goddess if he has coin to pay for it.”
“And possession of a heavy purse is a Roman virtue.”
“Roman virtue surely leads to the acquisition of wealth.”
“Which allows one to acquire prostitutes.”
“Among other things,” she said.
A lamp smashed against the wall, its flaming oil licking swiftly against a hempen curtain. Suddenly, the room was illuminated, as yellow flames curled and flickered up the wall.
“Put it out, Tiro,” Cicero murmured sleepily, rubbing his eyes. Seeing that the flames were rising faster than expected, he dragged himself to an upright position.
“Tiro!” he said, still not awake.
“Dominus!” his slave answered with a panicked voice. Cicero turned to look, and saw a black-clad figure lurching toward him. He held up his hands to ward off the attack, only for Tiro himself to stand in the way.
Cicero watched, dumbly, as Tiro and the attacker grappled. The boy was no match for the bigger man, and struggled fitfully as he was first pinned, then lifted and flung at the far wall. He slid to the floor and lay there unmoving.
Reluctantly comprehending that this truly was no dream, Cicero drew himself to his feet.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, only then seeing the short, curved knife in the shadow’s hand.
“Marcus Tullius Cicero,” said the unknown figure. “Come with me.”
“Absent cause or reason? I think not.”
“Come with me, dead or alive,” the man hissed.
“Is that a Gaulish accent?” Cicero mused, trying very hard not to look at the figure of Spartacus, who had appeared at the doorway and was now stealthily advancing on the would-be killer.
“Silence,” the man said.
“It is!” Cicero said. “What is a man of Gaul doing so far from home, I wonder…?”
“Dying?” Spartacus suggested, as he locked his arms around the man’s neck.
The man’s eyes widened, his knife-hand stabbed backward, but the blunt edge of the blade bumped harmlessly against Spartacus’s skin. The gladiator tightened his grip. Desperately, the Gaul propelled himself backward against the wall, smashing the Thracian into it, causing the plaster to crack away from him in a spidery star. Before Spartacus had time to yell, he was lifted and smashed again. Chunks of the white walls caved away, revealing terracotta bricks beneath.
But the firm purchase of the wall gave Spartacus extra leverage, allowing him to drive his forearms yet closer together, pushing ever harder against the man’s neck, until it suddenly gave way, and the Gaul’s head lolled, unseeing, as he slumped to the ground.
“Thracian!” Cicero said happily. “I owe you my life, it seems.”
“Where is my dominus?” Spartacus demanded.
“I know not.”
Tiro the youthful slave struggled to his feet, pressing tenderly at the bump on his head.
“You!” Spartacus said, throwing him the key. “Unlock Varro. Set him to your protection.”
“Varro…?” the youth mumbled.
“The blond gladiator!” Spartacus shouted.
“Do as he says, Tiro,” Cicero said.
Spartacus did not wait for any further acknowledgment, running instead for Lucretia’s bedchamber, leaving Cicero to pat fussily at the burning curtains.
“What is happening?” Lucretia demanded drowsily as Spartacus burst into her room.
“Where is dominus?”
“For what meaning do you stand before me absent guard?”
Spartacus grabbed her hands, causing her to gasp in surprise.
“Where is he?”
There was a knock at the door.
“I believe it unlikely that I would receive two midnight callers,” Successa said.
“Perhaps your fame spreads,” Batiatus replied.
The knock came again, louder this time.
“Let your slaves answer it,” he mumbled, turning his head back toward the pillow.
“They are largely employed this night at the House of Pelorus,” she replied, tugging on her gown. “I, alone, am not permitted to cross its threshold.”
“Come back to bed,” he wheedled. “I yet have appetite unsatisfied.”
Outside, she heard the janitrix setting her mop within its bucket and sauntering toward the door.
“As you command,” Successa said, and turned back to her client.
Outside, the slave wearily peeled open the shutter in the main door.
“Who is it?” she said.
“A message for Quintus Lentulus Batiatus,” a man’s voice said.
“There are no names here,” the slave said carefully. “For this is the House of the Winged Cock.”
“Then let me deliver papyrus that Batiatus may gaze upon it should he
“Very well,” the janitrix sighed, not wishing for any further trouble. She slid back the bolt and began to pull on the door, and hence had little time to register the sudden foot that kicked it wide open, or the short sword that plunged into her neck. She struggled, fitfully, against the hand that was clamped on her mouth. Her lungs heaved, but drew in no air as blackness crept at the edge of her vision-then nothing. Her last thought was that her newly cleaned floor was stained with blood.
The new arrival strode inside, his figure hidden beneath a bulky cloak. He pulled back the hood to reveal a shock of red Teutonic hair, and a knotted beard and mustache. The cleaning slave slid off the end of his blade, crumpling on the floor, her blood seeping across the newly scrubbed tiles.
The interior of the House of the Winged Cock was silent and dark, and the Teuton smiled to himself as he walked further inside. He was hence entirely unprepared for the bellowing cry of: “BATIATUS!” and the sudden onslaught of a Carthaginian giant.
Barca leapt out of the shadows, his coverlet still clinging to his chest, his hands grabbing for the sword-arm of the surprised Teuton. The two men pitched over onto a table, rolling across it until it gave way under their weight, dropping them both to the floor.
Successa and Batiatus appeared at the doorway to her chamber, baffled.
“Your bodyguard earns his keep,” she mused.
“Against what dangers?” Batiatus said.
Barca and the Teuton seemed equally matched, their fists smacking into each others faces, their hands clawed to grab at clothes and flesh, their muscles straining to heave the other off-balance. They scrabbled across the tiles, smashing into pots and pans and pieces of shattered furniture.
“Such brawls are regular occurrences in a house such as this,” Successa noted, unmoved by the drama unfolding in her courtyard.
“Drink and cunt makes many men merry,” Batiatus agreed, nibbling at her shoulder.
Then they both caught sight of the dead slave.
“Get dressed,” Batiatus said, suddenly deadly serious. “This is no drunken brawl.”
Successa ducked back inside the room, only to scream in shock.
A man was climbing through her window, sword in hand.
Batiatus followed her into the room. He swiftly snatched up a blanket, throwing it over the new arrival. He
