Spartacus: Morituri

First out were Hieronymus’s men, a pair of lumbering provocators. In deference to Augustus Brutilius’s previous occupation as a slave trader, the men in the preliminary bouts had been linked together by means of a shackle around one each of their ankles which were connected by a long chain. This meant that each pair had to fight in close proximity to one another, their understanding of each other’s movements essential to their survival. It also meant that the chain that linked them could be used as a weapon by them-to trip or tether or even strangle their opponents-or against them, in the same manner.

Once Hieronymus’s ape-like Morituri had taken their plaudits from the crowd, Solonius’s men were the next to appear. For this first bout he had chosen to pair a secutor with a retiarius, whereas Batiatus had also selected a secutor, but had paired him with a hoplomachus. Once all six gladiators were in the arena, the crowd settled down to watch the contest. They were leaping to their feet again less than a minute later, however, shocked and excited not so much by the brutality of what they had witnessed, but by its almost casual abruptness.

Without preamble, both Solonius’s men and Batiatus’s men turned toward Hieronymus’s provocators and, as though working as a foursome, simply ran at them at full speed. Taken by surprise, the pair of heavily armed but slow-moving gladiators barely had time to raise their weapons and shields in defense before the quartet were upon them.

Solonius’s retiarius darted in quickly, throwing his net over one of the giants and yanking him off his feet. As the provocator stumbled to his knees, already tangled so tightly in the net that his arms were pinned uselessly to his body, the secutor sprang forward with his stabbing sword, jabbing viciously through the net at any patches of exposed flesh that he could reach.

He was joined a moment later by his retiarius partner wielding his trident, and within seconds the provocator lay all but dead and gushing blood, his trussed body slashed and pierced in more than a dozen places.

Meanwhile Hieronymus’s other provocator was faring no better. Moving with efficiency and understanding, Batiatus’s men ran either side of the giant, the chain that linked them clashing against the greave protecting his left leg and the unprotected shin of his right. Before he had time to realize what his opponents were doing, they swapped positions behind him, looping round so that the chain encircled his legs completely. Then, in unison, they reached down and yanked up savagely on the chain, flipping the man up and over on to his back.

As soon as he was down they were on him like a pair of wild dogs. The hoplomachus leaped forward first, pinning the provocator’s sword arm to the sand with his spear as though impaling a fish on a river bed.

Even as blood arced from the wound and the man was opening his mouth to scream, Batiatus’s secutor was springing forward to smash the provocator’s visored helmet up and off his head with the edge of his shield. As soon as his face and neck were exposed, the secutor brought his sword down, point first, into the provocator’s throat, the blow so savage that it severed not only the man’s jugular vein but his spinal column before burying itself in the sand beneath.

Up in the pulvinus, Hieronymus gaped in stunned disbelief as blood fountained up from the provocator’s neck with such force that it cleared the secutor’s head by a good three feet. He watched the body of his gladiator kick and judder wildly for a moment, and then lie still. As the crowd, initially shocked, began to leap up and down, roaring their approval, some of them even pointing at Hieronymus and laughing at him, Brutilius gave a snort of disappointment.

“A poor defense,” he sniffed. “I confess, good Hieronymus, I expected more from these Morituri of yours.”

“A most unfortunate start,” Batiatus agreed mildly. “But do not lose heart, good Brutilius. I am certain stable of esteemed friend contains more than mere carthorses, his stallions merely yet to be unleashed. Is that not so, Hieronymus?”

Hieronymus turned to look at him. His dark eyes seemed a little dazed, unfocused. His lips moved, but at first no sound came out.

“Are you unwell, Hieronymus?” Lucretia asked, her voice dripping with sympathy.

“I … I …” Hieronymus blinked and swallowed. “I confess to feeling a little … faint.”

“The insufferable heat,” Lucretia said.

“Coupled with flush of loss,” Solonius murmured with an empathetic shrug.

Lucretia gestured to Athenais behind her.

“Quickly, more water for Hieronymus.” As the girl hurried to do her bidding, Lucretia smiled sweetly at the Greek merchant. “Rest easy,” she said. “We will care for any need.”

As ever, Oenomaus was standing in his appointed place, watching the contest through the cross-hatched bars of the gate. This time when he sensed a presence behind him, he was unable to prevent a grim smile from twitching across his lips.

By the time he turned his head toward the newcomer, however, his face was once again as impassive as stone. With hooded eyes he watched Mantilus approach along the corridor, the scrawny, scarred attendant emerging from the shadows like the dark spirit of the underworld some had initially supposed him to be.

“Greetings, Mantilus,” Oenomaus rumbled. “You have come to view contest.” Then he made a brief correcting murmur, as though admonishing himself. “Forgive my offense. You move with such ease that one finds it simple to forget you are unable to see. Your employment of remaining senses to judge what surrounds you is most impressive.”

Mantilus paused, tilting his head to one side, like a bird. Even now that Oenomaus’s over-riding emotion toward the man was one of restrained fury, such that he itched to put a sword between his ribs for the dishonorable way he had gone about trying to gain advantage for the gladiators in his master’s ludus, he could not deny that Hieronymus’s attendant remained an unsettling presence. The veteran gladiator was a pragmatic man, a man of such focus and iron self-discipline that he had long ago eradicated fear and doubt from his system. Nevertheless, deep in the unreachable part of his brain where instinctive primal urges still lurked, he could not deny that there remained the tiniest flutter of unease, the minutest fragment of uncertainty. What if he should put a sword through Mantilus, only to discover that it was not blood that spilled from his carcass, but centuries-old dust? Or worse, what if it was darkness that spewed from the wound? A living darkness that devoured all that it touched?

Clenching his jaw at his own foolishness, he stepped to his right, making space beside him.

“Come,” he said, “stand by my side. Let us enjoy spectacle of games shoulder to shoulder.”

Mantilus hesitated a moment, as if sensing foul intent, and then he began to move again, ghosting forward, his feet so light that they made no sound on the stone floor. When he was within touching distance, Oenomaus said, “You are within arm’s reach of gate. But I suppose you do not need me to tell you that. Do you feel the heat of sun? Hear collision of weapon and clamor of crowd? Smell odor of fresh spilled blood?”

He didn’t expect a response, and he didn’t get one. Instead, as before, Mantilus curled his long brown fingers through the thick iron mesh, pressed his face to one of the diamond-shaped gaps of the gate and began to whisper.

Oenomaus eyed him silently. He thought how easy it would be to break the man’s spine over his knee, or to snap his neck with one swift and savage blow. Then he thought again of pushing a sword between Mantilus’s ribs and of nothing but gray dust spilling out over his fingers, and he suppressed a shudder of revulsion.

The day wore on, the sun moving slowly across the sky. In the arena each bout was greeted with shrieks and cheers and claps from the excitable, air-punching crowd. In between times, as spilled innards and severed limbs were collected in sacks, fresh sand strewn over the larger pools of blood, and bodies dragged out through the Porta Libitinensis, the spectators, their previous aggression now spent, sat quietly to conserve their energy- fanning themselves, drinking water and wine, and munching on refreshments bought from food vendors: fruit and bread and sausages, fried mice and barbecued chicken.

Although the citizens of Capua were thoroughly enjoying their day out in the sun, the same could not be said of Hieronymus. Time and again, bout after bout, he saw his men fall in the arena, often within minutes, or sometimes even seconds, of taking to the sands. By comparison to the warriors that belonged to both Batiatus and Solonius, his own gladiators seemed naive, lethargic, badly organized. Yet it should have been the other way