“As a slave.”
“For now. But your life will be longer and more luxurious if you foretell portents of Rome’s future than if you sit in such a cell as this, and wait for the trumpets to call you to the sands.”
Outside, the moon peeked from behind rainclouds, allowing gentle, gray light to glow through the small window near the ceiling.
“See,” he said. “Luna agrees with me.”
“I am worth more to the Romans as their seer, than as their animal of the arena?” she mused.
“Truly,” Spartacus said, “you are worth more to the Romans alive than dead.”
“In which case,” she said, “I shall make sure that I die.”
Lucretia awoke, again. This time, there was a scratching at the window, a pawing at the shutters. Her eyes narrowed in annoyance as she snatched up a statuette as an impromptu weapon.
“Governor or not,” she breathed, “I will mark you for such insolence.”
“Governor…?” slurred the voice of Batiatus. “I am but the governor of your heart.”
Lucretia flung open the shutter, to find her husband attempting to climb through the window-a maneuvre that seemed to tax him more than it should.
“In Luna’s name,” Lucretia cried, “what are you doing?”
“I am coming to bed,” Batiatus mumbled.
“Through the window?”
“It was the swiftest means to reach you. As windows are, I have discovered, in matters legal or marital.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Tonight I am going to fuck you. And tomorrow, we are going to fuck Verres!” He finally found purchase with his other leg, swinging himself over the ledge and into the bedroom, where he tumbled on the floor at Lucretia’s feet. She made no attempt to help him up.
“It delights me to see you so animated,” she said dryly, returning to the bed and climbing back beneath the coverlet.
“Indeed I am, Lucretia. Your husband has found a new course through the obstacles set up by Verres and Timarchides. A new chance, even, that you and I shall become the owners of the House of Pelorus. And Cicero himself engaged as my advocate!”
“I hope his success is greater with your case than his success in collecting prophecies,” Lucretia said. She turned over fitfully, only to discover the hand of Batiatus grabbing at her shoulder and traveling swiftly toward her breast.
“My cock rises!” Batiatus whispered in her ear, pressing the evidence into her back.
“Quintus,” she said smiling into the dark, “you find me not yet unlocked.”
Batiatus harrumphed with the apparent effort required.
“Well,” he said, realizing, “it is strange that you and I are in our bedchamber unaccompanied.”
“Absent our usual servants of the cubiculum,” Lucretia said, “we lose many modern utilities.”
“Here in Neapolis,” Batiatus said, rolling onto his back. “I shit and do not know the name of the man who hands me the sponge.”
“And can you fuck, Quintus?” Lucretia shifted to look at him. “Without some tight-mouthed Illyrian to tease your cock into readiness?”
“I am ready for anything!” Batiatus declared, his tunic tented with the evidence.
“As a Roman lady,” Lucretia said delicately, “I am not so swift to desire.”
“Well,” Batiatus said, looking about him in confusion. “I can… help…”
Lucretia smiled and draped her arms around him, pressing herself against him.
“Can you… help…?” she breathed in his ear.
His hand found the place where her legs met, sliding in between them, rubbing mechnically, joylessly for the merest moment. He then grabbed her hair and pulled her head back, pushing her roughly onto the bed.
“Quintus!” she protested. “Such things take preparation.”
“And there is nobody here to prepare you.”
“Remember when we were young, and we would prepare each other?” She smiled at him teasingly.
“I do,” he sighed. “But that is what slaves are for.”
“Then begin,” Lucretia said, her face turned away from him. “Or occupy yourself elsewhere until we are returned to our Capuan comforts.”
Verres dozed alone. He dreamed of quivering slave girls and fountains of wine. He dreamed of Sicilian riches and the plunder due a governor. The shutters to his room hung partly open to let in the night breeze, which blew unheeded through his hair.
“Verres!” came a stage whisper from the window.
Verres sat up, confused, and banished thoughts from his mind of the warm, wet and willing.
“Who is there?”
“Timarchides. I desire only to talk.”
“Can this not wait until the morning? It is but a time for wolves and whores, and guards with poor luck.”
“This cannot wait.”
“We have the magistrate tomorrow morning. You will be a man of means. Wait until then.”
“It concerns the magistrate,” Timarchides said. “We are undone.”
Rubbing his eyes, Verres climbed unsteadily to his feet, willing them to manoeuvre him to the window. He allowed his gaze to settle, with errant unsteadiness, on the face of Timarchides.
“What is it, then? Timarchides, you bring all the fretting of a wife, absent her amatory benefits.”
“The quaestor moves against us.”
“Whatever for?”
“In the name of Batiatus. He suspects us.”
“I care not if he suspects. What is in his arsenal?”
“Testimonies of slaves. The ingenuities of Cicero as lawyer. Those windows in our scheme that are as yet unshuttered.”
“Then it is time to shutter them.”
“And risk further investigation?”
“We sail shortly, and I am untouchable in Sicilia. Remove obstacles and see targets hit. Batiatus, Successa, and the Getae witch. It will ease our arguments tomorrow.”
“And Cicero?”
Verres thought long and hard.
“As an inquisitor, he seems like an unruly dog that will not give up a bone once proffered.”
“Then him, too?”
“Not in this house. Outside. Make him disappear.”
XV
He banged on the door, not ceasing long enough for a reasonable reply before banging on it again.
“Open your doors!” he bellowed. “And then open your legs!”
Welcome silence briefly reigned, before he reached to hammer his fist on the door again, only to find it opening before him.
A woman’s bright eyes peered at him over the top of her veil.
He stood, a wiry Roman in his toga, a hulking Carthaginian by his side.
“The hour is late,” the veiled woman said.
“It is! What kind of brothel is this place?”
“One whose staff sometimes needs sleep,” she said firmly.
“My cock knows not night or day,” he boasted, snickering alone at his own wit.
“Do you have coin?” she asked, businesslike and brisk.
“Of course.” He seemed insulted at the implication that he did not.
“Then I am sure we can accommodate you… Batiatus?”
“Apologies, lady, you have me at a disadvantage. It is the veil.”
“As well it should. I am Successa and the veil does me no credit by its removal.”
“Of course, the funeral! My mind recalls.”
She beckoned him into a courtyard illuminated only by the barest, dying flickers of red lanterns. He raised his hand behind him, signaling to Barca the bodyguard to wait outside.
Barca looked about him on the veranda, found a bench on which to recline, and wrapped himself in a discarded blanket, expecting no trouble till dawn. He shifted a couple of times for comfort, and then began to snore.
Within, a lone figure, stout and heavy-set, mopped the floor without looking up. Batiatus wondered if the janitrix was on the menu, and hoped the establishment had better merchandise. He stared instead at the rear of Successa as she led the way.
“What brings you here tonight?” Successa asked.
“Cunt,” Batiatus grunted.