Lucretia entered the atrium just as Oenomaus was leaving, escorted by one of the house guards.
“Domina,” Doctore muttered with a short bow, and Lucretia acknowledged him with a nod. As Doctore and the guard marched away, toward the door that opened on to the stone steps leading to the ludus below, Lucretia saw her husband’s head droop, his hand rising to cradle it.
“What unfortunate news troubles my husband?” she asked tentatively.
Batiatus uttered a loud groan and looked up, his face etched with weariness and anger.
“Jupiter’s cock,” he snarled. “Why do the gods offer sweet honey with one hand yet shove shit in face with the other?”
Lucretia sauntered across and reclined on a couch, accepting a grape from a bunch on a salver offered by a slave.
“Surely tongues do not still babble of sorcery?”
Batiatus shook his head.
“I command lips sealed yet still they flap like an old whore’s cunt. Tomorrow offers vital contest in the arena, hard won with substantial sums already expended, and all that will be offered for combat is assemblage of madmen and fucking invalids!” He rounded on a young slave girl. “Bring fucking wine for parched throat!”
As the girl scuttled away, Lucretia asked, “What words fell from Doctore’s lips?”
“Words of fucking destruction! Four more men join Crixus in infirmary, stricken by fever.”
“How could simple fever fell men such as them?”
“Fever stands word too commonplace to tell the story. Their ailment yet remains mystery. Causing unrest to ripple through ludus.”
“What symptoms present to medicus?” Lucretia asked.
Batiatus flapped a dismissive hand.
“They cannot fight! What symptom could stand worse? They grow cunts in place of cock.” Batiatus calmed for a moment. “Doctore speaks of broken sleep, dreams of dire visions forged by fever. Limbs weighed down as if by lead, pains wrapping joints. Some spew wretched mess from every orifice.”
Lucretia sighed. “What of tomorrow then? Do we have men left with strength to fight?”
Batiatus shrugged miserably.
“Swords will be placed in hands of those who stand upright and we will hope for fucking miracle.”
The slave girl reappeared, carrying a tray bearing a jug and two goblets. A slight flush on her cheeks evidenced the fact that she had been hurrying.
“A man could die of thirst within walls of his own house. Did you take route through fucking Rome?” Batiatus snapped at her.
“Apologies, dominus,” she muttered, the goblets rattling as she trembled.
“Make haste and fill my cup! Must I instruct in everything?”
The girl put down the tray and hastily filled both goblets with wine from the jug. She handed the first to Lucretia, who took it automatically, with no acknowledgement. As the girl approached Batiatus with the second he reached up between her legs and rammed his middle finger inside her. She stifled a gasp of pain even as she uttered it, and tried not to wince, her hands tightening instinctively on the goblet.
Batiatus flashed his teeth in a vicious grin.
“At least she does not spill upon pouring,” he said to Lucretia. “She is not completely absent skill.”
He wiggled the finger that was inside the girl, peering into her face for any reaction. She bit her lip and stared straight ahead, trying to remain expressionless.
Tiring of the game, Batiatus withdrew the finger and wiped it on the girl’s thigh. He took the wine and sipped it, then waved her away.
Lucretia watched this with a bored expression, and then asked, “What of our champion? How does his mind and body fare?”
Batiatus grunted. “He suffers like the rest, but Doctore assures that his will remains strong.”
“Will he prevail against malady enough to set foot upon the arena’s sands?” Lucretia asked, her tone suggesting that she would not be entirely displeased if he didn’t.
Batiatus flashed her a sharp look. “He must-if wife wishes to continue heedless purchase of beloved trinkets and garments.”
Lucretia’s face hardened. “Cruel words from husband’s lips.”
“Apologies, Lucretia. Temper escapes. Much coin rides on this contest.”
“I trust any losses sustained will not tip our house off balance?”
Batiatus’s eyes flickered.
“Don’t conceal from loving wife, Batiatus. We stand united against all trials and I would have you share all knowledge of them,” she demanded, her own eyes narrowing.
He sighed. “The primus is key. Ashur has placed coin to allow for certain losses in the preliminary bouts. Such losses would be undesirable, but would find coin tipped toward the reaping of its return, with victory gained in the primus.”
“And if Spartacus were to fall?”
“Spartacus will not fall with the strength of Varro to prop him. The two of them fight together.”
She waved away this minor detail.
“You evade pressing question.”
Batiatus sighed again, more deeply this time, and took a swallow of wine to fortify himself.
“The future of the House of Batiatus rests on their shoulders. Solonius falls from esteem but he stands blessed by reserve coin, deep as Neptune’s cock plunges. Such surplus not to be found in this house. If our losses match his-” he waved a hand, his face a mask of misery “-all around you would be forfeit.”
Lucretia looked at her husband in horror. And then she looked around her-at her painted walls, her mosaic floor, her attendant slaves. She looked at the wine in her goblet and considered hurling it in her husband’s face. Instead she gripped the vessel tighter, as if someone was already trying to prize it from her fingers.
“Fighting the men in such state, against such odds, appears folly,” she hissed. “You must be prudent in light of disorder falling upon house. If means could be found to withdraw from games …”
“There are no such means and I would not make effort to seek them if they proved available,” Batiatus said, stone-faced.
She closed her eyes briefly. Her voice cracking a little, she said, “To be reliant on the unruly Thracian …”
“Spartacus will prevail. He is Champion of Capua favored by the gods. Hieronymus’s rabble will be as cattle to my wolf. Even blunted by illness he will prove too much for them.”
“You speak with confidence unearned,” Lucretia muttered drily.
“I speak the truth as it’s been revealed to us. Spartacus has yet to fail us,” Batiatus countered.
“And what of this talk of Morituri? The prattle of street gossip reaches ears,” she said in response to her husband’s surprised expression. “Tongues whisper of training akin to torture, for the breeding of bloodthirsty animals in lieu of men.”
Batiatus shrugged contemptuously.
“If idle gossip contains truth, then victory is yet assured. Animals attack absent thought.”
“And absent fear,” Lucretia pointed out.
Another shrug.
“Have you witnessed Spartacus retreat in fear? The feeling is beyond him, and he stands gripped by skill and cunning.” He flapped a hand in an all-encompassing gesture. “As do all my men. Doctore teaches them to fear no pain, to embrace glorious death.”
“Let us hope that they do not embrace it with too much passion,” Lucretia said.
Batiatus gave her a sour look. There was a moment of simmering silence between them.
Then, in a softer, more reflective voice, Lucretia said, “This talk of sorcery-tell me that you believe it completely without foundation?”
Batiatus snorted. “Do you think I lend it any credence?”