“You do not live with death day by day, witnessing gladiators fight poorly in the arena, only to find redemption by manner of defeat, baring neck to slayer. If the gods are kind, we shall see such nobility today.”
Spartacus led the way, his swords at the ready, Barca and Varro looming at his flanks, Bebryx bringing up the rear, to best hide his wounds from their opponents. The doomed gladiators from the House of Pelorus stood, their shields up, their swords ready, standing in a wide “V,” its mouth facing their oncoming nemeses.
“They draw us in,” Varro said. “Their hope to surround us.”
“We are not fools,” Spartacus muttered, halting.
The two groups of men faced each other across the sands, while the crowd grew restless.
“Split up,” Barca said. “Two to each end of the ‘V.’”
“No,” Spartacus said. “That is what they want.”
“We charge,” Bebryx said. “Straight into the middle, and fuck them all if they think they can win by surrounding us.”
“No,” Spartacus said again. “That is also what they want.”
“I want to fight,” Varro said.
“I want to
His fellow gladiators turned to stare at him in surprise.
“I shall fight,” Barca said, scowling. “But let us not be fools. I wish to return to Capua absent injury, that I may buy my freedom.”
“Begin!” a familiar voice shouted from the balcony.
“Dominus instructs us,” Varro noted.
“I do not accept their will,” Spartacus said, nodding at the enemy gladiators. “Let us ruin their patterns.”
“How?” Varro and Barca chorused.
“We attack as one, on one point of the ‘V’ alone.” He gestured with one of his swords at the man closest to the balcony. “Let them break rank to come to his aid. Or stand still and see their advantage worn away.”
His fellow gladiators nodded gruffly, and without a further word, Spartacus turned and ran toward the man who stood furthest from the base of the ‘V,’ far out at the tip of its limb.
Spartacus leapt into the air as he approached, scything down with both his blades, barrelling into the man, the full force of his bodyweight crashing into the shield and pitching them both to the ground.
The man swiftly stood up, but made no attempt to riposte. He was still standing, unmoving, when Barca’s great axe hewed into the side of his helmet, hurling him through the air and toward the sands, still. Dead.
Varro and Spartacus exchanged startled glances, seeing the rest of the men remain still. Initial cheers from the crowd soon subsided into a quiet unease. Death alone was not enough.
This is not right,” Verres muttered. “Where is the resistance? Where is the fight? Where is the blood!”
“I fear,” Batiatus said, “that the men of the House of Pelorus seek to deny us entertainment.” He leaned over the balcony and yelled at the men whose shields bore the twin-horned mark of Pelorus. “Fight, you miserable bastards!” he shouted, a sentiment that met with cheers and jeers from the nearby crowd.
“They raised not a finger to save their master,” Ilithyia noted. “Absent such loyalty it does not surprise that their skills are limited, too”
“They were locked in cells below ground, while their master lost his life,” Cicero pointed out.
“Such behaviour has no excuse. They line up like lambs to the slaughter,” Verres said.
“I cannot help but feel,” Cicero mused, “that they stand bravest of all.”
“Then thank the gods that you were not in charge of defending us from Hannibal!” Batiatus said good- naturedly, and all on the balcony laughed.
Spartacus stood before the next man in the line.
“Fight me,” he said.
The man simply stared at him.
“Fight me!” Spartacus shouted.
“Why?” the man said, quietly.
Angrily, Spartacus raised his twin swords, but faltered. He realized he could not do it.
Bebryx had no such qualms, and darted ahead of Spartacus before the Thracian’s hesitation could be seen. Laughing wildly, Bebryx hacked at the still gladiator with the sharp sword of a murmillo, slashing a wide red gash in his neck. The man collapsed to his knees, pitching over, his blood pumping into the sand, his arms twitching in spastic jerks, and then still.
“Who is next?” Bebryx roared at the crowd, brandishing his sword high to ragged cheers. He advanced to the next man in line, who stood, as his fellow had done, motionless. His mouth was pinched in a snarl but he did not move. As Bebryx loomed closer, he closed his eyes and opened his arms, as if to embrace his slayer.
“This is an
Bebryx hesitated for but a moment, and then thrust his blade firmly into the man’s neck, with enough force to smash between the gladiator’s vertebrae and out the other side. Bebryx’s victim crumpled before him, sliding off the blade, the head all but severed.
In the crowd, someone booed. Soon, the noise was joined by others, low at first and then with growing volume, like a conference of owls.
“I have never found easy victory so hard-won!” Varro muttered.
“Nor I,” Spartacus replied.
“It matters not,” Barca said. “Let blame fall at editor’s feet.” He marched toward the opposite line of men, intent on matching Bebryx’s slaughter on the other arm of the “V.”
Bebryx approached the next man in line. As he drew near, Varro hefted his Greek spear and hurled it at the still warrior. It whooshed through the air in a lazy arc, and clanged harmlessly off a suddenly raised shield.
Realizing that instinct had intervened where will had not, the gladiator sheepishly returned to his stand-to- attention. Bebryx eyed him suspiciously, and then swung his sword at his neck.
The gladiator’s sword sprang up, blocking the path of Bebryx’s.
“At last!” Batiatus shouted. “Fight!”
Bebryx chuckled in surprise, delighting in the scattered applause that now began to spread around the arena.
“That is better-” he began to say, before the edge of the man’s shield smashed into his face.
Spartacus and Varro heard the crowd before they saw the strike. Bebryx stumbled backward in surprise, his mouth a mess of jagged teeth and seeping blood. Dazed, he raised his sword to strike, only for his opponent to hack down at his right arm, severing it at the elbow.
Bebryx screamed, his stump spurting blood. He twisted to the side, dropping to one knee as his opponent came up behind him, taking careful, deliberate aim at the junction of his neck and shoulder. The doomed gladiator drove his sword straight down into Bebryx’s heart from above. Bebryx fell, a lump of twitching meat, as his killer bellowed an angry yell of imprisoned rage.
The killer’s face contorted in a sneer, he turned to face the surviving three gladiators of House Batiatus. He banged his sword upon his shield, flicking trails of viscous blood across the sands in elongated strings. Then he pointed the dripping blade at the three men and waited, his feet firm on the earth, his shield raised and ready.
“What true gladiator can resist final fight?” Batiatus exulted.
“And not before time,” Lucretia breathed, “it was to become the worst primus in memory.”
“It may yet be,” Ilithyia observed, “if this warrior’s fellows cling to their deluded protest.”
“Not so,” Batiatus crowed. “Not so! This sudden change in fortune will soon be mirrored. Mark my words.”
“Why so elated, Batiatus?” Cicero asked. “You have surely just lost another slave!”
“Bah, one who already proved himself useless at the graveside,” Batiatus spat. “Bebryx has died in the best
