Mark Morris - Spartacus - Morituri

“Certain enough to wager all that you own-coin, villa, ludus … everything?”

The arrogance slipped from Batiatus’s face-but only for a moment. He looked at the visages around him-at Brutilius and Solonius; at Crassus and Hieronymus; at the three young men whose names he still did not know, and had no particular wish to. All seven of them were looking at him with expressions ranging from wide-eyed curiosity to supercilious contempt. He shrugged with exaggerated casualness.

“Surely, yet who would see such wager proposed?”

Brutilius raised his eyebrows gleefully and looked at Solonius.

“Good Solonius? Words of doubt towards the Thracian’s chances were expressed with eloquence. Do you weight them with enough conviction to add coin to the scale?”

Solonius looked alarmed. Holding up his hands he said bluffly, “I do not wish to see friend ruined by careless boasting.”

Batiatus grunted contemptuously. Brutilius pouted in evident disappointment.

“I will take the wager,” Hieronymus said.

All eyes turned to him. The Greek merchant was smiling at Batiatus, as if doing him a favor. Brutilius giggled like a child, his eyes shining.

“The contest begins to soar to great heights of appeal,” he said. “You understand the nature of agreement?”

Hieronymus nodded. “If my gladiators win the primus, Batiatus forfeits all-”

“All that he owns,” Crassus interrupted with a sudden and terrifying wolf-like grin that caused the three young men to each take an involuntary step back at the sight of it, “to leave him destitute.”

“And if Batiatus’s men prevail,” Hieronymus continued, “then I shall match the value of his entire fortune with equivalent sum.” He shrugged. “A simple wager.”

“And if Solonius should take the primus?” one of the young men asked.

Brutilius shrugged. “Then the wager is forfeit. Neither man wins-but Solonius takes the glory.”

The young men all nodded eagerly, clearly excited by the prospect of Batiatus’s ruination, but Solonius’s face was a mask of exaggerated concern.

“Do you still stand certain, beyond reappraisal of such agreement?” he said to Batiatus. “The risk of it stands great. To venture possibility towards losing all that you possess, on the back of ailing Thracian…”

Batiatus looked pale, but at Solonius’s words his face set hard.

“Spartacus will prevail,” he said stubbornly. “His victory assured by the gods.”

“One hopes decree of gods as solid as good Batiatus’s confidence,” Brutilius said gleefully.

“If not, then he falls with his Thracian,” Crassus purred.

Lucretia slipped through the reveling crowd, every few moments catching a glimpse of her husband and the group of men he was talking to, an unmoving tableau within the mass of weaving bodies. She was moving toward them, but did not want to be spotted by them, and was therefore grateful that both Solonius and Hieronymus had their backs to her, and that Crassus was half-hidden by the column beside which he was standing.

Around her the party was becoming wilder, many of the drunken attendees-those that weren’t passed out in a stupor or throwing up in the atrium pool, that was — having sex with slaves or each other. One very young man, who looked barely old enough to wear the toga virilis, fell against her, pawing at her breasts and trying to stick his tongue in her mouth. In different circumstances Lucretia might have dragged him in to a quiet corner for a little mutual fumbling, but right at that moment he was nothing but an irritation. Struggling free of his clumsy embrace, she lifted her arm and elbowed him smartly in the face. She heard a satisfying crack, but was moving away from him without looking behind her even as he was tumbling backward into the crowd, blood gushing from his broken nose.

Someone else she didn’t want to be seen by was Mantilus, who was standing motionless against the wall a little way beyond her target, the girl with the frightened eyes and the bruised wrists. Finding out that Hieronymus’s creature had laid their ludus low not with magic but with poison, and that-in the opinion of her husband-he was not in reality blind, despite his milky-white pupils, had reduced him greatly in her eyes. Now he seemed no longer a fearsome spirit of the underworld, beholden with terrifying powers, but merely a withered, ugly brute, a scarred and scuttling monkey despatched by Hieronymus to carry out his dirty work. Lucretia would have liked nothing more than to stick a knife in his gut and twist it, to see the shock on his hideous face and feel his thin, hot blood splash out over her hands and form a spreading pool on the floor. But Batiatus had warned her to contain her wrath, that their ultimate satisfaction would come from taking their time, and playing the long game. Lucretia knew that he was right, but even so she itched for blood. And if she could be the one wielding the blade that released it from his body, then so much the better.

Still eyeing the knot of men by the pillar and the goblin-like figure of Mantilus standing close by, she continued to edge forward through the crowd until she was within earshot of the girl. Quickly she finished the wine in her goblet and waved away a slave who scurried forward to replenish it. Hoping that Mantilus’s ears would not be sharp enough to pick out her individual voice among the clamor of the crowd, she hissed, “Slave! I would have words.”

The bruised slave-Batiatus had told her that her name was Athenais-continued to stare straight ahead, as if in a trance, clearly unaware that she was being addressed. Lucretia was not used to being ignored by slaves, but fought down her irritation. Raising her voice as much as she dared, she tried again: “Attend when I speak at you!”

This time Athenais blinked and looked at her. She wore a terrified expression, as if she lived in constant fear of such a summons. Her lips moved but her voice was so low that it was lost among the laughter and the raucous conversation.

Lucretia raised her arm, thrusting her goblet toward the girl.

“Fetch wine,” she commanded.

The girl looked trapped. Her eyes flickered toward the thick white column several feet away, behind which her master and his friends were deep in conversation. Then she looked back at Lucretia and raised an arm, pointing with a trembling finger.

“I beg that there are other slaves present-” the girl began tentatively, her voice barely audible.

“I don’t want sour piss pressed from rotten grapes by diseased feet of slaves,” Lucretia interrupted impatiently. “I desire good wine, from Solonius’s private stock. Fetch it.”

Athenais was shaking now, torn between complying with a direct command and obeying the strict instructions of her master to stand in attendance until required.

“Please, my dominus-” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the column.

“If your dominus asks of whereabouts, I will tell him of errand. Now hurry before I arrange flogging for insolence.”

The threat of physical violence was enough to spur Athenais into action. Bobbing her head, eyes downcast, she hurried forward to take Lucretia’s proffered goblet. With an expression of utter fear and misery on her face she scurried from the room. Lucretia hesitated for a moment, and then, with a final glance at Mantilus and the group of men clustered around the column, who had not even noticed the girl’s departure, she hurried after her.

The sun blazed from an azure sky of such perfection that the mere sight of it filled Batiatus with a deep sense of serenity and well-being. The arena seemed to glow with light beneath its benign gaze, and the freshly laid sand to shine like gold.

After a prolonged period of rain, enough to replenish the streams and rivers, and thus avert the drought which had begun to reach critical levels in Capua, and indeed had resulted in the deaths of dozens of its poorer citizens, the late summer had settled into a period of unsettled weather. A few days of glorious sunshine would be interspersed with a day or two of high winds and torrential downpours, as if the gods were sending reminders of the colder weather to come.