Spartacus: Swords and Ashes

Spartacus and Timarchides turned to look at him quizzically.

“Of course,” Varro said, chuckling nervously. “Of course.”

X

AD BESTIAS

“You have not attended many such games?” Batiatus said, going to refill Cicero’s cup, but finding the wine in it still untouched.

“I favor them not,” Cicero said.

“Ah,” Batiatus said with a wink. “If you had, Cicero, you would know that the world of literature is alive in the arena.”

“How so?”

“The sight of two men hacking at each other with swords grows dull over time. The most ill-educated of bumpkins will tire of that diversion soon enough.”

“It is surely the reason different kinds of armor are employed?”

“Different weapons, different styles. Costumes from bygone ages. Carthaginian shields, Greek helmets.”

“The man with the net?”

“Indeed, the retiarius with his net. All serve certain purpose.”

“I am sure they do,” Cicero said. “But you spoke of literature.”

“I did indeed. Apologies. For even such variations in weapons and armor are sure to weary the crowd. Perhaps when gladiatorial combat was a rare thing, seen only in funeral celebrations and the most highly appointed of civic games, such things might have been enough.”

“But gladiatorial games are commonplace now,” Cicero pointed out.

“Indeed! To the benefit of the lanista! There is always a new politician on the rise. Always a priest with a penance to pay. Always a young patrician boy about to wear the toga of manhood. Birthdays, funerals, weddings, even. Many require celebrations, and celebrations in this great Republic require the shedding of blood and the sight of human suffering. And that requires a little originality of thought. Masks to disguise repeat performances, and ways to disguise the use of masks.”

“Such as?”

“Such as great moments from legend. Re-enactments of famous stories.”

“Really?”

“Oh, Cicero, you have not laid eyes on the greatest of games. A good lanista can fulfill requests both strange and wonderful. A good editor will ensure that even the executions are original. Throwing a bunch of slaves to the lions is child’s play. Instead they should be attired in the costumes of our rich history, re-enacting wondrous scenes from the past.”

“And the coming tableau is…?”

Batiatus squinted at the painted programme boards near the steps.

“Some… people… eaten by lions.”

Cicero sighed.

“And what is our purpose in this?” Spartacus asked.

“You arrive late,” Timarchides replied, “and kill the lions once they have met their last victims.”

The two gladiators looked at each other.

“Like the Thespian cavalry at Thermopylae,” Timarchides explained, “arriving too late. A little joke. Nothing can save the victims.”

“Are we to be attired as the Thespian cavalry?” Varro asked, but Timarchides ignored him.

“We shall have to watch and wait,” the freedman continued. “Executions ad bestias are events that cannot be predicted. It is impossible to know the minds of the condemned. The lions are both hungry and angry, giving hope that events will proceed as planned.”

“This sounds as if it is being set up for comedia,” Varro observed, with a grimace.

“You will play the clown if required,” Timarchides warned.

“And I surely can,” Varro said.

“My friend’s meaning,” Spartacus interjected, “is that we are attired as heroes: our armor gleams; our lances decorated with bright pennants. If we are seen to fail, attired in this manner, they will find it unsatisfactory.”

“If we are to fail, arrive late, and not quite save the imperiled…” Varro agreed.

“Then you need to be attired as fools.” Timarchides nodded. He bit his lip and glanced fretfully up at the balcony, where the dignitaries could be seen in animated conversation.

“These games have been thrown together with haste,” he lamented. “I have been too busy on matters funereal to adequately arrange such spectacles.”

“What would you have us do?”

“Perhaps…” Timarchides mused. “I can lay hands upon some comical masks.”

“It might make it clearer that we are the comic relief,” Varro agreed.

“Hasten! See what you can uncover!” Spartacus said.

Timarchides scurried back into the shadows, while Varro smirked after his retreating back.

“Did you just issue order to free man?” he asked.

Spartacus shrugged.

“Fate itself decreed he go and look. I merely acted as voice of fate.”

“Let us hope so, my friend,” Varro said. “For a freedman uncharitable might not smile upon such a Saturnalian reversal.”

“I am not desired audience,” Cicero explained.

“You are Roman. It is tradition,” Batiatus protested.

“So I am told. But I fail to see how any-forgive me.”

“Please continue, good Cicero. You are among friends, here.”

“Very well. I fail to see how any civilized man can derive pleasure from the sight of a defenceless human being torn to pieces by a wild animal. I see little ‘magnificence’ in a beast under display, if I am also expected to watch it die for my entertainment.”

“Aha! You are one of those Romans,” Batiatus cried.

“One of what Romans?”

“One who denies the blood and pain upon which our Republic has been built. You talk of ‘civilized’ Romans. Do you mean people who dwell in cities? If so, look around at the very rabble you despise. See how they exult at the bloodshed before them. See how they take simple pleasure from the sight of nature in all its raw intensity.”

“It is not natural to set fire to a man who is tied to a post,” Cicero argued.

“Even a man who was complicit in the murder of his master?” Batiastus countered.

“One crime does not excuse another.”

“But you are a man of justice. You actively seek to impose penalty upon wrong doers.”

“I exact punishments, that is true,” Cicero allowed, “but not for the entertainment of braying animals.”

“They favor it.”

“They know no better.”

“Ha! What book would give them this?”

The trumpeters gave the fanfare of the March of Beasts, as half a dozen manacled slaves were ushered into the arena, pushed and prodded by armored guards with long spears and full mail on their arms. These were the