Timarchides shook off his hand, and stared at the churning waters of a bruised sea.
“The story of Rome is the story of us,” Verres said. “Of you and me. The story is of the freemen of Rome. There is no space for slaves. They are invisible. No one has care for thoughts of a slave. His hopes. His dreams. His desires. No more worthy of our consideration than the dreams of an insect. You are free. Be free.”
As the ship’s prow turned to face the harbor mouth, her sails filled with a strong breeze, propelling the ship forward, firstly at a crawl, and then with the increasing wash of broken waves against the hull.
XVIII
He lay on the firm wooden table, as he had lain for days, his chest barely moving in halting breaths. The early signs of a beard poked through the clammy skin of his face. His hair, usually cropped close like a Roman warrior, had begun to grow out toward its original Gaulish mane. His eyes stared ahead, at the ceiling, unseeing. His hands were folded gently on his stomach, pressing on the sodden bandages, sticky with blood and pus.
When the door opened, he made no sign of noticing it. He stayed on the table, almost as still as Pelorus had been on the bier.
The footsteps that approached were light, dainty, unaccompanied by the clack of hobnails or the slap of hardened sole leather. They were the steps of feet shod in mouseskin or deerskin, supporting a frame far lighter than the average inmate of the ludus. The newly arrived figure halted, its passage marked by the continued waft of draping silken sleeves, and the unmistakeable scent of Egyptian musks.
“Crixus,” she said.
On the table, his lips twitched. His eyes showed no emotion or reaction, but his mouth moved the tiniest degree.
“Crixus,” she whispered.
There was no further movement from him, save the faintest sigh in the slowly moving chest.
“The medicus will return presently. I do not have long.”
She rested her hand on his shoulder, thought better of it, and returned with a damp cloth, dabbing fitfully at the grime on his torso.
“It gladdens my heart to see that you yet live.”
There was another shudder, but still no reaction from his eyes. She waved her hand experimentally in front of his face, but got nothing save the faintest touch of his labored breath.
“The gods will see you well,” she said.
The door opened.
“Domina!” the medicus exclaimed.
“Medicus,” she said half-laughing, half-gasping. “I only thought to-”
“It does you credit that you take such eager interest in your chattels!” the medicus said, oblivious.
Lucretia drew herself to her full height, the cloth forgotten, her softened features hardening into a businesslike demeanour.
“Crixus is valuable investment,” she said, coldly. “If he cannot fight again, the House of Batiatus will have lost substantial sum.”
“Further calculated by your presence here,” the medicus said, “following long journey from Neapolis.”
“Calculations made greater with the cost of your life if Crixus falls,” Lucretia spat.
And with that she was gone.
On the table, the still form of Crixus seemed to twitch in his open-eyed sleep.
“I only hope,” the medicus said, “the gods watch over you as closely as your mistress.” He lifted the bandage on the stomach, wincing at the sight of the festering wound.
“Ashur,” Varro called. “Ashur!”
The nervy Syrian ducked into an alcove in fear, peering behind him to determine the identity of the man that sought him.
“Cease tongue,” he hissed. “Barca seeks me out, eager for winnings from the last game in Capua.”
“I care not,” Varro said. “I seek you, too, not to take coin but to give it.”
“To what end?” Ashur said, straightening himself and dusting off his robe.
“I seek the company of a woman,” Varro said. “The finest woman you can in the flesh markets, and bring her to the ludus for my enjoyment.”
“I shall see it done,” Ashur said. “And welcome the opportunity to be absent the ludus a few moments longer.”
He made as if to leave, only for Varro to stay his hand.
“And Ashur,” Varro said, “make her a Greek.”
“I have kept them well,” Pietros said.
“So I see,” Barca said, gently caressing the head of a white bird. He placed it back into its cage and securely fastened the door.
“And you, have you kept well?” Pietros said scowling, his gaze fixed on Barca’s bandage.
“It is but scratch,” Barca said with a shrug.
Pietros flung himself into Barca’s arms, his head nestling against the gladiator’s chest.
“I had a dream while you were away.”
“A dream is a dream, gone by morning.”
“I saw you gutted and still, lying in water, your blood seeped away. I feared that I would never see you again.”
“I am here, Pietros. Safely returned.”
“I gave Naevia coin for offering. To hasten your safe return.”
“Mercury is no god of mine,” Barca said gruffly.
“He is the god of all travelers, whether they believe in him or not.”
Barca tightened his arms around Pietros and stroked the boy’s curly hair.
“I, too, had a dream, Pietros,” he said. “You were happy. You and I stood as freemen near where Carthage once stood. Rome’s new colony close by. We were out in fields, wringing crops from red dust.”
“Both of us?”
“Yes. My arena battles having bought freedom for us both. Our toil and sweat turned us into farmers.”
“It is a long way from the ludus and the arena.”
“It is not a long way,” Barca said. “It is but days away. Ashur owes me the balance of the coin I require. We have but another day in chains, but perhaps years of labor.”
“But labor as freemen.”
“As freemen. Now, is that a better dream?”
“It is.”
The rains pelted down, as they had done for days. But Batiatus breathed deeply and smiled.
“The festering odors of Neapolis,” he said, “replaced by the land of my fathers.”
He looked at Spartacus for acknowledgment, and saw only a Thracian deep in thought.
“Put the fate of the Getae witch from your mind, Spartacus. She died as she wanted, costing a good Roman precious coin. Costing me precious coin!”
“I think only of her portents of posterity.”
“Pay it no heed. She was a charlatan. A barbarian mumbling of futures yet unseen to earn her keep.”
“She offered a future for Rome, to replace that lost in the Capitoline fire.”
“Tailored no doubt to her audience, as any good conjuror does. Mention of Thrace purely because you were at her side. Mention of greater Greece simply because that was where we found ourselves, close to the heel and toe of Italia.”
“And what kind of legion is ‘hell-bound’?”
“Any legion in Neapolis, considering the Vulcan caves of its surroundings.”
“A Saturnalia?”
“A final Saturnalia! Slaves and masters changing places. What better incitement for an audience in chains to pay to hear more?”
“But she was dying. There was nothing for her to gain.”
“Nothing save seeds of discord sown from the afterlife. ‘Seven hills’ in peril! Indeed! She speaks of the seven hills of Rome knowing that it will affright good citizens as dogs bark at horses. It surprises me, Spartacus, that you dwell on such artifice and contradictions.”
“Apologies, dominus.”
“Ah, but now I see. She told you something else, did she not?”
“She said that I would see my wife again.”
“And if that prophecy is to be believed, then you must accord unwarranted credence to her other utterings. Peace, Spartacus, you shall see your wife again because I, Batiatus, have willed it so. Not the Fates. And not a dying savage. Now, prepare yourself. I predict that I shall proclaim you as the Champion of Capua. And that is a prophecy that shall surely come to pass.”