Mark Morris: Spartacus: Morituri

Crixus cast his eyes to Oenomaus.

“The sentiment appreciated. But memories will not knit flesh to see me upon the sands.”

“Stay such thoughts. Preserve strength, for the day will come when you reclaim your place.”

Crixus nodded, seeming to take strength from the words.

“I long for the day to wield sword again. And knock the Thracian from undeserved position.”

“I will lend voice to the cheering crowd on that day,” Oenomaus replied. “Spartacus may be Champion of Capua by name, but his heart holds no loyalty to this ludus. His thoughts still drift elsewhere. I find no perch to rest trust upon him.”

“Trust that I will stand over him, sword at his throat.”

“I believe in the promise of it.” Oenomaus paused in his thoughts. “Yet consider that you stood well together against Theokoles. When you fought as one. A fact not be dismissed.”

Disgust filled Crixus’s face. “You raise spirits only to sweep them away. Counseling me to regard him as brother.”

“He bears the mark, as you do. Perhaps he will come to place belief in it with the passing of time. And the fading of memories.” Oenomaus’s face clouded. “It is no small thing to lose a wife. As I know too well.”

Crixus shifted slightly on his hard bed, wincing at the pain it caused him, uncomfortable at the sight of his doctore’s pain.

“I will set mind to healing while Spartacus occupies my spot on the sand. Soon, he will relinquish it.”

“I would lay coin toward it, if the habit were mine,” Doctore said with a soft smile. He gripped Crixus’s fist in his own for a moment, and then rose.

“Rumors fill the villa about someone of note rumored to soon grace Capua. A man with an eye toward games, if Ashur’s telling of it is true.”

“I would not put stock in anything that falls from the limping shit’s mouth,” Crixus said contemptuously.

“I stand the same towards him. Yet if he speaks truth in this, this ludus will profit. Now, rest and grow strong. The House of Batiatus will have need of Crixus.”

Naevia padded up the stone steps from the ludus to the villa above. When the light grew around her again, it revealed an entirely different world.

Triple-armed lamps hung flickering at intervals, their light gleaming on polished bronze. The tiles were cool underfoot, patterned in shadowed colors, and the walls were brightly painted. There was the sound of a fountain, for with the rains and monies from recent games, the atrium had been restored to its former splendor. The pool was full and the fountain played in the middle, its tumbling arcs of water glittering with moonlight from the night sky above.

A slave scurried past her, whispered, “A storm comes,” and then was gone. She bore a bright blond wig on a wooden stand and her bare feet made scarcely a sound on the tiles.

Naevia took a breath and then followed in the slave’s wake. The domina had a series of cubicula set back from the atrium. These she used for dressing, sleeping and entertaining close friends. The house slaves were trooping in and out of one of these now, and Naevia heard a cry of frustration and the slap of flesh being struck.

“Worthless bitch! Send Naevia to me! Where is she? The mere holding of a mirror results in dent upon it. Can not one of you accomplish task as ordered?”

A red-eyed slave girl crawled out of the cubiculum on her hands and knees, a welt rising on her cheek. Naevia stepped past her.

“Domina?”

“Naevia, tend to fucking wig. Thirty sesterces and it looks as if clipped from horse’s tail.” She turned blazing eyes to a slave bowed in the corner. “Fill cup with wine absent spilling or see yourself sent below for the beasts to have their way with.”

Lucretia’s attendants fluttered around her like butterflies, but Naevia stood calm in their midst and patiently adjusted the blonde wig on her mistress’s head. Lucretia regarded herself in the polished bronze mirror, tilting it against the light. She took her cup from the tray the trembling slave held and appeared somewhat mollified by Naevia’s presence.

“They lack your composure. Market whores, all of them. The wig, it sits well by your hand. I would have you share thoughts toward my coloring.”

“Perhaps a little stibium, domina.”

“Of course. Flavia, apply with hand held steady.”

A young girl leaned forward and painted the outlines of Lucretia’s eyes with a black brush. When she straightened, there was sweat trickling down her throat. Lucretia regarded herself appraisingly in the mirror once again.

“The judging of it impossible in such light,” she muttered. A sigh issued from Lucretia. “That will do for now. Flavia, set wine and food for Batiatus’s return. A jug of Falernian. He will desire only the best after long day in town.”

The words had barely left her mouth when there was a commotion at the door of the atrium beyond. They heard the massive timbers swing open, and Batiatus’s voice. It was raised in a note of familiar displeasure. Naevia took her accustomed place behind Lucretia’s shoulder, silent as a shadow.

“Quintus?” she called.

“I’m here. Where are you tucked away?” he bellowed impatiently.

“In bed chambers.”

Batiatus appeared in the doorway. Behind him the dark shape of Ashur, black eyes alight from the lamps. Batiatus dropped his toga to the floor and stepped over it, his sandals slapping on the tiles.

“Water,” he called. “I would have soil of streets rinsed away. And wine. Juno’s gash, I’m fucking tired.”

Lucretia sprang off her couch and clicked her fingers at Naevia. She glared at Ashur.

“Is he to join you in the bath?”

Batiatus waved a hand. “Out. Wait in my office and I will join you to open book and dwell on this house’s poverty.”

“As you wish, dominus.” Ashur cast a long look at Naevia, and then left.

“Poverty. Not a word fit for jesting,” Lucretia said. She kissed Batiatus on the lips.

He looked her up and down appraisingly.

“It appears new wig lies upon wife’s beautiful head.”

“Fetching, is it not?” she said. “Orontes came bearing his wares today.”

“And with what weight of coin did he depart?”

She dismissed the money as she would dismiss a slave, with an insouciant waft of her hand.

“Twenty sesterces.”

“Twenty. A substantial sum for shank of German hair.”

“It does not please you,” Lucretia glared.

Batiatus raised a placating hand. “It pleases me. As would any item adorning loving wife. Helen of Troy would rage with jealousy upon sight of you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You overflow with praise, the excess suggesting mockery.”

“Lucretia, I crave a moment of peace,” Batiatus moaned, his voice weary. “I would soak and drink. And see you calmed by thought that your beauty illuminates.”

The girl Flavia had reappeared with an ewer of clear water and a box of oils and unguents. She untied the sandals from Batiatus’s feet and began to wash him. He sighed in contentment. Lucretia handed him her wine cup. He drank from it and raised his eyebrows appreciatively.

“You ply me with Falernian wine?”

“It should not sit fermenting for guests. Imbibe for lifting of mood after draining day spent upon streets, dealing with that greasy whore peddler.”

Batiatus leaned forward and slipped Flavia’s gown from her shoulder. One pale, pink-tipped breast was revealed. Batiatus stroked the nape of her neck as she continued to wash his feet.

“Put mouth upon cock,” he said.

At once, Flavia left his feet and pulled aside Batiatus’s tunic. His member came into view, already tumescent. She bent her head over it and dutifully took the glistening head of the organ in her mouth. Batiatus closed his eyes and sipped his wine.