“Thracian, you have more friends that you can imagine. You have seen the Romans and their customs of hospes and hospitality. ‘The friend of my friend is my friend,’ they say.”
“What of it?”
“If you seek to destroy Rome, then forget your past antipathies and seek future alliances. Rome’s enemies should be your allies. Look to the pirates of the east. Look to the rebels in Hispania and the allies of Mithridates. Consider the disaffected peoples within Rome’s festering, king-slaying Republic.”
“I do not seek to destroy Rome.”
“Oh, but you will. You will.”
Footsteps approached, accompanied by the sputtering illumination of a torch. Its firelight glimmered upon scraps of the scene-a body in a distant cell, a pair of eyes glowering between the bars. It picked out Spartacus, briefly, in profile, and then he too was back in darkness.
The light, however, was strongest now upon the front of Medea’s cell. She shielded her eyes as they adjusted to the glare.
“Open the door,” Cicero commanded.
“That I cannot do,” Timarchides said.
“I am a quaestor,” Cicero said. “I speak with voice of the Senate. If I demand that you unlock this portal, you will obey me.”
“And I am a freedman,” Timarchides responded, hotly. “I am a man whose wrists yet bear the marks of chains he no longer wears, in the house of a murdered master.”
“That makes no difference.”
“It does to me, Cicero. She overpowered Verres himself, a Roman gentleman. She fought her way into the main house. She led a revolt that claimed the lives of free citizens.”
“I do not fear a naked woman.”
“Then you are a fool, quaestor. Where are your powers of investigation and intellect? You yourself watched her fight lions, naked in the arena. And you would have me let you inside her cage?”
“What harm does it do you?”
“Every harm, if I am implicated in your foolish death.”
“I say to you, Timarchides. I command you.”
“And I say to you, Cicero, go fuck yourself.”
His lips pressed together in grim resolve, Timarchides shoved the torch into its wall bracket.
“Parley with the bitch if you must. But do it through the bars.”
The two men stared at each other in the flickering torchlight.
“Very well,” Cicero said eventually. “I shall not fight you.”
“A wise choice,” Timarchides said. “I have torn out the hearts of greater men.”
“Leave us, then,” Cicero said. “This is for the ears of no other.”
Medea glanced at the shadows to the place where Spartacus had been, but he had crept away from the bars so that he was not visible from her cage. She smiled to herself at the petty rebellion. Spartacus listened. Spartacus listened, because a Roman did not want him to.
“As you wish,” Timarchides said. “Watch your footing on your return. It would
His footsteps receded down the corridor, shuffling drunkenly.
Cicero peered through the bars at the painted woman of the Getae, unaware that Spartacus watched in secret.
“I have come for you,” Cicero addressed her.
“Come and get me, then,” she said, flatly.
“Pelorus told me of you.”
“He sent message from the afterlife?”
“While he yet lived. He wrote to me of a sorceress of the Getae, who had the power of prophecy.”
“I said I would kill him. That came true.”
“You have wit,” Cicero observed. “Quick-witted and wise.”
“And look where it led me,” Medea said. “See my palace and my servants, my bath and my banquets.”
In the dark, she glimpsed the white of Spartacus’s teeth as he smiled in silence. She willed herself not to look in that direction, lest Cicero realize that they had an audience.
“I am a quaestor,” Cicero said.
“I am a condemned woman.”
“It is my purpose to investigate.”
“I was apprehended with Roman blood on my hands. I do not think my case is in doubt.”
“Matters legal and spiritual. I am collecting prophecies.”
“Here is one for you.
“I mean real prophecies. Oracular utterances.”
“Is that not real enough for you? It will be real enough when the iron bites your flesh.”
Her hair was brown, tied up in careful whorls, and set with pins of Greek bronze. Her legs were long, her rump pleasingly rounded. Her name was unknown. Verres saw no more, nor desired any greater view. Instead, he reached out and grabbed a handful. Verres snatched the girl by her hair, twisting her head back to stare into her face.
“You will do,” he said.
“Dominus!” she breathed in terror. “I have committed no wrong.”
“None indeed,” he said, dragging her toward the darkened room. “There is nothing wrong with your beauty. Nothing wrong with your firm body. Tell me there is nothing wrong with your cunt.”
“Dominus?”
“No matter,” he said, as they neared the bed. “I shall discover for myself presently, and hear you call me dominus with quickened breath-” He threw her onto the bed, which unexpectedly shrieked with surprise.
Lucretia threw off the covers, awoken but disoriented by the sudden intrusion.
“Domina!” the girl breathed apologetically.
“What is the meaning of this?” Lucretia shouted. “Get out! Get out!”
The girl scurried away without another word.
“Gaius Verres?” Lucretia spat.
“Apologies, lady Lucretia,” Verres said, not sounding at all apologetic. “I did not know you were here.”
“I must have dozed off as the silicernium fluttered into embers. I was not expecting to be awoken by your… nocturnal predations.”
“I am no predator. I cannot steal something that does not even possess itself. Slaves are there for the taking.”
“For their master, not for any passing citizen.”
“I am a hospes here.”
“Obligations extend both ways.”
Verres shrugged.
“Timarchides cares not.”
“He will if you cost him extra coin. The servants here are on loan. Damages have to be paid for.”
“Your directness is most becoming. I spoke of the joy a man feels in reminding a slave of who is dominus.”
“Find a resting place for your cock somewhere in town. Neapolis has plenty of brothels. The House of the Winged Cock is but a few steps from our gate.”
“Brothels are for slaves and laborers. Uglies and beggars. I would not eat at the same table as a street sweeper. And I would not fuck the same hole as him either.”
“But, where…?”
“If not in the bedchambers of a gracious host, then there is no lack of serving wenches and weaver girls who will take a day’s pay for an hour’s work. Every woman has her price, Lucretia.”
“
