“Masked and long-sleeved to conceal their brands!” Spartacus agreed. “His favored gladiators mourned him, and some of their number yet work for Timarchides and Verres, as knife-men and bearers. And now the survivors journey to Sicilia, where they will doubtless toil in the entourage of its new governor.”
“Spartacus, Varro,” Batiatus said, “stop them before they reach harbor.”
“We need but one,” Cicero insisted. “Apprehend but one living slave that bears mark of Pelorus, and Verres is undone.”
“Are you sure it is charge ‘monstrous’ enough to warrant case against a governor?” Batiatus asked.
“As sure as I can be,” Cicero said, equivocating as a quaestor must.
“Halt them!” Batiatus shouted.
“Dominus!” Varro said in assent, immediately taking off at a run through the crowd.
“Dominus!” Spartacus said, moving to follow him, Medea at his side.
“Leave the witch!” Batiatus said in annoyance.
“I cannot, dominus,” Spartacus said, raising his chained left hand. Slaved to his actions, Medea was forced to raise her right. “I left key to our chains at the house, that her escape could not be engineered.”
“Then take her with you. It is so fated.”
Batiatus shook his head as the three figures darted through the crowd after the litter, the towering Varro yet visible, Spartacus and the chained Medea soon hidden.
“A diligent slave, that Spartacus,” Cicero commented. “To rush to your side with such immediate purpose.”
“Merely being true to his obligations-to see to the best interests of his master!”
“And what price does he exact for such interference?”
“A very simple coin. A woman.”
“Any woman?”
“Not any woman. His wife. Sold into slavery. To be returned to him on my word.”
“How will you find her?”
“I asked fellow lanistae to bear watch in slave markets for Syrian merchant, selling seer-women from Thrace and its environs.”
“Oh, did you…?”
Batiatus bit on his own knuckle in shock.
“Diana’s crack! Pelorus bought the Getae witch because of me!”
“Because of Spartacus. It all comes back to him.”
“Spartacus does not spin the wheels of fate,” Batiatus scoffed.
“Oh, but he does. Medea would never have entered the House of Pelorus if she were not caught in net you cast for the Thracian’s worthless wife. In your own fashion, you and Spartacus are as much to blame for Pelorus’s death as the witch herself.”
“Absent any other culprit. Although the gods be thanked there are many.”
“Are there? Was it not Spartacus who came to her rescue? And was it not he who revealed to you that Pelorus died with throat slit, and hence precipitated your legal suit?”
“… Spartacus…”
“He controls actions as if you were puppet. Your actions give indication you are master of your destiny, but every element of your mounting misfortune has been at his instigation.”
“He is the Champion of Capua, the bringer of rain! We have an understanding. We have a bargain.”
“Then you had better keep your side of it. Spartacus is yet loyal servant. I would hate to see how such an iron will would cleave to vengeance.”
But Batiatus was lost in thought, listening not to Cicero, but instead gazing at the iron railings that descended from where they were standing, lining a long stone staircase that plummeted for several streets into the distance.
“We may yet meet them at the harbor,” Batiatus said suddenly.
“What?”
“The litter must take winding road that slopes toward sea. But we, Cicero, we may take the steps that lead direct.”
“Lead on, Batiatus. Lead on!”
“I did not know,” Timarchides muttered sourly, “that so little of the ludus remained. These four slaves that bear us to the harbor are all that we could salvage.”
“Come now, Timarchides,” Verres said, toying idly with the curtain of the litter. “You have your freedom. Pelorus had his funeral games. The estate has been run into the ground, but our purposes here in Neapolis are achieved.”
“Your purposes.”
“Yours, too. Sicilia is not prize command. It does not have prospect of triumph presented by military consulship in the east. Nor does it have old-world allure of Greece, or frontier excitements of Gaul or Hispania. But what it possesses in abundance is vast, simmering volcano of slaves, many of whom learned stories of rebellion and atrocity at their mother’s knee.”
“A dangerous posting.”
“For the wrong man, it would be. But you are seated next to the man who is right for such a job, and you shall be my right hand. We shall tolerate no suggestion of revolt. We shall be merciless on slaves, and merciless on masters who do not adequately manage such beasts that reside beneath their roofs.”
The litter swung about as the bearers negotiated a hairpin turn, the street turning back on itself as it descended toward the harbor.
“You will force masters to take blame for slaves’ rebellions?” Timarchides asked.
“Are not owners responsible for their animals? There shall be fines. Confiscations. Inspections. Under governorship of Gaius Verres, slaves will be kept in their rightful places, or owners will suffer consequences.”
“I have been slow to realization. A price must be paid.”
“Most certainly.”
“A price paid, no doubt, into the coffers of Gaius Verres.”
“Fines and forfeits, tithes and taxes. To both our fiscal posterities.”
“We must reach Sicilia first,” Timarchides cautioned, looking behind him. He gestured, causing Verres to twist in his cushions and follow the direction of Timarchides’s pointing finger.
“What is it?”
“Varro, blond Roman slave of Batiatus. He follows us. His face set to purpose.”
“Deal with him.”
“Deal with him yourself.”
“Bearers, speed your pace!” Verres called, tapping on the curtain supports for emphasis. The porters increased their march, and the litter began to sway as if on troubled seas.
“I say to you, Timarchides: get out at the next turning,” Verres said, “and deal with the slave.”
“And I say to you: fight your battles with your own hand.”
“You are free, Timarchides, but you are not a tyrant of your own dominion. You still have superiors.”
“Meaning youself?”
“Of course, meaning me! You serve at the pleasure of the Governor of Sicilia. And it pleases me that you will put an end to Varro’s pursuit. Now!”
“Wait,” Medea said, suddenly ceasing her steps, and dragging Spartacus to a halt.
“Follow me,” he said pulling her forward.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because I must catch them.”
“Why?”
“Medea, there is not time for this.”
“I have time entire to stay here and breathe sea air.”
“Medea!”
“You seek to apprehend slaves. Slaves who will die if caught. I will not aid you in that enterprise.”
“I seek to apprehend slaves who will bring down Gaius Verres. A Roman governor.”
“Now,” she said with a delighted smile, “now, you secure my assistance. Run!”
She sprinted on with such speed that Spartacus first had to struggle to keep up, her chain stretching taut behind her, all but dragging his arm.
Suddenly, it was Spartacus who stopped and Medea to be jerked to a standstill by their mutual manacles.
“Spartacus!” she shouted. “The chance awaits to wound a true Roman. Do you not appreciate the scale of this undertaking?”
“Scaling is my thought,” he said briskly, pointing to another of the several stairways that descended toward the harbor. “These run perpendicular to the road that the litter must take. We can dart ahead, as if spurred by Mercury himself.”
“Then why do we tarry? Down the steps! Move!”
Varro quickened his pace as he approached the turn in the street, ducking and swerving between merchants and vendors, sliding deftly around chatting ladies in demure veils. And then a man who sidestepped at the same time as he.