took the opportunity to refill both their goblets.
“It is not so tawdry,” Cicero observed. “Rather it is the serious business of the Republic, an effort to shore up our access to numinous portent. The collection of prophecies from all over the known world.”
“So it is like a visit to the fortune teller?” Batiatus laughed.
“It is most certainly not!”
Verres and Ilithyia exchanged a nervous glance as Batiatus dug himself deeper. Verres suppressed a smile, as did the Roman lady. Ilithyia stroked her neck with a finger, giving the universal gesture of a slit throat. Verres nodded with a grin, and clinked his goblet against hers as they both stifled their laughter.
“You resemble a giddy maiden,” Batiatus went on, “who wants hands held and stories of future husband told. There is an Egyptian down at the docks who will read the lines in the palm of your hand, relating how many children you will have, and how many lovers-”
“The Sibylline Books are not the work of Egyptian fortune tellers!” Cicero said, his voice raised in protest.
“Are you so sure? You said yourself these oracles find source all over the world. Must these soothsayers pass examination before their work is handed over? Or can anyone take part?”
“Clues of particular note mark out the true soothsayers from mere conjurors and charlatans.”
“Of what clues do you speak?”
“I believe that the main clues are linguistic. Oracles jabber away in all sorts of nonsense languages. But if a dizzy, drunken priestess in, say, Bithynia, stumbling and coughing under the influence of some Asian incense, should suddenly spout prophecy in the ancient language of Italia, then one can assume with good reason that a message from the Sibyl is being received.”
“And that is the business bringing you to Neapolis?”
“Something of that nature. Say that… say that a Syrian girl, blind since birth and permanently addled on the strange, dream-inducing spices of the orient, began to speak in Greek verse about matters particular to southern Italia. A place which she had never been, or even heard tell of. Would that be strange enough for you?”
“You would find me not surprised?” Batiatus laughed loudly at his own joke, smiling at his fellow dignitaries, not noticing their frozen expressions.
“The order of the prophecies is unclear,” Cicero explained patiently, as if talking to a child. “Their relevance is not immediately apparent. Where we use everyday names, they supply poetic allusion. Reference to forgotten gods or strange phenomena. There was, assuredly, material in the Sibylline Books that told us how to fight off Hannibal and his elephants, but, tell me, what is the likelihood that your forefathers would have believed a direct reference to African monsters walking over the mountains to the north?”
“Do you seek to tell me that the Sibylline prophecies tell of futures, but can only be understood
“The books do not fail, only our ability to interpret them.”
“So of what use are they?”
“They offer guidance. When an event unfolds as described in the books, it gives us a brief purchase on the text around it. It allows us, for a moment, to see what is happening in the line after that, and
“But if everything is pre-ordained, what matters it if we can see the future or not? The future will come to us anyway.”
“Imagine Rome as a ship. A vessel with a divinely mandated destination, sailing through unfamiliar seas.”
Batiatus thought for a moment.
“And the Sibylline Books as chart? A map through time?” he said.
“If it aids understanding to look upon things in that way, yes.”
Gaius Verres shook his head in disbelief and winked at Ilithyia. She smiled in return and they sipped from their goblets. Watching them, Lucretia realized that they were savoring not the wine but the idiocy of her own husband.
“And you are here with promise of chart?” Batiatus continued.
“Not chart, but seer,” Cicero said. “I had word from the late Marcus Pelorus that within his walls there was an oracle of the distant Getae.”
Nearby, Gaius Verres suddenly went into a coughing fit, spluttering red wine all over Ilithyia, who scolded him for damage to her silks, and patted his back in accentuated sympathy.
“A slave of Pelorus?” Batiatus asked with a glance at the choking Verres.
“A recent acquisition from Syrian slavers. A savage, untamed priestess who could be persuaded to speak telling portents with the right inducement.”
Timarchides frowned and looked from his wax tablet to the holding pen, and back again. He peered into the gloom at the two gladiators.
“Spartacus and Varro?” he asked.
“I am Spartacus,” Spartacus confirmed. Varro’s face was expressionless, as if he were struggling to keep all reaction, all emotion from view. The two men climbed to their feet, ready for instruction, but Timarchides simply scowled at his tablet, tapping it frettingly with his stylus.
“Do others share your names?” he asked.
Spartacus and Varro looked at each other in confusion.
“
“Only us,” Varro said.
“This is most irregular,” Timarchides muttered. “You are listed here on two occasions, as catervarii
“We could not speak to our master’s intention,” Varro said.
“But I have fought more than once on occasion,” Spartacus added.
“Does Capua lack sufficient numbers of gladiators?” Timarchides asked with a sneer.
“I have killed the rest,” Spartacus replied quietly, and Varro laughed.
Timarchides sighed.
“That events have come to this,” he said.
“Your meaning, dominus?” Spartacus asked.
Timarchides sniffed, unbolting their cell portal, beckoning them out.
“Years of toil by Pelorus saw his ludus prosper,” Timarchides said, turning his back and walking down the corridor toward the waiting area, assuming with the air of a dominus that they would follow him. He continued to speak as he walked.
“He turned men such as I from feeble youths into gods of the arena. He paid his taxes. His slaves received good care. He built up a fine ludus, the envy of all Neapolis. And then…”
Timarchides banged three times on the grating, paused a moment, and then banged again, causing the slaves on the other side to haul the next doors open.
“…and then one slave brings sentence of death upon them all. All! My brother gladiators I have known for half my life. The serving girls. Even the old medicus!”
Daylight streamed through the open door, bringing with it the smell of manure. Varro’s eyes widened at the sight of two massive horses, their eyes shielded by blinkers to keep out the worst sights of the arena, their bridles held by grooms. The horses shifted nervously at every shout from the crowd. Varro looked in panic at Spartacus, but the Thracian was listening to Timarchides.
“Fortuna smiled upon you, dominus,” Spartacus said. “That you were freed before tragedy struck.”
“Quite so,” Timarchides said.
“And even more so,” Spartacus said, “that Verres seems to favor you with inheritance.”
Timarchides said nothing, already preoccupied with his tablet again.
“Now,” he said, scratching behind his ear with his stylus, “your names are upon the list as the catervarii. I doubt not that you can ride?”
“Since boyhood,” Spartacus said.
“Horses?” Varro asked.
