Batiatus lunged. Pelorus, with the slow, economical grace of a man who had dodged death forty-seven times, sidestepped. He used his stump to hook Batiatus’s wrist and his good hand to drive the little whittling knife—the one he’d been sharpening for ten years—up under the lanista’s chin.
“You should not be here,” he said. His voice was gravel and rust. It was the first time he’d spoken to anyone in weeks. spartacus: blood and sand
The sun over Capua was a relentless hammer, forging sweat and pain into the currency of the arena. In the shadow of the great ludus of Batiatus, two slaves stood apart from the clatter of wooden swords and the grunts of training men. One was Spartacus, his body a map of healing wounds, his eyes holding a fire that had not yet found its fuel. The other was a man named Varro, his easy smile a fragile mask. Batiatus lunged
The story of Pelorus was a story Batiatus liked to tell guests during lavish dinners, a cautionary tale seasoned with profit. “He was my father’s greatest investment,” Batiatus would say, swirling wine. “A net and trident fighter from Crete. Won forty-seven bouts. Forty-seven! The mob adored him. He was Insutribilis —the Unbroken.” “You should not be here,” he said
He walked calmly to Batiatus’s private study. The lanista was there, trembling, a dagger in his fat hand.
Pelorus shook his head, looking back at the ludus, at the bodies of the masters and the freed slaves. “My war ended ten years ago, Thracian. I just didn’t know it. Go. Make sure theirs does not.”