Spartacus: Swords and Ashes

“Such as you!” Bebryx snorted.

“Or find some form of hair that marks him out to the crowd from a distance,” Barca said.

“Barca’s size marks him alone,” Spartacus said.

“And what of those who lack Barca’s stature?” Varro said. “They need the crowd to remember them. Particularly if,” and here, there was the slightest, briefest glance in Bebryx’s direction, “their honor in the arena is wanting.”

“Honor is what the crowd remembers,” Spartacus said with a shurg. “Honor and victory.”

“That is easy for you to say, Champion of Capua,” Varro said. “What of we mere minnows in the sea of swords?”

“You are easy to see,” Barca scoffed, “with your ridiculous golden hair.”

“And what of those poor unfortunates who lack the height of Barca or the jet-black skin of Bebryx?” Spartacus asked. “What then?”

“Perhaps,” Varro said thoughtfully, “the crowd might note the hair. They might call for the ‘Plaited One’ or the ‘Braided One’? Will women swoon at the sight of some lizard-like crest down the middle of his head? Will the crowd remember a distinctive mustache or knotted beard?”

“I doubt it,” Barca said, belching.

“You talk too much,” Bebryx added.

“Ask yourself these questions, and mark them well,” Varro continued. “Plaits or braids or knots can serve as additional cushioning, too. Beneath a helmet, they might soften an enemy’s blow.”

“You talk absent thought,” Spartacus said. “What if the crowd uses hair to call for death? Death to the Plaited One! What then, if the Plaited One is you?”

“Come,” Batiatus said, appearing behind the guard. The shadows in the room lurched sideways as a lantern threw new light through the bars. “It is time to show you off to the crowd. Save Bebryx, and his wounded shoulder.”

They marched down the corridor in silence.

“My arm tires with this lantern,” Batiatus said after a few moments. “Here, Barca, lead the way.”

And as the expressionless Carthaginian lifted the lantern and strode ahead, Batiatus moved to walk beside Spartacus.

“You fought well, Thracian,” he said.

“Gratitude, dominus.”

“You saw my signal to take on Timarchides.”

“Apologies that we did not succeed.”

“He is a foe of unexpected prowess. But rest assured that, should another occasion arise to accidentally press upon him with deadly force, your dominus approves.”

Batiatus scurried ahead to announce his fighters’ arrival, while Varro and Spartacus exchanged a cynical glance.

“Fellows all,” bellowed the voice of Verres, “the shade of Pelorus welcomes you to this banquet.”

The gladiators reached a curtain, where Batiatus was standing. He signaled them to wait.

A few ragged cheers erupted, but most of the crowd stayed respectfully silent.

“And as you surely know, tomorrow, Pelorus, the greatest lanista in Neapolis, will be celebrated in games.” The voice of Verres continued with a practiced air of moment and importance. It was the speech of a man used to making others believe that what he had to say mattered.

“When I call your name,” Batiatus hissed to his gladiators, “enter as if you are walking into the arena itself.”

“Dominus,” they chorused in response.

“And for the gods’ sake, look gladiatorial.”

“Dominus.”

In front of the curtain, Verres’s voice rose to a crescendo, intoning a cue for Batiatus, the lanista of the hour.

Batiatus ducked through the curtain as Verres introduced him.

“Citizens of Neapolis,” Batiatus called, voice full of warmth. “united in mourning and in grief, but also in expectations! The surviving slaves of my good friend Pelorus will die tomorrow ad gladium, in rightful recognition of their crimes. But tomorrow will also see the finest that another town has to offer. Yes! Prime gladiators from the Campanian hills, the greatest warriors from that nest of Mars- Capua!” Batiatus finished with a flourish and waited, expecting at least a fraction of the cheers that had greeted Pelorus. But, instead, he was greeted with stony silence.

“Capua!” Batiatus cried again pointedly this time. Verres applauded solo, and was eventually joined by a few desultory echoes from among the crowd.

The gladiators lurked behind the curtain, waiting in the dull shadows while their fame was declaimed by Batiatus.

“I give you, Varro!”

Shooting his fellow gladiators a pained look, Varro strode through the curtains, arms raised as if in victory. He was greeted by a series of ragged cheers.

“The Beast of Carthage… Barca!”

Barca swept the curtains aside and roared at the crowd, whose applause rose considerably.

“And the prize of our ludus. The Bringer of Rain. The man who slew the Shadow of Death. The Champion of Capua… Spartacus!”

Spartacus grabbed the curtain and wrenched it from its hooks, staring into the sea of expectant faces. They were low in his line of sight, clustered before the stage. To the crowd in the atrium, the gladiators would seem to tower above them, like statues of the gods.

He walked in to complete silence, peering into the watching crowd in search of-

Women stared up at him hungrily, their gazes dwelling lazily on his chest and thighs. Men stared at him in appreciation or envy… and there, there in the front row, he saw the faintest hint of a sneer. On the face of a Roman youth in his twenties Spartacus saw the contemptuous gleam of a man who thought no gladiator was worth such praise.

He strode tantalizingly close to the audience, within reach of the women’s fingertips should they reach out toward him. He walked slowly, deliberately, round to the place where he had sensed a challenge.

His quarry was not expecting it. The man had already forgotten him, and was picking absently at a tray of sweetmeats. It was only as Spartacus drew near that he noticed he had caught the gladiator’s attention. The young man looked up, his eyes now wide and fearful, as Spartacus stepped to the edge of the stage, his oiled muscles firm in the brazen light. The gladiator looked down at the man who had glared daggers at him.

Their eyes met, and Spartacus stared deep into fear, into the mind of a foe who only now realized that there were no safe barriers between him and the wild arena animal. Had he bragged to his friends that gladiators were mere clowns? Had he boasted of the prowess of a Roman freeman versus a mere slave? There was no evidence, no facts to lean on, nothing but the simple, naked fear in his eyes as he stared back into the soul of the arena, and realized that he had nowhere to run.

“Spar-ta-cus!” the man said, tremulously. “Spar-ta-cus!” he said again, punching the air. His chant was joined by others, first in hesitant echoes, then in a more powerful voice, as the Champion of Capua basked in the glow of their approval.

At last, he looked away from his antagonist, and gazed out into the crowd at a hundred voices raised up, calling that name by which the Romans knew him. It was praise for another. It was praise for an ideal, not a man. But Spartacus drank it in, all the same.

From the corner of his eye, he caught Varro chanting along with the freemen, while Barca waited in solemn silence.

Batiatus grinned at the crowd’s reaction, and twirled his finger in a signal for his gladiators. Spartacus, Varro and Barca marched to the edge of the stage, and began a slow walk around the colonnade, now within touching distance of the crowd. Women giggled excitedly at the sight of their near-naked forms. Men shrugged in approval or masked envy. As they walked, Batiatus addressed the crowd, meanwhile the musicians clambered back onto the stage.