Sura was filling his thoughts, as she often did, when he heard footsteps halt outside his cell. As his door was unlocked and pushed open, he sat up, to see two of the house-guards staring in at him.
“You are summoned,” one of them said curtly.
Spartacus was surprised. “The celebrations begin at early hour?”
The guard who had spoken sneered, as though Spartacus had proved by his response to be so slow-witted as to be beneath contempt.
“It’s not your place to question. Rise and follow.”
Spartacus rose from his bunk and padded to the door. He was manacled and led upstairs. As he passed Tetraides’s cell he saw the Greek lying flat on his back, his breath a snuffling grunt through his broken nose. The injuries which Spartacus had inflicted on him that afternoon were superficial-nothing but cuts and bruises-but debilitating enough to subdue him, at least temporarily.
As ever, he squinted when he passed through the upper door and emerged into the villa itself. After the dimness of the slaves’ quarters the glowing lamps adorning the walls seemed as bright as the sun rising over the Campanian hills. Although Spartacus’s belly was full of the thick gruel of barley and vegetables that, together with bread and fruit and occasionally a little boiled meat, was the staple diet of the gladiators in the House of Batiatus, his mouth still watered at the succulent scents of roasting meat drifting from the kitchens. There were other smells too-incense and perfumed oils-and there was an abundance of wondrous sights to draw his gaze. As he was led through the villa he saw sinuous slave girls, their bodies glittering with mica, awaiting the first of that evening’s guests; silken drapes billowing gently in the wind; rose petals strewn in the atrium pool like perfect, individual drops of blood; platters stacked high with honeyed bread, stuffed dates, grapes, olives and cold meats.
Batiatus was waiting, statesman-like, in his study. As Spartacus entered he gave a single curt nod and the guards removed his manacles.
Without preamble Batiatus said, “What shit reaches ear about fucking spells?”
Spartacus sighed inwardly. So Ashur had kept his counsel among the gladiators, but at the first opportunity he had gone running to Batiatus, no doubt brimming with tales of how the men downstairs were shivering in their beds like frightened children. Spartacus felt sure that what Ashur would not have revealed to his master was that he himself was the architect of their fears. No, he had no doubt in his mind that Ashur would have used his silver tongue to create a weave of words, absolving himself of any blame for the current discord.
“It is nothing, dominus,” Spartacus said. “Rumor and foolishness.”
“Fuck rumor!” Batiatus spat. “Eminent guest soon graces the House of Batiatus-and what whispers disturb ears? That my titans jump at fucking shadows like virgins rammed by first cocks!”
Spartacus said nothing. Sometimes it was wiser simply to let Batiatus vent his spleen. The lanista glared at his champion for a long moment, and then the anger slipped from his face, to be replaced by a troubled expression. He approached Spartacus until they were no more than a hand span apart, and stared deep into his eyes. Then speaking as though to a close friend and confidante, Batiatus said, “Speak truth, Spartacus. What state do you find their bodies and minds?”
Spartacus paused. He briefly contemplated making light of the situation, assuring Batiatus that he had nothing with which to concern himself. But then he decided to be honest.
“The men are divided. Some believe sorcery at work, others deny such foolishness-no one side holds sway.”
“What side do you take?” Batiatus asked.
“I hold no belief in evil spirits,” Spartacus said for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. “I believe each man shapes his own destiny.”
Batiatus clapped him on the shoulder.
“Heart rejoices to hear good sense. And your spirits are level to match?”
Spartacus hesitated.
“Yes, dominus.”
“You sound uncertain.”
“Abounding rumors brought restless sleep to most.”
“So muscle stand slack and limbs weary?”
“A passing condition, dominus.”
Batiatus pursed his lips.
“Rotten grapes must be plucked from vine before canker within spreads to those that remain. Slaves are easily replaced with those endowed with unsullied mind. Convey this to the men.”
“Yes, dominus.”
“Good.” Batiatus nodded, but seemed preoccupied. He gave no sign that Spartacus should be returned to his cell.
“Is there something else, dominus?” Spartacus asked tactfully.
Batiatus looked up, clearly mulling something over in his mind. He leaned closer to Spartacus than ever, his voice dropping to an almost embarrassed hush.
“You are champion, Spartacus. You stand in glorious association with this house. Is that not so?”
“Yes, dominus,” Spartacus said automatically.
“Then do not pour sweetness on bitter words you stand reluctant to share.” He paused again, then said, “This babbling of foul magic … Do you think anything to it?”
Spartacus took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. What did Batiatus want from him? It seemed that the conversation was revolving in circles.
Carefully he said, “Some believe there is truth in rumor. Sometimes merely belief in a thing can make it so.”
“But you, Spartacus. What do you believe?”
“I offer no more than that already spoken, dominus.”
Batiatus was silent for a long moment. He looked at Spartacus contemplatively.
Finally he said, “You eat, shit, and spar with these men. What cause could drain vitality from those of such strength?”
“Illness or injury could cause such failings. Passing from one to another.”
“Could such affliction leap from another ludus, delivered only to gladiators?”
“Such a thing seems unlikely,” Spartacus admitted.
Batiatus nodded grimly.
“Yet such affliction seems to clasp hold of Solonius’s men. His warriors blundered about the arena as if just roused from fucking sleep. Curious that such malaise should strike rival ludus of Capua at precise instant a third school comes to being. Is it not?”
“Uncommon coincidence, dominus,” Spartacus said.
“Difficult to consider it coincidence,” Batiatus said, his face hardening. He fumed a moment, staring into space as thoughts raged through his mind. Then he said, “You’ve heard of this Mantilus?”
“Only what little Ashur told of him,” Spartacus said carefully.
“His presence expected tonight,” Batiatus said. “A fucking monster of a man, scarred like a Getae whore. Hieronymus keeps him close as if pet. I would have you mark him for future action.”
“You suspect Hieronymus moves him to purpose against Solonius and yourself?” Spartacus said. “By what method?”
Batiatus gave Spartacus a strange look, as if unwilling to voice what both of them were thinking.
“Who fucking knows what method? I care not of their ways only their intentions!” he said finally. “Observe him and report to me only-do you understand?”
“Yes, dominus.”
Both of them turned at the sound of urgent footsteps approaching along the corridor outside. They could tell from the lurching, uneven gait that the steps were those of Ashur’s. The next moment the ex-gladiator himself, cheeks flushed, appeared in the doorway.
“Out with it!” Batiatus snapped.
“Apologies, dominus,” Ashur said, “I bring message from Doctore. Commotion erupts in ludus. The men are in a state.”
Batiatus rolled his eyes, raising his face to the heavens.