Capua, as if its architect had hoped to imitate every aspect of House Batiatus.
The floors had been cleaned, scrubbed and washed, but there were still telltale stains. To a lanista’s accustomed eye, a benign pink patch on the marble was no mere discoloration, but evidence of the recent removal of a pool of dried blood. There were chips and nicks in the friezes, suggesting swords and metal objects had been swung in an enclosed space in some recent frenzy.
Pelorus ran a house of warriors, but there was no cause for there to be war in his dwelling. Slaves had cleared away the worst of the debris, but Batiatus still sensed the echoes of that last, bloody dinner party.
Marcus Pelorus was laid out on a long bier in what had once been his atrium. The pool was drained, the furniture removed. Many of the side doors were firmly shut. The house was conspicuously, ominously, silent.
Batiatus approached the bier, glancing down the side aisles in the vain hope of seeing other mourners. Much to his surprise, he appeared to be alone.
“Well,” he said grimly to the corpse. “Present moment holds just you and me, you old bastard.”
Pelorus said nothing, for Pelorus was dead. His face had an odd yellow pallor, dusted with pollen to present the illusion of life, but dusted too much, it seemed the pollinctores had been over-zealous. Batiatus reached out, and then decided against it. He looked around, saw nobody was coming, and reached out once again to poke Pelorus tauntingly on the chin.
Batiatus’s touch inadvertently dislodged the shroud that covered Pelorus’s neck, revealing a gaping throat wound. His lip curled in revulsion as he carefully tucked the folds of cloth back into place. They had been poorly tied, and he shook his head at the low quality of Neapolitan craftsmanship.
“Good Pelorus, at last you find end,” he said to the body. “An end that proves its worth I hope.”
“And what worth is that?” said a loud voice from behind him. Batiatus started. He turned to see a thin, handsome man with carefully tousled hair, wearing a patrician toga with practiced ease.
“Apologies,” Batiatus said. “I thought myself alone.”
“I am Gaius Verres, hospes of the deceased,” Verres said.
“Quintus Lentulus Batiatus, likewise.”
“I do not recall him mentioning that name. Was your friendship close?”
Batiatus’s eyes widened.
“My name never crossed his lips?” he asked, carefully.
“Never,” Verres said, smiling apologetically. “But perhaps he never spoke of Gaius Verres to your ears, either.”
“The years have found us infrequent companions, save haggling over matters of human cargo.”
Batiatus made as if to say something more, then thought better of it.
“The friend of my friend…” he said hopefully, holding out his arm.
“Indeed so,” Verres responded, clasping it firmly with his own. “You have journeyed far?”
“From Capua!” Batiatus said.
“His former home,” Verres said nodding, “though I think his preference was to be by the sea in Neapolis.”
“And you?”
“From Rome,” Verres said quietly. “I was traveling to Sicilia, and resting here with my hospes good Pelorus, before my journey’s resumption. My expectation was not that this would also be our last farewell.”
“You are on business Republican?”
“I am to be Sicilia’s governor!”
Batiatus gasped.
“I was innocent of the elevated circles in which my old friend good Pelorus moved,” he said.
“He was a contributor of great generosity to my campaign,” Verres said. “A wondrous benefactor for a Roman on the course of honors. I am in debt to him for my position, in some ways. And you?”
“Many years ago,” Batiatus said, “the good Marcus Pelorus saved the life of my father.”
“A deed that deserves recurrent voice.” He shook his head and stared appreciatively at the body on the bier. “May the gods bring you reward in the afterlife,” he said to the corpse.
“I have exchanged messages with a man called Timarchides,” Batiatus said. “I am to receive my payment from him.”
“Payment for what?”
“I bring gladiators for the funeral and celebratory games.”
“Then you are in my employ. I am editor of the games!”
“I have brought many fine gladiators from Capua. Although I confess to finding such a request strange.”
“Why?”
“You are aware, good Verres, that in the house of a murdered master…”
“…all slaves must die. Of course.”
“And since the ludus must be considered part of House Pelorus, and prize gladiators played their part in the revolt, there can be no debate upon the subject. They too, must perish.”
“A sad state of affairs,” Verres agreed.
“My fine gladiators fight in these games as executioners more than warriors,” Batiatus pointed out. “Why bring in such men from Capua? Pelorus was not the only lanista in Neapolis. Why not seek such executioners closer to hand?”
“Perhaps good Timarchides knew of your past association with Pelorus, and felt the coin best spent on friends?” Verres said expansively.
Batiatus sighed. “The bitter death of Pelorus, sweetened by last gesture of friendship.”
From outside came a dreadful cacophony of flat horns and discordant flutes.
“Curse them,” Verres muttered. “This cloud leaves no sun for the dial, making it a task near impossible to tell when the procession should start.”
“It holds the sound of starting now,” Batiatus said.
“I must don my mourning robes,” Verres scowled, dashing toward the bedchambers.
“I shall see what weight I can add to its slowing.”
“Do not trouble yourself,” Verres called behind him. “They would not start without me.”
Clad in dark, heavy clothes a world away from her habitual lightweight silks, Ilithyia watched the distant sea from the colonnade that circled the house of Pelorus. She heard footsteps approaching, and the rustle of rough cloth.
“You should attend to your husband, Lucretia,” she said, without turning around. “I think he is still sulking after the journey.”
“I expect the solitude pleased him.”
“You are cruel!”
“I know my husband. Besides, I do not wish to enter the house while the body is still laid out within. Let him take on the bad fortune!”
Ilithyia smiled to herself.
“Your mourning weeds become you,” Lucretia said.
“Gratitude,” Ilithyia said. “It was kind of you to provide them.”
“Anything for a dear friend.”
“I have none of my own, not even in Rome. One is supposed to wear rags to funerals, and all of my clothing is too fine!”
Lucretia smiled with clenched teeth.
“It is to your good fortune that my clothing should be so poor,” she said.
“The great and the good of Rome are building their holiday villas here,” Ilithyia continued.
“For all that is sacred, why?”
“The views across the bay. The sea air.”
“But the journey here is miserable. As our own experience can attest.”
“Not with the right companion,” Ilithyia said, pointedly. “One does not have to trudge through the hilly backwaters of Capua, you know. You can ignore the Appian Way and take the road along the coast from
