Crassus glared at Hieronymus, and as he did so Batiatus in turn watched Crassus’s face closely. He was mightily relieved to see that, unless the Roman nobleman was an excellent actor, he clearly had no idea what Hieronymus was talking about.
As if to confirm the fact, Crassus threw up his hands and barked, “Babble continues to flow as if water itself. Gather thoughts and sharpen point.”
Hieronymus shook his head and clapped his hands over his face.
“I cannot…” he all but wept. “I cannot.”
Crassus’s eyes blazed, though his voice was dangerously soft. Leaning forward, he said, “You can and will, or suffer consequences.”
Still Hieronymus wept, his hands clapped over his face. Brutilius tore his eyes from the action below for a moment and looked down on him with evident distaste.
“The man appears deranged,” he said. “One remembers that the Greeks are renowned for displays of vulgar emotion. Consequence of imbalance of humors in mongrel blood.”
Crassus shot him a look scathing enough to make the portly nobleman turn pale and promptly close his mouth. Then he turned again to Batiatus.
“Do you understand what the man implies by speaking nonsense of Roman water?”
Calmly Batiatus inclined his head.
“I confess to the grasping of it.”
“Then I demand explanation.”
Batiatus gestured at the jugs of water on the table at the back of the balcony.
“I made arrangement to serve Hieronymus water from the stream that until these several weeks past had supplied my ludus.”
“I would receive reason for it,” Crassus narrowed his eyes. “Does Hieronymus speak truth of this water running with poison?”
“Yes,” Batiatus said bluntly. “But not added by my hand. Nor by good Solonius’s. The stream which runs behind his own ludus was similarly sullied.”
“Whose hand has done it then?”
This time it was Solonius who answered.
“Hieronymus’s himself.”
There was suspicion and incredulity in Crassus’s voice. “Hieronymus poisons himself?”
Batiatus nodded. “Indeed. Though precise reckoning points to Mantilus’s hand, moved at bidding of Hieronymus.”
Crassus looked more exasperated than ever.
“I ask again for its reason.”
“For victory in the arena,” Solonius said.
“Victory absent honor,” Batiatus added.
Crassus scowled at the both of them-and then understanding slowly began to dawn on his face.
“Hieronymus sought advantage with the act in lieu of his men’s prowess?”
Again Batiatus nodded.
“Our ludii laid low by illness at his hand.”
“Batiatus discovered truth of it, and we joined to avenge slight upon our good names-as was our right,” Solonius said.
“We hesitated to resort to public exposure of his deed-for fear that noble name of Crassus would be sullied by proximity,” Batiatus said. “We simply allowed Hieronymus belief that upper hand was still his to enjoy, that affliction upon both of us still held sway.”
“Whereas in truth strength of warriors was secretly restored?” Crassus said.
Solonius nodded. “To stand ready upon the sands for contest and exposure of Hieronymus’s folly.”
Crassus smiled grimly. “Such base behavior deserves nothing less. I confess to thoughts of pitching him over balcony to deserved death and bloody spectacle for crowd.”
“It would be fitting end,” Batiatus agreed, “but not one to your advantage perhaps.”
This time Crassus didn’t just smile, but gave a short, barking laugh. He looked at Batiatus and Solonius thoughtfully for a moment, clearly regarding each of them with a new respect.
“Gratitude for delicacy of touch in this ugly matter. Yours has been honorable solution to grievous problem…” he smirked and added, “…one handled with diplomacy of true politicians.” And with that he reached out to grasp first Batiatus’s wrist, and then Solonius’s, before turning once again to regard Hieronymus, still curled up and shivering like a whipped dog.
“As for you Hieronymus,” he said, his voice and face instantly hardening, “you do nothing but bring shame to the arena.” He leaned forward, his voice a hiss of malice in Hieronymus’s ear. “Hear this, Grecian. My patronage comes to end, and your name and status with it. Fortunes will sink like overweighted ships at sea-I will see to it.”
He straightened up, tugging his toga back into shape- and then to everyone’s surprise, and not a little delight, he drew back his foot and kicked Hieronymus hard in the ribs.
There was a crack, and Hieronymus squealed like a stuck pig before toppling on to his side. As if nothing had happened, his manner that of the dignified and imposing statesman once more, Crassus turned and said, “I take leave to return to Rome immediately. Good fortune on both your houses.”
While a battle of words was raging in the pulvinus above them, Spartacus and Varro were engaged in an altogether more physical battle on the sands below. Solonius’s men, for all Batiatus’s frequently disparaging remarks about them, were skilled, highly trained warriors, and those he had selected for today’s primus were, in addition, hard-bitten and experienced, their fierce intent, now that Hieronymus’s jackals had been despatched, to kill the current Champion of Capua and wrest the too-long-held advantage back from the House of Batiatus.
For this reason the fight so far had been cagey, tactical, neither side wishing to be overly reckless and thus make a potentially lethal mistake. The two pairs of gladiators had been circling one another cautiously for a while now, only occasionally feinting left or right in an attempt to gain positional advantage over their opponents, or in the hope of finding an opening.
There had been a number of minor skirmishes to incite the crowd, one or two flurries of action to set backsides rising from seats and pulses momentarily racing, but nothing serious. Most of the slashes and thrusts from swords and spear had clanged harmlessly against raised shields, though blood had been drawn once-that of Varro’s, the hoplomachus’s spear having sneaked briefly around his defenses and taken a flap of skin from just beneath his armpit, before he was able to leap aside and prevent the weapon from doing further damage by batting it away with his shield.
Blood from the wound, which would sting and itch like a scorpion’s kiss later, if Varro was lucky enough to survive the day, was now trickling down his ribs and into his waistband, the flow made more copious by the sweat and oil oozing from the pores of his skin. It was a reminder that he needed to remain constantly alert-and a timely one too, because if Varro did have a weakness in the arena it was that he was a man of action, and therefore occasionally prone to impatience or frustration if an opponent was being particularly defensive. In training, Oenomaus was constantly telling him to concentrate, or admonishing him for being too eager to end the contest. Time and again he had reprimanded Varro for lunging forward and thus leaving himself vulnerable to the counter-attack.
For this reason, having Spartacus as a partner worked hugely to Varro’s advantage. The Thracian was an intelligent and versatile fighter. He could be patient when he needed to be, but was swift and merciless when the opportunity to gain advantage over an opponent presented itself. Although he and Varro were very different in their fighting styles, Varro was intelligent and modest enough to realize that there was much he could learn from his friend, the Champion of Capua. He welcomed his tutelage, and in the absence of Oenomaus and his whip, he listened closely to his advice when they were paired together out on the sand. Spartacus often used the “quiet” moments in the arena to mutter instructions to Varro. Knowing of the Roman’s propensity to go on the attack, he would persistently urge caution, or would remind him to concentrate at all times — sometimes by voicing the brutal fact that if Varro should make a mistake, then not only would he suffer the consequences of it, but his wife and son would too.