Spartacus: Swords and Ashes

“True,” he agreed. There was a flurry of movement from within the antechamber. “On which note,” Batiatus added, “more refreshment arrives.”

A trio of slaves appeared bearing trays heaped with food. Batiatus was surprised to see they were immediately followed by new arrivals. Gaius Verres himself, all smiles and patted backs, leading a balding, serious-looking young man in a hastily chosen toga.

“Well met!” Batiatus cried. “We feared arrival in the wrong arena.”

“Quintus Lentulus Batiatus,” Verres said smiling, “and his wife Lucretia, and Ilithyia, wife of Gaius Claudius Glaber, may I present Marcus Tullius Cicero, newly arrived on business of the Republic.”

“Welcome! Welcome!” Batiatus said hastily. “Your arrival is well timed for the main attractions!”

Cicero managed a pained smile, nodding respectfully toward the ladies.

“You are the editor of these games?” he said politely to Batiatus.

“Not I,” Batiatus said. “I am but lifelong friend of the lamented Pelorus, in whose honor these games are held. But if I were editor…” He stopped, realizing that Verres was standing right beside them.

“Speak, Batiatus,” Verres laughed. “My programme does not please you, I am sure.”

“I would not dream of disputing with one as respected as Gaius Verres,” Batiatus said quickly.

“I never claimed expertise in such matters!” Verres said. “I merely muddle through. Now, where is the wine?” He left them together, in search of better flagons in the shade at the back of the balcony.

“I sense your disapproval,” Cicero whispered confidentially. “And I share it!”

Batiatus grinned at the apparent arrival of a kindred spirit.

“The gods be blessed, this has been a day of utter trivialities,” he replied. “You must thank them that you escaped the rabbit hunt.”

Cicero shook his head in disbelief.

“Had I the position of editor,” Batiatus confided, “by which I mean truly the editor of the games and not a mere supplier of gladiators, there would certainly be some more impressive fights to warm the blood!”

Cicero’s friendly smile froze in place.

“I… see…” he said. “You are a lanista? I was mistaken.”

“I… er…” Batiatus said, unsure of what had just happened.

“Do excuse me a moment,” Cicero said, never letting the smile falter, although his eyes had changed their aspect. “I heard whisper of wine and my journey has been long.”

“There is wine, wine enough for all!” Batiatus said enthusiastically. He turned to gesture to a slave and the tray of refreshments. “Moreover, there are fine sweetmeats from-”

But Cicero’s back was turned, a goblet in his hand as a slave poured wine. He smiled politely as Ilithyia introduced herself in her habitual, flirtatious manner. Batiatus watched as Ilithyia twirled a lock of her blonde hair in one finger, inquiring excitably as to news from Sicilia.

“What strange encounter was that?” he muttered to Lucretia. “You and I are alone on the balcony once more, even amongst a crowd.”

“I fear, Quintus, that you were mistaken for a person of position,” she said with a sigh. “And then revealed yourself as a trader in human flesh.”

“And yet he said Verres’s programme was shit. He is connoisseur of quality games!”

“I believe he disapproves of the games themselves.”

Batiatus turned to gaze upon the arena, at a dozen smouldering skeletons, charred flesh hanging from their bones. As he watched, one collapsed, its shoulder bones giving way and leaving one arm still clasped within its dangling manacle.

“So,” Cicero said to Verres with a smile, “you are to be the new governor of Sicilia.”

“Such is my honor and my burden,” Verres responded. “You know the island well?”

“Not long ago I was a solid year working in west Sicilia,” Cicero said. “But memories were overshadowed by my return.”

“How so?” Verres inquired. Behind him, on the sands, a burning body flinched inadvertently, the soul long since departed, its flanks now a firebrand of burning fats and crisped skin.

“The last occasion I returned to Italia, I put ashore not far from here, just around the bay at Puteoli,” Cicero said. “Do you know it?”

“By reputation only. Putrid Puteoli?”

“Spiteful rumour spread by rival spa towns!” Ilithyia protested. “It does not smell. The spring waters run rich with minerals and cleansing warmth. The baths are marvelous. It is gentrifying.”

“I believe your words!” Verres laughed, his eyes unwavering on hers, willing her to leave the men to their talk. Ilithyia backed away with a smile, uncharacteristically tactful, and went to consort with the Batiati.

“I know it to be so,” Cicero continued, “from many visits. And I thought I would put ashore near my home, to greet hospes and dignitaries, drop in on old acquaintances and dispatch letters for the east, rather than take them to Rome, only to send them back again.”

“Very wise, I am sure.”

“And so I stepped ashore, much as you see me now. Sure that the people of Italia would flock to hear my tales of foreign postings and administrative adventure.”

“And did they?”

“Flock they did, demanding to know what news I brought from Rome.”

“But you had not been to Rome!”

“Quite so! All roads lead to Rome, it seems, and all news must similarly issue from there. I protested I had been away in foreign climes, attending to the demanding affairs of the Republic, and some… fool chimes in with: ‘Oh yes, you have been in Africa, have you not?’”

“Africa!”

“Africa! So I reply that I have been in Sicilia, and some other slow-witted fool interrupts and says: ‘Of course, how is Syracuse?’”

“You were not in Syracuse?”

“Sicilia is more than just Syracuse! So I renounced effort. I nodded and declared my time in parts beyond Italia both useful and productive, and feigned thereafter that I was merely another of the Roman herd, taking myself to Puteoli for the baths and relaxation. A valuable lesson learned.”

“Puteoli is full of fools?”

“Romans are deaf to facts and correction. My origin mattered not, concern was only for my arrival. And so I made sure I was seen. Seen in the right circles, seen at the baths, seen to be at home to callers, whensoever they called.”

“To what do we owe gratitude for the honor of your presence here?” Batiatus said, barging into the conversation, fortified with wine.

The assembled Romans visibly winced as the lanista tactlessly broached the subject that propriety dare not raise.

“A… matter religious,” Cicero said, carefully.

“Your meaning, exactly?” Batiatus persisted. He was unaware that Verres was backing away from them, carefully separating himself from the conversation lest he be tainted by its collapse. Even so, he lurked, close at hand, pretending to watch the arena even as he listened on the balcony.

“You are refreshingly direct, Batiatus,” Cicero laughed. “I am sent from Rome for the investigation of a possible prophecy.”

“A foretelling of a foretelling?” Batiatus said frowning.

“Indeed!”

Ilithyia and Verres stood next to each other both tense, their eyes staring, unblinking, at the burned flesh and writhing flames of the executions, their lips parted in unified anticipation.

“Does not Rome already have prophecy enough, with the Sibylline Books?” Batiatus asked bluntly.

“The Sibylline Books are in a state of… renewal.” Cicero said, sucking in air through his teeth. “The priests of the Capitoline ready to consider any additions.”

“Add more to them, as water to jug or wine to cup!” Batiatus chuckled at his conversational gambit, and