“Aha! You are one of those Romans,” Batiatus cried.
“One of what Romans?”
“One who denies the blood and pain upon which our Republic has been built. You talk of ‘civilized’ Romans. Do you mean people who dwell in cities? If so, look around at the very rabble you despise. See how they exult at the bloodshed before them. See how they take simple pleasure from the sight of nature in all its raw intensity.”
“It is not natural to set fire to a man who is tied to a post,” Cicero argued.
“Even a man who was complicit in the murder of his master?” Batiastus countered.
“One crime does not excuse another.”
“But you are a man of justice. You actively seek to impose penalty upon wrong doers.”
“I exact punishments, that is true,” Cicero allowed, “but not for the entertainment of braying animals.”
“They favor it.”
“They know no better.”
“Ha! What book would give them this?”
The trumpeters gave the fanfare of the March of Beasts, as half a dozen manacled slaves were ushered into the arena, pushed and prodded by armored guards with long spears and full mail on their arms. These were the tamers who would ensure that both men and beasts would perform correctly, and their armor was designed for all eventualities.
The huddle of slaves was herded into the center of the arena. Clothed in rags, each was chained in individual manacles. They were free to move, but unarmed. There were whispers and giggles among the crowd as they realized that one of the wretches was a woman.
“Before you stand the ringleaders,” Verres explained. “Denied the right to die as gladiators, instead, they shall be eaten alive like common murderers.”
“Ringleaders? Of what do you speak?” Cicero asked, not following.
“And so it begins,” Verres said, eagerly.
“And so it ends,” Batiatus said. “With justice for Pelorus.”
“How so?” Cicero asked.
Batiatus looked at Cicero in bafflement. Over the quaestor’s shoulder, he saw Verres signaling frantically for him to be silent, although Batiatus could not understand why he should be silent regarding a matter so vital.
“Have you not been informed of circumstances that brought the death of Pelorus?” Batiatus asked the new arrival.
“Of course,” Cicero replied. “Gaius Verres showed kindness enough to meet me at the docks and inform me of the circumstances of my meeting’s unfortunate cancelation.”
“Of the murder of Pelorus,” Batiatus clarified.
“He was murdered? How unfortunate,” Cicero said without much interest.
“By a slave!” Batiatus continued dramatically. But Cicero seem to remain unmoved.
“Tragic,” he said flatly.
“By a slave within his own house!” Batiatus declared, with a triumphant look at Verres.
“Poor Pel- Wait. In his house?”
Cicero rose to his feet, his dish of sweetmeats clattering to the flagstones. He stared accusingly at Verres, his arms outstretched in entreaty.
“And Verres, you held tongue this whole day! Speaking of no such thing while we dawdled through the streets, and walked in upon the sight of the burning… Oh sweet Jupiter! You burned the household slaves! Have we been seated here, conversing idly, while the woman I seek roasts alive before us?”
Verres scratched his head.
“I know not, Cicero,” he said, not meeting the other man’s eyes. “The freedman Timarchides acts as editor. This day before us bears witness to the execution of all slaves of House Pelorus. Only his gladiators yet remain to be thrown to the beasts, and to each other.”
“The servants and house slaves?” Cicero demanded.
“Already dead, before your eyes!” Verres confirmed.
Cicero slumped back down in his seat, suddenly heavy with the weight of unseen years.
“I despise Neapolis,” he breathed. “My presence here is futile.”
Batiatus and Verres exchanged a glance.
“I am rarely at the arena early enough for the deaths ad bestias,” Verres said. “Will it take long?”
Batiatus responded with exaggerated excitement to lift the mood. “We are dependent upon the whim of the animals. In the wild, tigers and lions are simple creatures, but in the arena they swiftly learn to please crowd. Why, in Capua on one occasion of note, I witnessed a Mesopotamian tiger of great majesty ignore with disdain the criminals placed before him for consumption. Instead, he paced up and down before the balcony, as a gladiator himself, head held high, strutting to and fro in long, calculated ellipses. He paused at each end and raised proud head as if in salute.”
“I will wager the crowd loved it,” Verres said.
“Oh, they lapped it up!” Batiatus said. “He was not wild and hungry like these poor creatures.” He gestured at the animals beneath them. “He knew the crowd. He raised his paw, flexed his claws, in what one could call a feline salute. Awaiting acknowledgment and cheering before turning to the business at hand. It was almost touching.”
“Except for the ‘business at hand,’” Cicero sulked.
“A murderer, or a rapist, or something. I do not recall. But his death was surely justified.”
“And its manner, too?” Cicero seemed unable to resist an argument.
“Assuredly! What better way of discouraging crime than by offering such brutal deterrents.”
“As you say,” Cicero said. “Perhaps I dream, and such displays were sufficient to prevent the murder of your friend Pelorus.”
All three men turned to watch the arena, in silence.
Within the entrance enclosure, behind the gate that permitted entry to the arena, Spartacus lifted himself onto his horse, settling in the saddle.
“Lions only know two numbers,” he said to Varro. “One and many. Where they see lone victim, they pounce. Where they see a herd, they wait.”
“And how is this fact known?” Varro asked, struggling to clamber into his own saddle. He strained to lift himself across the horse’s flank.
“Hunting lions is a rite of passage in Thrace.”
“It sounds idyllic. A veritable Elysium.”
“You envy me?”
“A little,” Varro admitted. “For the hunting and the riding.”
“Varro,” Spartacus said, realizing, “how much have you ridden?”
“Enough!” Varro scowled, shifting awkwardly in his seat.
“Enough to sit on horseback to travel to the next village?” Spartacus asked. “Or enough to control it in an amphitheater full of hungry lions?”
“We shall see.”
“Not encouraging,” Spartacus said.
“If I had coin enough to own a horse,” Varro protested, “I would not be poor enough to have to become a gladiator!”
Medea knelt down and scooped up a handful of the dark Neapolitan sand.
“We are doomed,” one of her companions said.
“Doomed to what?” she demanded. “Doomed to die? All are doomed to die. But will I bend my neck to my killer like tired deer? I will not.”
The others looked at her and at each other. Across the arena, the inner gate rose up to admit the lions. The men gasped as they caught their first glimpse of the tawny flanks and bony shoulders, a prowling, teeming mass of animal hunger. Some of the lions bounded eagerly onto the sands, others paced warily. All marched ever onward, away from the sharp sticks of the guards, ever closer to the huddle of undefended humans.
The lead creature, a lioness, paused and sniffed the air. One of her mates lapped experimentally, almost tenderly, at a patch of blood, but was prodded onward by the tamers. The lions began to fan out as if they sensed the circular nature of the arena, and that some great prize awaited them in its center.