armed with a pair of wooden training swords, he had transformed his misery into fury, focused it to such an extent that for a moment he had forgotten where he was. He had felled his partner, Priscus, with a series of savage blows to the head and body and then had continued his assault even when the man was soundly beaten, even when he raised two fingers to signal his submission. If his friend Varro, aided by the giant Greek Tetraides, had not dragged him away he might have consigned Priscus to a long stay in the infirmary, or even spread his brains out on the sand to bake in the noonday sun. Doctore had rebuked him for losing control, for allowing instinct and emotion to cloud his mind, but Spartacus had seen the gleam of satisfaction, even admiration, in the veteran’s eyes at the speed and savagery of his attack, at the way he handled the twin swords.
“Your aggression is well-channeled,” Doctore had told him later, “but save it for the arena. Dominus does not wish to see the beasts he laid down coin for devour one another absent profit.”
Beasts. That was the word Doctore had used, and that-despite all Batiatus’s talk of
Spartacus lay back on his hard bed and thought of happier times-of the village where he was born, of roaming free in the mountains and forests of his homeland. And eventually his thoughts turned again, as they always did, to Sura. With the memory of her sweetness on his lips, he drifted once more into the temporary freedom of sleep.
Oenomaus was worried.
Jerked awake by a shout of “No!” that he had instantly recognized as issuing from Spartacus’s lips, he lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. There was something wrong in the ludus, something he had been aware of for days now, but which he couldn’t define. It was a feeling more than anything, a sense that beneath the usual banter and arguments, and even occasionally fights, that resulted when a group of tough and competitive men were forced to live in the same cramped conditions day in and day out, was something furtive and malicious, something that was burrowing its way in as surely as a worm burrows into an apple.
It was a subtle infestation, however. One that manifested itself in little things, strange events. Tetraides’s temporary derangement, which had resulted in the death of the novice; moments of distraction among a proportion of the men; bad dreams. It was certainly true that some of the men seemed more than usually preoccupied of late, their eyes clouded by dark thoughts, which they wouldn’t or couldn’t talk about. And yet despite this, many of the signs were so small, so seemingly inconsequential, that Oenomaus still found himself often wondering whether he wasn’t imagining them; whether, in fact, the disturbance existed solely in his own mind.
It was for this reason that he had spoken to no one about it, that until now he had kept his troubled thoughts to himself. Perhaps it was simply the heat, he thought- though he didn’t really believe that. Earlier in the summer, when the drought was at its height, he might have found that argument more convincing, but since the rains had come the days had settled into a combination of sultry heat interspersed with occasional showers.
He closed his eyes again, telling himself that all he could do for now was remain watchful, and hope that the “disturbance,” whatever it was, would soon pass.
Even so, his doubts continued to prey on his mind, and it was a long time before he slipped once again into the temporary respite of sleep.
The gloom of the day matched Batiatus’s mood as he slumped against the rail of the balcony overlooking the training ground, a goblet of wine held listlessly in one hand. Below him echoed the clunk of wooden swords and shields, and the grunts of exertion and pain from the men. Even out here the sour stink of their sweat hung heavy on the air, a contrast to the interior of his own villa, which was redolent with the delicate scent of lamp-oil and the exotic perfumes upon which Lucretia squandered far too much of his hard-earned coin.
Pondering on his spendthrift wife seemed to awaken the memory of her scent in his nostrils. Then he heard the scuff of a sandaled foot behind him and lazily turned his head. Here she was, accompanied as ever by her faithful slave Naevia.
Lucretia had chosen today to wear the blondest of her wigs, the hair shimmering as if bestowing its own light to the bruised sky that pressed down from above. Her face was white with chalk, though she had applied red ocher to her lips and her still-impressive cheekbones to give it the blush of youth and color.
The illusion of youth only served to remind Batiatus, however, how the days and years of their lives were mounting, with still no prospect of an heir to carry forth the noble family name.
“What presses heavy on mind, Quintus?” she asked, her voice a concerned purr.
Batiatus scowled. “Observant wife, ever able to unscroll my thoughts.”
“Your countenance betrays. And goblet in hand is further telling sign. You rarely douse reflections with so much wine before sun descends.”
“The sun will hide soon, joining the object I seek to uncover,” Batiatus muttered, gesturing at the grim sky. He glared at the wine in his cup and then swallowed it in one gulp before tossing the vessel over his shoulder for a slave to retrieve.
Lucretia regarded her husband thoughtfully.
“You speak of our friend Hieronymus?” she enquired.
The scowl on Batiatus’s face deepened.
“His presence eludes. If he moves within city he does so like rat underground.”
Lucretia sighed. This hunt had been going on for weeks now. Not even her poison-tongued but influential “friend” Ilithyia, wife of Claudius Glaber, the legatus responsible for capturing Spartacus and having his wife sold into slavery, had succeeded in winkling the reclusive merchant out of his shell.
“Swallow pride dear husband and send Grecian rat invitation to the House of Batiatus. Give word and I will despatch messenger.”
Batiatus set his face stubbornly.
“I will not beg favor like old whore with gaping cunt!”
“You make issue where none need be!” Lucretia snapped.
“And what if this Greek spurns hospitality? I risk losing enough face to see senses stripped away.”
“Your entreaty would find favor, I am sure of it,” Lucretia said. “Did you not say that the man is adherent to the arena? That he was present to witness the slaying of Theokoles by Spartacus and Crixus?”
Batiatus looked at her sharply.
“Spartacus the Slayer, Crixus merely wounded observer. Victory is not honor possessed by those struck to the infirmary.”
Lucretia waved this aside as if it was a mere detail.
“The Grecian’s enthusiasm is key in any case. He will not refuse opportunity to view the men in our ludus.”
Though Batiatus still frowned and shook his head, Lucretia could see that her husband’s resolve was weakening.
“Rumor swirls that the merchant builds stable of his own gladiators,” he muttered.
Lucretia knew this. Since Ashur had returned from his nocturnal pursuit of Albanus some ten days past, her husband had brooded on little else.
She was ready, therefore, with her answer.
“This weighs in our favor. Eagerness to view competition at close quarters will overwhelm.”
Batiatus looked thoughtful.
“Your words convey sense but we risk betraying transparency of intentions. There must be added layer to obscure, an element to draw the eye-and the mind with it.” Suddenly his eyes brightened, a grin spread across his face. “I will set meeting with Solonius, to plant suggestion of arrangement for mutual benefit.”
Lucretia curled her lip at mention of the viper-like lanista, Quintus’s only true rival in Capua. “What kind of arrangement?” she said sourly.
“Gladiatorial contest between our two houses, to display the titans of Capua! Invitation to Hieronymus from both houses, issued as welcoming gesture from fair city.”
“Solonius,” Lucretia hissed. “You would make arrangement beneficial to wretched creature who tried to kill
