Batiatus peered around the tree at the imposing form of the freedman Timarchides, who stood watching the flames.
“Him,” he replied.
VI
He stood at the edge of the Thracian plain, where the first of a series of rocky outcrops marked the beginning of the foothills. The sky was shot through with the rusty marblings of sunset, though the clouds scudded past at an unearthly pace. Gentle winds tugged at his long hair, while round pebbles poked at the soles of his feet through sheepskin buskins.
He saw figures far away. Thracian shepherds stood as still as statues, surrounded by their flocks. He glanced around him in search of his own animals, but there was nothing there.
Nothing except Sura.
“My husband,” she said, in a language he had not heard for more than a year. “My husband has returned.”
Her lips were wet and red, like the fruits she picked on the hillsides. Her black hair swirled, the color of tar. He reached out to her but she floated beyond his grasp, seemingly not realizing the ache she caused within him.
“Thrace lives on without us,” she said, her voice echoing, her arm gesturing at the plains below as lightning arced and struck a distant tree.
The clouds scudded faster, and he saw the armies of Mithradates and Rome clashing on the plain below. He looked for the flocks of sheep, and thought for a moment that he saw sheep among the soldiers, but when he looked again, he could only see other warriors: the Getae with their skull-masks and painted warrior-priestesses, Mithradates himself, standing fearless amid flashes of lightning.
Sura kicked her legs behind her, floating in front of him as if swimming in the air, coiling about him, her dark hair puffing behind her as if held in invisible waters. Her tattered clothes drifted apart in a similar fashion, showing him the curve of her breasts and the shadows of her thighs. She reached out her arms to him, beckoning him to take to the sky with her.
“Come with me, my husband,” she said. “Be free once more.”
He reached out to her, but his fingers could not quite stretch to hers. He leaned over the edge of the rocky outcrop, straining to reach her, but never quite managing to touch. Flames sprang up in the folds of her dress, small at first, then gaining in strength, swiftly rising to engulf her. He recalled the screams of the man fixed to the funeral pyre, who begged for freedom but asked for death.
She looked sorrowful, but not in pain.
“Touch me,” she pleaded. “Touch me and we shall be together.”
The clouds whipped past her head, as red tears of blood began to trace lines down her cheeks.
“Sura!” he called. “Come back to me!”
Red rain pelted from the sky, drenching them both, dousing the flames on her body with hisses of red mist. It was blood, blood that covered his arms as they stretched out to her.
“Are you still my husband?” she asked, her voice growing smaller, her form drifting away. “Can you remember who you are…?”
“I will never forget!” he shouted, his words drowned beneath the wind. “My name is-!”
“Spartacus!” Varro said, shaking him. He was awake instantly, his arms up to ward off an attack that never came. He was wet, but with sweat, not blood. There was rain, but it came down outside their cell. He was not in Thrace. He was not free. He was not with her.
“You snatch slumber wherever you can,” Varro muttered. “Is this the secret of the Champion of Capua?”
“Unlikely,” Barca sneered from the corner of the cell. “He prattles all his secrets while he sleeps.”
“My love for my wife is no secret,” Spartacus said, rubbing his eyes.
There had been an apocalypse of pigs. Several of the animals had been slaughtered and roasted, their rich meats baked to flaky perfection. Crisp skin and succulent interiors, just the right relic of soft, silky fat. An old slave with a sharp knife carved haunches and hams for those guests who did not simply reach across the table and tear off a chunk for themselves.
Already, the band was playing. Already, there was laughter among the guests. Timarchides and Verres mingled with a crowd that had been too busy to attend the funeral, but all too willing to come to the cena libera- the dinner that marked the eve of a gladiatorial event.
“And why not?” Verres said, laughing diplomatically. “The day was a time to mourn. The night is a time to dance, celebrate, and anticipate the delights of the arena. To the arena!”
He shoved his goblet forward in a gesture of celebration, and was met with enthusiastic echoes from other diners. Timarchides raised his own goblet half-heartedly, and flicked a pinch of wine at the floor.
“To Pelorus,” he mumbled, before lifting his head and smiling once more.
Noting Timarchides’s mood, Verres turned away from the crowd, and flung an arm around the Greek in earnest camaraderie.
“His shade pours a libation to you in return, my friend. I am sure of it,” he said smiling.
Timarchides took a breath, looking around the atrium.
“It was but scant days past,” he said, “that we fought for our lives within these very walls.”
“A fight well remembered.” Verres said. “And honored with vengeance.”
“Quaestor or not.”
“The quaestor arrives tomorrow for sure?”
“As surely as wind and waves allow. Marcus Tullius something. Strange name.”
“An unfortunate interruption during these sad times.”
“He is intended to reside with Pelorus.”
Verres leaned wearily on the wall.
“Quaestors investigate all things. Legal cases, tax, disputes marital…”
“My release from slavery?”
“Let us hope so.”
“Pelorus expected him at the harbor tomorrow.”
“Then I shall perform that duty, and divert him with games and wine. Did Pelorus not have a slave to remember his appointments, and details thereof?”
“The nomenclator? I sought his aid, and he was most uncooperative.”
“Why?” Verres asked.
“He is sentenced to die tomorrow,” Timarchides replied.
“He should still do his duty.”
“This I explained, through the bars of his cell, but his answer was… colorful.”
“Would that we yet had some friendly undertakers, who might wring information from him with pliers and tongs.”
“It is too late for that. The slaves of House Pelorus are now beyond our reach, locked in the arena under armed guard to prevent them from committing harm to themselves and ruining the spectacle.”
“A necessity most inconvenient.”
“None of the slaves here tonight belonged to Pelorus. They are rented from our neighbour, the lady Successa.”
Verres looked at the anonymous figures that walked among the dignitaries. Their clothes were neat enough for servants at a party, their faces as blank and expressionless as all slaves’ faces inevitably became. He did not recognize any of them.
