Spartacus: Swords and Ashes

“Duty calls.”

“It surely does. Be seated, be seated.”

Helva beckoned to a slave to bring a small stack of scrolls, and took the topmost one from it. Verres slumped into a chair, his leg hooked over one of the armrests in a languorous pose. Timarchides sat carefully in the next chair, his back straight, and his expression serious.

“This seems a simple matter requiring little more than seal and salutation,” Helva said. He glanced down at the papyrus, his eyes running along the neat letters written in a scribal hand, then frowned. “The death of Pelorus was indeed unfortunate,” he continued, “but these are straitened times. One murder still moves me, even after the purges of the Social War when such things were commonplace and found in their myriads.”

Verres nodded in a conciliatory fashion.

“I loved Pelorus dearly,” Timarchides said, his interjection attracting a scowl from Verres. “His sudden death was tragedy.”

“Indeed, indeed,” Helva said, “and at the hands of a slave. So… the value of the estate is considerably diminished?”

“There is little here but the tying of loose ends and the agreement of settled accounts.” Verres said. “As familiae emptor, I carried out the necessary disbursements of Pelorus’s funeral. Unfortunately, that also included the necessary execution of the entire household.”

“Entire?”

“Of course.”

“My meaning,” Helva said, “is that the entirety of the household has been disposed?”

“All but the Getae witch Medea,” Verres said, “who is sentenced ad gladium and sure to die.”

“Very well,” Helva said. “It is your finding, as familiae emptor, that the freedman Timarchides is the man most appropriate to inherit the estate of Pelorus?”

“For certain,” Verres confirmed. “Timarchides was as son to Pelorus, and his sole associate of free status.”

“You exclude yourself, Verres?”

“As familiae emptor, I desire not to abuse my position.”

“Well then,” Helva chuckled, “gratitude to you for a sense of duty most pious. With a certain degree of relief, that I call for the sealing tar.” He clapped his hands to summon the slave again, and tugged a prominent signet ring from his middle finger.

The door opened, but not upon a loyal servant. Instead, it revealed a commotion outside as servants tried to bar new suppliants from the courtroom.

“By all that is sacred,” Helva muttered impatiently. “What now?”

“Magistrate Helva!” a voice shouted. “This case is yet unheard.”

“I think,” Helva said, “that I shall be judge of that. I speak most literally.” He laughed at his little joke, only to stop short when he saw that Timarchides and Verres were not so amused by the intrusion. They stared at one another wordlessly, their eyes and brows animated in a silent discussion, as if each had left the other to perform a task, and now found him wanting.

“Marcus Tullius Cicero, quaestor of the Republic,” Cicero declared, announcing himself. At his shoulder stood Batiatus, tugging his tunic back into shape after an unseen tussle, and the gladiator Varro, who stared threateningly at unseen scribes in the next room.

“What is the meaning of this, Cicero?” Helva said. “I heard of your arrival in town, on business Sibylline, if I recall.”

“A quaestor questions where he may,” Cicero said. “And I seek clarification of some matters regarding this estate.”

Helva looked dolefully at his signet ring, already off his finger and ready to apply to the papyrus.

“Very well,” he sighed. “What is your contention?”

“A misunderstanding,” Cicero said carefully.

“Mis-!” Batiatus began, only to be stayed by his counsel’s upraised hand.

“A misunderstanding,” Cicero continued, “that would see the estate of Pelorus wrongly assigned, absent diligence.”

Butchers worked their carcasses on stone tables in front of their shops. Grocers haggled with household slaves over vegetables. Two painted whores leaned lazily on the staircase to a cheaper, second-floor establishment, and did not even bother to call out to passers-by. The street was damp from earlier rains, but already warm. It was as if the buildings sweated in imitation of their residents.

Spartacus pushed through the crowd, his attention focused on the forum building that loomed above the smaller houses and insulae. He dragged Medea behind him, their wrists chained together.

“Where are we going?” she demanded.

“Batiatus seeks audience with the magistrate,” Spartacus said, ducking around an ambling pair of blacksmiths.

“Then let him,” Medea said, barely circumventing them herself. “It makes no difference to us.”

“It will if he dies,” Spartacus said. “Enemies are at large and yet unknown to him.”

“Let me go,” Medea said thoughtfully. “Unchain me that we can move faster through this crowd.”

Spartacus laughed despite his concern.

“I am a slave, Medea. I am not a fool.”

Autumn came early to the hills. The air swam with yellow leaves, spiraling and circling in a downward slant, like flocks of birds circling toward one single prey. Always, they swept along with the wind, darting and in occasional eddies, but always downward, down toward the damp, grimy flagstones of the road.

Far below, the forest gave way to hills, the hills to fields, the fields to the sea. A dark, angry mountain marked the general location of Neapolis, now far behind Lucretia’s litter. Her four bearers plodded on without a word, and she left the sidings to flutter in the mounting breeze. It let her see the ceaseless corridors of trees that avenued their path; it let her see glimpses of the featureless road ahead; and it let her see Barca, faithful Barca, marching at her side, his hand ever on the hilt of his sword, his eyes scanning the trees for invisible foes.

There was a flutter of wings ahead. A platoon of surprised crows darted for the sky, like black shadows against the confetti of leaves.

Barca gestured for the bearers to stop.

“Something lies up ahead,” the Carthaginian whispered.

“Home!” Lucretia said. “Capua lies but hours before us. That is the sole destination for which I care.”

But she was talking to Barca’s back as the giant stepped ahead, his sword half-drawn.

Cursing silently, Lucretia dropped from the litter, gathering her silken robes against her to ward off the mountain chill.

“Barca!” she fumed, tottering after him on legs not yet fully awake. “We flee dangers Neapolitan. They will not lie ahead of us. It would please me not to dawdle so long upon this road.”

Barca had stopped at the side of the road and knelt beside something.

“Tell me what it is.” Lucretia asked, nearing the hunched giant.

Barca’s gazed down upon his findings.

“There are no bandits here,” Lucretia said. “No dangers for us to-”

She stopped at Barca’s side. He was knelt before what had once been a man.

The corpse lay sprawled in the gutter, its back arched by the tightening tendons of the dead. One arm was stretched out, imploringly, the other clutched at what had once been its side. The eyes were gone, the flesh torn from the face in strips. Chunks had been wrenched from the limbs by animals with larger jaws, leaving gobbets of meat and gristle scattered on the road nearby. One foot was missing entirely, along with the lower portion of the leg.

“What do you see?” Lucretia asked.

“A slave,” Barca replied.