Spartacus: Swords and Ashes

“Then you had better keep your side of it. Spartacus is yet loyal servant. I would hate to see how such an iron will would cleave to vengeance.”

But Batiatus was lost in thought, listening not to Cicero, but instead gazing at the iron railings that descended from where they were standing, lining a long stone staircase that plummeted for several streets into the distance.

“We may yet meet them at the harbor,” Batiatus said suddenly.

“What?”

“The litter must take winding road that slopes toward sea. But we, Cicero, we may take the steps that lead direct.”

“Lead on, Batiatus. Lead on!”

“I did not know,” Timarchides muttered sourly, “that so little of the ludus remained. These four slaves that bear us to the harbor are all that we could salvage.”

“Come now, Timarchides,” Verres said, toying idly with the curtain of the litter. “You have your freedom. Pelorus had his funeral games. The estate has been run into the ground, but our purposes here in Neapolis are achieved.”

“Your purposes.”

“Yours, too. Sicilia is not prize command. It does not have prospect of triumph presented by military consulship in the east. Nor does it have old-world allure of Greece, or frontier excitements of Gaul or Hispania. But what it possesses in abundance is vast, simmering volcano of slaves, many of whom learned stories of rebellion and atrocity at their mother’s knee.”

“A dangerous posting.”

“For the wrong man, it would be. But you are seated next to the man who is right for such a job, and you shall be my right hand. We shall tolerate no suggestion of revolt. We shall be merciless on slaves, and merciless on masters who do not adequately manage such beasts that reside beneath their roofs.”

The litter swung about as the bearers negotiated a hairpin turn, the street turning back on itself as it descended toward the harbor.

“You will force masters to take blame for slaves’ rebellions?” Timarchides asked.

“Are not owners responsible for their animals? There shall be fines. Confiscations. Inspections. Under governorship of Gaius Verres, slaves will be kept in their rightful places, or owners will suffer consequences.”

“I have been slow to realization. A price must be paid.”

“Most certainly.”

“A price paid, no doubt, into the coffers of Gaius Verres.”

“Fines and forfeits, tithes and taxes. To both our fiscal posterities.”

“We must reach Sicilia first,” Timarchides cautioned, looking behind him. He gestured, causing Verres to twist in his cushions and follow the direction of Timarchides’s pointing finger.

“What is it?”

“Varro, blond Roman slave of Batiatus. He follows us. His face set to purpose.”

“Deal with him.”

“Deal with him yourself.”

“Bearers, speed your pace!” Verres called, tapping on the curtain supports for emphasis. The porters increased their march, and the litter began to sway as if on troubled seas.

“I say to you, Timarchides: get out at the next turning,” Verres said, “and deal with the slave.”

“And I say to you: fight your battles with your own hand.”

“You are free, Timarchides, but you are not a tyrant of your own dominion. You still have superiors.”

“Meaning youself?”

“Of course, meaning me! You serve at the pleasure of the Governor of Sicilia. And it pleases me that you will put an end to Varro’s pursuit. Now!”

“Wait,” Medea said, suddenly ceasing her steps, and dragging Spartacus to a halt.

“Follow me,” he said pulling her forward.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I must catch them.”

“Why?”

“Medea, there is not time for this.”

“I have time entire to stay here and breathe sea air.”

“Medea!”

“You seek to apprehend slaves. Slaves who will die if caught. I will not aid you in that enterprise.”

“I seek to apprehend slaves who will bring down Gaius Verres. A Roman governor.”

“Now,” she said with a delighted smile, “now, you secure my assistance. Run!”

She sprinted on with such speed that Spartacus first had to struggle to keep up, her chain stretching taut behind her, all but dragging his arm.

Suddenly, it was Spartacus who stopped and Medea to be jerked to a standstill by their mutual manacles.

“Spartacus!” she shouted. “The chance awaits to wound a true Roman. Do you not appreciate the scale of this undertaking?”

“Scaling is my thought,” he said briskly, pointing to another of the several stairways that descended toward the harbor. “These run perpendicular to the road that the litter must take. We can dart ahead, as if spurred by Mercury himself.”

“Then why do we tarry? Down the steps! Move!”

Varro quickened his pace as he approached the turn in the street, ducking and swerving between merchants and vendors, sliding deftly around chatting ladies in demure veils. And then a man who sidestepped at the same time as he.

Varro darted to the left, but so did the man in front of him.

“Who do you seek?” Timarchides asked, throwing back his hood.

Varro glanced past the Greek’s shoulder, seeing the litter receding through the crowd. He made to shove Timarchides aside, but the burly Greek grabbed his hand.

“You miss my touch, Varro? Is that it?”

Varro bellowed with anger, and punched with his free hand, a blow that Timarchides easily dodged. The freedman twisted and turned so that he dragged Varro’s right arm with him, throwing the Roman over his shoulder and hard to the ground. But Varro grasped at his tormentor, tugging down on his tunic, and planting his foot in Timarchides’s stomach as he fell, propelling the freedman in a somersault over his head and hard into a stack of earthenware jars.

A crowd began to gather, calling and jeering at the fighting men.

Teeth gritted against the pain of a dozen jagged cuts, Timarchides threw himself at Varro. But the gladiator rolled deftly out of the way, and snatched up a meat cleaver from a butcher’s table. He advanced toward Timarchides, swishing the iron blade experimentally.

“Think on what you are doing, Varro,” Timarchides said, backing away as the crowd gave the men wide berth.

“I have thought on it long and hard,” Varro said, luxuriating in the weight of the cleaver. He grabbed Timarchides by the neck, raising the cleaver high above his head in victory.

“I am a free man,” Timarchides choked as Varro pulled his head back. “And you, a slave. Take my life, and you take your own as surely as if you had slit your own throat.”

Varro hesitated, only for an instant, before a wooden club descended upon his head. His vision exploded in a cloud of pinpricks of light, whirls of darkness encroaching from the edges of his sight, the sharp pain registering only briefly, as unconsciousness came over him, and he slumped to the ground.