Pelorus watched her from the shadows. He saw the fear in her eyes—not the fear of death, but the hollow, gnawing fear of hope being tortured.
“Come with us,” Spartacus said.
He walked calmly to Batiatus’s private study. The lanista was there, trembling, a dagger in his fat hand. spartacus: blood and sand
He would lean in, his piggy eyes glittering. “Then came the forty-eighth. A brute from Germania, a butcher with a two-handed axe. Pelorus had him bleeding in three exchanges. The crowd was chanting his name. But the German, in his death throes, swung wild. Took two fingers. Pelorus fell. He didn’t die. Worse, he flinched after that. In the next bout, a simple Thracian rookie feinted, and Pelorus dropped his net. The mob laughed.” Pelorus watched her from the shadows
Sura startled, clutching a rag to her chest. “I… I cannot find the well.” He walked calmly to Batiatus’s private study
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.