Spartacus: Swords and Ashes

Greek huntsman’s tunic of little more than sackcloth, underdressed for a cool autumn day.

The crowd grew silent as the mystery procession marched solemnly toward the patch of greenery. The men halted a dozen paces from the center, setting their cargo down gently.

Spartacus leaned forward intently, straining to get a glimpse of the strange events.

“What is it?” Varro demanded. “What do you see?”

The whole arena was quiet, the hush broken only by the flapping of the overhead awnings in the capricious wind. All eyes rested on the four slaves as they walked slowly toward the center of the killing ground.

Among the spectators on the north side, someone belched loudly, and there were scattered titters from nearby patrons. Then silence returned once more.

Slowly, deliberately, with a ritual, theatrical quality, the lead slave lifted one corner of the strange box. He reached inside, took hold of something, and leapt to his feet, brandishing a small white object at the surrounding crowd.

The sight was met with an enthusiastic roar of approval, shaking the rafters and spiking into the gladiators’ ears. The slave turned slowly, relishing his moment, holding up his small burden for all the crowd to see.

“Now,” Spartacus mused, “I truly have seen everything.” He described the spectacle to Varro.

In the slave’s hand was a white rabbit, as pure and clean as a sacrificial temple animal, held by the ears, its hind legs kicking nervously and fruitlessly against its captivity.

The slave knelt on the ground and released the rabbit, which darted immediately for the shadows around the rim, only to stop, raise its head, and dart in another direction. The crowd screamed and jeered, assailing the animal with a wall of noise, from which it retreated in the only direction that would make sense to a woodland creature. After several abortive runs, it turned and pelted to the furthest point from the walls of the arena-the dead center of the killing ground, amid the artificially placed greenery.

“It runs for the center,” Spartacus reported, still unsure of the reason for such an arrival. As he watched, the slaves removed the entire lid of the long box, upending dozens of similar white rabbits into the sand.

Many went through similar motions to those of the first arrival, stumbling in confusion in the face of the fearsome din, before turning and bounding for the central green patch. Others sat dumbly on the arena ground, frozen in terror or indifference.

There was the sound of clashing cymbals from below ground-a signal to slaves on both sides of the arena to heave open the doors at either side. A dozen other slaves, similarly attired as huntsmen, struggled into the arena, each holding a snarling, straining dog by a thick leather collar.

“Really,” Cicero said. “My preference would have been to walk.”

Their litter swayed and jerked as the bearers negotiated their way through the streets of Neapolis. The traffic all seemed to be of one mind, all litters and carts heading in the same direction. Cicero saw nothing but the backs of heads and headdresses, as the litter picked its way through the throng like an interloper in a school of fish. All climbing toward the same destination: the flag-bedecked, sail-topped arena.

“I entreat you,” Verres said, “trust my word, you would not care to climb the hill. The long, winding, gentle slope would occupy you far too long, or the several steep stairs that run direct, would leave you wet with perspiration before the commencement of the games.”

“Games that mourn Pelorus?”

“Indeed. It grieves me to impart sad news, but Pelorus is dead. As executor of his estate, I discovered details of your arrival, and hence came to ease your journey.”

The litter suddenly rose and dropped an entire foot, as the bearers briefly dodged a cart by clambering up onto the kerb. Cicero and Verres smiled.

“Ease my journey?” Cicero laughed. “My passage was calmer at sea! Still, if you hold the estate of Pelorus, my dealings can proceed with you.”

“Later. Our journey is near its end,” Verres assured him. “The arena and its delights are but moments away.”

Cicero winced.

“Delights not sought by me, good Verres.”

“You speak not as a Roman!” Verres chuckled.

“I think we may disagree on what makes a Roman,” Cicero replied with a shrug. “For me, it is not this… oddly barbaric custom.”

“Barbaric? Noble games make us Romans! A tradition most cherished!”

“Truly it is not, good Verres.”

“I must disagree! The arena is our proud symbol of military virtue! Our manifest destiny!”

Cicero snorted.

“Of swords and ashes,” he said, flatly. “Of death and oblivion. Of ill will and joy in others’ pain.”

Verres spluttered, unable to form words.

“A quaestor says this! An emissary of Rome says this? Good Cicero, your boldness is Roman even if your words are not. I fear this litter may be struck down by an angry Jupiter.”

“Jupiter cares not for games. Nor does any prime god.”

“Now, good Cicero, I must protest.”

“Then I shall mount my apologia. Which deity rules the arena?” Cicero smiled indulgently, signaling that he still regarded their conversation as a game, and not an argument.

“What?” Verres shook his head, unsure of why he was being asked such an obvious question.

“Which divinity rules the blood and sand? You shall have three guesses.”

“Mars, of course.”

“Not so! Mars rules soldiers and men of war. Presiding over men who fight for just cause. Mars is a god of Rome and Romans, not any rabble that takes up arms.”

“I confess surprise,” Verres said.

“I thought you would.”

“Apollo, then?”

“That lyre-playing peacock? Whatever for?”

“He shines like the sun, he struts around the arena inviting adulation of girls and envy of men. Surely Apollo must be the true god of the arena?”

“You think gladiators fight for vanity’s sake?” Cicero said. “They might take care with their appearance, and bask in the love of the crowd, but their minds are occupied with more than merely what eyes hold.”

“You have me at loss. You speak of a deity? Perhaps gladiators claim patronage from some famous warrior of legend. Hercules, perhaps? Or Achilles?”

“I said three guesses! Already you have had four!”

“Very well. I concede defeat. Who is the true god of the arena?”

“Nemesis!”

“But she is a goddess!”

“The daughter of Night! The queen of rough justice! The goddess of vengeance!”

“I believe you not!” Verres said, but even as he spoke, he recalled the fixtures in the House of Pelorus.

“Then become a quaestor of your own doubts,” Cicero suggested. “Wander within the warriors’ quarters and you shall see their cells adorned with rude statuettes and medallions. You shall see them laying coin for temple sacrifices and whispering her name as they walk onto the sands. It is Nemesis to whom they pray. Nemesis! The architect of spite!”

Curious, Ilithyia peered over the balcony.

“Rabbits!” she cried, clapping her hands excitedly. “Delightful!”

Batiatus looked to Lucretia for support.

“Do I alone find this to be time used to foolish end?” he bellowed.

“I adore the rabbits!” Ilithyia declared, ignoring him.

“I have never seen the like,” Lucretia said.

“We have not seen a ludus coniculus in Rome for years,” Ilithyia said. “But I suppose it has yet to exhaust its