ever behind his wide smile.

Batiatus smiled back at him, but his was a thin affair, which failed to reach his eyes.

The sun was at its height, beating down mercilessly upon the sand and upon the exposed heads of the unsheltered crowd. The morning’s festivities had started with a procession, Brutilius at its head in a chariot pulled by four white horses, waving to the throng as they clapped and cheered along to the musicians behind him. Though the editor of the games had been smiling widely, in truth his teeth had been clenched in pain and his eyes half-closed, as each blast on the cornus and each pound on the drums had sent a separate stab of agony through the tender meat of his thumping brain.

Trundling behind the musicians had been a number of wheeled cages, flanked by the bestiarii in their leather vestments and protective leggings, within which tigers, lions, wolves and even a polar bear prowled back and forth, and occasionally threw themselves against the bars with shuddering impacts that drew squeals of delight from the watching children.

Finally, bringing up the rear, had been a bedraggled display of that day’s sacrifices-criminals such as thieves and murderers, all of them beaten, filthy and half-naked, chained together at hands and feet. They had shuffled and limped along bewilderedly, squinting up at the sun, too exhausted to dodge the various missiles which had rained down upon their heads-bones and fish-guts, rotten vegetables, and excrement both human and animal.

After the procession had come the mock fights and the animal displays, and then the first of the executions — the damnatio ad bestias, in which half a dozen chained prisoners had been pitted against a pack of hungry wolves. For a while the watching hordes had been captivated by the glorious sight of fellow human beings being ripped apart, and had laughed and cheered at their inhuman screams of agony, but now they were bored again, eager for more bloodshed.

Up in the pulvinus, the dignitaries had just finished a light lunch of fish, sausages, eggs, bread and olives, which the slaves were now in the process of clearing away.

As Athenais refilled water cups, Batiatus reached for a honey-fried date stuffed with nuts and peppercorns and popped it into his mouth. Chewing, and eyeing the fight in the opposite stand, which had now become a full- scale brawl, he said, “Perhaps we should commence with proper event lest citizens find their own diverting pursuits.”

Taking his cue, Solonius rose to his feet and raised his hands.

“Citizens of Capua,” he cried, his voice ringing out around the arena.

Immediately the crowd, many of whom had been urging the combatants on, quietened, diverting their attention to him. Even the brawlers themselves took note of his voice, some of them pausing mid-punch, their clenched fists still raised. Within seconds the fighting had ceased, and the crowd-many of them with torn clothes, and bruised and bloodied faces and hands — were looking across at him with eager anticipation. Solonius, however, waited patiently, his arms still raised, until he had the undivided attention of everyone in the arena.

“Today we honor memory of Titus Augustus Brutilius,” he said at last, “noble father of Gaius Julius Brutilius. As magistrate and businessman, Augustus Brutilius was loyal servant of Capua and friend to all. His was noble presence, to which understanding, generosity, guidance and wisdom were vestments. In tribute to his revered name, gladiators from the houses of Solonius, Batiatus and Hieronymus will today fight to death in the arena!”

The crowd whooped and cheered. Solonius gave them a final wave, then turned to Brutilius.

“The crowd is yours,” he said. “Oblige and give signal to begin.”

Brutilius puffed himself up and rose to his feet. He strode to the balustrade and raised his hand.

“In honor of father’s name, let blood be spilled!” he shouted.

The crowd cheered again.

XIV

The great gates creaked slowly open and the gladiators stalked from the darkness of the tunnel and out on to the blazing hot sands of the arena.