Now the accountant said, “Two of them—
rosillae
. Perfume, rouge, and very expensive rings and clothes. A lot of money, but they are
rosillae,
and they will be a nuisance. One is just a young boy, about twenty-one, I would guess. The other is trying to please him.”
“Let them come in,” Batiatus said.
A moment later, the two young men entered, and Batiatus rose with excessive politeness, indicating two stools in front of his table.
As they seated themselves, Batiatus observed them quickly and expertly. They had an air of wealth, but only enough of it to show that they did not have to exhibit their wealth. They were young men of good family, but not in the great tradition—for what they were was entirely too obvious to have been tolerated by one of the sterner city
gens
. The younger one, Caius Crassus, was as pretty as a girl. Bracus was somewhat older, harder, playing the dominant role of the two. He had cold blue eyes and sandy hair, thin lips and a cynical expression. He did the talking. Caius merely listened, only glancing at his friend occasionally with respect and admiration. And Bracus talked of gladiators with the easy familiarity of the devotee of the games.
“I am Lentulus Batiatus,
lanista,
” said the fat man, giving himself a title of contempt which, he vowed, would cost them at least 5,000
denarii
before the day was over.
Bracus introduced both of them and came to the point immediately. “We would like a private showing of two pairs.”
“For just the two of you?”
“Ourselves and two friends.”
The
lanista
nodded gravely and placed his fat hands together, so that his two diamonds, his emerald and his ruby showed to good advantage.
“That can be arranged,” he said.
“To the death,” said Bracus calmly.
“What?”
“You heard me. I want two pairs, Thracians, to the death.”
“Why?” demanded Batiatus. “Why, whenever you young folk come down from Rome, must it be to the death? You can see just as much blood and just as good fighting—no, better!—to a decision. Why to the death?”
“Because we prefer it.”
“That is no answer. Look, look,” said Batiatus, spreading his hands for calm and thought and scientific consideration among men who knew the game, “you ask for Thracians. I have the best Thracian play in the world, but you will not see good play or good dagger work if you ask for the death. You know that as well as I do. It stands to reason. You pay your money—and then, zoot! it is finished. I can give you a day’s play on points that will be like nothing you ever saw in Rome. As a matter of fact, you could go to the theatre and see better than anywhere in Rome. But if you come to me for private pleasure, then I stand on my reputation. My reputation is not as a butcher. I want to give you good fighting, the best fighting that money can buy.”
“We want good fighting,” smiled Bracus. “We want it to the death.
“That’s a contradiction!”
“To your way of thinking,” Bracus said softly. “You would like to keep both my money and your gladiators. When I pay for something, I buy it. I am buying two pairs to the death. If you don’t wish to serve me, I can go elsewhere.”
“Did I say I didn’t want to serve you? I want to serve you better than you think. I can give you two pairs in rounds from morning until night, eight hours a day in the arena if you wish. And I will replace if any part of a pair is cut up too badly. I will give you all the blood and excitement you or your ladies could possibly desire, and I will charge you no more than 8,000
denarii
for the whole thing. That includes food and wine and services of any kind you may desire.”
“You know what we desire. I don’t like to haggle,” Bracus said coldly.
“All right. It will cost you 25,000
denarii
.”
Caius was impressed—indeed somewhat frightened at the enormous figure, but Bracus shrugged.
“Very well. They are to fight naked.”
“Naked?”
“You heard me,
lanista!
”
“All right.”
“And I want no fakery—no double cuts for them both to suck the sand and pretend that they are finished. If they are both down, one of your trainers will cut the throats of both. And they are to understand that.”
Batiatus nodded.
“I will give you ten thousand on account and the rest when the pairs have finished.”
“All right. Please pay my accountant. He will give you a receipt and draw contracts for you. Do you want to see them before you leave?”
“Can we have the arena in the morning?”
“In the morning—yes. But I must warn you that this kind of a fight may be over very quickly.”
“Please don’t warn me,
lanista
.” He turned to Caius and asked, “Do you want to see them, child?”
Caius smiled shyly and nodded. They went out, and after Bracus had paid and signed the contract, they crawled into their litters and were carried to the exercise yard. Caius could not take his eyes off Bracus. Never, he thought, had he seen a man conduct himself so admirably. Not merely the 25,000
denarii
—his own allowance of a thousand
denarii
a month was considered munificent by everyone he knew—but the manner of spending and the casual dealing with human life. It was a kind of cynical contempt to which Caius aspired, and which marked, for him, the highest level of cosmopolitanism; and in this case it was combined with a wonderfully cool sophistication. Never in a thousand years would he have had the courage to demand that the gladiators fight naked; yet that was one of the reasons why they were having a show for their own amusement at Capua instead of going to the arena in Rome.
At the exercise yard, the slaves set down their litters. The exercise yard was an iron-barred enclosure, one hundred and fifty feet long and forty feet wide, caged in iron on three sides, with the cell block where the gladiators lived as its fourth side. Caius realized that here was a higher and more dangerous art than the training and keeping of wild beasts; for a gladiator was not only a dangerous beast, but one who could think as well. A delightful thrill of fear and excitement went through him as he watched the men in the exercise yard. There were about a hundred of them, clad in loin cloths and nothing else, clean-shaven, their hair cropped close to their heads, going through their paces with wooden sticks and staffs. About six trainers walked among them, and these, like all trainers, were old veterans of the army. The trainer carried a short Spanish sword in one hand and heavy brass knuckles in the other, and he walked warily and gingerly, his eyes nervous and alert. A maniple of regular army troops were spread at intervals all around the enclosure, their heavy, murderous
pila
exacting an extraordinary discipline. No wonder, Caius thought, the price of the death of a few of these men was high.
The gladiators themselves were superbly muscled and as graceful as panthers in their motions. Roughly, they fell into three classes, the three classes of fighters so popular in Italy at this time. There were the Thracians—a grouping or profession more than a race, for there were numerous Jews and Greeks among them—who were most desired at this time. They fought with the
sica,
a short, slightly curved dagger, the common weapon in Thrace and in Judea, where most of them were recruited. The
retiarii
were just beginning their epoch of popularity, and they fought with two curious weapons, a fish net and a long, three-pronged fish fork called a
tridens
. For this category, Batiatus preferred Africans, tall, long-limbed black men from Ethiopia, and they were always matched against the
murmillones,
a loose category of fighters who carried either a sword alone or sword and shield. The
murmillones
were almost always Germans or Gauls.
“Note them,” said Bracus, pointing to the black men. “There is the finest play and the most skillful, but it can be a bore. To see it at its best, you must see Thracians. Don’t you agree?” he asked Batiatus.
The
lanista
shrugged. “Each has its virtues.”
“Match me a Thracian against a black man.”
Batiatus looked at him a moment, then shook his head. “It is no match. The Thracian has only a dagger.”
“I want it,” said Bracus.
Batiatus shrugged, caught the eye of one of the trainers, and nodded for him to come. Fascinated, Caius watched the lines of gladiators go through their precise, dance-like exercises, the Thracians and Jews doing their dagger work with little sticks and little wooden bucklers, the black men casting nets and darting long wooden sticks that were for all the world like broom handles, and the big, blond Germans and Gauls fencing with wooden swords. Never in all his life had he seen men so conditioned, so agile, so graceful, so apparently tireless, as they went through the paces of the dance, over and over and over. There, in the sunlight behind the iron bars, they communicated even to Caius—even to his poor, warped, twisted conscience—a sense of pity that life so splendid and vital should serve only for butchery. But only a flicker of this; never before had Caius experienced such intense excitment at the prospect of a future event. Boredom had entered his life when he was only a child. He was not bored now.
The trainer was explaining, “The dagger has only one keen edge. Once the dagger is in the net, the Thracian is finished. It makes for bad blood in the school. It’s no match.”
“Get them,” Batiatus said shortly.
“Why not with a German—”
“I’m paying for Thracians,” Bracus said coldly. “Don’t argue with me!”
“You heard him,” said the
lanista
.
The trainer carried a little silver whistle on a string around his neck. Now he blew it sharply three times and the lines of gladiators came to rest.
“Who do you want?” he asked Batiatus.
“Draba.”
“Draba!” the trainer shouted.
One of the black men turned and walked toward them, dragging net and stick. A giant of a man, his dark skin glistening with a sheen of sweat.
“David.”
“David!” the trainer shouted.
This was a Jew, lean, hawk-faced, thin bitter lips, and green eyes in a clean-shaven, tanned face and head. His wooden dagger was hooked in fingers that kept flexing and unflexing, and he stared through the guests without seeing them.
“A Jew,” said Bracus to Caius. “Have you ever seen a Jew?”
Caius shook his head.
“It will be exciting. Jews are very good with the
sica
. It is all they know of fighting, but they are very good.”
“Polemus.”
“Polemus!” the trainer shouted.
This was a Thracian, very young and graceful and handsome.
“Spartacus!”
He joined the other three. The four men stood there, separated from the two Roman youths, the
lanista
and the litter slaves by the heavy iron fence of the exercise yard. Looking at them, Caius realized that they were something new, something different and strange and terrible in his own terms. It was not only the sullen, brooding masculinity of them—a masculinity that almost never existed in his own circle of acquaintances—but the way they were closed off from him. They were men trained to fight and kill, not as soldiers fought, not as animals fought, but as gladiators fought, which was something else entirely. He was looking at four frightening masks.
“How do you like them?” Batiatus asked.
Not for the life of him could Caius have answered or spoken at all, but Bracus said coolly,
“All except that one with the broken nose. He doesn’t look like a fighter.”
“Looks can be deceiving,” Batiatus reminded him. “That’s Spartacus. He is very good, very powerful, and very quick. I chose him for a purpose. He is very quick.”
“Who will you match him with?”
“With the black man,” answered Batiatus.
“Very well. I hope it’s worth the price,” said Bracus.
That was when and how Caius saw Spartacus; although four years later he had forgotten the names of any of the gladiators and only remembered the hot sunshine, the feel and smell of the place, the smell of men’s bodies running sweat.
II
This is Varinia, who lies awake in the darkness, and she has not slept this night, not at all, not even for a few moments; but Spartacus, who lies beside her, sleeps. How soundly he sleeps and how completely! The soft flow of his breath, the intaking and outgiving of air, which is the fuel for the fire of life within him, is as regular and as even as all the timely ebbing and flowing in the world of life, and Varinia thinks of that and knows that what is at peace and at grips with life has this same regularity, whether it be the motion of the tides, the passing of the seasons, or the fruition of the egg within the woman.
But how can a man sleep in such a fashion, when he knows what he faces on waking? How can he slumber at the edge of death? Where does his peace come from?
Very lightly, most lightly, Varinia touches him and traces out his skin, his flesh and his limbs as he lies there in the darkness. The skin is elastic and fresh and alive; the muscles are relaxed; the limbs are loose and resting. Sleep is precious; sleep is life for him.
(Sleep, sleep, sleep, my beloved, my darling, my gentle one, my good one, my terrible one—sleep. Sleep and husband your strength, my man, my man.)
Gently and carefully, her whole motion like a whisper, Varinia closes with him, so that more and more of her own flesh is touching his, her long limbs pressed against his, her full breasts cushioned to him, her face finally touching his, cheek to cheek, her golden hair spread like a crown above him, her terror eased by memories now and by love, for fear and love do not live easily together.