Does Starz’s Spartacus translate to novel form? Surprisingly, yes.

“You look low of spirit,” Crixus said as Oenomaus entered the medicus’s bay. The bigGaul, former Champion of Capua, was flat on his back swathed in bandages, and beside him the slave-girl Naevia sat spooning porridge into his mouth.

Crixus was the only man in the care of the medicus at present, for there had been no important bouts or festivals, or even a munus, since he and Spartacus had fought Theokoles and the rains had come. TheGaulhad been slashed apart in that epic contest and was a long, slow time healing. A lesser man would have surely died.

Oenomaus pulled up a stool and sat down beside Crixus.

“Needless death falls upon ludus this day. Novice gladiator killed by the hand of the Greek, Tetraides.”

Crixus absorbed the news with a shrug.

“Training carries risk. If it were not so, a quick end would come in the arena instead.”

“This was not result of training.” Quickly Oenomaus told Crixus what had happened.

Again Crixus shrugged.

“The Greek will be punished.”

Oenomaus shook his head.

“Batiatus will not satisfy his rage with Tetraides’s life. The Greek will pay through coin won in the arena.”

“And if Tetraides falls before debt is paid?”

Oenomaus smiled grimly and made a rare joke.

“I hold no doubt that dominus will find profit in it. Even if left with Tetraides’s carcass to proffer meat for dogs at market. ”

Crixus laughed, and Oenomaus’s grin widened, his teeth flashing white in the lamplit gloom of the infirmary.

“It soothes troubled mind to see strength and spirits return,” the doctore said. He glanced at Naevia, the beautiful slave girl, who had been administering to Crixus’s needs. “Surely aided by dutiful attendants.”

Blushing, Naevia stood up.

“Domina does not like me to linger. I must go.”

Crixus caught her arm, his meaty fist engulfing it.

“I would have you stay longer yet.”

“Work in the villa awaits me. And additional company stands by your side.” She hesitated and smiled down on him. “I will return tomorrow.”

TheGaul’s eyes followed her all of the way out of the chamber. When she had disappeared, he stared at the beams of the ceiling and some light seemed to go out of him.

“Her attention appears to deliver mending,” Oenomaus said, gentle amusement in his eyes.

Crixus’s good humor, however, seemed to have evaporated with Naevia’s departure.

“Only to see me awaken to world of shit. The Thracian fuck standing atop it, my victories earned in the arena forgotten by all.”

“Not by all,” Doctore replied quietly. “They hold fast in my memory.”

Crixus cast his eyes to Oenomaus.

“The sentiment appreciated. But memories will not knit flesh to see me upon the sands.”

“Stay such thoughts. Preserve strength, for the day will come when you reclaim your place.”

Crixus nodded, seeming to take strength from the words.

“I long for the day to wield sword again. And knock the Thracian from undeserved position.”

“I will lend voice to the cheering crowd on that day,” Oenomaus replied. “Spartacus may be Champion of Capua by name, but his heart holds no loyalty to this ludus. His thoughts still drift elsewhere. I find no perch to rest trust upon him.”

“Trust that I will stand over him, sword at his throat.”

“I believe in the promise of it.” Oenomaus paused in his thoughts. “Yet consider that you stood well together against Theokoles. When you fought as one. A fact not be dismissed.”

Disgust filled Crixus’s face. “You raise spirits only to sweep them away. Counseling me to regard him as brother.”

“He bears the mark, as you do. Perhaps he will come to place belief in it with the passing of time. And the fading of memories.” Oenomaus’s face clouded. “It is no small thing to lose a wife. As I know too well.”

Crixus shifted slightly on his hard bed, wincing at the pain it caused him, uncomfortable at the sight of his doctore’s pain.

“I will set mind to healing while Spartacus occupies my spot on the sand. Soon, he will relinquish it.”

“I would lay coin toward it, if the habit were mine,” Doctore said with a soft smile. He gripped Crixus’s fist in his own for a moment, and then rose.

“Rumors fill the villa about someone of note rumored to soon graceCapua. A man with an eye toward games, if Ashur’s telling of it is true.”

“I would not put stock in anything that falls from the limping shit’s mouth,” Crixus said contemptuously.

“I stand the same towards him. Yet if he speaks truth in this, this ludus will profit. Now, rest and grow strong. The House of Batiatus will have need of Crixus.”

#

Naevia padded up the stone steps from the ludus to the villa above. When the light grew around her again, it revealed an entirely different world.

Triple-armed lamps hung flickering at intervals, their light gleaming on polished bronze. The tiles were cool underfoot, patterned in shadowed colors, and the walls were brightly painted. There was the sound of a fountain, for with the rains and monies from recent games, the atrium had been restored to its former splendor. The pool was full and the fountain played in the middle, its tumbling arcs of water glittering with moonlight from the night sky above.

A slave scurried past her, whispered, “A storm comes,” and then was gone. She bore a bright blond wig on a wooden stand and her bare feet made scarcely a sound on the tiles.

Naevia took a breath and then followed in the slave’s wake. The domina had a series of cubicula set back from the atrium. These she used for dressing, sleeping and entertaining close friends. The house slaves were trooping in and out of one of these now, and Naevia heard a cry of frustration and the slap of flesh being struck.

“Worthless bitch! Send Naevia to me! Where is she? The mere holding of a mirror results in dent upon it. Can not one of you accomplish task as ordered?”

A red-eyed slave girl crawled out of the cubiculum on her hands and knees, a welt rising on her cheek. Naevia stepped past her.

“Domina?”

“Naevia, tend to fucking wig. Thirty sesterces and it looks as if clipped from horse’s tail.” She turned blazing eyes to a slave bowed in the corner. “Fill cup with wine absent spilling or see yourself sent below for the beasts to have their way with.”

Lucretia’s attendants fluttered around her like butterflies, but Naevia stood calm in their midst and patiently adjusted the blonde wig on her mistress’s head. Lucretia regarded herself in the polished bronze mirror, tilting it against the light. She took her cup from the tray the trembling slave held and appeared somewhat mollified by Naevia’s presence.

“They lack your composure. Market whores, all of them. The wig, it sits well by your hand. I would have you share thoughts toward my coloring.”

“Perhaps a little stibium, domina.”

“Of course. Flavia, apply with hand held steady.”

A young girl leaned forward and painted the outlines of Lucretia’s eyes with a black brush. When she straightened, there was sweat trickling down her throat. Lucretia regarded herself appraisingly in the mirror once again.

“The judging of it impossible in such light,” she muttered. A sigh issued from Lucretia. “That will do for now. Flavia, set wine and food for Batiatus’s return. A jug of Falernian. He will desire only the best after long day in town.”

The words had barely left her mouth when there was a commotion at the door of the atrium beyond. They heard the massive timbers swing open, and Batiatus’s voice. It was raised in a note of familiar displeasure. Naevia took her accustomed place behind Lucretia’s shoulder, silent as a shadow.

“Quintus?” she called.

“I’m here. Where are you tucked away?” he bellowed impatiently.

“In bed chambers.”

Batiatus appeared in the doorway. Behind him the dark shape of Ashur, black eyes alight from the lamps. Batiatus dropped his toga to the floor and stepped over it, his sandals slapping on the tiles.

“Water,” he called. “I would have soil of streets rinsed away. And wine. Juno’s gash, I’m fucking tired.”

Lucretia sprang off her couch and clicked her fingers at Naevia. She glared at Ashur.

“Is he to join you in the bath?”

Batiatus waved a hand. “Out. Wait in my office and I will join you to open book and dwell on this house’s poverty.”

“As you wish, dominus.” Ashur cast a long look at Naevia, and then left.

“Poverty. Not a word fit for jesting,” Lucretia said. She kissed Batiatus on the lips.

He looked her up and down appraisingly.

“It appears new wig lies upon wife’s beautiful head.”

“Fetching, is it not?” she said. “Orontescame bearing his wares today.”

“And with what weight of coin did he depart?”

She dismissed the money as she would dismiss a slave, with an insouciant waft of her hand.

“Twenty sesterces.”

“Twenty. A substantial sum for shank of German hair.”

“It does not please you,” Lucretia glared.

Batiatus raised a placating hand. “It pleases me. As would any item adorning loving wife. Helen of Troy would rage with jealousy upon sight of you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You overflow with praise, the excess suggesting mockery.”

“Lucretia, I crave a moment of peace,” Batiatus moaned, his voice weary. “I would soak and drink. And see you calmed by thought that your beauty illuminates.”

The girl Flavia had reappeared with an ewer of clear water and a box of oils and unguents. She untied the sandals from Batiatus’ feet and began to wash him. He sighed in contentment. Lucretia handed him her wine cup. He drank from it and raised his eyebrows appreciatively.

“You ply me with Falernian wine?”

“It should not sit fermenting for guests. Imbibe for lifting of mood after draining day spent upon streets, dealing with that greasy whore peddler.”

Batiatus leaned forward and slipped Flavia’s gown from her shoulder. One pale, pink-tipped breast was revealed. Batiatus stroked the nape of her neck as she continued to wash his feet.

“Put mouth upon cock,” he said.

At once, Flavia left his feet and pulled aside Batiatus’s tunic. His member came into view, already tumescent. She bent her head over it and dutifully took the glistening head of the organ in her mouth. Batiatus closed his eyes and sipped his wine.

“Ah, the pleasures of home,” he murmured.

As he settled back, Lucretia asked, “Did you make purchase?”

Batiatus’s eyes opened again, flashing with momentary anger.

“I did not. The dirty hole Albanus paraded meat rank enough to offend flies. Then he—” Batiatus closed his eyes once more, thrusting his hips against the girl’s mouth.

“Then he revealed true purpose of invitation,” he resumed after a moment. “I was but a mere decoy set in place for the bidding of a rich Greek. Croesus’s brother he might have been, so freely did he dispense coin. I could not match him.” Batiatus thrust angrily and the girl gagged. He curled his hand into her hair, holding her head firmly in place while he drank more wine.

“What was the object of such lofty bidding?” Lucretia asked. She leaned back on her couch, her eyes going back and forth between her husband’s face and the bobbing head of the girl at his groin.

“A nymph of beauty rare and untouched, appearing handmaiden of Venus. The Greek swine shit six thousand sesterces for her as if fortune nests untouched up ass.”

Lucretia gasped. “Six thousand!”

Batiatus matched her gasp with a groan, and shuddered into the slave girl’s mouth. He breathed out slowly, holding her in place for a moment, and then he slowly uncurled his hand from her hair. Flavia raised her head, wiped her mouth discreetly and adjusted her master’s tunic. Then she bent to his feet once more and began massaging them in the tepid water.

“Ashur makes enquiry towards this Greek. Hieronymus his name. The man has powerful friends in very high places. Rumors stir the air in marketplace thatCapuawill see him host one of them in coming weeks.”

“Rumors uttered into weary ear by every feeble-minded fool who knocks upon door,” Lucretia snapped.

“Even fools may light upon truth on occasion.” Batiatus stood up, splashing water on the floor. He padded about the small room barefoot and gestured with his cup.

“The odour of future coin reaches nostril, Lucretia. A man free to part with six thousand for one black-haired cunt must be willing to part with a great deal more for extravagances beyond it. The House of Batiatus profits from the indulgences of men such as this. We have but to offer magnificent spectacle and coin will flow to us in a torrent. And who better to tempt brimming purse than the slayer of Theokoles, whose fame now reachesRomeitself?”

“Crixus fought Theokoles as well,” Lucretia said, drawing her robe about her. “He yet lives to return to glory.”

Batiatus snorted. “He is a shell of the behemoth that used to stride into the arena. Spartacus hauls in the crowd like fish into net. And we will use him to land the extravagant Greek. Make preparations for his invitation to ludus. We will whet his appetite for blood.”

“A thing requiring great expense,” Lucretia said waspishly, stung by her husband’s ready dismissal of Crixus, who before his recent injuries had frequently shared her bed.

“A worthy expenditure when the reward to reap is great. I will speak with Doctore to gauge if the Thracian’s training in the new style becomes him.”

“Spartacus is untrustworthy, Quintus,” Lucretia protested. “With his wife dead, what will bind him to our purpose?”

“His gratitude for what I have done for him,” Batiatus said. “I brought him his wife. True, she lived but a moment before dying in his arms, but she was yet his wife, delivered as promised. For granting him presence in her last moment, I earn his gratitude. The man holds honor close to chest despite wild Thracian blood running within. Whatever I desire of him, he will repay with loyal duty.”

“Crixus is a man to place trust in as he has proved countless times,” Lucretia persisted. “He has delivered much to this house and dreams only of reclaiming victory in its name. He lives to please us, Batiatus.”

“I will hear no more of Crixus! The man lies injured with wounds that will forever diminish fighting skill. He will not be fit to take to sand before Saturnalia, if ever again. I will decide who fights for this house, Lucretia. I am its paterfamilias and its lanista.”

Lucretia realized she had overstepped the mark.

“You are right, Quintus. I do not mean to question judgement.”

Batiatus bent over her, smiling.

“And I do not mean to snap at you. Foundation of this house rests upon shoulders of devoted wife just as much as myself. Spare no coin. Perfume every slave and lay out the richest spread of food. When this shit-eating Greek enters our house he will collapse under weight of stimulating delicacies. And upon his sating, we will display the titans of the arena that reside under roof. Hieronymus will depart with voice singing of the marvels of the House of Batiatus.”

“To send song alighting the ears of Roman friends in exalted positions,” Lucretia said. She smiled like a cat.

“Our thoughts are as one.” Batiatus kissed his wife on the mouth and then spread his arms expansively.

“Fetch Orontesto return and display only his best wares,” he declared. “The wife of Batiatus shall shine like the brightest star in sky.”