Mark Morris: Spartacus: Morituri

Ashur bowed slightly. “I think only of the House of Batiatus.”

Batiatus proffered, “It will continue to grant you coin for services rendered.”

“Gratitude, dominus.”

“And to ply mouths that would share more of what we seek to know.” Batiatus paused to turn a thought over. “The Greek girl. Her years appear briefly touched by servitude, her dress more wrapping for gift than attire for slave.” Batiatus considered the memory of her. “I would know more of her.”

The two men dove back into the streaming mass of people that clogged the streets of Capua, two more faces in a sea of them.

“ Sinistra. Dextra. Left and right. A man’s nature moves him to strike with his right. For strength lies there. It tells him to raise shield with his left, for defense. This instinct impels you. But you must fight it.”

Oenomaus, called Doctore in Batiatus’s ludus, coiled the long bull-hide whip tighter in his fist as he spoke. His black skin gleamed with sweat in the light of the early evening. Training time was almost done, and the men were starting to slacken, in expectation of the call to food and rest, and a stint in the bathhouse to ease their aching muscles. But Doctore’s eyes were fixed implacably on Spartacus as the Thracian stood panting before him, a gladius in each hand.

“Sinistra, Dextra ,” Oenomaus said again. “But for you Spartacus, the words must hold no meaning. With two swords in hand you must attack with both. Teach your left to wield with equal strength as right. Two swords, two strikes. Varro!”

The burly, blond-haired Roman stepped out of his training pair.

“Yes, Doctore.”

“Hand me your weapon.” Varro handed over the heavy wooden training sword and Oenomaus took it as lightly as if it were a piece of kindling. He glared at Spartacus.

“Now-attack!”

The Thracian raised his head. Sweat trickled down his cheeks. Swiping it away with his upper arm, he turned from the tall wooden post, which he had been hacking with his practice swords, and faced Doctore, who stood before him, impervious as an obsidian statue.

Spartacus bared his teeth slightly. He lunged.

Oenomaus batted aside the attack with a flick of his sword. In the training square, the crack of wood on wood faded as the other men bearing the Mark of the Brotherhood paused in their training to stand and watch. The new Champion of Capua, slayer of the legendary Theokoles, versus the veteran who had trained them all, and at whose word they lived and fought and died. This was something worth seeing.

Spartacus’s left-hand sword came up on Oenomaus’s unarmed side. It was a fast strike, but not so fast as the first. Oenomaus stepped sideways and it passed through empty air. His own weapon darted upright in his fist and missed Spartacus’s throat by half a handspan.

The two gathered themselves, Spartacus breathing hard, Oenomaus cool and watchful. The sun was going down and the light was fading. A red glow flooded the ludus from the west, long purple shadows sliding across the sand.

“It appears Mars watches exhibition,” Varro said to Felix, one of the newer men. He nodded at the sky and then spat on the ground. “Etching sky in glowing libation.”

Oenomaus and Spartacus circled each other slowly.

Suddenly Spartacus leapt in with a cry, both swords raised, swift as a hawk. One sword cracked off the doctore’s own weapon and the other would have thudded into Oenomaus’s upper thigh had the trainer not twisted with preternatural speed, almost as though he were dancing. His own sword came up and the point swung round to clip Spartacus on the temple, a glancing blow, no more, but the hard wood of the practice weapon opened the skin there, and a trickle of blood fell down the champion’s face like a ribbon, dark in the failing light.

“Good,” Oenomaus said. “You maneuver weapons with admirable skill. But you would do well to hold something back. To preserve for defense.”

“With respect Doctore, you instruct attack with both swords, and now you counsel defense,” Spartacus said, wiping his bloody temple on the back of one forearm.

“I speak not of weapons now. But of mind that controls them. Yours and your opponent’s. His intentions must be as clear to you as your own. If the enemy sees opening, you must see it, sense it before his move is made.” Doctore appraised his fierce student. “You wield with left hand as though it still holds shield. Left foot strides early, giving signal of attack. You must learn balance, to prevent opponent gauging intent from footwork. Employ two feet, as you do two weapons, combining all into one tool of violence.”

Spartacus smiled. “I will find comfort with them all.”

“Dominus arms you to fight as dimachaerus, and so you will. How does your wound fare?”

“It is but scratch.”

“Apply vinegar to soothe.” Oenomaus nodded, and then raised his voice. “Today’s training ends!” He cracked the long bull-hide whip and tossed the practice sword back to Varro. “Eat. Rest. Gather strength,” he cried. “For tomorrow you will work harder!”

The men began to troop into the mess hall, where the cooks had been stirring at the millet and lentil porridge for some time now, the toothsome smell of it drifting over the practice square.

Spartacus looked down at the two wooden swords in his hands.

“Two weapons divide attention,” Oenomaus told him. “Against skilled enemy, the challenge stands greater.”

“I will learn,” Spartacus said. “Future victory assured by the promise.”

Oenomaus nodded. “You are champion now. The honor of this house balanced upon efforts.”

Spartacus stared into his eyes for a moment, and then gave a short nod. “Yes, Doctore.”

Oenomaus coiled up his whip grimly. “As champion you are held as example. Inside the arena or out of it. Failure no option.”

Spartacus touched the blood on his temple. Then he tossed his twin swords onto the sand and walked away.

Oenomaus turned to watch him go, saw his friend Varro slap him on the back as they entered the mess hall together. He peered up at the sky, it was almost dark now and the stars shone overhead in their tens of millions. Below, in the low country about the Volturnus River, Capua had begun to light up also, a thousand lamps burning in shadow.

Oenomaus frowned. He ran his fingers over the coils of his whip, as was his habit, then, finally, walked inside the ludus. The men were already seated at table, and the usual profane ribaldry of the evening had begun, as familiar to his ear as the smell of the porridge was to his nose. This was his home, and would always be so. There was nothing he would not do to protect it from threat, whether it came from within or without.

Scooping water from the plunge-bath with a bronze patera, Spartacus upended it over his head. He gasped, blowing water droplets out of his mouth in a plume of spray, as the cold liquid ran over his shoulders and down his chest, sluicing away the dirt and oil that he had sweated out of his pores. His skin tingled and his heart beat a little faster. He did it again, and then again, feeling increasingly invigorated and refreshed.

Around him the other men were in various stages of the cleansing process-rubbing olive oil into their aching muscles, sitting on hot stone benches in the steam bath to sweat out the day’s dust and grime, or scraping the dirt off their skin with strigils .

The stone walls echoed with banter, but Spartacus, as was usual, kept his own counsel. Because of this some thought him arrogant, unapproachable, even untrustworthy, but this did not concern him. Spartacus desired only to fight, and, one day, die in the arena. Varro was perhaps his only true friend, the big Roman having persisted in engaging Spartacus in conversation even when faced with the Thracian’s initial taciturnity, and his evident antipathy toward Romans.