J. Clements - Spartacus - Swords and Ashes

“Someone has taken up residence here after the bodies were burned,” Batiatus said. “But why kill the undertakers?”

“Whoever the killers were,” Cicero said, “they dwelt for several days among swords and ashes.”

Now, the House of Pelorus had but two occupants. The putative owners and hospes had gone into town. The slaves on loan from the House of the Winged Cock had returned to their home. Cooks and cleaners, serving girls and workmen, all were gone. The manifold guests had long departed, leaving little of the wine cellar but piss in the cisterns. And Spartacus, guardian to a hollow mansion.

Wearily, Spartacus approached the cell of Medea. The barred door still sat ajar. The resident of the cell still sat on the floor wreathed in her chains.

“Alone at last,” she said calmly. “And the door to my cell is open.”

“I am not here for you,” he said.

“From free Thracian to man with a mop? Such a Tarpeian plummet.”

“Eat this,” he said, throwing her a hunk of bread. “I must remove your cellmate before he starts to smell.”

“Gratitude,” she said, “for his elimination from this world, and from this place.”

Spartacus grabbed at the corpse’s arm. The flesh was already strangely yellow, the blood having pooled lower down the sprawled body. On the face bruises and the flower-shapes of popped veins attested to last moments of strangulation. Spartacus dragged the body toward the door, its clothes snagging on the rough stone floor, pulling back its sleeves and half-opening its tunic.

Suddenly, Spartacus stopped.

“What is it, Thracian?” Medea asked.

“He has a mark,” Spartacus said, “upon his arm.”

“So noted,” she said. “What does it mean?”

“Such a mark denotes current or former status.”

“As a criminal?”

“As a gladiator who has passed the test of his house.”

“Just like yours.”

“Not so,” he said, brandishing his forearm for her to see. “Mine is B, for Batiatus. His is P.”

“But I thought the slaves of Pelorus all dead?”

Spartacus stared down at the arm, thoughtfully. His mind spun with the events of the last few days, with arguments in cells and whispers in corridors; with threats in hot moments and chilly reason. He thought of all the possible reasons why a man with the brand of Pelorus could somehow appear in the dark of night, when the brand of Pelorus was supposedly banished from the world of the living. And then he realized.

Spartacus dropped the body and darted from the cell.

“Where are you going, Thracian?” Medea called after him.

“To retrieve key to your manacles,” he replied. “We must leave. Now.”

“Gaius Verres, welcome, welcome,” the magistrate said. “And congratulations upon your appointment!”

“Gratitude,” Verres laughed. “Magistrate Gnaeus Helva, it has been too long since we last met.”

“And will be long again, if you soon sail for Sicilia.”

“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.”