Batiatus reddened, but tried to sound dismissive.
“A common peril of dangerous occupation.”
“But a peril that on this occasion would have had catastrophic effect, with recovery difficult to find. If Spartacus found head removed from body, such defeat would have perhaps stood as final one for ludus of Batiatus.”
Aware that all eyes were on him, Batiatus laughed, albeit a little too loudly to be convincing.
“Opinion spewed forth with fountain of ignorance,” Batiatus said.
Solonius smirked.
“I am sure you are right, Batiatus.”
“I am right,” Batiatus almost snarled. Then, recovering himself with an effort, he smiled again. Lightly he said, “Surely prattle in street speaks not just of the House of Batiatus? I have heard it that your own was brought to knee by recent…” He hesitated, then continued pleasantly, “… Would I be off the mark if I were to offer ‘annihilation’ as description for what befell it?”
Solonius’s smirk became fixed. He gazed at Batiatus for a long moment, his expression unflinching. Then, finally, he said, “I do not deny the loss a … severe one. But one accepts such trials with grace, in hopes that the gods will be kind enough to see forthcoming games provide opportunity to recoup recent losses.”
“Indeed,” Batiatus said pointedly. “May all of us find prosperity in them. Will your men be primed for challenge on next occasion? Previous match saw them out of depth. It would make heart bleed to see them return to sands in similar state.”
“Past experience of victory and blood will fortify them,” Solonius muttered.
Batiatus reached out and clapped him on the shoulder with enough force to make Solonius’s eyes flicker.
“I am certain you are right,” he said earnestly.
There was silence for a moment, Brutilius looking a little bewilderedly from Batiatus to Solonius, as though unable to understand how the jovial atmosphere of just a few minutes before had become so laced with tension. In an obvious attempt to break the mood, he declared, “Prospect of laying eyes upon your fearsome Thracian stirs the blood.”
Solonius looked at Brutilius, his eyes hooded, lizard-like, and then he turned his attention back to Batiatus.
“Yes,” he said softly, “how does your valiant Champion stand in condition?”
“Never better,” Batiatus declared.
“Then market gossips prove mistaken.”
Batiatus frowned.
“What is it such ignorant minds spill carelessly in the street?”
Solonius shrugged as if it was of no consequence.
“They speak ill of performance in recent primus. Capua whispers that his was merely fortuitous victory, that he stood mere shadow of the gladiator who bested Theokoles.”
Batiatus matched Solonius’s shrug with one of his own.
“Each opponent dictates manner of combat employed to defeat him. Spartacus’s strength lies in his cunning, his ability to adapt to circumstance. Some opponents require less effort spent than others.”
Crassus took a sip of his water and sniffed.
“I confess I found impression made was rather light.”
Brutilius seemed fascinated by the exchange of conflicting opinions.
“If Batiatus will permit…” he began hesitantly.
Batiatus gestured for him to continue.
“… I would wish to see your Champion.”
Batiatus looked for a moment as if he was about to refuse Brutilius’s request, and then he smiled.
“I will summon him presently.”
“Do not trouble yourself,” Brutilius said. “I would see him in action. Do your men train today?”
“And every other,” Batiatus confirmed.
“Then perhaps we could observe him in his natural enclosure.”
Batiatus hesitated.
“Unless good Batiatus has something of note that requires hiding,” Solonius suggested silkily. “Perhaps he fears his Thracian may disappoint?”
“Or perhaps he suspects we seek advantage by observing his champion’s preparations?” Hieronymus added, the wide smile never leaving his face.
“I hold no such notion,” Batiatus blustered. ‘The House of Batiatus is averse to tricks and concealment. You are most welcome to witness preparations.”
“Might we do such a thing now?” Crassus murmured.
Batiatus looked momentarily trapped, but then he nodded.
“If you desire it.”
He led his guests to the double doors, which opened on to the balcony overlooking the practice square, nodding curtly to the slaves to push them open. As soon as they did so, the shouts of the men and the clatter and clash of weapons drifted up from below.
Batiatus grimaced as Oenomaus’s voice rang out, accompanied by the crack of his whip: “Hasten movements or invite death in the arena. Varro, you stand fixed to earth as though roots sprout from feet. Are you tree or gladiator?”
“The men tire …” Batiatus murmured, and gestured up at the sky, from which the white disk of the sun blazed down. “The heat intense at this hour.”
“As it will be upon the sands in the arena,” Solonius pointed out.
Batiatus clenched his jaw and said nothing, merely gestured his guests forward with a flick of his fingers.
Hands curled around the balcony rail, all five men looked down on to the flat, sandy area below, where the men of the ludus were going through their daily paces. What was immediately evident was how tired they looked, how sluggish. Despite Oenomaus’s threats, and the frequent crack of his whip, they stumbled and blundered ineffectually about, as if half-asleep.
Clearly nonplussed, Brutilius asked, “Which is Spartacus?”
Batiatus pointed. “He spars with Varro, the blond fighter.”
“Where is Spartacus’s shield?”
“He requires no shield. His defense lies in swiftness of movement, his shield hand employed with second weapon to double effectiveness in combat.”
No sooner had Batiatus finished boasting of his Champion’s agility than Spartacus stumbled, tripping over his own feet. He desperately tried to right himself, but succeeded only in ramming one of his swords in to the ground with such force that the wooden blade snapped in two, pitching him sideways. He crashed to the ground, blinded and choking as a cloud of sand billowed up and coated his sweat-covered face. With a cry of triumph, Varro leaped forward, pinned him to the ground by planting a foot on his chest and jabbed his throat with the point of his sword.
“Your life is mine, brother,” he cried.
There was laughter and ironic applause from above. Varro and a still-spluttering Spartacus looked up. Solonius stood with his head thrown back, laughing uproariously. To the right of Solonius stood Batiatus, his face puce with fury. Standing to his right were three other men-Hieronymus, who was grinning widely; Crassus, who wore an expression of insufferable smugness; and Brutilius, who looked as though he couldn’t make up his mind whether to be amused or disappointed.
Still laughing, Solonius’s voice echoed across the suddenly silent training ground.
“Majestic display, good Batiatus. Your champion appears as legend that precedes him, to be sure.”
Tight-lipped, Batiatus muttered, “I admit recent period of illness has left many of the men laid low as result.”
“If you wish to withdraw from contest …” Hieronymus suggested.
Vehemently Batiatus shook his head.
“And deny good Brutilius the presence of Capua’s champion? Unthinkable.” He waved a hand airily. “The men are strong, proven resilient from hard training under firm hand. Current malaise will pass, and the men will restore to full strength.”
Hieronymus laid a hand on his arm. His eyes were nothing but kindly.
“I don’t doubt the truth of it,” he said.
Lucretia wrinkled her nose at the pungent reek of incense.
“Does the House of Solonius now retain stable of whores in addition?” she muttered. “The vulgarity of the man astounds.”