“My husband blames you not, good Verres,” Lucretia said, giving Batiatus a look of rebuke as she stepped in to smooth things over. “We all know these games were commissioned in haste, amid tragic circumstances.”
“And besides,” Cicero said, “the crowd appear to be finding enjoyment, regardless.”
The yells from the audience threatened to drown out the dying screams of the lions’ victim. The three lions each dragged at the human limbs they gripped firmly in their jaws, vigorously shaking their heads. Then there was a sudden flurry of movement as two of the lions leapt free from the fray. The explosive fountains of blood and the state of the body left behind revealed what had happened.
“They have ripped his arms off!” Verres declared with delight.
“A draw for definite, I am afraid,” Batiatus said to Ilithyia.
The pride descended upon the armless body en masse, crowding out the original two pursuers, obscuring the dead slave completely beneath a writhing mass of animal bodies. The original lion pair picked at their measly prizes of the ripped arms, and then discarded them, charging back into the brawl.
Medea stared, eyes narrowed, at the heavy iron manacles that now lay discarded on the sands, wet with blood.
Making a sudden decision, she broke from the group, sprinting for the fallen chains.
A lion saw her break from the pack, and bounded toward her, a streak of yellow-brown fur, blurring against the sand.
Medea reached her target scant seconds ahead of her leonine competitor. She snatched up the fallen manacles, whirling one end as a shepherd whirls a sling. Taken by surprise, the lion was not ready for it, and charged headlong into the speeding metal.
The creature reeled from the blow, shocked to meet invisible resistance, shocked even more as Medea pounded the stunned beast a second and third time with her impromptu mace.
Unbalanced by the blows, the lion’s back legs gave way, and it tumbled to the ground. Medea took her opportunity and whipped the tough chain up and around repeatedly, smashing the lion’s head into an unrecognizable pulp.
The crowd went wild.
Medea paused, panting, and stood over her victim, her arms and chest spattered with animal blood.
Trembling with exhaustion and adrenalin, she kept her eyes trained on the remaining lions.
Her focus on the animal attackers, one of her fellow slaves seized his chance, coming from behind and punching her hard on the side of the head. As the crowd booed in anger, he snatched the chains from her hands. With Medea reeling on the ground, the man now faced the lions himself, whirling the bloody manacles experimentally.
“Interesting,” Verres said idly from his exalted view. “The prey turns upon itself.”
“The girl was sharp to improvise such a weapon,” Batiatus observed. “But too trusting of her fellow slaves.”
“If the slaves do not band together, they will present easier targets,” Lucretia noted, peering with renewed interest over the balcony. “This cannot end well.”
“I think it is coming to an end in a fashion most splendid to watch!” Ilithyia said. She laughed in Verres’s direction and he smiled in return.
But the man with the manacles was not quite as alert as the woman. The next lion leapt at him, somehow getting close enough so that the chains slapped harmlessly against its flank. The animal’s paws grasped the man’s head, in a parody of a lover’s kiss, as its fangs closed on his screaming face.
As he fell, another of the slaves saw his chance, leaping onto the back of the lion, heaving with all his might with his arms locked around the creature’s neck.
The observers on the balcony leapt to their feet for a better view-all around the arena there was a flurry of activity as the crowd jostled one another for a better view.
“My eyes yet deceive me!” Batiatus yelled. “Lion wrestling!”
“Never was it imagined that these slaves would bring such valued spectacle,” Verres said, thrilled. “We could never have advertised such wonders.”
“You cannot pay for spectacles such as this!” Batiatus agreed. “The gods smile upon you, Verres!”
“Although…” Cicero said hesitantly.
“What is it?” Batiatus asked impatiently.
“Well, it may simply be my inexperience at such matters? Or does the crowd now rather favor the hunted over the hunters?”
Batiatus glanced from the balcony at row after row of screaming Neapolitans, all yelling encouragement in Latin, Oscan, and Greek, a rolling cacophony of repeated phrases, one merging into the other, creating a strange, oceanic music of screams. It was almost impossible to pick out single words. One had to listen, to sieve through the contending chants. To…
“‘Kill the lions,’” Lucretia cried, exasperated. “They call for the slaves to kill the lions!”
“My purse rests on the beasts,” Batiatus laughed, clinking his goblet enthusiastically with Verres’s.
“Not that one, though,” Ilithyia said, pointing at the hapless lion with the slave on its back. His arms were locked around the lion’s neck, choking it toward its last breath.
The lion’s neck snapped, and its body went suddenly limp in the arms of its killer, who swiftly dropped his victim and scrabbled in the dirt to grab up the fallen manacles. Even as he did so, another lion bit firmly into his leg, its claws raking up his thighs.
Screaming in pain, the slave thrashed down with the manacles, the hard metal clanging on the lion as it refused to let go.
“I am starting to wish I had made water before I climbed up here,” Varro mused. His horse shifted uneasily beneath him. Instinctively, Spartacus leaned down to steady it by its bridle.
“It comes to a close,” Spartacus said. “I see nobody left standing.”
But even as he spoke, a bruised, blood-stained figure staggered to its feet.
“Medea!” Spartacus cried in surprise.
“The ringleader is yet alive?” Varro asked.
“The lions never touched her… Stay down!” he yelled. “Stay down and they will leave you be!” But his voice was drowned beneath the screams of the crowd.
“Are they really seeing justice done?” Cicero mused. “Or do they simply relish the fight?”
“Can they not do both?” Verres asked.
“This hunger for spectacle carries strong risk,” Cicero said.
“Strong risk of what?”
“Of becoming trial by combat.”
“It is execution by combat,” Verres stated.
“If the executed play their parts,” Batiatus noted. “I fear your criminals believe theirs is to entice sympathy from the crowd, leaving the lions woefully unrepresented.”
“Then they will be disappointed, but not the lions.”
“Never disappoint the crowd, Verres.” Batiatus said, leaning forward in his seat. “Where would your Roman virtue be then?”
“They support a murderess!” Verres protested.
“By acknowledging a warrior’s prowess.”
“Who is in charge here?”
“They are, good Verres. They are.”
Timarchides returned to the horse enclosure, flustered, his arms empty of masks, bladders on sticks, or any other symbols of comedy.
“There is nothing, save disaster,” Timarchides said. He wrung his hands.
“We save it by saving her!” Spartacus said, pointing at the beleaguered Medea.
“But she is a murderess!” Timarchides objected.
“And she can die for her offence tomorrow,” Spartacus said. “Today the crowd is on her side.”
“Verification from the editor is needed before any action is taken,” Timarchides said. “Your suggestion amounts to stay of execution.”
“Then hasten!” Spartacus shouted. “Before her resolve fades!”
Timarchides sped away, up the dozens of steps toward the band and balcony.
Spartacus immediately began pulling on his gauntlets.
“Dress yourself for the fray,” he said to Varro.
“I will wait until commanded so,” Varro sighed, leaning on his saddle. His horse sniffed experimentally in the dust, searching in vain for grass. “The slaves yet draw breath. We wait until the last of the criminals has been killed.”