Mark Morris - Spartacus - Morituri

“He has my condolences,” he murmured.

Hieronymus, Crassus and Brutilius were in one of the chambers branching off from the atrium, standing in the shadow of a thick column, as though attempting to distance themselves from the wild revelry around them. They were talking with a trio of younger men, all of whom were laughing at something that Brutilius was saying.

However, it was not the group of men who first drew Batiatus’s attention, but the woman standing against the wall. It was Athenais, who Batiatus had not seen since the evening of the party which had been held in his own villa to welcome Hieronymus and Crassus to Capua. Back then the bruises on the Greek woman’s thighs had unsettled him-and he found himself equally unsettled on this occasion too. Athenais’s creamy skin, previously so flawless, was once again marked with patches of bruised flesh, this time not only on her thighs, but also on her wrists, as though she had been gripped with some force. She also had marks around her exquisite, swan-like throat-the unmistakeable purple-red imprints of fingers. Batiatus was frankly appalled. He was no saint, but to see a woman so graceful and so perfect-slave or not- reduced to this battered and brow-beaten state, turned his stomach.

Realizing she was being stared at, Athenais’s blue eyes flickered to meet his. Instantly Batiatus was struck by the stark fear and misery displayed there. Instinctively his lips turned upward into a smile of reassurance and he gave a small nod. Athenais did not respond, her gaze skittering away in a manner that reminded him of a timid animal retreating into its burrow. Releasing a long breath, Batiatus suddenly became aware that someone, standing beyond Athenais, was regarding him with the same level of intensity that he was staring at the Greek woman. More than that even, he had the impression that he was being regarded with candid indifference-or perhaps even open hostility. He shifted his gaze, and was not surprised to see Mantilus standing against the wall, framed-and, in fact, almost wreathed within-the dark folds of a richly elaborate Persian drape that hung behind him.

The rat forever seeks out the darkest places, Batiatus thought, staring hard at Hieronymus’s attendant in the hope of unsettling him enough to make him turn his head, thus betraying the fact that, as Spartacus had theorized, he was not blind, despite the absence of color in his eyes. However, if Mantilus had been staring at Batiatus before, he was not doing so now. Instead he was looking straight ahead, unblinking, his body as still as a statue. Batiatus stared at him for several seconds more, and then Solonius, in front of him, turned back, a questioning look on his face. Batiatus acknowledged him with a nod and moved forward to join the group by the pillar.

“… sword snapped clean in half and he tumbled to sand like performer seeking to rouse merriment of crowd,” Brutilius was saying loudly, his face red and wine slopping from the goblet he was holding as he guffawed loudly at his own tale.

The three younger men began to laugh along with him-and then one of them caught sight of Batiatus, and his eyes widened. Immediately he threw his colleagues a warning glance so obvious it was almost pitiful, and then turned back to the approaching lanistae.

“Our friend Solonius returns with noble Batiatus,” he declared, with a distinct lack of subtlety. “Welcome to you!”

Brutilius had been in the process of raising his goblet to his lips and tipping wine into his throat, but at the young man’s words he jerked, as if at the touch of a cold hand on the back of his neck, and then immediately began to choke and splutter.

“Do you find yourself unwell, good Brutilius?” Batiatus said icily, appearing beside him. “Perhaps the wine too harsh for such refined palate?”

Brutilius, now bent over double, continued to choke. One of the young men stepped forward and half-heartedly patted him on the back. When the portly man finally straightened up, his face was almost the same color as the wine in his goblet and tears were streaming from his eyes. He opened his mouth to reply, but only a thin croak emerged.

“Apologies,” Batiatus said, leaning forward and cupping his ear. “Your words are lost in enveloping clamor.”

“I fear good Brutilius overcome with mirth,” Crassus said drily.

Batiatus stared at him, his gaze unwavering.

“For mirth is it? What brings it on? I would share in the benefit of such amusement.”

The three young men shuffled in embarrassment. Hieronymus, who had yet to say a word, simply grinned at Batiatus, as if a show of overt friendliness was enough to absolve him from responsibility. Crassus alone returned Batiatus’s gaze without flinching. His reply too was blunt and without apology.

“I confess we were finding merriment at expense of your champion. Tell us, does condition of stumbling Thracian improve?”

One of the young men, unable to help himself, snorted laughter.

Batiatus turned his cold gaze upon him, and the man seemed visibly to wither.

“His condition is robust as usual,” he said.

“Good to hear that recovery from recent … misfortunes, arrives absent long delay,” Hieronymus said.

Batiatus hesitated a moment, and then finally said, “Quick enough that appearance in tomorrow’s primus will not be affected.”

“Surely his strength has not fully returned?” Crassus pressed.

Batiatus sighed as if he considered confessing the truth of that, then seemed to think better of what he was about to say, and shook his head almost angrily. “Spartacus will raise himself for the games-as will all my warriors. If they do not, then they stand unworthy of the house they serve.”

“Words boldly spoken,” Solonius murmured.

“It is not boldness but certainty of victory,” Batiatus said.

“You intend slight upon opponents with claim that their warriors stand inferior, though your ludus still flows with sickness,” Crassus goaded, looking almost as if he was enjoying himself.

“I intend no insult, good Crassus,” Batiatus replied. “It is not the way of the House of Batiatus to raise fingers in submission before commencement of games.”

“I am sure good Crassus meant no such offense,” Solonius said smoothly. “His words prompted merely by concern for fair contest.”

Batiatus glared at him.

“And how fares Solonius’s own ludus?”

Solonius smiled and shrugged, though the look in his eyes betrayed his uncertainty.

“Quite healthy. Why does Batiatus ask?”

“All talk that assails ears is of impending fall of Champion of Capua, due to diminished prowess-but good Solonious should not find comfort behind street gossip in hopes of concealing weakness of own ludus.”

Solonius looked momentarily lost for words. Brutilius, all but recovered now, frowned at him.

“I trust my father will be truly honored by tomorrow’s contest,” he said.

Solonius bowed. “There is nothing to fear in that regard, Brutilius. His glorious name will stir the hearts of all our gladiators, such that their skill and ferocity will spill boundless into the arena.”

“And you will witness my champion stride into it absent stumble,” Batiatus promised. He glared at the young men, who cowered beneath his wrath. “He will rage as storm in human shape, sweeping all before him.”

“Bold words become rash ones,” Solonius muttered. “Your champion is not the gladiator he was. Storm, yes — but I fear it one that has blown itself out.”

Batiatus shook his head.

“False gossip deceives ear my friend. Spartacus’s crown will not slip tomorrow. Additional laurels will be laid atop it, I am certain of that.”

Brutilius narrowed his eyes shrewdly and poked a fat finger in Batiatus’s direction.