“Your words travel to him,” Crassus muttered. “It appears he sets to the task.”
Wearily Batiatus raised his head, bracing himself for the inevitable.
Tetraides was so exhausted he could barely lift his sword. He lumbered in circles, his opponent now no more than a dark, fleeting shape in his peripheral vision. Sweat poured down his face inside his helmet, blinding him, and his breath echoed stertorously in his ears. Together with the pounding of his heart as it pumped blood through his veins, the sound drowned out the derision of the crowd-a small but tender mercy.
From the corner of his eye he saw a shadowy figure suddenly dart at him, and swung his sword toward it. As the blade swished once again through empty air, he became aware of a stinging sensation in his abdomen. Next moment the stinging became a sort of dragging, followed by the strange and altogether more unpleasant feeling of something thick and wet and slippery sliding down his legs. Tetraides looked down, and was astonished to see fat, pink-gray ropes of intestine, carried on a small waterfall of blood, surging from a wide rent in his belly. The intestines slipped over his sandaled feet and spilled across the sand, like a mass of blind snakes trying to escape from a box. As the last of his strength drained out of him and his head began to fill with dizzy, buzzing blackness, Tetraides dropped his sword and his shield, and toppled over backward on to the sand. He felt no pain. He felt nothing but the irresistible desire to sleep. As his opponent stood over him, sword poised to deliver the killing blow, Tetraides closed his eyes.
When the arena was once again clear, the cornus sounded out their fanfare. As Marcus Crassus rose to his feet, the crowd quietened expectantly. The tall, austere Roman stood for a moment, his gaze sweeping the arena, waiting for complete silence. When he had it, he slowly raised a hand.
“Citizens of Capua! Brothers of Rome!” he began, his voice carrying easily despite the fact that he seemed to be making no particular effort to raise it to a shout. “As visitor to revered city, I am honored to present final event of esteemed games! A battle of blood and sand, for ultimate glory! An opportunity for old legends to die and new ones to rise from their ashes!”
Standing in the shadows of the tunnel, waiting to face the long walk toward the huge iron gates at its far end, and out into the cauldron of the arena, Varro turned to Spartacus and raised an eyebrow.
“The great Crassus does not favor our chances,” he said.
“I will take great pleasure in disappointing nobleman of Rome,” Spartacus muttered.
They listened as Crassus first introduced Hieronymus’s men-a hoplomachus said to hail from Thrace, like Spartacus himself, and a secutor from Syria.
“Conserve energy,” Oenomaus’s low voice said from behind them. “Use guile and allow Hieronymus’s novices to expend their own. The secutor is quick but undisciplined, his companion no more than lumbering oaf with head thick as rock.”
“Like all Thracians,” Varro said, grinning at Spartacus.
Spartacus’s lips twitched, but he rolled his eyes to the sky as though to convey the fact that the comment was beneath his consideration.
“If you stood as yourselves, full in strength and vigor, victory would be snatched in but quick moment,” Oenomaus continued, “but present circumstances even the odds. Despite the appearance of leveling, these flailing savages are not fit to receive honor of primus. They would prove champions lacking all worth, such that Rome would rejoice at Capua’s plummet from greatness. Do not permit such shameful outcome.”
“We will not fall,” Spartacus muttered.
Varro nodded grimly.
“My brother speaks for us both.”
Oenomaus clapped them on the backs and pushed them forward. As they walked toward the gate, guards on the other side dragged them slowly open in readiness. Up in the pulvinus they could hear Marcus Crassus coming to the end of his introductions.
“… from house of Quintus Lentulus Batiatus, I give you Varro, son of Rome. Joined in primus by the current Champion of Capua. Behold … Spartacus!”
The announcement was half-hearted, lacking true drama, but as Spartacus marched out in to the arena, the crowd released a full-blooded roar and began to chant his name. Varro raised his sword in acknowledgement, but Spartacus was unmoved by their adulation. He cared little for glory. Now that Sura was gone he cared little even for life. He fought only to repay Batiatus for attempting to reunite him with his wife-and indeed, for doing so for a last, precious moment-and because Sura would not have wanted him to simply give up and die.
Striding to the middle of the arena with Varro beside him, he assessed his opponents, his gaze unwavering. He could tell at a glance that Doctore had been right. Hieronymus’s men were snarling and prowling like wild animals, barely able to contain their desire to engage Spartacus and Varro in battle. The eyes glittering through their helmets looked black and crazed, and their hairy bodies were matted with dirt and sweat. To be an effective gladiator, Spartacus knew that you had to have both a clear head and a measure of self-discipline. It was more than evident that these men lacked both.
He turned to face the pulvinus, staring up at Marcus Crassus unflinchingly. Crassus stared back at him with evident distaste. And then, almost casually, he flapped a hand.
“Begin!”
Immediately, like wild dogs let off the leash, Hieronymus’s men came for them. As Doctore had said, the secutor was fast and agile as an ape. He wore an egg-shaped helmet with round eye-holes and carried a large rectangular shield and a stabbing sword. The hoplomachus lumbering in his wake was clearly a veteran of many battles, his body criss-crossed with a multitude of long-healed scars. The man was armed with a long spear in one hand and protected by a small, round shield, which he held in the other. A short sword was tucked into his belt for short-range work.
The secutor targeted Varro and ran at him, screeching. Unperturbed, Varro, fighting as murmillo, raised his shield and calmly fended off his opponent’s initial attack flurry. The air rang with the clang of iron on iron as Varro, concentrating hard, adjusted his feet and his shield arm to face each fresh blow, effectively creating a shell around himself.
Eventually, after slashing and stabbing at Varro perhaps thirty times or more without connecting, the secutor backed off for a short rest, panting so loudly his tongue might be lolling from his mouth behind his blankfaced helmet.
The hoplomachus, meanwhile, closed in on Spartacus. It was the same as Varro’s situation, though reversed-a bigger, slower opponent against a smaller, more agile one.
Not that Spartacus was feeling particularly agile today. His limbs felt tired and strangely hollow, and his mind, normally so sharp in assessing his opponent’s intentions, seemed to be stuffed with heat and dust, dulling his thoughts.
Armed with two swords and without the protection of a shield, he had to rely on his guile and experience. He lowered himself into a crouching stance to make himself less of a target as the hoplomachus approached, spear raised above his head in readiness to strike.
Suddenly he did strike, his arm jabbing down. Spartacus heard the crowd gasp as he flung himself to one side, the point of the spear whistling past his left ear. Spartacus rolled in the sand-a move he had practiced many times before-and sprang back to his feet. Usually he would perform the maneuver with no ill-effects, but today his heart pounded with the effort of it and his head swam for a moment, black and red shapes jittering in his vision.
He blinked and re-focused. The hoplomachus was turning slowly, coming for him again. Before he had time to raise his spear, Spartacus leaped forward, ducking under his defenses and slashing at him with the sword in his right hand. The hoplomachus lowered his shield, but Spartacus’s sword sneaked underneath it, slicing through the greave protecting the bulky gladiator’s left leg and drawing first blood. It was nothing but a minor injury, but the crowd whooped in delight. Spartacus backed up, wiping sweat from his face with his forearm, breathing hard to regain and conserve his energy.