Mark Morris - Spartacus - Morituri

Batiatus grimaced as Oenomaus’s voice rang out, accompanied by the crack of his whip: “Hasten movements or invite death in the arena. Varro, you stand fixed to earth as though roots sprout from feet. Are you tree or gladiator?”

“The men tire …” Batiatus murmured, and gestured up at the sky, from which the white disk of the sun blazed down. “The heat intense at this hour.”

“As it will be upon the sands in the arena,” Solonius pointed out.

Batiatus clenched his jaw and said nothing, merely gestured his guests forward with a flick of his fingers.

Hands curled around the balcony rail, all five men looked down on to the flat, sandy area below, where the men of the ludus were going through their daily paces. What was immediately evident was how tired they looked, how sluggish. Despite Oenomaus’s threats, and the frequent crack of his whip, they stumbled and blundered ineffectually about, as if half-asleep.

Clearly nonplussed, Brutilius asked, “Which is Spartacus?”

Batiatus pointed. “He spars with Varro, the blond fighter.”

“Where is Spartacus’s shield?”

“He requires no shield. His defense lies in swiftness of movement, his shield hand employed with second weapon to double effectiveness in combat.”

No sooner had Batiatus finished boasting of his Champion’s agility than Spartacus stumbled, tripping over his own feet. He desperately tried to right himself, but succeeded only in ramming one of his swords in to the ground with such force that the wooden blade snapped in two, pitching him sideways. He crashed to the ground, blinded and choking as a cloud of sand billowed up and coated his sweat-covered face. With a cry of triumph, Varro leaped forward, pinned him to the ground by planting a foot on his chest and jabbed his throat with the point of his sword.

“Your life is mine, brother,” he cried.

There was laughter and ironic applause from above. Varro and a still-spluttering Spartacus looked up. Solonius stood with his head thrown back, laughing uproariously. To the right of Solonius stood Batiatus, his face puce with fury. Standing to his right were three other men-Hieronymus, who was grinning widely; Crassus, who wore an expression of insufferable smugness; and Brutilius, who looked as though he couldn’t make up his mind whether to be amused or disappointed.

Still laughing, Solonius’s voice echoed across the suddenly silent training ground.

“Majestic display, good Batiatus. Your champion appears as legend that precedes him, to be sure.”

Tight-lipped, Batiatus muttered, “I admit recent period of illness has left many of the men laid low as result.”

“If you wish to withdraw from contest …” Hieronymus suggested.

Vehemently Batiatus shook his head.

“And deny good Brutilius the presence of Capua’s champion? Unthinkable.” He waved a hand airily. “The men are strong, proven resilient from hard training under firm hand. Current malaise will pass, and the men will restore to full strength.”

Hieronymus laid a hand on his arm. His eyes were nothing but kindly.

“I don’t doubt the truth of it,” he said.

Lucretia wrinkled her nose at the pungent reek of incense.

“Does the House of Solonius now retain stable of whores in addition?” she muttered. “The vulgarity of the man astounds.”

It was the night before the games, and Solonius had invited Batiatus and Lucretia to a lavish party at his home to mark the coming contest. As the lanista and his wife entered the villa, its ostentation immediately apparent in the excessively elaborate wall friezes and the over-use of gold leaf to enhance everything from the abundance of statuary to the exposed breasts of the female slaves, they were assailed by music that was too strident, and a succession of tables groaning too heavily with heaped platters of food to be considered anything other than capriciously wasteful. Additionally, in Batiatus’s opinion, the zeal with which slaves thrust goblets into their hands and insisted on keeping them topped up with wine that tasted of bull’s piss bordered on the insolent, thus rankling him further-so much so, in fact that by the time Batiatus spotted their host, through a bacchanalian display of over-endowed female performers fingering their cunts with such enthusiasm that he felt certain they were about to produce floods of gold coins from between their swollen labia, he was scowling with ill-temper.

Solonius saw him advancing through the crush of sweating, cavorting bodies and raised his hands in greeting.

“Good to lay eyes, old friend!” he cried.

“A welcome sight indeed,” Batiatus replied with rather less enthusiasm.

“Made more so by vision of ravishing wife. You look radiant this evening, Lucretia,” Solonius said, his gaze crawling like an insect over Lucretia’s creamy decolletage. “All around reduced to drabness by comparison.”

As soon as he was within touching distance, his hand, bedecked with jewelry, flashed out like a striking snake and grabbed Lucretia’s wrist. He lowered his head, his over-pampered golden locks tumbling forward, and planted unpleasantly wet lips on the back of her hand. She forced a smile.

“Your attention as focused as ever, dear Solonius,” she murmured.

“The task not an onerous one,” he replied, as though she was suggesting that it was. “Would that the gods could fix eternal gaze on your beauty.”

Nostrils flaring, Batiatus muttered, “Perhaps Lucretia would care to pull hers away and rest it upon nourishment?”

Solonius glanced at him, uncomprehending.

Batiatus swept a hand toward the laden tables.

“I refer to spread of excellent feast of course,” he said tightly.

Lucretia nodded.

“I confess eagerness for it.” She looked down pointedly at her hand, which Solonius was still gripping in both of his. “If good Solonius would release grip …”

“With great reluctance,” Solonius said, his fingers springing apart.

Lucretia smiled prettily and tried to resist the urge to snatch her hand away and wiped Solonius’s spittle on the tunic of a passing slave. Touching Batiatus’s sleeve lightly, she excused herself and drifted away. Solonius watched her go with an avaricious expression.

“You appear thin of sustenance yourself, Solonius,” Batiatus said coldly.

Solonius blinked, and then laughed.

“Merely light with excitement at prospect of tomorrow’s games.”

“Do Crassus and Hieronymus present themselves this evening?”

Solonius nodded. “Brutilius as well. Come, let us join them.”

He led the way through the shrieking throng, many of whom, thanks to the enthusiastic ministrations of the slaves, were already drunk. The journey was a slow one, hampered by numerous delays, which irked Batiatus greatly. Solonius was intercepted so many times by guests wishing to compliment him on his wonderful hospitality that Batiatus began to think they would never reach their destination. One woman, whom Batiatus did not recognize, but whose jewelry alone was advertisement enough of her wealth and status, all but fell into Solonius’s arms with a howl of laughter, before groping with more enthusiasm than skill at his cock and planting a slobbering kiss on his lips.

“You do us great honor, sweet Solonius,” she slurred, hand still clawing at the lanista’s nether regions. “We will be forever in debt.”

“The honor is mine,” Solonius assured her, gently removing her hand and kissing it before urging her tactfully back into the throng. She turned and staggered away as though oblivious of the rebuff.

“Who was that creature so free with hand?” Batiatus asked, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

“The wife of Brutilius,” Solonius replied.

Batiatus arched an eyebrow.