“Leave you?” laughed the drover. “I am not leaving you. I am freeing you!”
The man blinked, uncertain, trembling from the pain in his ankle.
“I… am… free…?”
“For the remainder of your life,” the drover said, climbing back into the cart.
Spartacus strained at his manacles. He looked imploringly at his fellow passengers, but none of them would look at him.
“Slaves must work,” Varro said sadly. “A slave that cannot work is of no value.”
“But he is a human being!” Spartacus growled. “Is this what Rome means? Is this your civilization? Is this your hospitality?”
“You Thracian tribesmen care for their elders, I suppose.”
“We do!”
“And for your slaves?”
“We hold no slaves.”
“No medicus either, I wager,” Varro snorted. “Perhaps that is why none of you barbarians lives to see old age.”
Their voices receded as the cart rolled on, and soon there was nothing but the sounds of the forest. A broken old man lay sobbing by the side of the road in the dwindling light of day.
A trio of ravens fluttered onto a branch above him and waited. Somewhere within the trees, there was a rustle as something moved toward him. He tried to drag himself up, and the noise from the trees ceased.
The man waited, whimpering, knowing that somewhere in the shadows, some other creature waited with greater patience.
Pelorus’s body had been carefully wrapped, his face lightly brushed with pollen, his cheeks pinched with a dash of rouge. Timarchides watched the undertakers labor around the bier.
“The presence of these men makes me nervous,” he confided to the man who stood beside him.
“A feeling echoed by any man of sanity,” Verres responded. “Undertakers serve to remind all of mortality. A lesser man might see grim-faced men in dark clothes and colored hats. But a thinking Roman sees emissaries of death, and naturally gives them wide berth.”
“Slaves, too.”
“What of them?”
“They regard such men as ill-starred. You see undertakers, Gaius Verres, when someone dies.”
“Er… of course, Timarchides.”
“Slaves, however, see them when master requires the extraction of deep-lodged truths. They are despoilers of human flesh. If you wish to ensure that your slave has not stolen from you; if you wish to find out what he has been told by your rivals. If you wish to punish him in a way that leaves no enduring marks, but scars the mind eternally, then it is for the undertakers you will send.”
“They are torturers?” Verres looked surprised. “Should I need someone twisted or burned, I order it done. I have little concern with hows and wheres.”
“They reside on the outskirts of town,” Timarchides said. “Far from neighbours or prying eyes. Far from rescue or disapproving passers-by. Where screams go unheard and smells of burning flesh unnoticed.” As he spoke, he let his gaze linger on one undertaker in particular, an aging, fleshless man who stood watching the others. Their eyes met, and the old undertaker looked away, fidgeting.
“Let us hope so,” Verres said cryptically. “For now, continue to employ these men in management of this household. A title which, as discussed, I shall see conferred upon you.”
“You foresee no obstacle?”
“Pelorus was blessed with no wife, no children. You were treasured companion, as evinced in your recent manumission. Who better to inherit what shall remain of his wealth when justice is done?”
Timarchides glanced to the side to ensure that none could hear them.
“You play a dangerous game,” he said quietly.
“You do not desire inheritance from Pelorus?”
“It will amount to little,” Timarchides sighed. “But gratitude nonetheless.”
“And when this is done, Timarchides, you shall hold advantageous position in my circle. That I promise you.
“One small regard,” Verres continued, flicking demonstratively at a scrap of papyrus he held in one hand, newly opened. “There is the matter of the hospes list. Those acquaintances of Pelorus deemed so important as to be almost like family members.”
“He had none.”
“He had two.”
“By what name?”
Verres flung his arm around Timarchides in a friendly fashion, and walked him away from the bier. They strode through the house of Pelorus as slaves bustled around them working to make it liveable again. Floors were scrubbed, fragments of glass swept up. Tables were righted or removed for repair by dozens of pairs of hands. Neither man saw the slaves. It was as if the house repaired itself around them.
“Timarchides, now you are a freedman, you must learn to act as one,” Verres said. “In Latin, the hospes, it is… like a guest, and a friend. A guest-friend.”
“All guests are friends by definition. Surely?”
“It is not such a simple matter. A hospes is a man to whom you must open your doors as if your house is his own. And if you travel to his home, he must do the same for you.”
“You are a hospes to Pelorus…?”
“Of course I am. That is why I was staying as honored guest.”
“I understand. It is as friendship should be.”
“Yet it is, as I said, more than friendship and must be given due care. The friend of a hospes is also your hospes. Make appearance at the door of one such man, and proclaim your friendship for his friend, and he, too, must act as your host.”
“Now I see why you cannot bestow such friendship on simply anyone.”
“And yet Pelorus seems to have done just that.” Verres jabbed his finger at the name on the papyrus. “Who the fuck is this Batiatus?”
“The lanista? He provides warriors for the games-that we may ensure that justice is done to all the damned. He held some youthful association with Pelorus, but Pelorus never spoke of days spent in Capua.”
“Who would wish to speak of days spent there?” Verres scoffed. “Make no mind, they may treat this residence like a free fucking tavern. To do in this house as he wishes.”
“Can we not deposit them in rooms at greater distance than these?”
Their wandering had brought them back to the atrium, causing Verres to lower his voice before the bier. He cared not for the slaves, but spoke softly in the presence of the shell that had once been Pelorus.
“This Batiatus is a hospes, Timarchides!” he hissed. “Has understanding not yet penetrated? As the executor of the will of Pelorus, I am compelled to welcome him. As the inheritor, you are similarly obliged. My sponsorship of your inheritance is dependent on you adhering to Roman law!”
“Are you my hospes, Gaius Verres?”
“I would like to think so, Timarchides.”
“You reside under my roof, here in Neapolis.”
“It is not your roof until the estate is conferred upon you. An estate which it lies in my power to withhold.”
A curtain of silence rose up between the two men, each struggling to control the urge to truly speak his mind. They breathed, and waited for the passions to pass, while the undertakers fussed around the body of Pelorus like sombre nurses.
“How does one get to become a hospes?” Timarchides said, eventually.
“Only by being deeply, indivisibly, connected to an associate.”
“Can Batiatus bring trouble to our door?”
“His arrival must not be permitted to interfere with our plan.”
“Your plan, Verres. Your plan.”
“I simply forge pleasant results from unpleasant situation.”
“One created by your hands!” Timarchides said, anger flashing in his eyes.
“Did I drive in the knife?” Verres snapped back. “Did Gaius Verres murder your master? The gods may have smiled upon us, but they failed to do so upon good Pelorus.”
“Very well,” Timarchides said, resignation in his voice. “You shall have it your way.”