Spartacus: Swords and Ashes

“We fight ten men,” Spartacus said thoughtfully. “Your presence will be useful, even as distraction.”

“Distraction?” Bebryx spat. “My presence will be useful as killer!”

Barca laughed appreciatively.

“Attire yourself as murmillo,” Spartacus said. “The heavy armor affords better protection with shield to cover wound.”

“A shield tied with extra bindings would restrict movement-” Varro suggested.

“But at least protection will be assured,” Spartacus agreed.

“I need no crutches as though fucking invalid,” Bebryx snarled.

“I seek to prolong your life, in this fight, and the next,” Spartacus said mildly. “Do as I say and survive.”

“And what will you fight with, Champion of Capua?” Barca asked, voice tinged with sarcasm.

Spartacus thought for a moment.

“The twin swords of the dimacherius,” he said. “As with the Shadow of Death.”

As he spoke, Timarchides passed by, a doleful look upon his face. The freedman nodded curtly at Spartacus, and Spartacus leaned as far forward against the bars as he could to watch where he went.

The freedman lurked nervously before the bars of a nearby cell. Shadows from within played on his face, as he addressed the occupants.

“I come to say farewell,” Timarchides said.

There was no response from inside the cell.

“My brothers,” the freedman continued, “let it not end this way.”

Someone threw a helmet at the bars.

“Is there choice?” an angry voice spat. “Perhaps you would like to join us, Timarchides?”

“I do not share your sentence.”

“You shared our fates. You shared our bread. You shared our victories and our defeats.”

“I did, and proudly.”

“And now, we die, while you watch from the pulvinus.”

“Apologies.”

“You apologize for nothing! Where are the rest of our number?”

“Already dead.”

“And you place us here, in the far cells, denied consideration of watching them fall.”

Timarchides looked away awkwardly.

“My hands are tied,” he said.

“They are not!” the man snarled. “You are master now, and we yet slaves.”

“Indeed!” Timarchides said, his eyes narrowing. “I am no longer slave. I bought my freedom. Paid for with hard-won coin, and such is the receipt upon my wooden sword. I labored to avoid a slave’s fate, and purchased that right with Fortuna’s blessing.”

“Fuck you. And fuck Fortuna.”

“Perhaps, Scaeva, you should have spent less coin on wine and whores, and more on saving for your manumission.”

“Mark that well, Varro,” Spartacus murmured quietly to his friend.

Varro frowned at him in confusion.

“There is no talk among them of the love of men,” Spartacus hissed. “Only of freedom freely purchased.”

Down the corridor, the insults still flew.

“I will show you how a gladiator fights.”

Timarchides turned away and strode purposefully back toward the arena steps, with the gladiators’ jeers pursuing him through the corridor.

“You were no fighter!”

“You were no gladiator!”

“Hoarder!”

“Thief!”

“Coward!”

As he passed Spartacus’s cell, Timarchides tried to turn away, his hand rising to his eyes in an attempt to brush away his tears.

The gladiators of the House of Batiatus walked out to the fanfare of a primus, a mismatched platoon of four, marching beneath the roars of the crowd. Spartacus bore two blades, each with a cruel curve near its point. Barca stood, half naked, swinging the great axe. Varro advanced with the almighty oval shield and crested helmet of a Greek warrior. Bebryx wore the heavy armor of a murmillo, his shield held a little too stiffly, clutched a little too close to his chest.

Their opponents were all attired exactly alike. Ten warriors clutched round shields painted with the two- horned symbol of House Pelorus. Ten hands clutched leaf-shaped swords, dirty and pitiless, each, too, bearing the twin-horned mark on its blade. Ten pairs of greaves, battered and worn, protected shins from low blows.

“So this is the last stand of the House of Pelorus,” Cicero mused.

“Their fate is sealed,” Verres said with a nod. “Though they were gladiators locked in their cells, they were slaves within the house of a master cruelly murdered. They will all die.”

“I confess myself surprised that they play along,” Cicero said.

“Your meaning?”

“Were I a slave, told I would die whatever my actions, I doubt that I would care to put effort into honoring my master.”

“What would you do?”

“Take my own life! Deprive them of opportunity to gain coin from my suffering!”

The other dignitaries chuckled at the thought.

“Spoken like a true Roman,” Verres said with a smile. “That, Cicero, is what separates us from the barbarians.”

“You dismiss matters intricate with too much ease,” Batiatus said. Lucretia shot him a warning look, but he ignored it.

“I would understand your meaning,” Cicero said.

“Gladiators suspected to harbor such self-murdering desires are watched with vigilance,” Batiatus explained. “Prevented from pissing without guard to hand, and absent items by which to harm themselves. A gladiator is stock of great value, and as slave, he has not right to damage what belongs to another. Including himself.”

“I am a free man, now,” Timarchides said with a wry smile. “But if Fortuna had been late with favor, I might find myself on sand.”

“Do not let us keep you!” Batiatus laughed. “I am sure a sword and shield can be procured!”

His joke, however, fell flat on an expressionless crowd.

“Quintus!” Lucretia said. “My husband merely jests.”

“I am quite used to it, my lady,” Timarchides said with a weak smile. “It takes true virtue to acknowledge it in another. Often it is the newest of men who have trouble accepting others to their ranks.”

“What is your implication-?” a red-faced Batiatus began, but Lucretia carefully blocked him with her back, pouring more wine for Timarchides as if her husband had ceased to exist. Batiatus stomped back to the dwindling supply of grapes and olives, cramming both into his mouth indiscriminately.

Cicero edged over to Batiatus.

“What is his meaning?” he whispered. Moving away from the refreshments, the two men leaned on the balcony, staring idly at the swirling pattern in the sands below.

“He imagines I despise him because he is newly freed.” Batiatus spat an olive pit down onto the pristine sand. “I despise him for being an oily little cunt. A true gladiator knows his place. A slave is already dead in the eyes of the law, a gladiator doubly so. There is nothing left but to fight well.”

“In hope of freedom?”

“A gladiator that wins his freedom is rare indeed. Fight well, and die well.”

“I struggle to conceive of that.”