Spartacus: Swords and Ashes

novelty in the provinces.”

Batiatus snorted in disbelief as the bewildered rabbits sat, unmoving, in the middle of the arena.

“What now?” he asked. “Do we wager on where they shit?”

“Just wait! Now they shall let loose the hounds!”

Trumpeters on the orchestra dais burst into a brief fanfare. The crowd fell silent, until a final flourish from the musicians. Then, in unison, the dog-handlers released their hold on their animals, and barking with excitement the hounds charged at full speed toward the rabbits.

Ilithyia screamed in peals of glee as the rabbits scattered.

“See how they run!” she yelled. “Is it not marvelous?”

Lucretia did her best to smile in mute agreement.

“You can see a dog chase a rabbit anywhere beneath the sky,” Batiatus spat in disgust.

“Perhaps in your rural retreat, close to the land as you are,” Ilithyia laughed. “But cultured Romans never get to see such rustic pursuits. And from above, too! A bird’s eye view indeed!”

“You live in Capua,” Lucretia said to her friend through gritted teeth.

“We have a Capuan residence, true,” Ilithyia said, her eyes not leaving the scene below. “But I think Capua a backwater. I shall be advising my husband to look for a new residence around the bay of Neapolis. It is so vibrant here, is it not?”

She giggled again, applauding as one of the dogs pounced on a fleeing rabbit, its jaws closing in a deathly vice on the back of the creature’s neck. The dog skidded to a halt in the sands, viciously snapping its head back and forth, tossing its dying prey in a cruel game, whipping the broken body against its own flanks.

“If a simple view from on high is entertainment,” Batiatus said. “Give me a moment and I shall descend to the arena to take a piss. You can watch from above with heavenly perspective!”

“Tell me the truth or you shall lose your giant’s purchase,” Varro said, glowering up at Spartacus who still stood upon his shoulders.

“Upon my life,” Spartacus replied. “There are dogs chasing rabbits.”

His eyes widened at the sight of one of the rabbits dashing directly toward the grille, a pair of panting hounds close behind it.

“That one will make it!” Ilithyia trilled, pointing. “See it run for the edge!”

In spite of himself, Batiatus leaned over the balcony, and watched the chase, the dogs gaining.

“A denarius on the dogs,” he said, folding his arms.

“Ten on the rabbit!” Ilithyia cried, striking him playfully.

“Run, little one!” Lucretia shouted, entering the spirit of the game despite herself.

The pursuing dogs jostled for position, each shunting the other, their jaws snapping. Their contest for mastery was to their prey’s advantage, the rabbit pulling ever so slightly ahead.

“Bite the little cunt!” Batiatus shouted at the dogs, a sentiment echoed by thousands all around the arena.

One of the dogs tripped, rolling and yelping, leaving its companion to leap ahead in a new burst of speed. The rabbit charged for the hole in the wall, seeing only shadows and darkness and the promise of refuge from the fanged beast that was even now panting its hot, covetous breath against its hindquarters as-

Instinctively, Spartacus jerked back his head as the rabbit plunged through the grille and into the chamber. It tumbled past him onto a surprised Varro. The dog smashed, yelping, into the grille itself, spattering Spartacus with saliva and blood, before stumbling back, its whimpers drowned out by the screaming crowd.

Varro grunted in surprise as the falling rabbit bounced off his head and into their cell. He lost his purchase on Spartacus’s calves, and stumbled, falling. Spartacus was left dangling, supporting his own weight wholly on the grille, as Varro fell to the floor laughing.

“Varro!” Spartacus called in annoyance. When it became clear that the blond giant was not coming to his aid, he dropped nimbly to the floor.

“If this spectacle is what the people of Neapolis call a day at the arena,” he mused, “our fighting abilities shall hardly be taxed.”

He sat back down, leaning against the wall, and listened to the distant chatter of the crowd. Outside, he heard the sound of the guards herding a new group of unfortunates toward a nearby cell.

“Fresh warriors?” Varro mused, his laughter almost subsided.

“Perhaps,” Spartacus said. “Or perhaps they demand we fight on the sands against ants and mice.”

Partly illuminated by a shaft of light from the arena outside, the broken body of a dying rabbit shuddered, breathing its last before an audience of none.

IX

MERIDIANUM SPECTACULUM

“What follows, Quintus?”

“The usual midday spectacles. The old and the infirm, the weak and the inconsequential-all set alight.”

“How dull. What has been provided for our midday repast?” Lucretia poked the trays of food, and largely ignored the action below, as the newly arrived Timarchides raised his hands for silence, and then bellowed out the coming agenda.

“These games celebrate the life of Marcus Pelorus, honored resident of this town.”

A few half-hearted cheers issued from the stands. Batiatus plainly heard some comedian in the stalls grunt “Who?” to cackles from his cronies.

As Timarchides spoke, guards led chained figures out to a series of wooden posts-a dozen in a circle dotted around the middle of the arena.

“It is fitting the first blood of the day should be shed in his honor, and in the attainment of justice for his demise. Those you see before you are slaves of the Household of Pelorus, sentenced to death, as is our custom for all slaves beneath the roof of a murdered master.”

“They do not look particularly deadly,” Ilithyia observed, chewing on a walnut. “That one looks too old to carry a sword. And those are all but children.”

“They did not actually murder Pelorus,” Batiatus said. “There is yet another fate reserved for them.”

“You are the expert on gladiators, Batiatus,” Ilithyia laughed. “But their appearance seems to lack a warlike quality.”

“They are not the gladiators of House Pelorus,” Lucretia said. “Their sentence is ‘to the sword,’ which the arena will assuredly take care of in the next few games.”

“Then who are they?” Ilithyia asked.

“Mere bystanders,” Lucretia explained. “In the house of a murdered master, all slaves must die.”

“Seems a little unfair on the cook,” Ilithyia said with a shrug.

“Then he should have made intervention to prevent the tragedy!” Batiatus said.

“What of the stable boys, and chamber maids?” Ilithyia added. “Simply because some escaped bitch pulls a knife on her master.”

“It serves as deterrent,” Lucretia suggested. “These slaves cannot be saved, but they can serve as example.”

“That is one view, I suppose,” Ilithyia mused. “Imagine yourself a slave accused of small crime or indiscretion. If certain death awaits, then what do you have to lose? The thought terrifies.”