He roared out the last word, sweeping his arm in a flourish. The crowd responded with a cheer and a prolonged round of applause. Hieronymus, ever smiling, bowed over and over, accepting the plaudits.
Batiatus waited for the applause to die down and then continued. “Let us also welcome Marcus Licinius Crassus, hero of the Republic. Who fought so bravely in support of Lucius Cornelius Sulla. His presence overwhelms humble lanista with honor bestowed upon unworthy house. We welcome him to Capua with reverence and gratitude.” Again he flung out his arm, palm flat and fingers spread, to present the tall, dour Roman standing at Hieronymus’s shoulder. “Marcus Licinius Crassus!” he cried.
There was a greater roar this time, and a more sustained round of applause. Crassus accepted the adulation with the barest of nods, as if it was his divine right.
“And now, for the enjoyment of my esteemed guests,” Batiatus said, “I present a selection of my finest gladiators.” He half-turned toward a curtained alcove behind him. “First, Hephaestus, Beast of Abyssinia, scourge of the white sands …”
As Batiatus presented his titans, Lucretia hovered behind him, partly concealed by a column, her hands wrapped around a goblet of wine, as if for comfort. Ilithyia, in turn, lurked at her back, like a shy child taking refuge in the shadow of its mother. From the rapidity of Ilithyia’s hot breath on her bare shoulder, it was clear to Lucretia that the senator’s daughter was even more fearful of Mantilus than she was herself.
Her eyes scanned the crowd, searching for Hieronymus’s attendant, but he was now nowhere to be seen. The patch of wall where he had been standing earlier was now unoccupied, though Lucretia could not quite shake off the notion that the shadows which had clotted there were a manifestation of the darkness he had left behind; shadows which were even now-as Ilithyia had suggested-seeping into the very fabric of her home.
She could not decide whether Mantilus’s current absence was a good thing or a bad thing. She was relieved that those blind eyes were not once again boring into hers, and yet at the same time she was fearful of the possibility that he may suddenly appear at her side, like a phantom, his spindly arms reaching out toward her. She was reminded of the words of Junius Albanus, the husband of a friend of hers from Neapolis-a man, in fact, who had served under Sulla during the Second Mithridatic War. Albanus had spent some time at sea and had regaled Batiatus and herself with stories of man-eating fish whose bodies were the length of five men, and sometimes more. He had told them that when these particular fish were rising from the depths of the ocean the fins on their backs would break the surface of the water like gray sails.
“Setting eyes on such a fin is most fearful sight,” he had said, “but for a sailor in small boat it is not the most dreaded. Worse yet is when the fin descends back into depths, because then you lack knowledge of when and from where the monster will strike.”
Such were Lucretia’s feelings about Mantilus. Her eyes continued to dart about the crowd, looking for some sign of him, as Batiatus, unaware of her trepidation, launched into his final spiel. Already Hephaestus, Varro and Priscus were standing before the crowd, puffing out their chests and flexing their muscles, eliciting envious looks from the men and lascivious ones from the women.
“And now the prize of my collection,” Batiatus was saying. “A warrior whose very name echoes heart and mind. The slayer of mighty Theokoles. The Bringer of Rain. Honored guests, I give you … Spartacus!”
There were exclamations of delight and awe, and a few shrieks of pure, thigh-shuddering lust from the women, as Spartacus strode into the room. As ever, he carried himself with ease, almost with nonchalance, his face set, his blue eyes narrowed and raking the crowd. He refused to play to his audience, seeming more to resemble a bird of prey-poised and watchful-than a snorting bull or a stamping stallion, as did most other gladiators. It was part of his mystique, Lucretia supposed, and therefore part of his appeal-the still surface that hid such depths of savagery and ruthlessness in the arena. She did not trust him, though. His lack of transparency disturbed her. Neither did she like the way he had usurped her lover, Crixus, and put his position in the ludus under threat. As far as she was concerned, the sooner the Thracian was dead and Crixus restored to his rightful place as champion, the better it would be for them all.
Her attention snapped back to the present as all at once she spotted her quarry. At the appearance of Spartacus, Hieronymus and Crassus were forging through the crowd to get a closer look at the Champion of Capua, and there, like a misshapen shadow at his master’s heels, was Mantilus. She drew back into the shadows as Hieronymus and his entourage approached, hoping that the merchant’s attendant would not sense her presence. Behind her Ilithyia gave a little whimper of fear-which was more than ample proof that she had seen Mantilus too.
“So this is the great Spartacus?” Crassus said, wrinkling his nose in apparent disappointment.
Batiatus smiled, but his eyes were hard.
“He stands impressive does he not?”
“I supposed him to be … bigger,” Crassus sniffed.
“He is big where it matters most,” Batiatus declared, grinning at the wave of laughter that his words evoked. In a more serious tone he said, “Spartacus relies not on bulk, but on speed and skill. His strength formidable.” He waved Crassus forward. “Come, good Crassus, feel his muscles and note the resemblance to newly cast iron.”
With apparent reluctance Crassus stepped forward and prodded lightly at Spartacus’s bicep.
“Hmm,” he said. “He is striking enough, I suppose. But I wonder how he would fare against gladiators of Rome. I suspect his time in the arena would be cut woefully short against them.”
Batiatus’s face went taut for a moment, and then he said, “Perhaps one day he will have opportunity to test the speculation.”
“Perhaps,” Crassus murmured. “I desire to witness the manner and method required to cut the Thracian down to size.”
Batiatus smiled stiffly-then took a step back in sudden alarm.
Some of the other guests who had gathered to listen to the exchange stepped back too. The men murmured in consternation and a few of the women released shocked gasps. The reason for their disquiet was the sudden appearance of Mantilus. He had previously been standing behind Hieronymus, all but dwarfed by the merchant’s bulkier frame. Now, however, he stepped-almost slithered-forward, to stand in front of his master, his movements quick and darting as a snake’s. As Batiatus watched, partly uneasy and partly outraged, the scarred attendant stepped right up to Spartacus and began running his hands not over the Thracian’s skin, but rather around it, his palms less than a hand’s-span from the gladiator’s oiled flesh. His lips moved in a silent chant and his head weaved from side to side, as if he was attempting to hypnotize his prey before darting forward in a killing strike. Spartacus, for his part, simply stood stoic and silent, his eyes staring straight ahead, as if oblivious to the man’s attentions.
Trying to keep his voice light and his manner civil, Batiatus turned to Hieronymus.
“What is your slave doing?”
Hieronymus looked amused.
“He is not my slave. He is my attendant.”
“Mere titles,” Batiatus snapped before he could stop himself, earning a glare of disapproval from Crassus. Composing himself, he smiled thinly and said, “I simply wish to know purpose of his actions.”
His eyes dancing, Hieronymus said, “Rest easy, Batiatus. Mantilus is simply taking measure of your man.”
“How does he manage with eyes clouded from vision?”
“He assesses his aura.”
“His aura?”
“It is his … life force. All that makes him what he is. Some would call it his soul.”