Mark Morris - Spartacus - Morituri

Trundling behind the musicians had been a number of wheeled cages, flanked by the bestiarii in their leather vestments and protective leggings, within which tigers, lions, wolves and even a polar bear prowled back and forth, and occasionally threw themselves against the bars with shuddering impacts that drew squeals of delight from the watching children.

Finally, bringing up the rear, had been a bedraggled display of that day’s sacrifices-criminals such as thieves and murderers, all of them beaten, filthy and half-naked, chained together at hands and feet. They had shuffled and limped along bewilderedly, squinting up at the sun, too exhausted to dodge the various missiles which had rained down upon their heads-bones and fish-guts, rotten vegetables, and excrement both human and animal.

After the procession had come the mock fights and the animal displays, and then the first of the executions — the damnatio ad bestias , in which half a dozen chained prisoners had been pitted against a pack of hungry wolves. For a while the watching hordes had been captivated by the glorious sight of fellow human beings being ripped apart, and had laughed and cheered at their inhuman screams of agony, but now they were bored again, eager for more bloodshed.

Up in the pulvinus, the dignitaries had just finished a light lunch of fish, sausages, eggs, bread and olives, which the slaves were now in the process of clearing away.

As Athenais refilled water cups, Batiatus reached for a honey-fried date stuffed with nuts and peppercorns and popped it into his mouth. Chewing, and eyeing the fight in the opposite stand, which had now become a full-scale brawl, he said, “Perhaps we should commence with proper event lest citizens find their own diverting pursuits.”

Taking his cue, Solonius rose to his feet and raised his hands.

“Citizens of Capua,” he cried, his voice ringing out around the arena.

Immediately the crowd, many of whom had been urging the combatants on, quietened, diverting their attention to him. Even the brawlers themselves took note of his voice, some of them pausing mid-punch, their clenched fists still raised. Within seconds the fighting had ceased, and the crowd-many of them with torn clothes, and bruised and bloodied faces and hands — were looking across at him with eager anticipation. Solonius, however, waited patiently, his arms still raised, until he had the undivided attention of everyone in the arena.

“Today we honor memory of Titus Augustus Brutilius,” he said at last, “noble father of Gaius Julius Brutilius. As magistrate and businessman, Augustus Brutilius was loyal servant of Capua and friend to all. His was noble presence, to which understanding, generosity, guidance and wisdom were vestments. In tribute to his revered name, gladiators from the houses of Solonius, Batiatus and Hieronymus will today fight to death in the arena!”

The crowd whooped and cheered. Solonius gave them a final wave, then turned to Brutilius.

“The crowd is yours,” he said. “Oblige and give signal to begin.”

Brutilius puffed himself up and rose to his feet. He strode to the balustrade and raised his hand.

“In honor of father’s name, let blood be spilled!” he shouted.

The crowd cheered again.

The great gates creaked slowly open and the gladiators stalked from the darkness of the tunnel and out on to the blazing hot sands of the arena.

First out were Hieronymus’s men, a pair of lumbering provocators. In deference to Augustus Brutilius’s previous occupation as a slave trader, the men in the preliminary bouts had been linked together by means of a shackle around one each of their ankles which were connected by a long chain. This meant that each pair had to fight in close proximity to one another, their understanding of each other’s movements essential to their survival. It also meant that the chain that linked them could be used as a weapon by them-to trip or tether or even strangle their opponents-or against them, in the same manner.

Once Hieronymus’s ape-like Morituri had taken their plaudits from the crowd, Solonius’s men were the next to appear. For this first bout he had chosen to pair a secutor with a retiarius, whereas Batiatus had also selected a secutor, but had paired him with a hoplomachus. Once all six gladiators were in the arena, the crowd settled down to watch the contest. They were leaping to their feet again less than a minute later, however, shocked and excited not so much by the brutality of what they had witnessed, but by its almost casual abruptness.

Without preamble, both Solonius’s men and Batiatus’s men turned toward Hieronymus’s provocators and, as though working as a foursome, simply ran at them at full speed. Taken by surprise, the pair of heavily armed but slow-moving gladiators barely had time to raise their weapons and shields in defense before the quartet were upon them.

Solonius’s retiarius darted in quickly, throwing his net over one of the giants and yanking him off his feet. As the provocator stumbled to his knees, already tangled so tightly in the net that his arms were pinned uselessly to his body, the secutor sprang forward with his stabbing sword, jabbing viciously through the net at any patches of exposed flesh that he could reach.

He was joined a moment later by his retiarius partner wielding his trident, and within seconds the provocator lay all but dead and gushing blood, his trussed body slashed and pierced in more than a dozen places.

Meanwhile Hieronymus’s other provocator was faring no better. Moving with efficiency and understanding, Batiatus’s men ran either side of the giant, the chain that linked them clashing against the greave protecting his left leg and the unprotected shin of his right. Before he had time to realize what his opponents were doing, they swapped positions behind him, looping round so that the chain encircled his legs completely. Then, in unison, they reached down and yanked up savagely on the chain, flipping the man up and over on to his back.

As soon as he was down they were on him like a pair of wild dogs. The hoplomachus leaped forward first, pinning the provocator’s sword arm to the sand with his spear as though impaling a fish on a river bed.

Even as blood arced from the wound and the man was opening his mouth to scream, Batiatus’s secutor was springing forward to smash the provocator’s visored helmet up and off his head with the edge of his shield. As soon as his face and neck were exposed, the secutor brought his sword down, point first, into the provocator’s throat, the blow so savage that it severed not only the man’s jugular vein but his spinal column before burying itself in the sand beneath.

Up in the pulvinus, Hieronymus gaped in stunned disbelief as blood fountained up from the provocator’s neck with such force that it cleared the secutor’s head by a good three feet. He watched the body of his gladiator kick and judder wildly for a moment, and then lie still. As the crowd, initially shocked, began to leap up and down, roaring their approval, some of them even pointing at Hieronymus and laughing at him, Brutilius gave a snort of disappointment.

“A poor defense,” he sniffed. “I confess, good Hieronymus, I expected more from these Morituri of yours.”

“A most unfortunate start,” Batiatus agreed mildly. “But do not lose heart, good Brutilius. I am certain stable of esteemed friend contains more than mere carthorses, his stallions merely yet to be unleashed. Is that not so, Hieronymus?”

Hieronymus turned to look at him. His dark eyes seemed a little dazed, unfocused. His lips moved, but at first no sound came out.

“Are you unwell, Hieronymus?” Lucretia asked, her voice dripping with sympathy.