“You seem sure of it.”
“I have been told.”
She nodded, thoughtfully.
“Is there any hope?” she asked.
“None,” Spartacus said.
“You are honest.”
“This is no time for deception.”
“You speak true. But they will remember me anyway. If you show me how to fight.”
Varro snorted contemptuously in the corner.
“Me?” Spartacus said. “I should offer advice to a woman of the Getae?”
“I am already dead,” she said. “Show me how to take a Roman lion with me, purely for spite.”
Spartacus recalled the many lessons of Oenomaus, and spoke as his trainer would have done.
“You are not unarmed,” he said. “You have your chains. You have the sun and the folly of your opponents. You have the sand and dust of the arena floor.”
As he spoke, he realized that his audience had grown. The woman’s fellow convicts now stood attentively before the bars that divided them, listening to his every word.
“Any small thing can be used as a weapon. The arena is kept clear of stones, but look for what may have been left by those that came before you. Bones. Nails. Splinters.”
She nodded.
“Understand, too,” Spartacus continued, “that you are going to die. Nothing will change that.”
The slaves grimly met his gaze.
“We knew,” she said. “Inside ourselves, we knew that we would never make it far. But it was better to be free, if only for those moments.”
“Then you will be free again,” Spartacus said. “You will be free for the time it takes for the lions to eat you.”
“We will fight,” she said.
“Fortuna be with you,” Spartacus replied.
The heavy door to the arena swung open, and several armored guards came in. They unbolted the door to the neighbouring cell, prodding at the chained slaves, herding them toward the light.
The woman looked at Spartacus as she was ushered from the cell, calling out to him as she and her fellow convicts were taken on their last journey.
“Remember me,” she said. “Remember I was free for a few moments.”
“Who are you?” he called after her.
“I am Medea!” she called. “What is your name, doctore?”
“My name is…” he began, but the great door had slammed shut.
“She killed a Roman,” Varro said quietly. “A Roman like me.”
“I have killed many,” Spartacus responded with a shrug. “As have you!”
“All the same,” Varro said. “My opponents volunteered or paid for crimes past. Hers did not.”
The wind drew the stench swiftly over to the balcony. There was none of the modest cedar wood and Asian spices of the recent funeral. Instead, Lucretia’s nose caught a whiff of seared flesh and singed hair, with the distinctive tang of cheap lamp oil.
The novelty had worn off for the crowd. In the first throes of the burning, there were cheers at the screams and pleadings, and gasps of excitement as certain articles of clothing seemed more flammable than others. There were jeers and mock gasps at the most colorful of curses yelled at the watching Romans by some of the older slaves, but as the fires rendered them first inarticulate, and the fumes rendered them unconscious, there was nothing to see but a series of burning carcasses.
“You would think this rabble would crave the sight of justice done,” Batiatus murmured,
“It is midday, Quintus,” Lucretia pointed out.
“True,” he agreed. There was a flurry of movement from within the antechamber. “On which note,” Batiatus added, “more refreshment arrives.”
A trio of slaves appeared bearing trays heaped with food. Batiatus was surprised to see they were immediately followed by new arrivals. Gaius Verres himself, all smiles and patted backs, leading a balding, serious-looking young man in a hastily chosen toga.
“Well met!” Batiatus cried. “We feared arrival in the wrong arena.”
“Quintus Lentulus Batiatus,” Verres said smiling, “and his wife Lucretia, and Ilithyia, wife of Gaius Claudius Glaber, may I present Marcus Tullius Cicero, newly arrived on business of the Republic.”
“Welcome! Welcome!” Batiatus said hastily. “Your arrival is well timed for the main attractions!”
Cicero managed a pained smile, nodding respectfully toward the ladies.
“You are the editor of these games?” he said politely to Batiatus.
“Not I,” Batiatus said. “I am but lifelong friend of the lamented Pelorus, in whose honor these games are held. But if I were editor…” He stopped, realizing that Verres was standing right beside them.
“Speak, Batiatus,” Verres laughed. “My programme does not please you, I am sure.”
“I would not dream of disputing with one as respected as Gaius Verres,” Batiatus said quickly.
“I never claimed expertise in such matters!” Verres said. “I merely muddle through. Now, where is the wine?” He left them together, in search of better flagons in the shade at the back of the balcony.
“I sense your disapproval,” Cicero whispered confidentially. “And I share it!”
Batiatus grinned at the apparent arrival of a kindred spirit.
“The gods be blessed, this has been a day of utter trivialities,” he replied. “You must thank them that you escaped the rabbit hunt.”
Cicero shook his head in disbelief.
“Had I the position of editor,” Batiatus confided, “by which I mean truly the editor of the games and not a mere supplier of gladiators, there would certainly be some more impressive fights to warm the blood!”
Cicero’s friendly smile froze in place.
“I… see…” he said. “You are a lanista? I was mistaken.”
“I… er…” Batiatus said, unsure of what had just happened.
“Do excuse me a moment,” Cicero said, never letting the smile falter, although his eyes had changed their aspect. “I heard whisper of wine and my journey has been long.”
“There is wine, wine enough for all!” Batiatus said enthusiastically. He turned to gesture to a slave and the tray of refreshments. “Moreover, there are fine sweetmeats from-”
But Cicero’s back was turned, a goblet in his hand as a slave poured wine. He smiled politely as Ilithyia introduced herself in her habitual, flirtatious manner. Batiatus watched as Ilithyia twirled a lock of her blonde hair in one finger, inquiring excitably as to news from Sicilia.
“What strange encounter was that?” he muttered to Lucretia. “You and I are alone on the balcony once more, even amongst a crowd.”
“I fear, Quintus, that you were mistaken for a person of position,” she said with a sigh. “And then revealed yourself as a trader in human flesh.”
“And yet he said Verres’s programme was shit. He is connoisseur of quality games!”
“I believe he disapproves of the games themselves.”
Batiatus turned to gaze upon the arena, at a dozen smouldering skeletons, charred flesh hanging from their bones. As he watched, one collapsed, its shoulder bones giving way and leaving one arm still clasped within its dangling manacle.
“So,” Cicero said to Verres with a smile, “you are to be the new governor of Sicilia.”
“Such is my honor and my burden,” Verres responded. “You know the island well?”
“Not long ago I was a solid year working in west Sicilia,” Cicero said. “But memories were overshadowed by my return.”
“How so?” Verres inquired. Behind him, on the sands, a burning body flinched inadvertently, the soul long since departed, its flanks now a firebrand of burning fats and crisped skin.
“The last occasion I returned to Italia, I put ashore not far from here, just around the bay at Puteoli,” Cicero said. “Do you know it?”
“By reputation only. Putrid Puteoli?”
“Spiteful rumour spread by rival spa towns!” Ilithyia protested. “It does not smell. The spring waters run rich with minerals and cleansing warmth. The baths are marvelous. It is gentrifying.”
“I believe your words!” Verres laughed, his eyes unwavering on hers, willing her to leave the men to their talk. Ilithyia backed away with a smile, uncharacteristically tactful, and went to consort with the Batiati.