Spartacus: Swords and Ashes

every Syrian slaver listing a dark-haired oriental priestess. Others besides. She will turn up, in due time.”

“I have concern for Medea, and the discharge of the will of Pelorus.”

“What concern is it of yours?”

“Its entirety has been awarded to Timarchides.”

“An annoyance, it is true. Would it have killed Pelorus to offer some small scrap to the House that gave him his freedom?”

“And this was the wish of Pelorus?”

“With dying breath. With dying breath he fucks us over by leaving estate in unworthy hands!”

“Medea spoke to me of her actions in her escape.”

“Her futile rebellion?”

“Her brief bid for freedom, a single blow to the throat of Pelorus.”

“Dramatic!” Batiatus said. “Such a slice in the arena is always beloved of the crowd.” He grew wistful, staring out of the portal at an unseen amphitheater of dreams. “Aim correctly and moments pass before the victim knows his fate. He might even keep fighting, unaware his last breath has already been drawn.”

“I have used that cut many times in the arena,” Spartacus agreed. “But-”

“Suffocation commences but the victim fights on,” Batiatus continued. “The crowd knows before he does that he is already dead. His sword is dropped, he clutches hands to throat. And then, only then, do knees buckle and body drops to sands.” Batiatus’s eyes glistened with the memory of many battles witnessed from the balcony. “The doctore favors a neck wound for bringing down a prominent opponent in single combat,” he added. “The audience given opportunity to savor the moment of death. Recommended also for dispatching less experienced gladiators who perhaps cannot be trusted to die well. Wait. Is your meaning that Medea is yet professional? Already trained?”

“No, dominus. I believe that she had the advantage of surprise, the distraction of her nude form.”

“And the expedience of a sharp blade close to hand.”

“But, dominus…”

“What is it, Spartacus?”

“I speak of this because of the nature of the wound.”

“What of it?”

“A man with a cut throat cannot speak.”

“Well, his mind is surely elsewhere!”

“He cannot speak. He is not able.”

The lanista’s eyes widened in shock.

“Pelorus did not have any last words!” Batiatus breathed with sudden comprehension. “Verres is lying.”

“That is my meaning, dominus.”

“The strange binding of the body of Pelorus at the funeral procession did catch the eye. I thought it merely some Egyptian fancy, swathing a body in tight bandages, but… Now it seems that they were making attempt to keep his head in place? Spartacus… Spartacus… I saw the wound. Gaping like a second mouth. I assumed it one of many, but now you say it was the sole cut?”

Spartacus shrugged.

Batiatus chuckled with excitement, patting his own chest in satisfaction.

“The whole testament is a sham. Timarchides merely a figure convenient and believable to take on the estate. And Verres gets to play the magnanimous Roman all along, shielding himself from accusation of wrongdoing.”

Spartacus bowed.

“It would seem so, dominus.”

Batiatus smacked the Thracian upon the shoulder in elation.

“Spartacus! Such spoils of battle you have brought your master. You have won great favor for the House of Batiatus! You have just conquered an entire estate!”

XIII

ARGUMENTA

They were armed to the teeth with swords and axes, lances and tridents, but nobody feared them. Their armor was the bulkiest ever seen, and yet the lightest, for it was made of stiffened cloth. When they entered the atrium of the House of Pelorus, they did so en masse, without any of the shoving and pushing that might have accompanied other gladiators. But none of the play-gladiators ran to their habitual position in the center, instead they brandished their arms to make way for new celebrities.

Ahead of them, waving his arms in mock fear, ran a male figure attired with false breasts and a long, dark wig, his hands “chained” in manacles made of rope. Behind him, in chaotic, bounding pursuit, ran a handful of other men attired in bright yellow skins. The “lions” bumped and tripped over one another in a parade of pratfalls, eager to chase their prey, until a fateful moment, carefully timed to reach the middle of the chamber, when they realized that their prey had turned on them, and was whipping them with the chains.

While the false Medea and the false lions clowned in the middle of the chamber, two new arrivals pranced in. Each wore a carefully fashioned skirt in the image of a horse’s torso, leading a fake horse’s head by a bridle. Their masks were outlandishly large, amounting to false heads. One bore a stubbly beard and piercing eyes picked out in blue. The other had a shock of garish blond hair and an exaggerated expression of horror.

The first raised his arms up, exorting the crowd to acknowledge him, which they did, with cries of SPAR-TA-CUS, SPAR-TA-CUS! The other feigned an inability to control his mount, teetering from side to side, lurching back and forth, and bumping on occasion into his fellow rider.

“Is that supposed to be us?” Varro fumed.

Spartacus smirked.

“I believe it is.”

“They mock us,” Varro said.

“Is that not their job?” Spartacus asked.

“Until I find the man and put an end to it,” Varro said. “We stand here, originals forgotten!”

The clown riders rode to the rescue of the clown Medea, bumping and jostling with the clown lions. The crowd laughed, as the “lions” retreated, their arms held up in a mock echo of Medea’s entrance. But as the clown riders took their bow, the clown Medea began to kick and berate them, chasing them off. They exited fast behind the lions, but for an interlude in which the clown Varro missed the portal, smacking into the wall instead, to milk one last laugh from the crowd.

The clown Medea stopped suddenly, alone in the arena, as if hearing the crowd for the first time. “She” looked about her and began to point threateningly at the crowd, in a way that had been seen before.

“Charon,” Varro said. “It is the same old bastard who plays Charon in the arena.”

“You are famous,” Spartacus said.

“I am infamous. And your clown was more handsome than mine.”

Spartacus laughed.

“Gladiators, already your legend supersedes your fleshy reality,” Batiatus said, appearing behind them. He gestured toward the stairs downward. “Perhaps it is time that you returned to the cells, and leave the guests to their phantoms and delights.”

At the far end of the courtyard, Verres and Timarchides were locked in a futile argument. They bellowed and pointed at one another, such that men who did not know them well assumed that they were about to come to blows.

“Do you suggest the love of women is natural?” Timarchides said, already somewhat the worst for wear.