“Batiatus, I proclaim there is nothing proper about what you do, but you do it properly!” Cicero said.
“Both of us merely faithful servants to our profession, Cicero,” Batiatus said.
Cicero patted Batiatus’s arm in approval.
“The arena as instrument for drama and justice. An idea that intrigues me.”
“I am but humble servant,” Batiatus said.
Lucretia looked on as the two men bowed their heads in excited talk.
“Your husband has made a friend,” Ilithyia said.
Lucretia shrugged.
“With a minor quaestor,” she muttered.
“For what reason would Cicero take such sudden interest in games?” Ilithyia wondered.
“I care not if it comes with coin,” Lucretia observed.
“I enquire,” Cicero was saying, “as to the condition of the painted woman.”
“The murderess?”
“The witch of the Getae. A sentence ad gladium, for me, would be as fatal as a sentence of death. But for her, it sustains life.”
“The Getae woman will yet die, assuredly, she will yet die,” Batiatus said. “Only the day is postponed. She will fight in the arena as often as her owner decrees, against any odds her owner desires.”
“And if she survives such odds?”
“Impossible.”
“Impossible? Who is her owner? Legally, who is her master?”
“You have better legal mind than I. Absent those killed in games, property of Pelorus will be inherited by his heir.”
“And which man holds that honor?”
“Pelorus died intestate, but good Verres holds his testament.”
“He is the familiae emptor?”
“And his intention is to pass all to Timarchides. Apparently the man was on intimate terms with Pelorus.”
“Perhaps I might make purchase of the woman from them,” Cicero said thoughtfully.
“A price unknown if not put to test,” Batiatus pointed out. “The banquet would provide audience for such offer to be made.”
“What banquet?”
“With Pelorus laid to rest, his death purged from our fortunes with bloodshed in his honor, we will replace joy with grief within the walls of his house. A celebration of day renewed and final peace.”
“She will meet death soon enough,” Cicero mused.
“Though she still stands Fortuna blessed,” Batiatus countered.
“It is surely not natural for women to fight.”
“In Africa, in nature-”
“We are not animals, Batiatus,” Cicero said, with a frown.
“No, we are Romans. Even our women fall superior.”
“And what if woman gladiator defeats Roman man?” Cicero said, with a quaestor’s logic.
“Ah…” Batiatus stopped, realizing that there was more to an argument that simply speaking his thoughts aloud.
“Would it not send opposite message, if foreign woman succeeds where Roman men fail? I would see her fail soon. And permanently.”
“But, good Cicero, think only of spectacle were she to be pitted against the most expendable gladiators until novelty was spent. What spectacle could rival that of woman gladiator fighting to the death in the arena?”
“I am yet wary.”
“Because it offends tender sensibilities?” Batiatus laughed.
“Because…” Cicero glanced behind him to make sure that the ladies were out of earshot. “Fighting is men’s work. If women become combative, if they are encouraged by the sight of their sex holding its ground against men, there is no telling what follies they will be led to.”
“Your concern is that gentle Roman women will be turned belligerent by the sight of gladiatrices in the arena?”
“That is my concern.”
“There is danger in teaching any slave to fight. Who knows what else they may learn?”
Batiatus laughed long and loud, but Cicero barely smiled in response.
Spartacus upended a pail of water over his head, washing the grime and sweat of the arena from his body as best he could. He grabbed up a strigil and scraped the dirty water from his body in swift, careful strokes, before grabbing a towel to mop up the rest. It was, habitually, the ritual at the end of a day in the arena. But today, there was still the primus to come.
“The sun is hot today,” Varro said. “Do not forget the oil.”
“And you,” Spartacus said, “wash it from you, lest your sword slip in your hand.”
Barca poked around the weapons in the corner of the changing room, picking out a large double-handed axe.
“Do we fight with theme?” he asked. “Does some literary conceit constrain us?”
“We are free,” Varro replied. “Free to choose whatever weapons we desire.”
Spartacus half-smiled.
“Free,” he said. “As free as ever, within chains!”
“You know my meaning,” Varro said.
“Whom do we fight?” Barca asked.
“Timarchides did not name them,” Spartacus said. “But we fight ten men.”
“Impressive odds,” Barca mused.
“I shall dress as a Greek hoplite,” Varro said. “With spear and sword. Enough to take out foe from a distance.”
“And us only three,” Barca said, scowling.
“Four,” a voice said. They turned to see white teeth and eyes shining from a dark shadow at the gate. The guards opened it and pushed a new figure into their holding cell.
“Bebryx!” Varro said. “You cannot fight-your wounds hinder you!”
“I am a gladiator,” Bebryx said, determination in his voice. “While I live, I fight.”
The African stood proudly, but with his left arm all but dangling at his side.
“We fight ten men,” Spartacus said thoughtfully. “Your presence will be useful, even as distraction.”
“Distraction?” Bebryx spat. “My presence will be useful as killer!”
Barca laughed appreciatively.
“Attire yourself as murmillo,” Spartacus said. “The heavy armor affords better protection with shield to cover wound.”
“A shield tied with extra bindings would restrict movement-” Varro suggested.
“But at least protection will be assured,” Spartacus agreed.
“I need no crutches as though fucking invalid,” Bebryx snarled.
“I seek to prolong your life, in this fight, and the next,” Spartacus said mildly. “Do as I say and survive.”
“And what will you fight with, Champion of Capua?” Barca asked, voice tinged with sarcasm.
Spartacus thought for a moment.
“The twin swords of the dimacherius,” he said. “As with the Shadow of Death.”
As he spoke, Timarchides passed by, a doleful look upon his face. The freedman nodded curtly at Spartacus, and Spartacus leaned as far forward against the bars as he could to watch where he went.
The freedman lurked nervously before the bars of a nearby cell. Shadows from within played on his face, as he addressed the occupants.
“I come to say farewell,” Timarchides said.
There was no response from inside the cell.
“My brothers,” the freedman continued, “let it not end this way.”
Someone threw a helmet at the bars.
“Is there choice?” an angry voice spat. “Perhaps you would like to join us, Timarchides?”
“I do not share your sentence.”
“You shared our fates. You shared our bread. You shared our victories and our defeats.”
“I did, and proudly.”
“And now, we die, while you watch from the pulvinus.”
“Apologies.”
“You apologize for nothing! Where are the rest of our number?”
“Already dead.”
“And you place us here, in the far cells, denied consideration of watching them fall.”
Timarchides looked away awkwardly.
“My hands are tied,” he said.
“They are not!” the man snarled. “You are master now, and we yet slaves.”
“Indeed!” Timarchides said, his eyes narrowing. “I am no longer slave. I bought my freedom. Paid for with hard-won coin, and such is the receipt upon my wooden sword. I labored to avoid a slave’s fate, and purchased that right with Fortuna’s blessing.”