into a sitting position. He stared open-mouthed at the other gladiator’s dreadful torment. The man screamed for mercy, pleaded in vain for the gods to save him even as Vulcan claimed him.
“Finish him!” Verres shouted angrily.
Spartacus looked back at Verres, and saw him animatedly giving the signal for execution, even as the doomed man shrieked for merciful death.
“This is misery without end,” Lucretia muttered.
“An end made worse by burning fool, pulling down the pyre with his struggles,” Batiatus wailed, casting about him as though the roaring crowd could provide a solution. Even as he spoke, the struggling human torch tried to drag himself from the flames. He brought the impaling swords with him, pulling one of the flaming logs dangerously out of alignment as he moved. From within the pyre there came the noise of clattering wood and the
Varro did not see it. He pounded with his blade on Timarchides’s shield, the distant red flames wreathed behind his head.
Spartacus scrabbled around in search of a weapon. His own purloined swords were jammed fast within the doomed man, their blades already poker-hot within the flames. His former blade was still stuck in the chest of his earlier victim, while Varro had need of his own as he railed against the retreating Timarchides.
Then, Spartacus spied the crawling form of the injured Bebryx, the spear still lodged in him. The wounded gladiator inched in an agonised slither away from the killing ground, toward the crowd. Striding over to him, Spartacus kicked the protesting Bebryx onto his back, and grabbed at the haft of the spear with both hands.
Bebryx cries truncated with a scream as Spartacus wrenched the spear free from his shoulder. As Bebryx collapsed to the ground, whimpering, Spartacus flung the spear toward the burning man, pinning him to the fire one more time, but now in sudden silence.
Varro’s sword rang on Timarchides’s shield, their combat the sole noise now but for the roar of the fire.
There was a lull, barely noticeable in the rain of blows, in which Timarchides shoved back, punching with the hand that held his sword, slamming into the side of the blond gladiator’s unprotected head. As Varro fell, his grip loosened on his sword, and he grabbed instead at Timarchides’s wrists, dragging the Greek down with him to the earth.
Varro and Timarchides grunted and strained on the ground. Too close for sword thrusts, each grappled with the other’s hands, their weapons dropped, and Timarchides’s shield dangling forgotten from his armor. Timarchides seemed to gain the upper hand, clambering on top of the other man, only to roll head over heels, Varro’s legs propelling him up and over. Their hands locked in a violent parody of a lovers’ embrace, they rolled back to face one another, wrestling to a stalemate, their legs locked, their arms immobile.
“Spartacus!” Batiatus yelled from the crowd. “Finish him!”
Spartacus roused himself, searching around for another fallen weapon, as the other two gladiators wheezed and puffed, each straining against an impossible hold.
Lucretia tutted angrily.
“A ludus error,” she scowled at Batiatus. “The crowd sees nothing. There is no victor.”
“Spartacus shall play Nemesis,” Batiatus said hopefully his gaze fixed on his men as the Thracian gladiator snatched up a fallen shield, staggering across the killing ground toward the grappling pair, his arms upraised, ready to use it as an improvised club.
“To what?” Lucretia spat. “Your gladiators shame you!”
Timarchides managed to roll on top of Varro once more. But, seeing Spartacus’s approach, he rolled again, dragging his opponent on top of him as a human shield. Spartacus frowned in confusion, looking for a place to club his enemy. Varro struggled against Timarchides, trying to force him to roll again-
“ENOUGH!”
Verres’s voice cut through the melee.
Varro and Timarchides looked into one another’s eyes, as if each were daring the other to slacken his hold first.
“Enough! Heed my words!” Verres shouted.
As if in agreement from beyond the grave, there was a tortured crackle from the burning pyre, as Pelorus’s flaming bier collapsed in on itself, creating a brief flurry of yellow flames amid the deep reds.
“Noble bustuarii, your battle is done,” Verres called. “Release your opponents and stand before your audience.”
Exhausted but still tense and wary, the three surviving gladiators formed a ragged line. Spartacus helped the wincing Bebryx to his feet to make four, as the crowd applauded.
“A sight fit for a lanista’s funeral!” Verres cried. “Four sent to the afterlife as his guardians in a fight to the death!”
The crowd yelled further approvals. Timarchides nodded curtly at Spartacus and Varro, seeming to offer a grudging respect. Amid the cheers, none but his wife heard Quintus Lentulus Batiatus shouting irate epithets about the genitals of gods.
Wiping the funereal grime from his face with the sleeve of his robe, Batiatus stomped away from the pyre and its attendants, kicking at any Neapolitan pebbles that were unfortunate enough to get in his way.
Lucretia stumbled after him, one piece of her gown draped over her arm to aid her swifter passage along the uneven path.
“Quintus, break open head and share thoughts!” she demanded.
Batiatus grabbed her arm and dragged her off the path behind one of the more imposing cypress trees.
“A plan, hatched in the moment, unhappily subject to unexpected setbacks,” he muttered, leaning one arm on the tree trunk and glowering back at the figures silhouetted around the pyre.
“Bebryx will surely not fight again this month. Two of our gladiators out of action before the games even commence,” Lucretia hissed. “Of what ‘plan’ do you speak?”
“Realization only dawned during the eulogy, as Verres was speaking,” Batiatus replied.
“Realization of
“No written will exists. These games in ‘honor’ of Pelorus are mere showmanship for Verres and his eternal desire for greatness.” Batiatus stumbled over his words, gulping extra breaths in excitement, like a man who had run twice up a hill.
“Are you unwell, Quintus?” Lucretia asked.
“We are better today than we have been for many years.”
“How so?”
“If Pelorus died intestate, Roman law is clear as water. Our departed friend was a freedman, and if a freedman is without an heir, his estate defaults to his former owner.”
Lucretia frowned in thought.
“Your father? But he is-”
“Dead! Yes, the old bastard is dead, leaving all of his worldly goods, both material and notional, in the hands of…?”
“You!”
“His grieving son! His noble heir!”
Batiatus grasped Lucretia’s hands, trembling with joy.
“It is ours! His house! His ludus! The gladiators within! It all belongs to us!”
Lucretia’s eyes narrowed.
“At the very least, we can sell it all off. Our Capuan debts paid.”
“Or see our house extended to the shores of Neapolis!”
“So what is the problem?” Lucretia asked.
