Mark Morris: Spartacus: Morituri

As a last resort, Batiatus found himself, much to his own disgust, courting the Syrian slaver, Albanus. He invited the man to dinner, fixed a grin on his face, and had a pair of pretty slave girls wait on his guest in revealing garments while the two men reclined in the triclinium. Lucretia did not attend: she sent her apologies, prettily worded and voiced by Naevia. Albanus did not seem to mind, but reclined on his couch to be fed by Flavia like a baby bird, whilst Batiatus plied him with wine and questions, the temper in him brimming higher with every wasted moment.

“The dark haired girl, Athenais-indulge me with her story, good Albanus. Such a beauty must have one for the telling,” Batiatus said, wincing at the taste of the wine. It was a very ordinary vintage from Praetutium, though Albanus seemed to relish it. The slaver fancied himself something of an expert, and grew boring on the subject. Southern Italy had been known to the Greeks as Oenotria, land of wines, for centuries, and Albanus knew many of the local grapes.

“It’s true, she does. Every man and woman possesses story, even slaves,” Albanus said, staring down into his cup and swilling the wine in a slow circle so that it caught the light. “My own place of birth was Antioch. A few centuries past I would have called myself Persian. And following them, Alexander’s heirs would have made me to be Greek. Now, I am Syrian, my city ruled by the Armenian, Tigranes the Great. Cities, countries, they have histories and destinies as wayward as those of men, their lives lived but longer. Though names change the land remains as it ever was. Don’t you find it to be true?” Batiatus gritted his teeth. “Such truth can only be discovered by so wide a digression from discussion at hand. Turn mind to the girl if it would but accommodate it, good Albanus. Curiosity rouses for tales of her and the new master she pleases.”

Albanus stroked his beard. It was oiled and perfumed and it gleamed in the light of the hanging lamps.

“Such a treasure she was to have won. A virgin sold by indebted father, which stands a common story in my trade. But this girl possessed education above others of her kind. Skills to read and write, sing and sew. She could have been perfect wife for one not requiring noble blood and the patience for woman of knowledge!”

“And what role does she play for the Greek?” Batiatus asked.

Albanus shrugged.

“He but purchased her to use as gift to give.” He raised himself up on one elbow. “Fitting offering for a man who in possession of everything.” He stroked Flavia’s chin. “Something unique and beautiful that mere coin cannot match.”

“He made transaction only to give her to another?”

Albanus smiled. “His preference lies in boys, like many Greeks. The girl was in the nature of a-” But there he stopped, as if he had already said too much. He leaned back on his couch and raised his cup. “Your wine deserves compliment, dear Batiatus. Your hospitality without fault.” He looked wistfully at Flavia. “I only wish I had more to tell in return.”

Batiatus stood up and pulled Flavia to her feet. She was not tall and her long black hair was bound up behind her head. He loosened it now and let it spill down her back. A tug of his fingers and the flimsy robe slid down onto her hips. Another, and it lay in a pool of fabric at her feet. She stood naked, pale, flawless.

“Wonderful,” Albanus said, the breath hitching in his throat, turning his voice husky.

“I must excuse myself for brief moment,” Batiatus said casually. “Flavia will entertain.” He smiled.

“Indeed,” Albanus murmured. He ran a hand up and down Flavia’s body.

“I would see you well satisfied by time of your departure,” Batiatus added. “Make my home yours.”

“Your words the very soul of courtesy,” Albanus murmured. “And this creature an offering of Vesta herself.”

Batiatus left the room. He paced up and down the atrium for a few minutes, eventually turning angrily and tossing his cup into the pool with a splash.

“I know you’re here, Ashur,” he said. “Attend.”

A shadow stepped from behind a pillar. “Yes, dominus.”

“Spill words of investigation.”

“Unfortunate lack of discovery. The man’s litter-bearers are Gauls possessing no facility with common tongue.”

Batiatus’s face twitched. “The dripping cunt laughs at me while swilling wine and groping slave. Follow him upon his slithering away and find what cocks he wraps around.”

The lamed former gladiator bowed slightly.

“As you wish, dominus.” He stood still and thoughtful as Batiatus strode away, a shadow within blacker shadow. There was a smile on his face.

Less than an hour later Ashur’s smile had turned into a snarl and a whispered curse. After partaking of Batiatus’s hospitality, sated both with wine and Flavia’s attentions, Albanus had turned not north toward home, but south toward the lower-lying marshes which were eventually bisected by the Volturnus River.

Ashur followed at a distance, fearful of discovery as the road became narrower and less populated. Fortunately, it became more serpentine too, and lined with ever more abundant trees and bushes, which, together with the darkness, afforded him much-needed cover.

Eventually, close to a point where the Volturnus was at its widest as it meandered past Capua on its course to the Tyrrhenian Sea, Albanus’s litter-bearers came to a halt. Ashur used the foliage to conceal his advance, trying to get close enough to Albanus to see what he was up to. He watched as the slave trader, still swaying slightly from the effects of the grape he had consumed that evening, alighted from his transport and meandered down to the bank of the Volturnus.

What is the inebriated cunt doing? Ashur wondered. Taking a piss? It was a cold night, and a dark one, the moon mostly obscured by scudding cloud. Water from the recent rains had been retained by the thirsty plants to such an extent that Ashur’s tunic was quickly soaked as he brushed against them. Within less than a minute the rough cloth was sticking clammily to his shivering skin and mud was oozing over the tops of his sandals and squelching between his toes. If Albanus had simply halted to relieve himself, Ashur vowed that he personally would cut off the bastard’s cock and choke him with it. He waited, a brooding shape in the darkness, eyes fixed on his quarry.

It soon became clear, however, that Albanus was waiting too. He prowled the banks of the Volturnus for what seemed an age, back and forth, back and forth, watching a bend in the river a short distance away. What was he waiting for? A delivery of goods? An expected visitor? Whoever or whatever the trader had come here to meet, it was clear he did not wish to make fanfare of it. This pleased Ashur. He knew all too well that secrets were currency, and that there was much profit to be made from them. Warmed by these thoughts, he waited patiently in the shadows, already imagining dominus’s voice raised in praise of his efforts and the coin that would be pressed into his hand as a consequence. He dreamed of the day when his status would be elevated to such an extent that Batiatus would grant him his freedom, perhaps even consider him an equal-a trusted advisor and friend. Ashur may not be a Roman, but he had all the cunning and ambition of one.

At last there came the stealthy splash of water lapping the banks as some vessel, as yet shrouded by the blackness of the trees, approached the spot where Albanus was waiting. A few weeks ago this would not have been possible. The recent long drought had caused the water level to fall dramatically, bringing rocks which would have torn holes through the hull of any boat, no matter how small and light, close to the surface. Now, though, after Spartacus’s dramatic victory over the giant Theokoles in the arena, the rains had come and the rivers and streams were brimming again.