“That is surely not the case,” Batiatus said, seating himself with a smug sigh upon the altar itself. “What about that king of Asia who left his entire kingdom to the Republic?”
“The state can make exceptions where it suits it. But for private individuals, the matter still stands.”
“But we are all Roman citizens now. The franchise has been extended over all the Latins. You may have been
Cicero leaned his haunches on the altar next to Batiatus. He smiled to himself in appreciation of a new and dangerous loophole.
“Batiatus, my friend,” he breathed, “you are entirely correct. Yet another problem to occupy the lawyers of the Republic for decades to come.”
“So if Pelorus can claim to be a citizen of Rome, what consequence to his estate, if he is left without heir?”
“His citizenship is less of an issue than his status as a freedman.”
“And as freedman who departs this life absent a will, his estate becomes property of his former owner?”
“Indeed. His owner being your late father, who himself leaves his estate to you, Batiatus. I can see why this interests you so. You have identified a window of immense size.”
“You will take my case?”
“There is a case?”
Batiatus leaned in as close as seemed proper.
“Verres is self-appointed,” he said. “He makes claim to be familiae emptor.”
“The ‘buyer of the family,’ meaning he has charge of disbursing the estate as Pelorus would have wished it?”
“Well, what the
“Your points have validation, good Batiatus,” Cicero said. “What is Verres’s claim?”
“That as he died Pelorus willed him to dispense his fortune, largely to the freedman Timarchides.”
“So?”
“The evidence of such an intent is strangely absent.”
“Pelorus intended differently?”
“I do not imagine Pelorus had any intentions at all, one way or another.”
“Why?”
“I was well acquainted with the man. Such a man as he lived for the moment. Pelorus lived a life both safe and secure-or so he thought. He had no enemies. He had wealthy friends. He did not expect to depart life at such early age!”
Something clattered in the corridor outside. The men looked up but saw nothing in the moonlight.
“I sense a Thracian’s disapproval,” Medea said, scratching her head. Her chains rattled in the dark.
“It is your life,” Spartacus said from the neighboring cell.
“It is not my life,” Medea replied. “It ceased to be my life when Roman legionaries fell upon the Getae and captured me.”
“The story is familiar,” Spartacus said.
“With variants, I am sure,” she said. “I never yet saw Asia, but from the road as I was marched to Bithynian slave markets. Sold to the Syrians. Acquired by agents of Pelorus, with his strange predilection for sorcerous women. And thence to Italia.”
“Where you will die in the arena.”
“So be it.”
“Unless you cooperate with Cicero.”
“Fuck him.”
“Give him what he wants,” Spartacus said. “Give him what he wants, and you shall be taken from this place in his custody, taken to Rome as a seer and prophetess.”
“As a slave.”
“For now. But your life will be longer and more luxurious if you foretell portents of Rome’s future than if you sit in such a cell as this, and wait for the trumpets to call you to the sands.”
Outside, the moon peeked from behind rainclouds, allowing gentle, gray light to glow through the small window near the ceiling.
“See,” he said. “Luna agrees with me.”
“I am worth more to the Romans as their seer, than as their animal of the arena?” she mused.
“Truly,” Spartacus said, “you are worth more to the Romans alive than dead.”
“In which case,” she said, “I shall make sure that I die.”
Lucretia awoke, again. This time, there was a scratching at the window, a pawing at the shutters. Her eyes narrowed in annoyance as she snatched up a statuette as an impromptu weapon.
“Governor or not,” she breathed, “I will mark you for such insolence.”
“Governor…?” slurred the voice of Batiatus. “I am but the governor of your heart.”
Lucretia flung open the shutter, to find her husband attempting to climb through the window-a maneuvre that seemed to tax him more than it should.
“In Luna’s name,” Lucretia cried, “what are you doing?”
“I am coming to bed,” Batiatus mumbled.
“Through the window?”
“It was the swiftest means to reach you. As windows are, I have discovered, in matters legal or marital.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Tonight I am going to fuck you. And tomorrow, we are going to fuck Verres!” He finally found purchase with his other leg, swinging himself over the ledge and into the bedroom, where he tumbled on the floor at Lucretia’s feet. She made no attempt to help him up.
“It delights me to see you so animated,” she said dryly, returning to the bed and climbing back beneath the coverlet.
“Indeed I am, Lucretia. Your husband has found a new course through the obstacles set up by Verres and Timarchides. A new chance, even, that you and I shall become the owners of the House of Pelorus. And Cicero himself engaged as my advocate!”
“I hope his success is greater with your case than his success in collecting prophecies,” Lucretia said. She turned over fitfully, only to discover the hand of Batiatus grabbing at her shoulder and traveling swiftly toward her breast.
“My cock rises!” Batiatus whispered in her ear, pressing the evidence into her back.
“Quintus,” she said smiling into the dark, “you find me not yet unlocked.”
Batiatus harrumphed with the apparent effort required.
“Well,” he said, realizing, “it is strange that you and I are in our bedchamber unaccompanied.”
“Absent our usual servants of the cubiculum,” Lucretia said, “we lose many modern utilities.”
“Here in Neapolis,” Batiatus said, rolling onto his back. “I shit and do not know the name of the man who hands me the sponge.”
“And can you fuck, Quintus?” Lucretia shifted to look at him. “Without some tight-mouthed Illyrian to tease your cock into readiness?”
“I am ready for anything!” Batiatus declared, his tunic tented with the evidence.
“As a Roman lady,” Lucretia said delicately, “I am not so swift to desire.”
“Well,” Batiatus said, looking about him in confusion. “I can… help…”
Lucretia smiled and draped her arms around him, pressing herself against him.
“Can you… help…?” she breathed in his ear.
His hand found the place where her legs met, sliding in between them, rubbing mechnically, joylessly for the
