Mark Morris: Spartacus: Morituri

“I … I …” Hieronymus blinked and swallowed. “I confess to feeling a little … faint.”

“The insufferable heat,” Lucretia said.

“Coupled with flush of loss,” Solonius murmured with an empathetic shrug.

Lucretia gestured to Athenais behind her.

“Quickly, more water for Hieronymus.” As the girl hurried to do her bidding, Lucretia smiled sweetly at the Greek merchant. “Rest easy,” she said. “We will care for any need.”

As ever, Oenomaus was standing in his appointed place, watching the contest through the cross-hatched bars of the gate. This time when he sensed a presence behind him, he was unable to prevent a grim smile from twitching across his lips.

By the time he turned his head toward the newcomer, however, his face was once again as impassive as stone. With hooded eyes he watched Mantilus approach along the corridor, the scrawny, scarred attendant emerging from the shadows like the dark spirit of the underworld some had initially supposed him to be.

“Greetings, Mantilus,” Oenomaus rumbled. “You have come to view contest.” Then he made a brief correcting murmur, as though admonishing himself. “Forgive my offense. You move with such ease that one finds it simple to forget you are unable to see. Your employment of remaining senses to judge what surrounds you is most impressive.”

Mantilus paused, tilting his head to one side, like a bird. Even now that Oenomaus’s over-riding emotion toward the man was one of restrained fury, such that he itched to put a sword between his ribs for the dishonorable way he had gone about trying to gain advantage for the gladiators in his master’s ludus, he could not deny that Hieronymus’s attendant remained an unsettling presence. The veteran gladiator was a pragmatic man, a man of such focus and iron self-discipline that he had long ago eradicated fear and doubt from his system. Nevertheless, deep in the unreachable part of his brain where instinctive primal urges still lurked, he could not deny that there remained the tiniest flutter of unease, the minutest fragment of uncertainty. What if he should put a sword through Mantilus, only to discover that it was not blood that spilled from his carcass, but centuries-old dust? Or worse, what if it was darkness that spewed from the wound? A living darkness that devoured all that it touched?

Clenching his jaw at his own foolishness, he stepped to his right, making space beside him.

“Come,” he said, “stand by my side. Let us enjoy spectacle of games shoulder to shoulder.”

Mantilus hesitated a moment, as if sensing foul intent, and then he began to move again, ghosting forward, his feet so light that they made no sound on the stone floor. When he was within touching distance, Oenomaus said, “You are within arm’s reach of gate. But I suppose you do not need me to tell you that. Do you feel the heat of sun? Hear collision of weapon and clamor of crowd? Smell odor of fresh spilled blood?”

He didn’t expect a response, and he didn’t get one. Instead, as before, Mantilus curled his long brown fingers through the thick iron mesh, pressed his face to one of the diamond-shaped gaps of the gate and began to whisper.

Oenomaus eyed him silently. He thought how easy it would be to break the man’s spine over his knee, or to snap his neck with one swift and savage blow. Then he thought again of pushing a sword between Mantilus’s ribs and of nothing but gray dust spilling out over his fingers, and he suppressed a shudder of revulsion.

The day wore on, the sun moving slowly across the sky. In the arena each bout was greeted with shrieks and cheers and claps from the excitable, air-punching crowd. In between times, as spilled innards and severed limbs were collected in sacks, fresh sand strewn over the larger pools of blood, and bodies dragged out through the Porta Libitinensis, the spectators, their previous aggression now spent, sat quietly to conserve their energy-fanning themselves, drinking water and wine, and munching on refreshments bought from food vendors: fruit and bread and sausages, fried mice and barbecued chicken.

Although the citizens of Capua were thoroughly enjoying their day out in the sun, the same could not be said of Hieronymus. Time and again, bout after bout, he saw his men fall in the arena, often within minutes, or sometimes even seconds, of taking to the sands. By comparison to the warriors that belonged to both Batiatus and Solonius, his own gladiators seemed naive, lethargic, badly organized. Yet it should have been the other way round. The herbs which Mantilus had daily been adding to the water supplies of both his rivals’ ludii should have reduced their gladiators to little more than shambling wrecks. He blinked and rubbed his face, unable to comprehend what had gone wrong. He felt unaccountably dazed by it all, oddly distanced, almost as if he was subconsciously trying to deny what was taking place before his very eyes, or as if his mind was trying to convince him that the whole appalling experience was nothing but a terrible dream.

He looked around. His surroundings seemed thick and soupy, the very air seeming to shimmer and coil like oil in water. He had the odd sense that he was moving in slow motion. Perhaps he had absorbed too much sun? He reached for his water cup and gulped at it greedily. Surprised to find it empty, he held it out for more. It was refilled by Athenais, the Greek slave he had bought as a gift for his friend, Crassus. He caught her eye, and saw that she was looking at him intently. He had a feeling he should have known what that look meant, or at least been able to guess, but his thoughts felt too heavy, too vague, like dark shapes rendered indefinable by swirling mist. He heard a roar from the crowd-a muzzy, dragging, nightmarish sound in his ears. He looked down into the arena, trying to focus. Another bout had begun. He hadn’t even heard the announcement. It was as if events were melting together, blending into one.

He tried to concentrate on the moving shapes, to make sense of the blur of action, the clash of swords and shields. He blinked and rubbed at his face again. He was alarmed to find that he could not even discern which men belonged to him, and which to his rivals. He saw a gladiator fall, cut almost in half by a helmeted man with an ax. He was half-aware of Brutilius and Batiatus leaping to their feet, a cry of triumph erupting from Batiatus’s lips. He rubbed at his limbs, which felt hollow and full of aches and shivers. Perhaps he was coming down with a fever. He took another gulp of water and turned to Crassus.

“What gladiator falls?” he asked. There was no reply, and he wondered whether he had spoken the words too quietly. He tried again. “What gladiator falls?”

This time his voice was too loud. It seemed to boom not just in his ears, but around the arena. Suddenly Hieronymus felt that all eyes were on him. Paranoid, he looked down at his sandaled feet, barely able to suppress the feverish shudders that were now rippling through his body. He heard Crassus’s voice, full of spite and sharp edges, each word like a separate knife blade dragged across his prickly, tender flesh.

“You ask who falls?”

“I … I did not see,” Hieronymus said. He gestured vaguely above him. His arm felt weightless and far too heavy, both at the same time. “The sun … my eyes …”

“You do not recognize despoiled wretch who bears your own mark?” Crassus’s voice dripped with contempt. “Yet one more in a long line to fall within moments of setting foot upon sands. Your men embarrass you this day, Hieronymus. As you do me by association in the supplying of cattle in guise of gladiators. To call oneself lanista beyond these games would take great courage. Tattered whores from the streets could make more competent show at the task.”