“My meaning exact! The slaves are dead and purse empty, but the villa is mine!”
Batiatus puffed out his chest and looked around him at the bustle of Neapolis, wondering what to buy first. He hailed a vendor with a pole draped with wineskins.
“Not so, Batiatus,” Cicero said glumly, as the lanista handed over coins. “I possess knowledge enough of legal mind to know where thought alights.”
Batiatus offered him a swig from his celebratory wineskin, but Cicero pushed it away.
“Tell me,” Batiatus said, wiping a red smear of wine across his cheek, “why the result disappoints.”
Cicero backed into the shade, narrowly evading a cart drawn by two horses. He stared after the retreating vehicle, watching as its driver skillfully negotiated its passage through the next junction, and on to the road out of town.
“Look upon that horse, Batiatus. If horse breaks free and charges through street, with whom does the responsibility rest?”
“What is your meaning?” Batiatus asked.
“Is fault with horse?”
“Of course not.”
“And if horse ends life of passing woman and grieving husband seeks redress. Can he seek it from horse?” Cicero asked.
“You expect apology from a horse?”
“That is not possible, you are right,” Cicero said. “So would you stone the horse to death?”
Though tasked with remaining silent, Varro could not resist a chuckle.
“That is ludicrous,” Batiatus replied. “You cannot lay blame with dumb animal.”
“Then who bears burden of responsibility?”
“The owner of course!”
“And what if criminal is not animal, but slave?”
“He will be killed. In the same manner as the slaves at the House of Pelorus.”
“Ah,” Cicero said. “That is their punishment, but what of damages they did to others?”
Batiatus had been midway through another long gulp of wine. Instead, it somehow caught in his throat, causing him to spit and splutter a pink mist into the street.
“What?” he coughed. “Your meaning is that liability will rest with me for everything?”
“There will be dispensations to Timarchides, to the musicians, to all the guests that claim some blemish or inconvenience, in atonement for the actions of the slaves you have just inherited.”
“It cannot be inheritance if subjects are already in Hades!”
“Oh, but it can. Or rather, their debts are your inheritance! It would surprise me not if the beneficiary of Pelorus’s estate received strong encouragement to honor ‘noble’ Verres’s obligations and was forced to pay pension rashly promised to Successa. With lesser stipends for other whores. And band. And citizens present. There will also be liability for bills outstanding to caterers and vintners.”
“Payment for banquet never attended?”
“Worse than that. Much worse.”
“What could be worse?”
“I must remind you of the funeral games.”
Batiatus clutched at his chest in fright.
“The fucking funeral games! You mean that is mine to pay as well? I owe coin for fucking dead rabbits?”
“The bill was surely charged to the estate of Marcus Pelorus, and as his sole heir…”
“JUPITER’S COCK!”
“Look well at your new villa in Neapolis, Batiatus. Soon obligation will come to dispose of it to honor newfound debts.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Verres called. He stopped in front of them in a litter born by four glowering men in dark robes, two of whom did not seem quite fit to be porters-a boy who seemed too young, and a man who seemed too old. Varro found himself staring at the lead bearer, confused with a sense of familiarity. The old man nodded back, as if in recognition.
“Charon…” Varro breathed.
Timarchides sat by the side of Verres in the litter, staring straight ahead.
“I take my leave of you!” Verres said cheerfully. “I sail for Sicilia. Well played, Cicero. Well played, as in our nocturnal debates. The victory is yours, but the spoils are inconsequential.”
“That is your game, is it not, Verres?” Batiatus snarled. “Everyone your slave. You rape estates. You plunder provinces. You seek the chase. You burn the bridge you crossed. You kick away ladder by which you ascended.”
“You will not be governor of Sicilia forever, Verres,” Cicero said. “I will be there to witness you fall.”
“And I, you,” Verres said, the smile still pasted on. “When time comes Cicero, you will run like frightened deer.”
“I hope very much to die of old age in my bed.”
“Our lives are lived in troubled times, and enemies flock to you like flies to honey,” Verres said, pointedly.
“The price of seeking truth, I fear,” Cicero said. “But I know nothing of the way of the warrior. If chased by man with sword in hand, I shall certainly seek to avoid him. This is not cowardice, but sense.”
“But if he catches you, Cicero. What then?”
“Further debate?” Batiatus muttered. “Another argument, even as he sticks his cock in ass. Leave hold, Cicero, absent cause!”
“If your hypothetical pursuer catches me with his notional sword,” Cicero was saying, “and I theoretically have nowhere left to run?”
“If then,” Verres said, with a nod.
“Then I shall put into practice lessons learned from gladiators. And I shall extend neck to assailant, dying like a Roman, unafraid of the afterlife.”
Verres laughed, and motioned for his bearers to continue on their path. His litter wove through the people and soon passed from sight.
“Dominus!” called a voice. “Dominus!” In a market street full of masters, none paid it heed.
Batiatus offered the wineskin to Cicero, but again the quaestor refused, deep in thought.
“BATIATUS!” shouted the voice, finally gaining the correct dominus’s attention.
Spartacus arrived, panting, manacled by his left arm to Medea.
“What comedia is this?” Batiatus demanded. “Are ears blocked that I find you not standing guard at the house of Pelorus!”
“Your will, dominus,” Spartacus panted. “But doing so uncovered vital news.”
Cicero looked up.
“More vital than that of a slave that deserts his post and runs through the street chained to a murderess?” he said. “My ears are pricked and ready to hear such news.”
“The sicarii last night,” Spartacus said, “were men of the House of Pelorus.”
“How do you know?” Batiatus questioned.
“They all bore his mark.”
“But they are all dead.”
“Not all.”
“They were the undertakers,” Varro said, suddenly.
“Hold tongue, Varro,” Batiatus snapped. “Spartacus, give explanation. How can the men of Pelorus be yet alive? I witnessed their end in the arena.”
“Some,” Spartacus said. “The cells are vast. Did they only contain a small number of gladiators on that night? For that was all that died in the arena.”
“They took upon themselves the garb of the undertakers,” Varro insisted. “And the clowns. They were the cleaners of the arena. Before our eyes unseen-”
“Varro, be silent… Oh…” Batiatus said.
“Even at the games, I heard the damnati protest that not all their brother gladiators were present,” Spartacus said. “Timarchides laughed off accusation, but what if he tried to save those most beloved?”
“The slave speaks sense,” Cicero said. “And it is a scheme worthy of Timarchides, to preserve lives of those fellows of his ludus whom he yet called friends. To kill undertakers, absent witness, and place favored slaves of Pelorus in their stead. They burned evidence and partly melted swords that did the deed, and used undertakers’ mansion as refuge.”
“They leave no evidence,” Spartacus said, “save the bodies of the dead, who cannot testify.”
“And swords lying in ashes,” Varro added, “with ludus mark melted.”
“Yet they marched in procession funereal!” Batiatus sputtered. “With fucking balls forged of iron!”