Mark Morris - Spartacus - Morituri

Batiatus shrugged. “I do not wager against Crassus. But if revealed that he bore knowledge of Mantilus’s sabotage … then any disgrace he receives will be deserved.”

Closing her eyes for a moment, Lucretia let out a long sigh and said, “You play a dangerous game, husband. To make enemy of Crassus is to make one of Rome itself.”

“If Crassus stands an enemy, then it is of his choosing,” Batiatus replied.

Lucretia looked thoughtful for a long moment, her gaze leaving her husband’s face and staring out across the golden sand of the arena.

“I would rather plunge knife into heart than see everything we’ve earned forfeited to that greasy fucking merchant.”

Batiatus nodded. “If such a thing came to pass, I would use the knife against our enemies first. Whatever this day brings, you and I will stand together, Lucretia.”

There was the clinking of jugs behind them. Lucretia straightened up and turned her head.

“Water at last arrives!” she cried. Smiling sweetly, she reached across Batiatus’s body and touched Brutilius’s arm. “Stow your fear, good Brutilius. The sweet taste of Rome will restore health.”

“I would see the blood shed by Spartacus in the arena added to it,” Batiatus added defiantly.

In the dank, shadowy cells beneath the killing ground, the men of Batiatus’s ludus were once again preparing for battle. However, there was a very different atmosphere among them this time than there had been on the last occasion they had taken to the sands.

No longer laid low by the poisoned water from the mountain pool, they felt strong, confident, well rested, their minds clear and focused only on taking revenge on Hieronymus and achieving personal glory within the arena. Their ranks may have been diminished by death and injury, but those that remained-some virtually untried in competition, but trained to the peak of fitness and self-discipline beneath the crack of Oenomaus’s whip-still believed themselves more than a match for the so-called Morituri , described by Oenomaus as an ill-prepared rabble who had brought nothing but shame to the gladiatorial code of honor. Strutting on the training ground like a caged panther, his whip curled tight in his fist, and his bony, angular face taut with fury, the veteran gladiator’s contempt of their forthcoming opponents had been fearsome to behold.

“Such scum are not worthy of the title gladiator,” he had snarled. “Their victories achieved not by skill, but by deception and manipulation. Attempting to weaken their opponents outside the field of combat.” His glare had swept across the men like fire, scorching each and every one of them. “Do we fall to such men?”

“No!” the gladiators roared.

“No,” Oenomaus agreed grimly, “we do not. We despatch them to the underworld. Dominus decrees Hieronymus must be taught firm lesson absent decorous show for the crowd. A ruthless lesson carrying example of glorious sport, unsullied by deception and trickery.” He spun toward a gladiator, who was half-raising a hand. “Ask your fucking question.”

The man, a red-bearded Celt, who had passed the Final Test only days before Mantilus had begun to poison the water, and who had subsequently suffered from its effects more than most, said, “Will the crowd hurl abuse if we despatch opponents without pageantry? Games concluded too quickly without spectacle will deny full satisfaction.”

“If the crowd hurls abuse then judgement will land on Hieronymus for supply of inferior opposition. The glory of the day will be yours.”

As ever, while others among the Brotherhood strutted and roared and psyched themselves up for the contest ahead, Spartacus sat quietly, contemplatively, conserving his energy. Varro-his partner in the primus for the second time in a row-perched beside him, by far the more loquacious of the two.

“I hope you don’t plan to unleash the maneuver displayed to dominus’s guests during training,” Varro said with a smile on his face.

Spartacus, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, turned and squinted up at his friend.

“Which maneuver would that be?”

“The one where you trip over your own feet, bury sword in sand and roll like helpless turtle on your back? It would reduce opponents to such state of writhing mirth they would be helpless beneath my sword.”

Spartacus laughed. “I agree it was impressive tactic. Perhaps dominus’s guests were convinced enough by stumbling display for Hieronymus to seize mind with thoughts of superiority above our men.”

Varro looked up as footsteps approached their cell, and saw Oenomaus striding along the dimly lit corridor toward them.

“We will find out soon enough,” he said.

In the upper tier of the stands almost directly opposite the pulvinus a fight broke out. Batiatus watched with halfhearted interest as two men, one a half-naked giant who seemed to be compensating for the lack of hair on his head with a thick tangle of beard that spread like a bib across his bare chest, and the other younger, thinner and more agile, began to exchange punches, urged on by a pair of shrieking doxies, their exposed tits swaying like water bags.

Within seconds a ripple effect radiated out from the center of conflict, and other spectators, fueled by cheap wine and made irritable by the baking heat, began to join in.

“The rabble grows restless,” Lucretia noted, sounding bored.

Brutilius, his hangover now ebbing, rolled his eyes.

“Disgraceful display. Is this respect for my father’s name? Are they so ungrateful for entertainment provided?”

“Their heads absent thought like animals,” Lucretia said. “They fall to base instincts when eyes lack blood upon which to leer.”

Brutilius and his wife nodded sagely, as though she had spoken with great wisdom.

Solonius, his lips curled in a smile, said, “The burden of providing it to them stands a substantial one does it not, dear Batiatus? The citizens of Capua see risk of withering for want of entertainment in our absence.”

Batiatus inclined his head modestly.

“Ours is profession offering great gifts. Yet we provide more than mere frivolous distraction. Without games, there would be greater void of meaning in the lives of those thronged before us. They would find the search for excitement, glory, and honor a frustrating one.”

“Truly you have been placed upon earth by the gods themselves,” Crassus muttered.

Batiatus clenched his teeth on a cutting riposte, and instead mustered a smile.

“As have you yourself good Crassus,” he said. “We lanistae provide much of course-but you are great statesman and politician. A provider of stability and welfare to the public. You too serve the people with wisdom and honor do you not?”

“The word is relentless in assault upon ear,” Brutilius’s wife commented. “There seems talk of little else today.”

Batiatus spread his hands.

“Apologies if my talk of the virtue grows tedious. But it is quality all here cradle to breast like hungry infant. Surely you agree, Hieronymus?”

Hieronymus turned his dark eyes on Batiatus.

“Without doubt,” he said, hiding as ever behind his wide smile.

Batiatus smiled back at him, but his was a thin affair, which failed to reach his eyes.

The sun was at its height, beating down mercilessly upon the sand and upon the exposed heads of the unsheltered crowd. The morning’s festivities had started with a procession, Brutilius at its head in a chariot pulled by four white horses, waving to the throng as they clapped and cheered along to the musicians behind him. Though the editor of the games had been smiling widely, in truth his teeth had been clenched in pain and his eyes half-closed, as each blast on the cornus and each pound on the drums had sent a separate stab of agony through the tender meat of his thumping brain.