J. Clements: Spartacus: Swords and Ashes

“Payment for banquet never attended?”

“Worse than that. Much worse.”

“What could be worse ?”

“I must remind you of the funeral games.”

Batiatus clutched at his chest in fright.

“The fucking funeral games! You mean that is mine to pay as well? I owe coin for fucking dead rabbits?”

“The bill was surely charged to the estate of Marcus Pelorus, and as his sole heir…”

“JUPITER’S COCK!”

“Look well at your new villa in Neapolis, Batiatus. Soon obligation will come to dispose of it to honor newfound debts.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Verres called. He stopped in front of them in a litter born by four glowering men in dark robes, two of whom did not seem quite fit to be porters-a boy who seemed too young, and a man who seemed too old. Varro found himself staring at the lead bearer, confused with a sense of familiarity. The old man nodded back, as if in recognition.

“Charon…” Varro breathed.

Timarchides sat by the side of Verres in the litter, staring straight ahead.

“I take my leave of you!” Verres said cheerfully. “I sail for Sicilia. Well played, Cicero. Well played, as in our nocturnal debates. The victory is yours, but the spoils are inconsequential.”

“That is your game, is it not, Verres?” Batiatus snarled. “ Everyone your slave. You rape estates. You plunder provinces. You seek the chase. You burn the bridge you crossed. You kick away ladder by which you ascended.”

“You will not be governor of Sicilia forever, Verres,” Cicero said. “I will be there to witness you fall.”

“And I, you,” Verres said, the smile still pasted on. “When time comes Cicero, you will run like frightened deer.”

“I hope very much to die of old age in my bed.”

“Our lives are lived in troubled times, and enemies flock to you like flies to honey,” Verres said, pointedly.

“The price of seeking truth, I fear,” Cicero said. “But I know nothing of the way of the warrior. If chased by man with sword in hand, I shall certainly seek to avoid him. This is not cowardice, but sense.”

“But if he catches you, Cicero. What then?”

“Further debate?” Batiatus muttered. “Another argument, even as he sticks his cock in ass. Leave hold, Cicero, absent cause!”

“If your hypothetical pursuer catches me with his notional sword,” Cicero was saying, “and I theoretically have nowhere left to run?”

“If then,” Verres said, with a nod.

“Then I shall put into practice lessons learned from gladiators. And I shall extend neck to assailant, dying like a Roman, unafraid of the afterlife.”

Verres laughed, and motioned for his bearers to continue on their path. His litter wove through the people and soon passed from sight.

“Dominus!” called a voice. “Dominus!” In a market street full of masters, none paid it heed.

Batiatus offered the wineskin to Cicero, but again the quaestor refused, deep in thought.

“BATIATUS!” shouted the voice, finally gaining the correct dominus’s attention.

Spartacus arrived, panting, manacled by his left arm to Medea.

“What comedia is this?” Batiatus demanded. “Are ears blocked that I find you not standing guard at the house of Pelorus!”

“Your will, dominus,” Spartacus panted. “But doing so uncovered vital news.”

Cicero looked up.

“More vital than that of a slave that deserts his post and runs through the street chained to a murderess?” he said. “My ears are pricked and ready to hear such news.”

“The sicarii last night,” Spartacus said, “were men of the House of Pelorus.”

“How do you know?” Batiatus questioned.

“They all bore his mark.”

“But they are all dead.”

“Not all.”

“They were the undertakers,” Varro said, suddenly.

“Hold tongue, Varro,” Batiatus snapped. “Spartacus, give explanation. How can the men of Pelorus be yet alive? I witnessed their end in the arena.”

“Some,” Spartacus said. “The cells are vast. Did they only contain a small number of gladiators on that night? For that was all that died in the arena.”

“They took upon themselves the garb of the undertakers,” Varro insisted. “And the clowns. They were the cleaners of the arena. Before our eyes unseen-”

“Varro, be silent… Oh…” Batiatus said.

“Even at the games, I heard the damnati protest that not all their brother gladiators were present,” Spartacus said. “Timarchides laughed off accusation, but what if he tried to save those most beloved?”

“The slave speaks sense,” Cicero said. “And it is a scheme worthy of Timarchides, to preserve lives of those fellows of his ludus whom he yet called friends. To kill undertakers, absent witness, and place favored slaves of Pelorus in their stead. They burned evidence and partly melted swords that did the deed, and used undertakers’ mansion as refuge.”

“They leave no evidence,” Spartacus said, “save the bodies of the dead, who cannot testify.”

“And swords lying in ashes,” Varro added, “with ludus mark melted.”

“Yet they marched in procession funereal!” Batiatus sputtered. “With fucking balls forged of iron!”

“Masked and long-sleeved to conceal their brands!” Spartacus agreed. “His favored gladiators mourned him, and some of their number yet work for Timarchides and Verres, as knife-men and bearers. And now the survivors journey to Sicilia, where they will doubtless toil in the entourage of its new governor.”

“Spartacus, Varro,” Batiatus said, “stop them before they reach harbor.”

“We need but one,” Cicero insisted. “Apprehend but one living slave that bears mark of Pelorus, and Verres is undone.”

“Are you sure it is charge ‘monstrous’ enough to warrant case against a governor?” Batiatus asked.

“As sure as I can be,” Cicero said, equivocating as a quaestor must.

“Halt them!” Batiatus shouted.

“Dominus!” Varro said in assent, immediately taking off at a run through the crowd.

“Dominus!” Spartacus said, moving to follow him, Medea at his side.

“Leave the witch!” Batiatus said in annoyance.

“I cannot, dominus,” Spartacus said, raising his chained left hand. Slaved to his actions, Medea was forced to raise her right. “I left key to our chains at the house, that her escape could not be engineered.”

“Then take her with you. It is so fated.”

Batiatus shook his head as the three figures darted through the crowd after the litter, the towering Varro yet visible, Spartacus and the chained Medea soon hidden.

“A diligent slave, that Spartacus,” Cicero commented. “To rush to your side with such immediate purpose.”

“Merely being true to his obligations-to see to the best interests of his master!”

“And what price does he exact for such interference?”

“A very simple coin. A woman.”

“Any woman?”

“Not any woman. His wife. Sold into slavery. To be returned to him on my word.”

“How will you find her?”

“I asked fellow lanistae to bear watch in slave markets for Syrian merchant, selling seer-women from Thrace and its environs.”

“Oh, did you…?”

Batiatus bit on his own knuckle in shock.

“Diana’s crack! Pelorus bought the Getae witch because of me!”

“Because of Spartacus. It all comes back to him.”

“Spartacus does not spin the wheels of fate,” Batiatus scoffed.

“Oh, but he does. Medea would never have entered the House of Pelorus if she were not caught in net you cast for the Thracian’s worthless wife. In your own fashion, you and Spartacus are as much to blame for Pelorus’s death as the witch herself.”