“I see I need not offer you any more wine. Any particular kind?”
“A willing one, requiring no maintenance. There was a dancing girl, at the cena libera yesterday’s eve.”
“We sent several dancing girls. All from Pompeii, all equipped with the organ you so delicately describe.”
“Golden hair. White skin. Lips like she could suck the face off a denarius.”
“That would be Valeria. So different in appearance from your good wife.”
“Let me have her, and taste youth once more.”
“I shall have her brought to you, as the villa of Pelorus is so close at hand.”
“No, here, here.”
“That is no cheaper.”
“I shall have the coin. I shall have the coin soon enough, once the magistrate has had his say.”
“How so?”
“The House of Pelorus shall be mine.”
“The House of Pelorus is cursed.”
“We have expelled those demons.”
“Not I. They haunt me in every mirror.”
Lacking windows except at the topmost edges of the cells, the corridor of the ludus sleeping quarters was black with the night. Occasional moonbeams shone through the dust, between the bars, stretching their dim light into the corridor. But the torches were dead and the lanterns dismounted.
Most of the cells were deserted, emptied by the catastrophe of the Neapolis games. A blond Roman snored in one, lost in dreams of freedom, not hearing the light footfalls that approached.
A figure peered into Varro’s cell, and then moved on, its steps creeping with careful deliberation, barely rustling the rushes, barely scuffing the sand.
Somewhere, a female moaned in her sleep. The figure sped up its movements, darting toward the far end of the corridor, where the woman Medea lay chained on the floor of her cell.
The key did not jangle, as it had no fellows. It was a single large slab of iron, designed to open the simple locks of any of the cells. He fumbled at the lock, seemingly no longer caring about the noise.
Medea opened her eyes.
“Who is there?” she asked.
“Nemesis,” he whispered.
“Nemesis is a woman,” she yawned.
“Not for you. Not tonight.”
He drew his knife with an audible scrape.
“A sicarius?” she observed, without emotion. “A nocturnal knife-man, sent to end me?”
“Be quiet, and I shall be quick,” he whispered, advancing into the cell.
She climbed to her feet, her chains scraping on the stones.
“I will not make your task easy,” she said.
“You should welcome death,” he said.
“I will,” she said. “But you are a Roman, so I will take you first.”
Her chains rattled again, spooking him. She saw only the nervous jerk of his arms in the moonlight, as he sought to ward off a blow that never came. It was the reflex of a man accustomed to fighting.
“You are a large man,” she said. “And I am chained.”
“Fairness concerns me not,” he said, hesitating, peering in the half-light, circling her, unsure of the length of the chains.
“But you still fret that I have the advantage,” she said.
“I do not.”
“Then make your play.” She snapped her chains as if they were a whip, startling the sicarius in the dark. He lunged and she grabbed at him, propelling him back toward the bars of the cage. He kicked her away, and she came at him again, her chains snapping taut a safe distance from him.
He leaned against the bars and chuckled.
“You cannot reach me,” he smirked.
Medea stopped struggling against her chains, and stood in the dark, her hands on her hips.
“I do not need to,” she said.
He frowned at the odd reply, and drew himself up, ready to strike again, but something enfolded him. He stared down in surprise to see a strong, tanned arm, reaching through the bars behind him, enveloping his chest, grabbing fast onto his neck. He made as if to protest, but the air was choked out of him, his throat held tight, the arm pressing down on his windpipe, dragging him against the bars.
Unseen in the dark, the face of the sicarius turned red, his eyes bulging as the grip grew ever tighter, his head was forced against the sharp-edged, rusty cell bars, drawing blood. His legs thrashed impotently as something gave way in his neck with a distant pop, and then he went limp.
True to his training, Spartacus drew several breaths, waiting for any telltale signs of fakery. Only when he sensed the body was truly dead did he let it drop to the floor.
“It seems I owe you my life again, Thracian,” Medea said softly. “But as a slave I have nothing to give, except that which you do not desire to take.”
“You have the key,” Spartacus pointed out. “Throw me the key.”
Medea scrambled across the floor, dragging her chains to their maximum extent, her arm straining to reach the fallen key. Her fingers nudged against it, found purchase and drew it into her grip. She hurled it over, through the bars and into Spartacus’s cell.
He wasted no time, shoving his arms through the bars at the front, twisting in order to get the key in the lock.
“That was the only key,” Medea said. “And it is clearly too large for my manacles.”
“I do not seek to escape,” Spartacus said, not meeting her gaze. His eyes concentrated on the task at hand as the key slid ponderously into the lock.
“Do not lie to me, Thracian,” Medea said. “Give me that, at least. Run. Run while you can, and I shall not hold it against you.”
“I am not escaping,” Spartacus repeated, turning the key inch by inch, a process made tortuously slow by the need to bend his hand back on itself.
“Then find the key to my manacles,” Medea said. “And I will ‘not escape’ with you.”
“There is no time,” Spartacus responded as the lock clunked out of place. He kicked the cell door open and sprinted into the darkened corridor.
Medea said something incredibly obscene in the language of the Getae. But there was nobody there to hear it. She peered expectantly down the hall, but heard nothing save for the Thracian’s receding footsteps.
Eventually, she returned to her pallet and curled up to sleep, her back turned to the dead body slumped against the far wall of her cell.
Batiatus lay back, breathing heavily on the pallet, spent.
“You were right,” he panted through laughter.
“Concerning my accomplishments?” Successa smiled.
“Indeed,” he said, barely able to gulp air. “You are the Champion of… the Champion of… Fucking.”
He heard her reply tugged by a smile, even though he could not see her.
“All cats are gray in the dark. My career yet has a course to run.”
“Undoubtedly,” he agreed, draping his arm around her, feeling her draw closer to him. “You are a mistress of mistresses. You did well to dissuade me out of that stupid little girl.”
“Valeria is a fine young woman,” Successa said in polite disagreement. “But age brings sophistication.”
“Something to which I aspire in all things. In bed. In business. In the course of honors.”
“Really?” Successa propped herself up on one arm, intrigued. “You seek political office?”
“In Rome any man may become anything, given enough time, and luck, and virtue.”
“Any man?”
“Well, no, not any man,” he conceded. “There are those who are subject to infamia.”
“What brings a bad reputation?” Successa asked. “In a world where men murder each other for the entertainment of the crowd?”
“A public official who accepts bribes; a soldier who flees the battlefield. Those who sell their flesh for the entertainment of others.”
“So I shall never be a Vestal virgin,” she sighed in mock disappointment.
“You are eminently disqualified,” he agreed.
“And what of the lanista?”
“What of me? My reputation is unsullied!”
Successa laughed. “You trade in men like a madame pimps her whores. Unlikely to be the sort of man to be welcomed into virtuous circles.”