Chapter 21: The Fall of a Hope

The gates of the ludus opened again. This time it wasn't to welcome warriors, but a group of slave traders herding their new merchandise. A group of women, bound to each other with rough ropes, were pushed into the scorching training yard.

Training ceased. The gladiators turned, their hungry eyes stripping the newcomers bare. Harsh whistles and lewd laughter erupted from their ranks. Batiatus walked among the women like a cattle breeder, lifting their chins, inspecting their teeth. Lucretia observed from the balcony with a bored expression.

Ulysses watched from a distance. He saw a young girl whose body trembled violently. He saw an older woman with defiant eyes, a fire of resistance still burning there. He saw them all. They were new pawns in this cruel game.

He also saw Crixus. The fallen Gallic Champion walked towards one of the most frightened new women. Without a word, he grabbed the girl's arm and dragged her into the barracks. Ulysses observed the act. He didn't see strength. He saw a broken man trying to feel a flicker of power by oppressing someone weaker. A pathetic sight.

Later that afternoon, Doctore made an announcement. "Varro," he called, his voice flat. "As a reward for your victory in the arena, Batiatus permits a visit from your wife."

The training yard fell silent. Family visits were an almost unheard-of luxury. Varro's face froze in disbelief, then broke into a wide, genuine smile. He ran towards Ulysses, embracing his friend tightly.

"Did you hear that, Ulysses? Aurelia! She's coming!" Varro exclaimed, his eyes glistening.

Ulysses helped his friend prepare. Varro was so nervous that his hands trembled trying to tie his sandal straps. Ulysses gave him his own clean cloth. "She will see you as a fighter, Varro. A man who survived for her," Ulysses said.

He escorted Varro to a small, prepared room. His task was to stand guard outside the door.

From behind the thick wooden door, he heard sounds. A woman's happy cry. Then Varro's unrestrained laughter, a sound he had never heard before. He heard whispers, interspersed with sobs of profound relief. These were the sounds of genuine human connection. So different from the forced gasps or bartered groans usually heard in this ludus.

An hour later, a beautiful woman with eyes swollen from happy tears walked out. She gave Ulysses a deep, grateful nod.

Varro then emerged. His face shone with hope. "She brought me a drawing of my son," he told Ulysses, his voice trembling. "He's growing strong, Ulysses. I will be free. I will return to them. I promise."

Ulysses placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. He saw such bright hope in Varro's eyes, a blinding light in this dark place. And for the first time, his Basic Psychology registered a dissonance behind that light. He saw not just the flame, but how thin the wick was, how easily it could be snuffed out by the slightest breeze.

The invitation came a few days later. Magistrate Calavius was hosting a lavish feast to celebrate his son Numerius's birthday. Batiatus, in his attempt to continually curry favor with Capua's elite, would provide special "entertainment."

Ulysses, now one of Batiatus's prize gladiators, was part of the entourage. He stood as a silent guard in a corner of the magnificent villa garden, while the nobles laughed and drank wine. From his position, he saw everything. He saw Varro and Spartacus, also assigned to attend, standing together. They seemed relaxed, smiling, sharing jokes. They had been told they would perform an exhibition bout.

He also saw Ilithyia, sitting near Numerius, the boy who was the focus of the night.With his Basic Psychology, Ulysses observed Ilithyia. He saw the sweet smile she offered Numerius, but he also noted the unnatural stillness in her eyes whenever they glanced towards Spartacus a void where emotion should be. Her eyes kept glancing towards Spartacus.

When the main event arrived, the guests gathered around an open area in the garden. Batiatus announced a friendly bout between his two greatest champions: Spartacus and Varro.

The fight began. Flashes of real steel glittered under the garden lanterns. Their movements were swift and tightly controlled, a high-skill exhibition designed to dazzle, not to kill. Their swords rang loudly, CLANG, occasionally creating sparks as blade met blade. The audience applauded, mesmerized by the graceful dance of death. With a swift spinning move, Spartacus managed to deflect Varro's sword and place the cold, sharp tip of his own blade at his friend's throat. The show ended. Varro smiled, raised his hands, acknowledging defeat in the brilliant display.

Everyone turned to the guest of honor, Numerius, for a signal of approval. The boy smiled, raising his thumb.

But before he raised it up, Ulysses saw it. Ilithyia leaned in and whispered something into the boy's ear. The smile on Numerius's face faltered, replaced by an expression of confusion, then by a cruel mask of arrogance, mimicking the adults around him.

Slowly, the boy's thumb turned. Pointing down.

A chilling silence fell over the garden. The music stopped. Laughter froze.

Batiatus's face turned pale. He glared at Ilithyia with a look of rage and panic. Lucretia looked horrified.

Spartacus looked at Batiatus, his eyes pleading. But Batiatus could only shake his head in despair. The order had been given by the host. Honor had to be upheld.

Varro looked at Spartacus. His smile was gone, replaced by an expression of tragic resignation. "Just do it, brother," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Not by another's hand."

Ulysses watched the scene, a heavy dread settling in his stomach, making the air feel thin and hard to breathe. He saw Spartacus, tears streaming down his face, raise his sharp sword. He heard the wet, deep thrust. He saw his friend's body, Varro, collapse to the ground.

He saw the bright hope he had witnessed days ago, now extinguished forever for the fleeting amusement of depraved nobles.

Amidst the cheers of some drunken guests and the horror of others, Ulysses simply stood still.

The journey back to the ludus was silent. The laughter of the drunken nobles had long faded, replaced by a heavy, suffocating silence inside the cart carrying the gladiators home. Ulysses sat in a corner, his ribs still aching, but there was another pain far deeper. He looked at Spartacus sitting across from him. The champion merely stared blankly at the wooden floor, his face a stone mask, his eyes a bottomless pit of sorrow.

That night, the gladiators gathered in the training yard. In their midst, a pyre had been built. Varro's body, now wrapped in white cloth, was placed upon it.

Doctore handed Spartacus a torch.

Spartacus took it. His hand did not tremble. He walked to the pyre. He looked at his friend's face one last time. A face that days ago had shone with hope. Ulysses saw Spartacus's shoulders tremble violently for a moment, the only sign of the storm raging within him.

He set fire to the wood.

Flames blazed, licking the night, casting dancing shadows on the faces of the gladiators who watched in silence. They watched the ashes and smoke carry one of their brothers to the afterlife.

Ulysses felt the fire of his hatred cool, not disappearing, but compacting and hardening in his chest until it became as sharp and unyielding as steel. He remembered Varro's smile, his promise to return to his family. That promise had now turned to ashes, just like his body. Destroyed by a boy's whim and his masters' depravity.

Later, when most of the ludus had fallen asleep, Ulysses found Spartacus alone near the bath area, sitting on a cold stone, gazing at the dying embers of a bonfire.

Ulysses approached and sat beside him. Silence enveloped them for a long time.

"He was a good man," Ulysses finally said, his voice hoarse.

Spartacus did not answer. He just stared at the fire.

"They took him from you," Ulysses continued. He paused for a moment, then spoke the words that would change everything. "Just like they took Sura."

Spartacus's head snapped around, his red, swollen eyes staring sharply at Ulysses. "Bandits," he growled. "Batiatus said..."

"Batiatus lied," Ulysses cut in, his voice calm yet full of conviction. "There were no bandits, Spartacus. Only orders. Orders from Batiatus to ensure his champion remained bound here, driven by false hope and a rage he could sell in the arena."

Ulysses could see, with his new understanding, various emotions warring on Spartacus's face. Disbelief. Denial. Then, a slow creeping horror as the pieces of the terrible truth began to fit together in his mind. He remembered all of Batiatus's promises, all the delays, all the lies.

"How..." Spartacus whispered, his voice broken. "How do you know?"

"There are many whispers within these walls if you know where to listen," Ulysses replied. "And I am a good listener."

Spartacus rose to his feet. His face no longer showed grief. The abyss in his eyes was now completely filled with something else. Something purer and far more dangerous. Rage that had found its true target.

He looked at Ulysses. In that gaze, a silent vow had been made.