Spartacus: Swords and Ashes

colleagues, my occasional auction-block competition with Pelorus seems now the very pinnacle of amity.”

“Still, no reason for my involvement in your farewells.”

“All of Neapolis society will be there.”

“I care not.”

“Pelorus shall have in death what he never had in life. Accord as a man of wealth and virtue. Mourners from the patrician class. A funeral fit for a high-ranking Roman citizen.”

“I repeat. I care not.”

“Pelorus will not be regarded as mere lanista. Important people shall celebrate his life, Lucretia. Important people.”

“And you?”

“Shall be seen as dear friend to the departed, by his other friends. For which I shall require the presence of my wife.”

“You will find that Neapolis has plenty that can be hired for service.”

There was a shadow in the doorway. A slave had approached, swiftly and silently, as protocol demanded.

“What is it, Naevia?” Lucretia said.

“Apologies, domina, but there is a visitor,” the young girl replied, eyes lowered to the floor.

Naevia got no further before the subject of her message caught up with her. A figure appeared behind her, wrapped in a coarse cloak, dripping water on Lucretia’s clean flagstones. Underneath the cloak, there was the hint of green Syrian silks, and dainty, pedicured toes.

“Pardon this intrusion,” a female voice said, lifting her veil to reveal flaxen blonde tresses, coiled into sodden ropes by the rain. Cheeks usually concealed beneath Tyrian rouge were now flushed with their own glow, with specks of dislodged kohl like ashen tears above an exhilarated smile.

“Ilithyia!” Lucretia exclaimed with exaggerated, mannered delight. “I thought you to be in Rome.”

“Such was my hope,” Ilithyia said, pushing her wrap into the hands of Batiatus as if he were no more than a cubiculum slave.

“But muddy tracks and tired bearers conspired to find me here,” Ilithyia sighed deeply, as if it were the end of the world, “scant steps from your yard and your doors.”

“It pains me that we cannot offer you covered walkway,” Batiatus said, directing his eyes heavenward, “under which to arrive more comfortably.”

“Quite so,” Ilithyia said.

“Perhaps decorated in gold,” Batiatus continued to Lucretia under his breath, “and with couches every few paces that you might take your rest.”

“I thought I might have to walk all the way to Atella to find proper lodging, one closer to civilization,” Ilithyia continued, oblivious.

“Civilization?” Batiatus muttered.

“We are delighted to receive you,” Lucretia said, shooting a sidelong glance at her husband.

“I cannot presume to impose,” Ilithyia said. “After all, we are not mutual hospes. I cannot simply turn up at your door-”

“Yet here you are!” Batiatus smiled through gritted teeth.

“Our house is your house,” Lucretia interjected swiftly. “Naevia will see you given proper quarters.” She glanced at her slave to ensure that the message was received.

“My bearers shall bring my impediments from the litter,” Ilithyia said, following Naevia from the room. “Then, we shall drink and talk of scandalous things!” Ilithyia chuckled conspiratorially, and then was gone.

Batiatus waited, seething, as Ilithyia’s footsteps receded. He bundled up her cloak and threw it contemptuously into a corner, before wheeling on his wife to hiss in suppressed rage.

“Even in accepting our hospitality she shits on our name.”

“We are lucky to hear her speak it.”

“This is our home. We were spreading myrrh on our lentils when the Romans were still running around the forests sucking off wolves.”

“Suckling, Quintus. Ilithyia is giddy with the glory of Rome. She speaks without thought.”

“Oh, she thinks. She thinks all too carefully. Every word carefully placed to cut us down. She forces her way into our house-”

“Where she is very welcome. She is an emissary of Rome’s great and good.”

“So she keeps saying.”

“She is a doorway to aediles and consuls. She has the ears of men of power.”

“For herself. Not for us, as we are not hospes. A point she made certain to make.”

“A matter merely of protocol and politesse.”

“If you were to knock on her door in Rome, with Deucalion’s deluge pouring out of the sky, with Neptune himself pissing on your head, she would order the gates slammed shut in your face. We are not fit to be accorded hospitality in her home, yet she thrusts herself upon ours as if tavern in-!” Batiatus suddenly stopped speaking, his eyes wide in surprise.

“What is it?” Lucretia asked, peering behind her, in case her husband had seen a rodent or a spider.

“Atella,” Batiatus said. “She journeys to Atella.”

“And?”

“It is five hours’ march to the south.”

“Yes, Quintus. A fact known to all.”

“On the road to Neapolis!”

Those gladiators who had shields held them over their heads to keep off the rain. Those who did not did the best they could with the flats of wooden swords, or lifted helmet visors. They stood, intently, watching two lone gladiators who stood waiting in the training ground. The storm pelted every man with rain, but none voiced a word of complaint.

“Now,” Oenomaus bellowed over the noise of the downpour, “observe their footing. Barca, the Carthaginian giant, the strongest and heaviest among you, shall fight as murmillo.” Oenomaus gestured with his hand, and Pietros the slave darted forward with a sword and heavy shield for the Carthaginian.

“Spartacus,” Oenomaus continued, “is fleet of foot, and not the heaviest of our fighters. He shall fight…” Oenomaus glanced over to the weapons store, where Pietros was already fishing out the sword and light shield of the Thracian style.

“…as retiarius,” Oenomaus finished. Pietros glanced at him in confusion, as did Spartacus himself.

“I do not fight with net and trident, Doctore,” Spartacus noted.

“Indeed you do not, Champion of Capua,” Oenomaus said, “and yet you will come to know them intimately in the arena. Hold them in your hands, so you will know how to defeat them.”

Pietros scurried over with a fisherman’s net and three-pointed spear. Spartacus hefted the trident experimentally, feeling its strange displacement.

“Note the unfamiliar weight of the trident,” Oenomaus continued. “Best held either right behind the head or at the far end of the haft. In either mode, an ideal weapon… for spearing fish!”

The men laughed as Spartacus looked on grimly. Barca laughed loudest of all, swinging both his sword and shield in great, deadly arcs about him.

“Do I hear a coin bet on Barca, the Beast of Carthage?” Oenomaus called.

“If I had a coin I would wager it so,” Varro answered.

Spartacus shot the blond Roman a scowl.

“Apologies, my friend!” Varro laughed. “You are not destined for fishing.”

“We shall see,” Oenomaus said, lifting his whip and cracking it through the falling rain. “Begin!”

Spartacus clutched the net in his fist like a forgotten towel-he had not even had the chance to spread it out and check its dimensions. Barca had no such doubts, charging directly at his foe.

Spartacus hurled his trident straight at the oncoming Carthaginian.

The gladiators gasped as Barca barely halted the trident-the triple-points pierced right through his hastily