“But she is a murderess!” Timarchides objected.
“And she can die for her offence tomorrow,” Spartacus said. “Today the crowd is on her side.”
“Verification from the editor is needed before any action is taken,” Timarchides said. “Your suggestion amounts to stay of execution.”
“Then hasten!” Spartacus shouted. “Before her resolve fades!”
Timarchides sped away, up the dozens of steps toward the band and balcony.
Spartacus immediately began pulling on his gauntlets.
“Dress yourself for the fray,” he said to Varro.
“I will wait until commanded so,” Varro sighed, leaning on his saddle. His horse sniffed experimentally in the dust, searching in vain for grass. “The slaves yet draw breath. We wait until the last of the criminals has been killed.”
“Follow me,” Spartacus said, “or do not. Let the crowd decide where the true entertainment lies. Open this gate!” Spartacus addressed the unseen slaves on the other side with authority.
Nothing happened.
Varro leaned on his saddle, smirking.
“They only open to a code,” he said.
Spartacus looked at Varro for a moment, and then smiled in realization.
He reached out with his lance and smacked it against the gate three times, paused for a breath, and then struck one more time.
Immediately, the gate began to creak open.
Spartacus dug his heels into his horse, and lurched out into the arena before the door was truly wide. His armor flashing in the sun, he held his lance up high to a roar of approval from the crowd.
Varro stared after the Thracian in disbelief, listening to the unmistakable cheers of the crowd.
Timarchides had nearly reached the balcony, and was standing by the band, when Spartacus entered the arena.
“Fanfare!” he hissed hastily at the trumpeters. “Entrance of Pyramus!”
The first trumpeter leapt to his feet and began a simple salute.
The door opened wider, and Varro rode through at a more measured pace than his predecessor.
The first trumpeter repeated his signal, joined now by a second and a third, as if they had been waiting for Varro all along. The crowd cheered once more and Varro accepted their approval with open arms, wielding his lance, and riding carefully forward into the arena.
“Ah, my interest is awoken,” Cicero said, sounding almost entertained.
“Batiatus, what is the meaning of this?” Verres demanded. “The execution is yet unfinished!”
“Is this not part of your plan?” Batiatus asked.
Then Timarchides finally reached the pulvinus, wheezing, and clasping at the hand rail for support.
“I… I…” he began, his finger pointing wildly back at the arena. “There has been a change to the plan!”
“Authorization was not given!” Verres protested.
Below in the arena, Spartacus dug his heels into the flanks of his horse, leaping forward, and charging directly at the beleaguered Medea.
She swung her grisly chains about her in a circle, her strength was clearly fading, her chest heaving with the effort. The lions paced just beyond arm’s length. Then one lunged forward, connecting by chance with Medea’s flailing chains.
The manacles smacked into its eye with an audible crack, causing it to swerve and snarl at her. Medea moved to face it, unaware that its mate was slinking ever closer behind her. The second lion crouched ever lower toward the ground, its paws extending ahead of it in delicious slowness, its haunches bunching and coiling, making ready to strike.
Had Medea not been preoccupied, she might have noticed that the once-braying crowd had fallen ominously silent. There was only the noise of her exertions and the rattle of the chain as she swung at her tormentors, the scuff and skid of the lions on the sand, and cracks and pops of teeth tearing into bodies.
And the hooves. The steady, ever-closer thunder of the horse Spartacus rode, pelting at full speed straight toward her. Medea did not acknowledge his approach, her mind only on her most immediate assailant. But she heard the horse’s feet pounding on the ground.
With the last of her strength, she swung the chains again, pushing the first lion back. She looked up to see Spartacus drawing close, his arm raised up to throw the lance.
Medea’s shoulders slumped in anguish. She looked, pleading, into the eyes of the horseman, and sank to her knees.
Spartacus hurled his spear at something behind her.
She stared at him in surprise, only half-hearing the anguished yowl of animal pain. A shadow fell across her as the second lion, pierced by the lance mid-spring, tumbled to the ground transfixed.
Spartacus was practically on top of the lions, close enough for his horse to see over its blinkers the deadly creatures nearby. It panicked, rearing up even as the dark-maned lion leapt for its throat. Lion, horse, and rider fell to the ground, just as the crowd regained its breath and began to yell once more.
Spartacus was pinned beneath his horse, the animal screaming as the dark-maned lion bit deep into its neck.
Spartacus strained to reach his sword, his path to it hampered by the thrashing of his dying mount. The horse’s screams were deafening, ringing in his ears, drowning out the noise of the crowd as Spartacus wriggled free from the horse, snatching his sword, and plunging it into the skull of the preoccupied lion.
Medea regained her composure, flinging the manacles at the lioness and turning instead to the lance. She tore it from the creature it had speared, and now faced her tormentors with a real weapon.
The crowd continued their chant of “Kill the lions!”
On horseback, Varro ambled through the pride, less attacking the lions than herding them, the point of his lance prodding them toward the other two human fighters.
One of the lions turned to paw at his horse, and the frightened mount reared up on its hind legs. Varro clung on in a panic, unable to see his horse’s front hooves mill into the lion’s head, the horseshoes smashing lethal curves into its skull, and bringing it down.
Varro slipped from the saddle, landing on his feet as the panicking beast galloped away. The lions ignored the horse to circle the gladiator, even as Spartacus and Medea closed in behind them.
The number of lions dwindled as the butchery went on. The remainder of the pride wheeled and turned, always finding itself facing a spear-point or a sword, as the humans drew closer together and became more efficient. Their bodies were soaked in animal blood, their hands slippery on their weapons as they hewed into the raging clawed beasts that had formerly ruled the arena.
The crowd leapt in ecstacy, hurling fruits in excitement. Strangers grabbed at each other in delight. In the stands, Successa felt the hard bulge of an erection pressing at her behind. She saw a man pawing at her haunches as the lions had all too recently pawed at their prey, and she let her skirt ride up so that he might find moist sanctuary.
She felt his cock sliding inside her with delicious energy as they watched the lions die, felt him pumping into her as the swords and spears penetrated animal flesh in the arena. Successa felt herself one among many, a watching, screaming, fucking audience that lived for such violent delights. She laughed as she was mounted, thinking of the whores by the steps when there were ones such as she giving such favors away freely.
The orgiastic joy of the crowd was not matched elsewhere.
“This was not the intention,” Verres fumed. “The bitch must die.”
“She can die another day!” Timarchides responded. “This is a difficult situation eased.”
“We are wise to trust the will of the crowd,” Batiatus said expansively.
“A savage and unpleasant beast,” Cicero said, apparently enjoying himself now. “How does one placate such
