Mark Morris: Spartacus: Morituri

And somehow, beyond all that, he saw the pulvinus, in which the lanistae and the assembled dignitaries sat, and he saw a white-robed figure slowly rising from its seat. As the figure stretched out an arm, its fist clenched and its thumb jutting to the side, the balance held between life and death, Spartacus was shocked to see that it was Sura, her dark hair blowing in the wind and a look of infinite sadness, of unutterable loss, marring her beautiful face.

“No!” he shouted-and awoke with the cry on his lips. Whether anyone heard him he knew not, and cared even less. It was silent in the ludus, not a sound issuing from the cells in which his fellows slept, most on the cold stone floor. The lack of response was not necessarily a guarantee of ignorance, though. Spartacus was Champion of Capua, after all, and was expected to display the qualities that all other gladiators in the House of Batiatus should aspire to. It was not appropriate to be tormented by the product of one’s own imaginings. Even in sleep a true champion should display absolute resolve in both body and mind.

Such concerns would doubtless have occupied Crixus, the former Champion, but Spartacus was his own man. If others thought him weak then so be it. He would prove his worth where it mattered-on the training ground and in the arena. At least no one could deny that there was anger and purpose in him. Even that very morning, armed with a pair of wooden training swords, he had transformed his misery into fury, focused it to such an extent that for a moment he had forgotten where he was. He had felled his partner, Priscus, with a series of savage blows to the head and body and then had continued his assault even when the man was soundly beaten, even when he raised two fingers to signal his submission. If his friend Varro, aided by the giant Greek Tetraides, had not dragged him away he might have consigned Priscus to a long stay in the infirmary, or even spread his brains out on the sand to bake in the noonday sun. Doctore had rebuked him for losing control, for allowing instinct and emotion to cloud his mind, but Spartacus had seen the gleam of satisfaction, even admiration, in the veteran’s eyes at the speed and savagery of his attack, at the way he handled the twin swords.

“Your aggression is well-channeled,” Doctore had told him later, “but save it for the arena. Dominus does not wish to see the beasts he laid down coin for devour one another absent profit.”

Beasts. That was the word Doctore had used, and that-despite all Batiatus’s talk of honor and glory, of Titans and legends -were all that the men of the ludus truly were to their Roman master. Even proud Doctore, honored and respected as he was, was nothing but meat to be bought and sold at will.

Spartacus lay back on his hard bed and thought of happier times-of the village where he was born, of roaming free in the mountains and forests of his homeland. And eventually his thoughts turned again, as they always did, to Sura. With the memory of her sweetness on his lips, he drifted once more into the temporary freedom of sleep.

Oenomaus was worried.

Jerked awake by a shout of “No!” that he had instantly recognized as issuing from Spartacus’s lips, he lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. There was something wrong in the ludus, something he had been aware of for days now, but which he couldn’t define. It was a feeling more than anything, a sense that beneath the usual banter and arguments, and even occasionally fights, that resulted when a group of tough and competitive men were forced to live in the same cramped conditions day in and day out, was something furtive and malicious, something that was burrowing its way in as surely as a worm burrows into an apple.

It was a subtle infestation, however. One that manifested itself in little things, strange events. Tetraides’s temporary derangement, which had resulted in the death of the novice; moments of distraction among a proportion of the men; bad dreams. It was certainly true that some of the men seemed more than usually preoccupied of late, their eyes clouded by dark thoughts, which they wouldn’t or couldn’t talk about. And yet despite this, many of the signs were so small, so seemingly inconsequential, that Oenomaus still found himself often wondering whether he wasn’t imagining them; whether, in fact, the disturbance existed solely in his own mind.

It was for this reason that he had spoken to no one about it, that until now he had kept his troubled thoughts to himself. Perhaps it was simply the heat, he thought- though he didn’t really believe that. Earlier in the summer, when the drought was at its height, he might have found that argument more convincing, but since the rains had come the days had settled into a combination of sultry heat interspersed with occasional showers.

He closed his eyes again, telling himself that all he could do for now was remain watchful, and hope that the “disturbance,” whatever it was, would soon pass.

Even so, his doubts continued to prey on his mind, and it was a long time before he slipped once again into the temporary respite of sleep.

The gloom of the day matched Batiatus’s mood as he slumped against the rail of the balcony overlooking the training ground, a goblet of wine held listlessly in one hand. Below him echoed the clunk of wooden swords and shields, and the grunts of exertion and pain from the men. Even out here the sour stink of their sweat hung heavy on the air, a contrast to the interior of his own villa, which was redolent with the delicate scent of lamp-oil and the exotic perfumes upon which Lucretia squandered far too much of his hard-earned coin.

Pondering on his spendthrift wife seemed to awaken the memory of her scent in his nostrils. Then he heard the scuff of a sandaled foot behind him and lazily turned his head. Here she was, accompanied as ever by her faithful slave Naevia.

Lucretia had chosen today to wear the blondest of her wigs, the hair shimmering as if bestowing its own light to the bruised sky that pressed down from above. Her face was white with chalk, though she had applied red ocher to her lips and her still-impressive cheekbones to give it the blush of youth and color.

The illusion of youth only served to remind Batiatus, however, how the days and years of their lives were mounting, with still no prospect of an heir to carry forth the noble family name.

“What presses heavy on mind, Quintus?” she asked, her voice a concerned purr.

Batiatus scowled. “Observant wife, ever able to unscroll my thoughts.”

“Your countenance betrays. And goblet in hand is further telling sign. You rarely douse reflections with so much wine before sun descends.”

“The sun will hide soon, joining the object I seek to uncover,” Batiatus muttered, gesturing at the grim sky. He glared at the wine in his cup and then swallowed it in one gulp before tossing the vessel over his shoulder for a slave to retrieve.

Lucretia regarded her husband thoughtfully.

“You speak of our friend Hieronymus?” she enquired.

The scowl on Batiatus’s face deepened.

“His presence eludes. If he moves within city he does so like rat underground.”

Lucretia sighed. This hunt had been going on for weeks now. Not even her poison-tongued but influential “friend” Ilithyia, wife of Claudius Glaber, the legatus responsible for capturing Spartacus and having his wife sold into slavery, had succeeded in winkling the reclusive merchant out of his shell.

“Swallow pride dear husband and send Grecian rat invitation to the House of Batiatus. Give word and I will despatch messenger.”

Batiatus set his face stubbornly.

“I will not beg favor like old whore with gaping cunt!”

“You make issue where none need be!” Lucretia snapped.