Disclaimer: I own nothing of Spartacus: Blood and Sand. That all belongs to Steven S. Knight, Starz, etc. etc.
A/N: Just a drabble about something that I feel could have been a truth of the House of Batiatus, and another reason as to why Quintus was so desperate to move himself up in the world...
He finds her on her bed, solitary, bereft of any comfort, slave or otherwise. Lucretia has clearly sent them all away, too disgusted by one's betrayal to stomach any of them. Naevia's liaison with Crixus has upset her more deeply than he has anticipated. The idea of that slave with his wife...it makes fire grow in his veins. A whipping would never be enough, he sees that. He will order more proper punishment in the morning. His attention returns to her, noticing how her head is bowed. Loose red curls of her wig fall along her elegant shoulders, nightdress hanging around her frame. His previous words undoubtedly ring in her head, as they do in his, as she sits alone. Her hands gently caress her belly, as though in protection of the child within. He grimaces, waves off his own body servant; he would rather face her alone, for the tale he bears must never leave this room.
The footfall of sandal to stone alert her to his presence, and in her haste to make herself presentable, she stumbles as she rises. His heart, shriveled as it is, twists as he notices the tear tracks left upon her face. Lucretia has never been one to cry, not unduly, and it pains him even when it is her own folly that brings it on. Gently, he takes her elbow, guiding her back down onto the bed. The curtains of the bedchamber flutter in the breeze, not a whisper of sound flowing to them as they sit together. Swallowing against dried throat, he finds the courage to speak to her.
"Did I never tell you, dear one, that the children conceived in the last three generations of the House of Batiatus have been bastards?"
Lucretia's eyes widen at the thought, her hands clenching into the fine silken sheets beneath them. Smoothly, he untangles her fingers from them, instead holding them firmly within his own. His lets his gaze slide sadly downward, looking at the bump that they had wished to have on her for years.
"No, I can see that I never confessed such truths to you," he continues, shooting her a rueful look. "Why should I, as one of those very bastards before you? Oh, for sure the man I called father was that in word, but the one who committed deed was another."
His wife stares in shock. He can see the memories twisting in her head, of the man who had belittled and undermined him as he grew. Her father-in-law, who had claimed that she—she!—was not good enough for his son or his house. The remarks, the backhanded compliments, the brute force of his will upon his son...and yet, he did not sire the man before her. He looks away then, choosing to glare the wall opposite them.
"For not only are the children of the House of Batiatus bastards, but the fathers have always been those who have built this house's name from the sands up. Those who toiled in the dirt, swinging sword, wielding net and spear, perched on the edges of glory to one day bask in its light in the arena."
He sees the words sink in now, sees the mix of dread and knowledge coming to light in her eyes. He knows he must continue now, cannot falter in this. The fact that he carries the mantle of Roman citizen, even if he is among the undesirable ones, is a total lie. It is a lie that goes straight into the foundations of this house, into the stones and the dirt of the training yard, where another man is shackled, broken by his own lies.
"Yes, the man who gave seed to mother was a gladiator. As was my father's sire. The last legitimate Batiatus to hold the name was my great-grandfather, who had purchased this ludus as a way of bringing himself up in the world. Not very far, but then no Batiatus had such grand ambitions as I," he confesses, the pride in himself dribbling into his speech. He risks a glance at her, and sees a bit of pride for him reflected there. No matter what else he could say about his wife, he does know that she is proud of his ambitious nature. She would see him rise further still, if only because she knew it would please him. He half grins at that.
His mind descends back, back to his youth, when he first noticed that not all was well between him and his father. Half the time, the man did not seem to want to hear him speak of the future, of politics, of ambition to be set higher in Roman regard. He could not understand why the man would turn from him upon sight most times, did not know why his looks blended anger and deep regret when eyes laid upon him. He did not know, not until a moment of rage overtook his father one night, the shout that he was not his son, that he was no true child of his, and that his mother had to lay beneath one of his bought men to beget him. A brood mare, he lamented, made from a fine Roman lady, only to spawn forth his lackluster boy with eyes on things too grand for his stature. And he was not alone in this, for Father was the same as he, and his father before him. A House of Bastards, he'd called those who had borne the name Batiatus, and they would remain a House of Bastards until all was dust.
Years later, Father would pretend he never said such things, calling him "son" still, until death intervened with cruel hand. He sighs; the very least he can say is that his father, the man who had raised him, had been an honest man. Honesty is a double-edged sword, one that he has put into storage long ago. However, some occasions still call for it to be wielded. If the look on Glaber's wife's face was any indication, tonight was certainly the right time for it.
"Since him, no other child borne of this house has had a shred of legitimacy to his name. The gods sought to no more bless him with children than they have with us, and so his wife gave herself to one of his best. He was no champion, but in those days, this house had no need of one."
He stands again, hovering in the archway, the curtains billowing around him. His figure would look ominous, foreboding. The silhouette is almost ruined when he fears the smile that could break out fully on his face; it would so destroy the mood he was setting.
"Since then, only champions have been chosen for the domina when she must bear child. I suppose I can be grateful for your tastes in that regard, my love, even if you cared nothing for feeling."
Still she says nothing, cannot think to say anything. Why is he telling her this? Many questions flit through her mind, as he knows they must, but he holds up a hand as if the gesture could wave them away. He dispels her inner ramblings, pushes away his own fury and hurt, to finish.
"None of this house are legitimate in birth, but we have proven time and again to be the ones to build the House of Batiatus onwards and upwards. We may not be blood Romans, but we are heart and soul of this great Republic, and I would wish that we continue to be known as such. For exposure to one exposes us all, my love."
Her mouth gapes, and he sees fear dawn deep in her eyes. In a perverse moment of pleasure, he allows himself to drink in that look. She has hurt him with this constant betrayal, laying with Crixus, and he wants her to further understand him.
"Make no mistake, Lucretia. Though that shit-eating Gaul put seed in your belly, the child is mine, as much as you are mine, and everything else in this ludus. This is the House of Batiatus, and it will remain my house until gods take breath from me."
Having said his piece, he leaves her then, caring not if she is grieving at all that she has lost, or what she has truly inherited. Quintus Lentulus Batiatus had much to set right in his house now that he had been embarrassed and cornered; where better to start than his own family?
A/N 2: Hope you enjoyed that. Please review, and all that. Thanks in advance to those who do.