“I am Spartacus,” Spartacus confirmed. Varro’s face was expressionless, as if he were struggling to keep all reaction, all emotion from view. The two men climbed to their feet, ready for instruction, but Timarchides simply scowled at his tablet, tapping it frettingly with his stylus.
“Do others share your names?” he asked.
Spartacus and Varro looked at each other in confusion.
“In the House of Batiatus,” Timarchides spat, vexed.
“Only us,” Varro said.
“This is most irregular,” Timarchides muttered. “You are listed here on two occasions, as catervarii and in the primus.”
“We could not speak to our master’s intention,” Varro said.
“But I have fought more than once on occasion,” Spartacus added.
“Does Capua lack sufficient numbers of gladiators?” Timarchides asked with a sneer.
“I have killed the rest,” Spartacus replied quietly, and Varro laughed.
Timarchides sighed.
“That events have come to this,” he said.
“Your meaning, dominus?” Spartacus asked.
Timarchides sniffed, unbolting their cell portal, beckoning them out.
“Years of toil by Pelorus saw his ludus prosper,” Timarchides said, turning his back and walking down the corridor toward the waiting area, assuming with the air of a dominus that they would follow him. He continued to speak as he walked.
“He turned men such as I from feeble youths into gods of the arena. He paid his taxes. His slaves received good care. He built up a fine ludus, the envy of all Neapolis. And then…”
Timarchides banged three times on the grating, paused a moment, and then banged again, causing the slaves on the other side to haul the next doors open.
“…and then one slave brings sentence of death upon them all. All! My brother gladiators I have known for half my life. The serving girls. Even the old medicus!”
Daylight streamed through the open door, bringing with it the smell of manure. Varro’s eyes widened at the sight of two massive horses, their eyes shielded by blinkers to keep out the worst sights of the arena, their bridles held by grooms. The horses shifted nervously at every shout from the crowd. Varro looked in panic at Spartacus, but the Thracian was listening to Timarchides.
“Fortuna smiled upon you, dominus,” Spartacus said. “That you were freed before tragedy struck.”
“Quite so,” Timarchides said.
“And even more so,” Spartacus said, “that Verres seems to favor you with inheritance.”
Timarchides said nothing, already preoccupied with his tablet again.
“Now,” he said, scratching behind his ear with his stylus, “your names are upon the list as the catervarii. I doubt not that you can ride?”
“Since boyhood,” Spartacus said.
“Horses?” Varro asked.
Spartacus and Timarchides turned to look at him quizzically.
“Of course,” Varro said, chuckling nervously. “Of course.”
X
“You have not attended many such games?” Batiatus said, going to refill Cicero’s cup, but finding the wine in it still untouched.
“I favor them not,” Cicero said.
“Ah,” Batiatus said with a wink. “If you had, Cicero, you would know that the world of literature is alive in the arena.”
“How so?”
“The sight of two men hacking at each other with swords grows dull over time. The most ill-educated of bumpkins will tire of that diversion soon enough.”
“It is surely the reason different kinds of armor are employed?”
“Different weapons, different styles. Costumes from bygone ages. Carthaginian shields, Greek helmets.”
“The man with the net?”
“Indeed, the retiarius with his net. All serve certain purpose.”
“I am sure they do,” Cicero said. “But you spoke of literature.”
“I did indeed. Apologies. For even such variations in weapons and armor are sure to weary the crowd. Perhaps when gladiatorial combat was a rare thing, seen only in funeral celebrations and the most highly appointed of civic games, such things might have been enough.”
“But gladiatorial games are commonplace now,” Cicero pointed out.
“Indeed! To the benefit of the lanista! There is always a new politician on the rise. Always a priest with a penance to pay. Always a young patrician boy about to wear the toga of manhood. Birthdays, funerals, weddings, even. Many require celebrations, and celebrations in this great Republic require the shedding of blood and the sight of human suffering. And that requires a little originality of thought. Masks to disguise repeat performances, and ways to disguise the use of masks.”
“Such as?”
“Such as great moments from legend. Re-enactments of famous stories.”
“Really?”
“Oh, Cicero, you have not laid eyes on the greatest of games. A good lanista can fulfill requests both strange and wonderful. A good editor will ensure that even the executions are original. Throwing a bunch of slaves to the lions is child’s play. Instead they should be attired in the costumes of our rich history, re-enacting wondrous scenes from the past.”
“And the coming tableau is…?”
Batiatus squinted at the painted programme boards near the steps.
“Some… people… eaten by lions.”
Cicero sighed.
“And what is our purpose in this?” Spartacus asked.
“You arrive late,” Timarchides replied, “and kill the lions once they have met their last victims.”
The two gladiators looked at each other.
“Like the Thespian cavalry at Thermopylae,” Timarchides explained, “arriving too late. A little joke. Nothing can save the victims.”
“Are we to be attired as the Thespian cavalry?” Varro asked, but Timarchides ignored him.
“We shall have to watch and wait,” the freedman continued. “Executions ad bestias are events that cannot be predicted. It is impossible to know the minds of the condemned. The lions are both hungry and angry, giving hope that events will proceed as planned.”
“This sounds as if it is being set up for comedia,” Varro observed, with a grimace.
“You will play the clown if required,” Timarchides warned.
“And I surely can,” Varro said.
“My friend’s meaning,” Spartacus interjected, “is that we are attired as heroes: our armor gleams; our lances decorated with bright pennants. If we are seen to fail, attired in this manner, they will find it unsatisfactory.”
“If we are to fail, arrive late, and not quite save the imperiled…” Varro agreed.
“Then you need to be attired as fools.” Timarchides nodded. He bit his lip and glanced fretfully up at the balcony, where the dignitaries could be seen in animated conversation.
“These games have been thrown together with haste,” he lamented. “I have been too busy on matters funereal to adequately arrange such spectacles.”
“What would you have us do?”
“Perhaps…” Timarchides mused. “I can lay hands upon some comical masks.”
“It might make it clearer that we are the comic relief,” Varro agreed.
“Hasten! See what you can uncover!” Spartacus said.
Timarchides scurried back into the shadows, while Varro smirked after his retreating back.
“Did you just issue order to free man?” he asked.
Spartacus shrugged.
“Fate itself decreed he go and look. I merely acted as voice of fate.”
“Let us hope so, my friend,” Varro said. “For a freedman uncharitable might not smile upon such a Saturnalian reversal.”
“I am not desired audience,” Cicero explained.
“You are Roman. It is tradition,” Batiatus protested.
“So I am told. But I fail to see how any-forgive me.”
“Please continue, good Cicero. You are among friends, here.”
“Very well. I fail to see how any civilized man can derive pleasure from the sight of a defenceless human being torn to pieces by a wild animal. I see little ‘magnificence’ in a beast under display, if I am also expected to watch it die for my entertainment.”