Free Spartacus by Howard Fast Page B

meaningful. The general had a program of work before him; the young officer maintained the attitude of a gentleman toward such as Batiatus.

    “I am all of that,” answered Batiatus. “Wet and tired, but most of all starved to death. I asked this young man whether I could eat, but he thought it was an unreasonable request.”

    “We are conditioned to follow orders very precisely,” said Crassus. “My orders were to bring you to me as soon as you came. Now, of course, your every wish will be mine to please. I am quite conscious of what an arduous journey you had here. Dry clothes, of course—immediately. Do you want a bath?”

    “The bath can wait. I want to put something between my ribs.”

    Smiling, the young officer left the tent.
     

II
     
    They had finished with broiled fish and baked eggs, and now Batiatus was devouring a chicken, breaking it apart and cleaning every bone thoroughly. At the same time, he dipped regularly into a wooden bowl of porridge and washed the food down with huge draughts from a beaker of wine. The chicken and porridge and wine smeared his mouth; bits of food were already dirtying the clean tunic Crassus had given him; and his hands were greasy with chicken fat.

    Crassus watched him with interest. As with so many Romans of his class and generation, he had a particularized social contempt for the lanista , the man who schooled and trained gladiators, who bought them and sold them and hired them out for the arena. It was only in the past twenty years that the lanistae had become a power in Rome, a political and financial power, and frequently men of enormous wealth, such as this fat, gross man who sat at the table here with him. Only a generation ago, arena fighting was an intermittent and not too important feature of society. It had always been present; it was more popular with certain elements, less popular with others. Then, suddenly, it had become the rage of Rome. Everywhere, arenas were built. The smallest town had its wooden arena for fights. The fighting of one pair turned into the fighting of a hundred pairs, and a single set of games would go on for a month. And instead of reaching a point of satiation, the lust of the public grew seemingly without end.

    Cultured Roman matrons and street hoodlums took equal interest in the games. A whole new language of the games had arisen. Army veterans looked forward to nothing else but the public dole and the games, and ten thousand workless, homeless citizens lived for no other apparent reason than to watch the games. Suddenly, the market in gladiators was a seller’s market, and the gladiatorial schools came into being. The school at Capua, which Lentulus Batiatus operated, was one of the largest and most prosperous. Just as the cattle from certain latifundia were desired in every market place, so were the gladiators of Capua esteemed and desired in every arena. And from a street man, a third rate ward heeler, Batiatus had become a rich man and one of the most notable trainers of bustuarii in all Italy.

    “Yet,” thought Crassus as he watched him, “he is still a street man, still a crafty, vulgar, scheming animal. See how he eats!” It was always difficult for Crassus to comprehend how so very many poorly-born and ill-mannered men had more money than many of his friends could ever hope to have. Certainly, they were not less clever than this gross trainer. Take himself; he knew his own value as a military man; he had the Roman virtues of thoroughness and doggedness, and he did not look upon military tactics as something that came to one instinctively. He had studied every campaign recorded, and he had read all the best of the Greek historians. Nor did he make—as every previous general in this war had made—the mistake of underestimating Spartacus. Yet he sat here across the table from this gross man and in some curious way, he felt inferior.

    He shrugged and said to Batiatus, “You must understand that I have no feelings about