Spartacus: Swords and Ashes

“Good Cicero,” Batiatus laughed, “your care seems greater for the aesthetics of grounds-keeping than for sport itself.”

Cicero shrugged.

“Are you surprised?” he said with a smile.

“All part of the great drama,” Batiatus replied.

“If you want drama, attend the theater!” Verres declared.

“A theater is mere semi-circle,” Batiatus scoffed, “the crowd seated around the stage, witnessing story unfold. But the amphitheater enfolds drama at its center. It offers no respite, no chance of hidden surprise. Its audience bears witness to the most real and most visceral of dramas-the struggle for life itself.”

“You have clearly given thought,” Cicero said.

“The lanista is witness to the age, an architect of combat affirming and echoing concerns of the crowd itself,” Batiatus stated. “When Rome struggled to contend with Hannibal and his elephants, the arena played out our victory before it even happened, as crowds bore witness to the defeat of men attired as Carthaginians. And when, indeed, Rome proved victorious, so they did in the arena. Just as it revealed the might of the elephants, only to see them set upon and butchered by men of Rome!”

“Batiatus, I proclaim there is nothing proper about what you do, but you do it properly!” Cicero said.

“Both of us merely faithful servants to our profession, Cicero,” Batiatus said.

Cicero patted Batiatus’s arm in approval.

“The arena as instrument for drama and justice. An idea that intrigues me.”

“I am but humble servant,” Batiatus said.

Lucretia looked on as the two men bowed their heads in excited talk.

“Your husband has made a friend,” Ilithyia said.

Lucretia shrugged.

“With a minor quaestor,” she muttered.

“For what reason would Cicero take such sudden interest in games?” Ilithyia wondered.

“I care not if it comes with coin,” Lucretia observed.

“I enquire,” Cicero was saying, “as to the condition of the painted woman.”

“The murderess?”

“The witch of the Getae. A sentence ad gladium, for me, would be as fatal as a sentence of death. But for her, it sustains life.”

“The Getae woman will yet die, assuredly, she will yet die,” Batiatus said. “Only the day is postponed. She will fight in the arena as often as her owner decrees, against any odds her owner desires.”

“And if she survives such odds?”

“Impossible.”

“Impossible? Who is her owner? Legally, who is her master?”

“You have better legal mind than I. Absent those killed in games, property of Pelorus will be inherited by his heir.”

“And which man holds that honor?”

“Pelorus died intestate, but good Verres holds his testament.”

“He is the familiae emptor?”

“And his intention is to pass all to Timarchides. Apparently the man was on intimate terms with Pelorus.”

“Perhaps I might make purchase of the woman from them,” Cicero said thoughtfully.

“A price unknown if not put to test,” Batiatus pointed out. “The banquet would provide audience for such offer to be made.”

“What banquet?”

“With Pelorus laid to rest, his death purged from our fortunes with bloodshed in his honor, we will replace joy with grief within the walls of his house. A celebration of day renewed and final peace.”

“She will meet death soon enough,” Cicero mused.

“Though she still stands Fortuna blessed,” Batiatus countered.

“It is surely not natural for women to fight.”

“In Africa, in nature-”

“We are not animals, Batiatus,” Cicero said, with a frown.

“No, we are Romans. Even our women fall superior.”

“And what if woman gladiator defeats Roman man?” Cicero said, with a quaestor’s logic.

“Ah…” Batiatus stopped, realizing that there was more to an argument that simply speaking his thoughts aloud.

“Would it not send opposite message, if foreign woman succeeds where Roman men fail? I would see her fail soon. And permanently.”

“But, good Cicero, think only of spectacle were she to be pitted against the most expendable gladiators until novelty was spent. What spectacle could rival that of woman gladiator fighting to the death in the arena?”

“I am yet wary.”

“Because it offends tender sensibilities?” Batiatus laughed.

“Because…” Cicero glanced behind him to make sure that the ladies were out of earshot. “Fighting is men’s work. If women become combative, if they are encouraged by the sight of their sex holding its ground against men, there is no telling what follies they will be led to.”

“Your concern is that gentle Roman women will be turned belligerent by the sight of gladiatrices in the arena?”

“That is my concern.”

“There is danger in teaching any slave to fight. Who knows what else they may learn?”

Batiatus laughed long and loud, but Cicero barely smiled in response.

Spartacus upended a pail of water over his head, washing the grime and sweat of the arena from his body as best he could. He grabbed up a strigil and scraped the dirty water from his body in swift, careful strokes, before grabbing a towel to mop up the rest. It was, habitually, the ritual at the end of a day in the arena. But today, there was still the primus to come.

“The sun is hot today,” Varro said. “Do not forget the oil.”

“And you,” Spartacus said, “wash it from you, lest your sword slip in your hand.”

Barca poked around the weapons in the corner of the changing room, picking out a large double-handed axe.

“Do we fight with theme?” he asked. “Does some literary conceit constrain us?”

“We are free,” Varro replied. “Free to choose whatever weapons we desire.”

Spartacus half-smiled.

“Free,” he said. “As free as ever, within chains!”

“You know my meaning,” Varro said.

“Whom do we fight?” Barca asked.

“Timarchides did not name them,” Spartacus said. “But we fight ten men.”

“Impressive odds,” Barca mused.

“I shall dress as a Greek hoplite,” Varro said. “With spear and sword. Enough to take out foe from a distance.”

“And us only three,” Barca said, scowling.

“Four,” a voice said. They turned to see white teeth and eyes shining from a dark shadow at the gate. The guards opened it and pushed a new figure into their holding cell.

“Bebryx!” Varro said. “You cannot fight-your wounds hinder you!”

“I am a gladiator,” Bebryx said, determination in his voice. “While I live, I fight.”

The African stood proudly, but with his left arm all but dangling at his side.