There was the sound of clashing cymbals from below ground-a signal to slaves on both sides of the arena to heave open the doors at either side. A dozen other slaves, similarly attired as huntsmen, struggled into the arena, each holding a snarling, straining dog by a thick leather collar.
“Really,” Cicero said. “My preference would have been to walk.”
Their litter swayed and jerked as the bearers negotiated their way through the streets of Neapolis. The traffic all seemed to be of one mind, all litters and carts heading in the same direction. Cicero saw nothing but the backs of heads and headdresses, as the litter picked its way through the throng like an interloper in a school of fish. All climbing toward the same destination: the flag-bedecked, sail-topped arena.
“I entreat you,” Verres said, “trust my word, you would not care to climb the hill. The long, winding, gentle slope would occupy you far too long, or the several steep stairs that run direct, would leave you wet with perspiration before the commencement of the games.”
“Games that mourn Pelorus?”
“Indeed. It grieves me to impart sad news, but Pelorus is dead. As executor of his estate, I discovered details of your arrival, and hence came to ease your journey.”
The litter suddenly rose and dropped an entire foot, as the bearers briefly dodged a cart by clambering up onto the kerb. Cicero and Verres smiled.
“Ease my journey?” Cicero laughed. “My passage was calmer at sea! Still, if you hold the estate of Pelorus, my dealings can proceed with you.”
“Later. Our journey is near its end,” Verres assured him. “The arena and its delights are but moments away.”
Cicero winced.
“Delights not sought by me, good Verres.”
“You speak not as a Roman!” Verres chuckled.
“I think we may disagree on what makes a Roman,” Cicero replied with a shrug. “For me, it is not this… oddly barbaric custom.”
“Barbaric? Noble games make us Romans! A tradition most cherished!”
“Truly it is not, good Verres.”
“I must disagree! The arena is our proud symbol of military virtue! Our manifest destiny!”
Cicero snorted.
“Of swords and ashes,” he said, flatly. “Of death and oblivion. Of ill will and joy in others’ pain.”
Verres spluttered, unable to form words.
“A quaestor says this! An emissary of Rome says this? Good Cicero, your boldness is Roman even if your words are not. I fear this litter may be struck down by an angry Jupiter.”
“Jupiter cares not for games. Nor does any prime god.”
“Now, good Cicero, I must protest.”
“Then I shall mount my apologia. Which deity rules the arena?” Cicero smiled indulgently, signaling that he still regarded their conversation as a game, and not an argument.
“What?” Verres shook his head, unsure of why he was being asked such an obvious question.
“Which divinity rules the blood and sand? You shall have three guesses.”
“Mars, of course.”
“Not so! Mars rules soldiers and men of war. Presiding over men who fight for just cause. Mars is a god of Rome and Romans, not any rabble that takes up arms.”
“I confess surprise,” Verres said.
“I thought you would.”
“Apollo, then?”
“That lyre-playing peacock? Whatever for?”
“He shines like the sun, he struts around the arena inviting adulation of girls and envy of men. Surely Apollo must be the true god of the arena?”
“You think gladiators fight for vanity’s sake?” Cicero said. “They might take care with their appearance, and bask in the love of the crowd, but their minds are occupied with more than merely what eyes hold.”
“You have me at loss. You speak of a deity? Perhaps gladiators claim patronage from some famous warrior of legend. Hercules, perhaps? Or Achilles?”
“I said three guesses! Already you have had four!”
“Very well. I concede defeat. Who is the true god of the arena?”
“Nemesis!”
“But she is a goddess!”
“The daughter of Night! The queen of rough justice! The goddess of vengeance!”
“I believe you not!” Verres said, but even as he spoke, he recalled the fixtures in the House of Pelorus.
“Then become a quaestor of your own doubts,” Cicero suggested. “Wander within the warriors’ quarters and you shall see their cells adorned with rude statuettes and medallions. You shall see them laying coin for temple sacrifices and whispering her name as they walk onto the sands. It is Nemesis to whom they pray. Nemesis! The architect of spite!”
Curious, Ilithyia peered over the balcony.
“Rabbits!” she cried, clapping her hands excitedly. “Delightful!”
Batiatus looked to Lucretia for support.
“Do I alone find this to be time used to foolish end?” he bellowed.
“I adore the rabbits!” Ilithyia declared, ignoring him.
“I have never seen the like,” Lucretia said.
“We have not seen a ludus coniculus in Rome for years,” Ilithyia said. “But I suppose it has yet to exhaust its novelty in the provinces.”
Batiatus snorted in disbelief as the bewildered rabbits sat, unmoving, in the middle of the arena.
“What now?” he asked. “Do we wager on where they shit?”
“Just wait! Now they shall let loose the hounds!”
Trumpeters on the orchestra dais burst into a brief fanfare. The crowd fell silent, until a final flourish from the musicians. Then, in unison, the dog-handlers released their hold on their animals, and barking with excitement the hounds charged at full speed toward the rabbits.
Ilithyia screamed in peals of glee as the rabbits scattered.
“See how they run!” she yelled. “Is it not marvelous?”
Lucretia did her best to smile in mute agreement.
“You can see a dog chase a rabbit anywhere beneath the sky,” Batiatus spat in disgust.
“Perhaps in your rural retreat, close to the land as you are,” Ilithyia laughed. “But cultured Romans never get to see such rustic pursuits. And from above, too! A bird’s eye view indeed!”
“You live in Capua,” Lucretia said to her friend through gritted teeth.
“We have a Capuan residence, true,” Ilithyia said, her eyes not leaving the scene below. “But I think Capua a backwater. I shall be advising my husband to look for a new residence around the bay of Neapolis. It is so vibrant here, is it not?”
She giggled again, applauding as one of the dogs pounced on a fleeing rabbit, its jaws closing in a deathly vice on the back of the creature’s neck. The dog skidded to a halt in the sands, viciously snapping its head back and forth, tossing its dying prey in a cruel game, whipping the broken body against its own flanks.
“If a simple view from on high is entertainment,” Batiatus said. “Give me a moment and I shall descend to the arena to take a piss. You can watch from above with heavenly perspective!”
“Tell me the truth or you shall lose your giant’s purchase,” Varro said, glowering up at Spartacus who still stood upon his shoulders.
“Upon my life,” Spartacus replied. “There are dogs chasing rabbits.”
His eyes widened at the sight of one of the rabbits dashing directly toward the grille, a pair of panting hounds close behind it.
“That one will make it!” Ilithyia trilled, pointing. “See it run for the edge!”
In spite of himself, Batiatus leaned over the balcony, and watched the chase, the dogs gaining.
“A denarius on the dogs,” he said, folding his arms.
“Ten on the rabbit!” Ilithyia cried, striking him playfully.
“Run, little one!” Lucretia shouted, entering the spirit of the game despite herself.