V
Dusty from their journey, and ashen from their carefully applied dirt, the funeral party rounded a bend in the road. An ancient, Oscan altar and a partly fallen archway marked the entrance to the cemetery.
The crowd now numbered almost a hundred. Batiatus could smell them over his own sweat. Striding by his master’s side, Barca was obliged to rudely shove some of the new arrivals out of the way, lest they come too close. Some pushed at the edges of the bier, while others dogged its rear like curious hounds. Still more, particularly the children, ran on ahead, pushing past the musicians with shoves that sent their notes into unlikely syncopations, kicking up dust and stones as they ran into the cemetery proper, screaming with incongruous glee at the prospect of what was to come. They hurtled among the monuments, playing tag and leapfrog, in search of what they knew to be lurking somewhere in the grounds-a group of men, suiting up in armor, preparing to do battle.
“Bustuarii! Bustuarii!” they cried, calling out the name of gladiators of old, those men who would fight in honor of a departed dignitary, shedding their own warm blood in memory of one whose blood was already cold. The children, unimpeded by their exertions, as if they could run and jump forever, were first to find the greenwood altar, rushing ahead of the procession to secure the best places to sit.
The priests came behind them, jingling their bells to dispel evil spirits, chanting in a Latin so old that its meaning eluded many of the attendees. Their faces were hooded, their rituals occluded, such that their meaning seemed to only carry weight to the priests themselves. They reached the greenwood altar, turning to face the assembled gladiators, and then moved on, on a course of their own.
Timarchides took off the mask of Pelorus, reverently laying it atop the bier. He then grabbed at a box by the altar, swiftly pulling on the armor of an earlier generation, a battered old set of the kind of soldier’s garb that had been commonplace when Batiatus was a boy. He and his three fellows stood with shields and swords, eyeing their opponents with the calm, assessing gaze of men who knew that the battle had already begun. They watched their stances, looked for limps and tan-marks where bandages might have recently been removed. They studied practice swings for telltale over- or under-extensions, and brooded all the while on how to bring their opponents down.
Batiatus and his fellow bearers made the last ascent, lifting the bier high above their shoulders in order to place it atop the pyre. There was a final strain, a last farcical panic that the bier might tumble and take its load with it, and then Pelorus was placed firmly on top of the pile of wood and incense.
Verres draped a cloth over his head, in the manner of a priest reading the auspices. He glanced across at Spartacus, who gave him a discreet nod of readiness. Verres turned to Timarchides, and received an identical, discreet signal.
“The name of Marcus Pelorus has been declaimed from his death bed,” Verres shouted over the hum of the crowd. “His house purged of spirits of malicious intent. Now it but remains for us, his friends and associates, to see him on his journey to the afterlife, so that we may feast in his memory.”
While Verres spoke, Timarchides carefully ascended a ladder that was propped against the bier. He held a burning torch in his hand, and the nearby cypress branches bent gently beneath the leaning weight, until he reached the top. There, he reached out and tenderly opened each of the corpse’s eyes.
“The eyes are open,” Verres intoned solemnly. “And our friend prepares for the hereafter.”
As the priests shook their bells, intoning grim portents of the afterlife, Verres nodded at the freedman, and Timarchides set the torch to the stacks of wood.
There was a brief, tense movement as the woodpile gave off only the twisting smoke of wettened branches. But then, something caught within the stacks, causing red and yellow flames to flicker deep within. There was soon the hiss and pop of oils released from jars, and the crack of breaking glass.
Timarchides descended the ladder as solemnly as he could, but with the slightest hint of agitation at the growing heat. When he reached the bottom, he took his helmet from the waiting gladiators, and began to tie it fast upon his head.
“It is fitting that Timarchides, the man who was so dear to Pelorus in life, should appear here at his graveside as we lay him to rest,” Verres said.
The jingling of the priest’s bells faded into the distance as they began their customary journey around the edges of the cemetery. Nobody paid them any heed.
“Timarchides wears the accoutrements of a gladiator one final time,” Verres continued, “to honor his former master, and lifelong
Batiatus exchanged a confused glance with Lucretia, who now stood beside him.
“Were they
“A thought known to them alone,” Lucretia responded with a shrug.
“One not shared with me in our days together,” Batiatus hissed into her ear.
“There have been many since, spent here in Neapolis.”
Up on the dais, Verres continued to praise dear, dear Pelorus, the lanista made good, the supporter of local businesses and politicians. He thanked him for his generosity in life and lamented his untimely death.
Batiatus maintained a civil countenance, but scowled nonetheless at the tales of a man who was a stranger to him. There was no talk here of Pelorus the rowdy young man; Pelorus the dutiful student of swordsmanship, who once boasted that he would grow up to train warriors himself; Pelorus, the beloved friend of House Batiatus, whose greatest deed was to save the life of Titus Lentulus Batiatus, the paterfamilias. Pelorus, who was rewarded for this action with that most precious of treasures: freedom itself-of this there was no mention.
Batiatus chewed sulkily on the inside of his cheek, wondering if any man in Neapolis even knew that Pelorus had once been a slave. He turned to his wife to whisper another unhappy criticism of the eulogy, but was stopped in his tracks by Verres’s next words.
“…and so,” Verres was saying, “the time approaches for us to bid final farewell to our dear friend Pelorus. A man who departed this world leaving no family nor any heir, but who with his dying breath entrusted to me the honored role of familiae emptor, disburser of his estate. A role I vow to fulfil swiftly and without prejudice.” As he spoke, Verres nodded at the solemn Timarchides, and Batiatus caught the faintest of acknowledgments in return.
It was as if a sun had burst within the chest of Batiatus. He looked around him in frustration, unable to speak out of turn, unable to run from his position. Rooted to the spot amid the other mourners, he dared not leave his position. He looked at Lucretia, but was unable to attract her attention.
Red faced and shaking, Batiatus glared across the cemetery at his two gladiators, his eyes wide, willing one of them to meet his gaze.
“Batiatus looks not himself,” Spartacus mumbled out of the side of his mouth.
Varro glanced over at their master, in time to see the lanista’s hand emerging from beneath the long sleeves of his mourning robe. His thumb jerked in a gesture that no gladiator could mistake.
“Does he not signal the delivery of the death blow, before battle is even joined?” Varro asked.
Spartacus met his master’s stare, and watched as Batiatus’s eyes grew comically wider, rolling repeatedly in the direction of the unsuspecting Timarchides.
“He is a most unclear oracle,” Spartacus said, implacably. “Perhaps he is transforming into a frog.”
Varro stifled a chuckle.
Batiatus scratched at his neck, his gaze still locked on Spartacus. As the Thracian watched, Batiatus carefully drew his finger across his throat and then turned away, to stare directly at Timarchides.
“He wants the Greek dead,” Spartacus whispered.
“This is a fight for exhibition,” Varro hissed back. “Nobody is supposed to die today.”
“He would have it otherwise,” Spartacus replied.
The funeral pyre was now in full effect, the flames leaping high above it, the body of Pelorus already invisible beneath them. Rolling clouds of smoke issued forth from the lowermost levels, where the wood remained
