“I do not fear a naked woman.”
“Then you are a fool, quaestor. Where are your powers of investigation and intellect? You yourself watched her fight lions, naked in the arena. And you would have me let you inside her cage?”
“What harm does it do you?”
“Every harm, if I am implicated in your foolish death.”
“I say to you, Timarchides. I command you.”
“And I say to you, Cicero, go fuck yourself.”
His lips pressed together in grim resolve, Timarchides shoved the torch into its wall bracket.
“Parley with the bitch if you must. But do it through the bars.”
The two men stared at each other in the flickering torchlight.
“Very well,” Cicero said eventually. “I shall not fight you.”
“A wise choice,” Timarchides said. “I have torn out the hearts of greater men.”
“Leave us, then,” Cicero said. “This is for the ears of no other.”
Medea glanced at the shadows to the place where Spartacus had been, but he had crept away from the bars so that he was not visible from her cage. She smiled to herself at the petty rebellion. Spartacus listened. Spartacus listened, because a Roman did not want him to.
“As you wish,” Timarchides said. “Watch your footing on your return. It would sorely grieve me if you tripped and broke your neck.”
His footsteps receded down the corridor, shuffling drunkenly.
Cicero peered through the bars at the painted woman of the Getae, unaware that Spartacus watched in secret.
“I have come for you,” Cicero addressed her.
“Come and get me, then,” she said, flatly.
“Pelorus told me of you.”
“He sent message from the afterlife?”
“While he yet lived. He wrote to me of a sorceress of the Getae, who had the power of prophecy.”
“I said I would kill him. That came true.”
“You have wit,” Cicero observed. “Quick-witted and wise.”
“And look where it led me,” Medea said. “See my palace and my servants, my bath and my banquets.”
In the dark, she glimpsed the white of Spartacus’s teeth as he smiled in silence. She willed herself not to look in that direction, lest Cicero realize that they had an audience.
“I am a quaestor,” Cicero said.
“I am a condemned woman.”
“It is my purpose to investigate.”
“I was apprehended with Roman blood on my hands. I do not think my case is in doubt.”
“Matters legal and spiritual. I am collecting prophecies.”
“Here is one for you. You will die with a Roman sword in your neck.”
“I mean real prophecies. Oracular utterances.”
“Is that not real enough for you? It will be real enough when the iron bites your flesh.”
Her hair was brown, tied up in careful whorls, and set with pins of Greek bronze. Her legs were long, her rump pleasingly rounded. Her name was unknown. Verres saw no more, nor desired any greater view. Instead, he reached out and grabbed a handful. Verres snatched the girl by her hair, twisting her head back to stare into her face.
“You will do,” he said.
“Dominus!” she breathed in terror. “I have committed no wrong.”
“None indeed,” he said, dragging her toward the darkened room. “There is nothing wrong with your beauty. Nothing wrong with your firm body. Tell me there is nothing wrong with your cunt.”
“Dominus?”
“No matter,” he said, as they neared the bed. “I shall discover for myself presently, and hear you call me dominus with quickened breath-” He threw her onto the bed, which unexpectedly shrieked with surprise.
Lucretia threw off the covers, awoken but disoriented by the sudden intrusion.
“Domina!” the girl breathed apologetically.
“What is the meaning of this?” Lucretia shouted. “Get out! Get out!”
The girl scurried away without another word.
“Gaius Verres?” Lucretia spat.
“Apologies, lady Lucretia,” Verres said, not sounding at all apologetic. “I did not know you were here.”
“I must have dozed off as the silicernium fluttered into embers. I was not expecting to be awoken by your… nocturnal predations.”
“I am no predator. I cannot steal something that does not even possess itself. Slaves are there for the taking.”
“For their master, not for any passing citizen.”
“I am a hospes here.”
“Obligations extend both ways.”
Verres shrugged.
“Timarchides cares not.”
“He will if you cost him extra coin. The servants here are on loan. Damages have to be paid for.”
“Your directness is most becoming. I spoke of the joy a man feels in reminding a slave of who is dominus.”
“Find a resting place for your cock somewhere in town. Neapolis has plenty of brothels. The House of the Winged Cock is but a few steps from our gate.”
“Brothels are for slaves and laborers. Uglies and beggars. I would not eat at the same table as a street sweeper. And I would not fuck the same hole as him either.”
“But, where…?”
“If not in the bedchambers of a gracious host, then there is no lack of serving wenches and weaver girls who will take a day’s pay for an hour’s work. Every woman has her price, Lucretia.”
“Every woman?”
“Well, not every woman, of course.”
“I should think not!”
“After all, there are many ladies who would not dream of accepting any payment for something in which they take such pleasure.”
“You are speaking to a Roman lady.”
“And we all know the proclivities of the Roman ladies, do we not?”
“I am sure I do not know what you mean.”
“Do not be so coy with me, Lucretia. You are a beautiful woman. I am sure you have desires.”
“For the attentions of my husband and the respect of his friends.”
“Is that all, Lucretia. Is that really all…?”
“It certainly is.”
“Your blushes tell me otherwise. Who is he, I wonder? A childhood sweetheart, sweet memories never forgotten? A true love abandoned when you agreed to a proposal of marriage from the lofty House of Batiatus? No… nothing like that, I am sure.”
“Nothing like that.”
“But perhaps it is something wilder you seek? I wonder what it must be like for the lanista’s wife living each day with a balcony view of the strongest, the most dangerous men in the Republic. Are your eyes drawn to them, Lucretia? Do you look down on your husband’s warriors and imagine what it would be like to take one inside you?”
“The very thought of it,” Lucretia sputtered.
“Of imagining? Yes, for you have done more than imagine, have you not? What female would not sample the delights she owned? I am sure there is not a woman in Rome who hasn’t wondered what it would be like to summon her kitchen slave or gardener to her on a warm summer’s night. To order him to stand, unmoving before her. To whisper in his ear that subsequent events should be a secret shared only between the two of them, on pain of torture.
“I only tease. I am a rude old man and your blushes are so beautiful I cannot help but encourage them. Forgive me, I beg you! Forgive Gaius Verres and his drunken talk of such indiscretions. I am certain you are as pure as your namesake.”
“Cicero! My congratulations for the entertainments,” Batiatus said, breezily. “I have never seen orators in full flow before! Most illuminating.”
Cicero stared half-heartedly back at the lanista, and shrugged.
“I claim victory in the battle of words with Verres when it concerns matters theoretical and hypothetical,” he sighed. “In my daily labors, I am thwarted at every turn.”
Batiatus patted his arm in an attempt at reassurance.
“Let me ask you about a gladiatorial matter,” Cicero said, “If I may?”
Batiatus grinned expansively.
“I surely lack your rhetorical tongue. But when it comes to the arena, I may speak of what I know.”