Spartacus: Morituri

Crassus looked more exasperated than ever.

“I ask again for its reason.”

“For victory in the arena,” Solonius said.

“Victory absent honor,” Batiatus added.

Crassus scowled at the both of them-and then understanding slowly began to dawn on his face.

“Hieronymus sought advantage with the act in lieu of his men’s prowess?”

Again Batiatus nodded.

“Our ludii laid low by illness at his hand.”

“Batiatus discovered truth of it, and we joined to avenge slight upon our good names-as was our right,” Solonius said.

“We hesitated to resort to public exposure of his deed-for fear that noble name of Crassus would be sullied by proximity,” Batiatus said. “We simply allowed Hieronymus belief that upper hand was still his to enjoy, that affliction upon both of us still held sway.”

“Whereas in truth strength of warriors was secretly restored?” Crassus said.

Solonius nodded. “To stand ready upon the sands for contest and exposure of Hieronymus’s folly.”

Crassus smiled grimly. “Such base behavior deserves nothing less. I confess to thoughts of pitching him over balcony to deserved death and bloody spectacle for crowd.”

“It would be fitting end,” Batiatus agreed, “but not one to your advantage perhaps.”

This time Crassus didn’t just smile, but gave a short, barking laugh. He looked at Batiatus and Solonius thoughtfully for a moment, clearly regarding each of them with a new respect.

“Gratitude for delicacy of touch in this ugly matter. Yours has been honorable solution to grievous problem…” he smirked and added, “…one handled with diplomacy of true politicians.” And with that he reached out to grasp first Batiatus’s wrist, and then Solonius’s, before turning once again to regard Hieronymus, still curled up and shivering like a whipped dog.

“As for you Hieronymus,” he said, his voice and face instantly hardening, “you do nothing but bring shame to the arena.” He leaned forward, his voice a hiss of malice in Hieronymus’s ear. “Hear this, Grecian. My patronage comes to end, and your name and status with it. Fortunes will sink like overweighted ships at sea-I will see to it.”

He straightened up, tugging his toga back into shape- and then to everyone’s surprise, and not a little delight, he drew back his foot and kicked Hieronymus hard in the ribs.

There was a crack, and Hieronymus squealed like a stuck pig before toppling on to his side. As if nothing had happened, his manner that of the dignified and imposing statesman once more, Crassus turned and said, “I take leave to return to Rome immediately. Good fortune on both your houses.”

While a battle of words was raging in the pulvinus above them, Spartacus and Varro were engaged in an altogether more physical battle on the sands below. Solonius’s men, for all Batiatus’s frequently disparaging remarks about them, were skilled, highly trained warriors, and those he had selected for today’s primus were, in addition, hard-bitten and experienced, their fierce intent, now that Hieronymus’s jackals had been despatched, to kill the current Champion of Capua and wrest the too-long-held advantage back from the House of Batiatus.

For this reason the fight so far had been cagey, tactical, neither side wishing to be overly reckless and thus make a potentially lethal mistake. The two pairs of gladiators had been circling one another cautiously for a while now, only occasionally feinting left or right in an attempt to gain positional advantage over their opponents, or in the hope of finding an opening.

There had been a number of minor skirmishes to incite the crowd, one or two flurries of action to set backsides rising from seats and pulses momentarily racing, but nothing serious. Most of the slashes and thrusts from swords and spear had clanged harmlessly against raised shields, though blood had been drawn once-that of Varro’s, the hoplomachus’s spear having sneaked briefly around his defenses and taken a flap of skin from just beneath his armpit, before he was able to leap aside and prevent the weapon from doing further damage by batting it away with his shield.

Blood from the wound, which would sting and itch like a scorpion’s kiss later, if Varro was lucky enough to survive the day, was now trickling down his ribs and into his waistband, the flow made more copious by the sweat and oil oozing from the pores of his skin. It was a reminder that he needed to remain constantly alert-and a timely one too, because if Varro did have a weakness in the arena it was that he was a man of action, and therefore occasionally prone to impatience or frustration if an opponent was being particularly defensive. In training, Oenomaus was constantly telling him to concentrate, or admonishing him for being too eager to end the contest. Time and again he had reprimanded Varro for lunging forward and thus leaving himself vulnerable to the counter-attack.

For this reason, having Spartacus as a partner worked hugely to Varro’s advantage. The Thracian was an intelligent and versatile fighter. He could be patient when he needed to be, but was swift and merciless when the opportunity to gain advantage over an opponent presented itself. Although he and Varro were very different in their fighting styles, Varro was intelligent and modest enough to realize that there was much he could learn from his friend, the Champion of Capua. He welcomed his tutelage, and in the absence of Oenomaus and his whip, he listened closely to his advice when they were paired together out on the sand. Spartacus often used the “quiet” moments in the arena to mutter instructions to Varro. Knowing of the Roman’s propensity to go on the attack, he would persistently urge caution, or would remind him to concentrate at all times — sometimes by voicing the brutal fact that if Varro should make a mistake, then not only would he suffer the consequences of it, but his wife and son would too.

Today Spartacus had more reason than ever to communicate with his friend. The evening before, on Batiatus’s instructions, Oenomaus had drawn Varro and Spartacus together and discussed the strategy for the following day’s primus with them at length. He had admitted that for dominus’s plan to come fully to fruition would require not only tactical understanding and split-second timing, but also a great deal of luck. “If the gods bestow favor upon us,” he had said, “there stands no reason why we should not prevail.”

Now they were putting those tactics into practice, by either retreating or pushing forward as they circled their opponents, with the result that they were herding them almost surreptitiously to the far side of the arena. In this way, little by little, all four gladiators were drawing closer and closer to the huge iron gates which Spartacus and Varro had passed through some minutes before-and behind which currently stood Oenomaus and Mantilus, their dark forms just visible through the thick, cross-hatched strips of iron.

When they were within ten paces of the gates, and had circled round so that the vast metal structures were at their backs, Spartacus and Varro began to retreat more rapidly, at the same time drawing closer together, as if menaced by a pack of wild dogs that were closing in on them from all sides.

Encouraged by this, their opponents surged forward- and as they did so, Spartacus, as if momentarily wrongfooted by their sudden advance, stumbled and dropped to one knee.

Sensing an advantage, the thraex immediately broke formation and raced forward, raising his sica for a slashing blow. Instantly Spartacus leaped to his feet, whereupon the thraex hesitated, realizing-too late-that his opponent’s apparent stumble had been nothing but a ruse. As his attention was fully focused on engaging with Capua’s Champion, who was now moving forward with purpose, his swords raised to slash down in a straight- armed pincer movement, he was blind-sided by Varro, who, raising his shield to ward off a potential attack by the hoplomachus, took a step to his right and slashed his sword with brutal force across the thraex’s exposed back.

Blood flew like a curling red streamer as the thraex screamed and staggered forward. Even as he peddled his feet in a desperate attempt to stop his knees from crumbling beneath him, Spartacus took a step to his right to avoid the man’s hopeless lunge with his sword, and brought his own sword up in an arc, hacking through the thraex’s ribs and into his chest.

The thraex, his torso now gushing blood from hideous wounds at both front and back, dropped his shield and sword and crashed face-first to the ground. As he lay, whimpering with agony, his shaking body lathered in a thick red coating of his own blood, he managed to weakly lift one arm and raise his fingers in the time-honored gesture of submission.

By this time, however, knowing that the man was too severely wounded to be any more of a threat, Spartacus had already moved on. Jumping over the thraex’s prone body, he stepped up beside Varro, and together