Spartacus: Swords and Ashes

Medea opened her eyes.

“Who is there?” she asked.

“Nemesis,” he whispered.

“Nemesis is a woman,” she yawned.

“Not for you. Not tonight.”

He drew his knife with an audible scrape.

“A sicarius?” she observed, without emotion. “A nocturnal knife-man, sent to end me?”

“Be quiet, and I shall be quick,” he whispered, advancing into the cell.

She climbed to her feet, her chains scraping on the stones.

“I will not make your task easy,” she said.

“You should welcome death,” he said.

“I will,” she said. “But you are a Roman, so I will take you first.”

Her chains rattled again, spooking him. She saw only the nervous jerk of his arms in the moonlight, as he sought to ward off a blow that never came. It was the reflex of a man accustomed to fighting.

“You are a large man,” she said. “And I am chained.”

“Fairness concerns me not,” he said, hesitating, peering in the half-light, circling her, unsure of the length of the chains.

“But you still fret that I have the advantage,” she said.

“I do not.”

“Then make your play.” She snapped her chains as if they were a whip, startling the sicarius in the dark. He lunged and she grabbed at him, propelling him back toward the bars of the cage. He kicked her away, and she came at him again, her chains snapping taut a safe distance from him.

He leaned against the bars and chuckled.

“You cannot reach me,” he smirked.

Medea stopped struggling against her chains, and stood in the dark, her hands on her hips.

“I do not need to,” she said.

He frowned at the odd reply, and drew himself up, ready to strike again, but something enfolded him. He stared down in surprise to see a strong, tanned arm, reaching through the bars behind him, enveloping his chest, grabbing fast onto his neck. He made as if to protest, but the air was choked out of him, his throat held tight, the arm pressing down on his windpipe, dragging him against the bars.

Unseen in the dark, the face of the sicarius turned red, his eyes bulging as the grip grew ever tighter, his head was forced against the sharp-edged, rusty cell bars, drawing blood. His legs thrashed impotently as something gave way in his neck with a distant pop, and then he went limp.

True to his training, Spartacus drew several breaths, waiting for any telltale signs of fakery. Only when he sensed the body was truly dead did he let it drop to the floor.

“It seems I owe you my life again, Thracian,” Medea said softly. “But as a slave I have nothing to give, except that which you do not desire to take.”

“You have the key,” Spartacus pointed out. “Throw me the key.”

Medea scrambled across the floor, dragging her chains to their maximum extent, her arm straining to reach the fallen key. Her fingers nudged against it, found purchase and drew it into her grip. She hurled it over, through the bars and into Spartacus’s cell.

He wasted no time, shoving his arms through the bars at the front, twisting in order to get the key in the lock.

“That was the only key,” Medea said. “And it is clearly too large for my manacles.”

“I do not seek to escape,” Spartacus said, not meeting her gaze. His eyes concentrated on the task at hand as the key slid ponderously into the lock.

“Do not lie to me, Thracian,” Medea said. “Give me that, at least. Run. Run while you can, and I shall not hold it against you.”

“I am not escaping,” Spartacus repeated, turning the key inch by inch, a process made tortuously slow by the need to bend his hand back on itself.

“Then find the key to my manacles,” Medea said. “And I will ‘not escape’ with you.”

“There is no time,” Spartacus responded as the lock clunked out of place. He kicked the cell door open and sprinted into the darkened corridor.

Medea said something incredibly obscene in the language of the Getae. But there was nobody there to hear it. She peered expectantly down the hall, but heard nothing save for the Thracian’s receding footsteps.

Eventually, she returned to her pallet and curled up to sleep, her back turned to the dead body slumped against the far wall of her cell.

Batiatus lay back, breathing heavily on the pallet, spent.

“You were right,” he panted through laughter.

“Concerning my accomplishments?” Successa smiled.

“Indeed,” he said, barely able to gulp air. “You are the Champion of… the Champion of… Fucking.”

He heard her reply tugged by a smile, even though he could not see her.

“All cats are gray in the dark. My career yet has a course to run.”

“Undoubtedly,” he agreed, draping his arm around her, feeling her draw closer to him. “You are a mistress of mistresses. You did well to dissuade me out of that stupid little girl.”

“Valeria is a fine young woman,” Successa said in polite disagreement. “But age brings sophistication.”

“Something to which I aspire in all things. In bed. In business. In the course of honors.”

“Really?” Successa propped herself up on one arm, intrigued. “You seek political office?”

“In Rome any man may become anything, given enough time, and luck, and virtue.”

“Any man?”

“Well, no, not any man,” he conceded. “There are those who are subject to infamia.”

“What brings a bad reputation?” Successa asked. “In a world where men murder each other for the entertainment of the crowd?”

“A public official who accepts bribes; a soldier who flees the battlefield. Those who sell their flesh for the entertainment of others.”

“So I shall never be a Vestal virgin,” she sighed in mock disappointment.

“You are eminently disqualified,” he agreed.

“And what of the lanista?”

“What of me? My reputation is unsullied!”

Successa laughed. “You trade in men like a madame pimps her whores. Unlikely to be the sort of man to be welcomed into virtuous circles.”

“You make comparison to prostitutes and panderers, but surely this is merely a matter of perspective,” Batiatus declaimed, as if addressing an imaginary crowd. “Regard us instead as generals with flexible armies? As warriors who fight to win people’s hearts? The lanista performs a noble function. He occupies the rabble, true enough, but he instils in them a deep-seated respect for the martial virtues upon which Rome was founded. In the hands of the lanista, our people are regularly reminded of the power of the sword. In the hands of the lanista, we are taught repeatedly the lesson that death may be tamed for the pleasure of Rome, and that it is our destiny to witness bloodshed and pain, but to walk away from it sated.”

“Well, you could say that.”

“Gratitude!”

“Or you could say the same of the whores. Let me think, now… Why, yes, you could say that whores are good for Rome because they present fine scabbards for Roman swords. That they allow you to remember your position in the hierarchy by presenting themselves for your pleasure.”

“Now you speak foolishly.”

“Without the noble whore, where would you be? They remind you that whatever the world has to offer, it is there for the taking. The ugliest of Romans, the most pock-marked, disease-ridden citizen, may fuck a Grecian