Mark Morris - Spartacus - Morituri

The girl was beautiful, but not beautiful enough. Batiatus flicked the fly-whisk about his neck, grimacing at the smell.

“Jupiter’s cock, Albanus,” he muttered, “would your gods find offense if you cleansed them before display?”

Albanus, a greasy little Syrian with beady black eyes, gave an elaborate shrug.

“I provide private viewing as favor to valued customer. Such visits require preparations made in haste. Had I taken time to make scent sweeter, wind might have carried fragrance to others seeking purchase.”

Batiatus sighed. “Would that the gods deliver a gale presently and sweep away smell of shit. They instead continue to rain it upon me, adding to the pile you stack before me.”

“I seek only to serve the House of Batiatus, which stands foremost in all Capua. For no other would I favor to parade wares before bidding begins at market.”

Batiatus gave a disbelieving grunt. To the naked girl before him he said, “Turn around.”

She stared, terrified, looking first at Batiatus and then at Albanus.

Batiatus glared accusingly at the Syrian slave trader.

“Does she not possess enough common tongue to understand even that? Where does this one spawn from?”

“From exotic soil, an island the Greeks know as Thule. Far beyond bounds of known lands.”

“Your mind concocts elaborate providence to burnish tainted goods. And the telling of it tumbles like shit from mouth, adding to the stench.” Batiatus flapped a hand. “It is arduous chore to break in one such as this.”

“But sweet in the breaking,” Albanus countered, a lascivious twinkle in his eye. “Her eyes tell the tale. A girl who is fresh of years, knowing nothing of the world. Her teeth intact, skin unblemished and cunt like a virgin’s.”

“My wife lacks time to impart instruction, to see one so raw shaped to proper form.” Batiatus waved the fly-whisk dismissively and moved along the line of standing women.

Dust hung in the air, illuminated by the beat of the afternoon sun. The stone-walled yard in which they all stood seemed hot enough to bake bread.

Albanus frowned. He stepped aside and clicked his fingers at a dark-haired boy who stood nearby, his skin oiled and shining. The boy came forward with an earthenware cup brimming with red liquid.

“Quench thirst while you peruse under hot sun, good Batiatus.”

Batiatus took the cup, drank, and then grimaced. The wine was sour, unrefined. He swirled it around in his mouth for a moment before spitting it out. The liquid lay like a bloodstain in the sand at his feet, reminding him of the other errands of the day, all as yet undone and baying for attention.

“This piss does nothing but deliver sting to throat. It fails to distract from promise to exhibit something of note.”

The Syrian tilted his head to one side like a bird.

“Batiatus, I-”

A young girl came running into the sanded yard and fell to her knees before him.

“Dominus!” she cried. “Additional guest stands impatient for admittance.”

Batiatus raised an eyebrow.

“It seems private viewing bears different meaning in scheming mind, Albanus. Though mine does stand impressed that you count so many as ‘honored friend.’”

“I beg good Batiatus’s indulgence at unfortunate misstep,” Albanus sputtered. “I depart for but a moment and promise more of fine stock to exhibit. Patience will find reward.”

Batiatus bowed slightly, though inside he seethed with anger and curiosity. As the Syrian scuttled off, clapping his hands and shouting for his steward, so Batiatus beckoned to the man who stood at the wall behind him, cloaked despite the heat.

“Ashur, linger in the heat. I would venture inside and see who else seeks business with Albanus this morning.”

Ashur’s dark-bearded face betrayed nothing.

“Yes, dominus.”

It was much cooler in the stone-flagged corridors of the house. The place was airy, large and well made, but Albanus’s taste in wall painting ran to the garish. Batiatus smirked as he thought of the new mosaics presently going up on the walls of his own triclinium. Soon he and his guests would dine surrounded by the most sublime-

“This way please,” an attending boy said with bowed head, gesturing to a bright doorway.

“You usher me to garden.”

The boy nodded, not raising his eyes.

“Not a common place for viewing slaves,” Batiatus mused.

The boy scampered off. Batiatus slapped his neck with the fly-whisk in growing irritation. The light blinded him for a second. He heard the ripple of a fountain, and smelled damp earth, and the heady perfume of plants and herbs. He recognized thyme and lavender, and felt soft grass underfoot, lush and green from the recent rains.

Lucretia would covet this, he thought. Perhaps he should consider a garden. The peristylium is not nearly enough.

He stepped forward, passing once again into the shade offered by a fig tree. There was a girl sitting on a stone bench several feet away, dressed in blue silk. Tyrian silk, the stuff worth its weight in gold. A free woman, of some breeding , he thought. Batiatus was about to turn around and make an exit, when he saw the collar about the girl’s neck. After a moment’s surprise, he sauntered forward, and at once the girl rose.

The silk was cut in a chiton, Greek-style, drawn in at the waist but not stitched along the sides. Batiatus saw the swell of one creamy breast and let his gaze trail down her torso. Her skin was as white as that of a high-born lady and her hair as black as a Hispanian bull. She had blue eyes, bright as sapphire, and her face was so flawless that he felt an instant, fierce hunger. He wanted to touch her, to explore those features, and the white skin under the silk.

“What’s your name,” he said.

“Athenais,” she replied, bowing her head. She was Greek then.

“You are Albanus’s property?”

“I am. I have been in his house but six days.”

“Where do you hail from?”

“I am Athenian.” Her Latin was flawless, but for the lilting Greek accent.

“A distinguished birthplace. You possess learning?” he asked.

“Yes, I-”

“Good Batiatus, I see you discover exquisite flower growing in garden!” Albanus came striding into the garden, arms spread wide, with a pair of strange men in tow.

“I assured reward for patience, did I not?” he continued. “Measured against her beauty, the rest of my stock seems herd of Lusitanian mares. Ah, but I forget manners. Introductions are needed. Batiatus, I present most recent acquaintance, Hieronymus. A man of rank, highly regarded in Sicilia. Hieronymus, I present Quintus Lentulus Batiatus, finest lanista in Capua. His ludus filled to brim with beasts of great skill in the arena. Spartacus, the Bringer of Rain and Champion of Capua, among them.”

Batiatus bowed slightly, the stiff-necked bow he had seen senators of Rome perform when they wanted to accord both acknowledgement and their own superiority with one small gesture.

Hieronymus was bearded, like many Greeks, and he wore a woollen peplos despite the warmth of the day. He was a large man, brown-skinned like a hazelnut, with olive-black eyes, and a ready smile which Batiatus instantly distrusted. He wore gold earrings, which no Roman would ever countenance, and Batiatus could almost smell the stink of coin coming off him. A rich man, even if only a provincial.

Although Batiatus barely allowed his eyes to flicker from the Sicel’s face, it was the figure who entered silently in Hieronymus’s wake who most interested him. Batiatus had never seen his like. He was darker skinned than his master, and clothed in a loose-fitting robe that seemed to be woven from multi-colored strips of some coarse material, like horsehair. The robe, tied at the waist by a black sash, was open at the front to expose a chest and torso deeply scarred with what appeared to be sigils and runic symbols, the origin of which Batiatus could only guess at.