Mark Morris: Spartacus: Morituri

Oenomaus stepped closer, and stared grimly into the man’s glazed white eyes and slack, dead face.

“Not a creature of Hades, but merely a man, like the rest of us,” he murmured. His gaze shifted to the pool of stinking fluids by his feet. “Filled not with dust, but blood, shit and piss, as it should be.” He nodded, as though satisfied, and said it again. “As it should be.”

Varro found Spartacus in his cell, sitting on his bunk, deep in thought. Beyond the open door could be heard the sounds of celebration-a hubbub of noise, interspersed with shouts of laughter of both men and women.

Varro held out a cup toward his friend.

“I have brought wine, whether you wish for it or not. I insist you drink in celebration of victory today.”

Spartacus eyed the proffered cup wryly for a moment, and then eventually reached out and took it.

“We celebrate with wine from dominus, fit only for slaves. Grape so bitter that morning greeting weary head provides worse blow than hilt of sword.”

Varro laughed. “True that Batiatus expends little coin in gratitude.” He held up his own cup, his shining eyes and slight clumsiness as the wine slopped over his hand indicative of the fact that he had already drunk more than his fill. “But I offer exception. Smooth grape, pleasing to palate.”

Spartacus took a sip and raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Batiatus is in rare humor to offer cup overflowing with appreciation.”

“How could he not? His own slaves increase his status and improve fortune. His champion providing means of Hieronymus’s unmasking and subsequent favor of Crassus.”

Spartacus took another sip of wine, humor dancing in his eyes.

“Are the whores provided of equal vintage?”

Varro looked pained.

“Your enquiry elicits offense. Throw such question at another.”

The two friends laughed together. They each took another sip of wine, then Varro clapped Spartacus on the shoulder.

“Join festivities. Play dice.” He raised his hand and looked solemn. “Merely for diversion, not coin of course.”

Spartacus shrugged.

“I don’t find mood for it.”

“It was great victory, now worthy of celebration. ”

“There is little meaning in it for me.”

Varro looked momentarily somber.

“Your enduring pain saddens, brother. Divert thoughts from it, even if for one night.”

Spartacus nodded slowly.

“Your concern is appreciated. Perhaps I will join later after pressing task.”

Together he and Varro walked through the stone corridors of the ludus, passing cells where naked couples heaved and rutted with grunts and shrieks, sweat streaming down their bodies. Most of the brotherhood, and the Capuan whores that Batiatus had ordered Ashur to round up and transport from the city, had congregated in the mess hall, however. Even here some were fucking openly, one ramming his whore from behind, while a circle of onlookers clapped and cheered. The wine was flowing freely, and banter and raucous laughter echoed off the walls.

When Spartacus and Varro entered the room there was a momentary pause in proceedings as the two heroes were toasted with raised cups and good-humored declarations that they should enjoy their victory now, while they still had heads and limbs with which to do so.

Varro made his way over to a corner table, where several men were rolling bone dice, roaring and banging their cups on the wooden surface at each successive outcome. Spartacus skirted a couple of men who were wrestling, their bodies shining with oil, and politely waved away the ministrations of a pretty whore, who pressed her breasts against him.

The long tables of the mess hall had been pushed back against the wall and lined with jugs of wine from which the men could help themselves. Spartacus topped up his own cup and filled another, then made his way carefully through the celebrating throng, taking care not to spill a drop even as he was jostled and continually clapped on the back.

Eventually he made it to the far side of the room and slipped out into the quieter, cooler corridor. Edging past a couple who were fucking up against a wall, the woman seemingly oblivious to the fact that her back was scraping against the rough stone with each thrust, he headed to the infirmary.

All was quiet here, the medicus himself celebrating with the men in the refectory. Duro, who was still recovering from the grievous wounds sustained in the previous games against the men of Hieronymus’s now decimated ludus, was asleep and snoring quietly.

The bay’s only other occupant turned his head and regarded Spartacus. This was Crixus, and he looked less than pleased to see his Thracian brother.

“What takes you from drunken revelry?” he muttered.

“Expression of gratitude,” Spartacus replied.

Crixus all but sneered.

“Gratitude? For lying in infirmary like slab of meat while you receive laurels that should be mine?”

Spartacus ignored the jibe.

“Gratitude for prompting thoughts which saved this ludus from ruin. Without your words the House of Batiatus would be no more, and we would all be slaves of Hieronymus.”

“Since when do your cares fall upon the House of Batiatus?” Crixus said.

“Dominus’s endeavors to return Sura to me ensures gratitude and loyalty. I will not stand by to watch him brought down by nefarious means.”

“Noble words,” Crixus said with more than a hint of sarcasm.

“Ones holding truth,” Spartacus replied. He held out the cup of wine. “I offer drink in celebration of dominus’s victory.”

Crixus glared at the cup, his face clenched, dark eyes flashing aggressively. It seemed for a long moment that he would refuse Spartacus’s offer-and then he reached out and took the wine.

“I drink only in honor of this ludus,” he said. “In recognition that its survival ensures the day we shall meet again in the arena. Where I will regain rightful status as champion.”

He gulped at the wine as eagerly as if he was drinking Spartacus’s spilled blood.

Spartacus smiled grimly and raised his own cup.

“I too look towards that day,” he said.

Batiatus threw back his head and laughed uproariously. He was in a fine, fine mood. He finished his wine, and then beckoned forward a slave to refill his cup, and the cups of Solonius and Lucretia too.

All three of them were reclining on couches, a table of refreshments within easy reach. Lucretia was having her feet massaged by Naevia and studiously ignoring Solonius’s lascivious glances. Like a pair of smaller wolves who had reluctantly joined forces to bring down a mighty bull, she knew that her husband and his rival lanista had on this occasion been united by a common purpose. But now that Hieronymus was no longer a threat to either of them, she hoped that it would not be too much longer before they resumed their more familiar status as deadly enemies.

Since returning to the villa to celebrate their victory, Batiatus and Solonius had been reliving the afternoon’s entertainment over and over again, and snorting with laughter at each re-telling. Although Solonius had lost the primus, his men had won enough of the day’s bouts to enable him to regain face lost after his recent defeats to Hieronymus, and also to earn him a modest amount of coin. What was sweetest to both men in this instance, however, was not the accumulation of victories within the arena, but the successful outcome of their plot to avenge themselves on an enemy who had grievously wronged them both. The fact that they had done it so publicly, and with Crassus’s ultimate blessing, provided them with double the satisfaction.

“The look on his fucking face as he was taken away,” Batiatus spluttered. “A visage of fevered mind.”