Spartacus: Swords and Ashes

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He picked up a fruit knife and tapped gently on the side of a goblet. The sound barely traveled at all through the noise around him. Raucous laughter rolled over girlish giggling, the drums and pipes of the band, and the clash of finger cymbals from one of the few dancers still standing.

Pelorus climbed unsteadily to his feet, using the table for support, blocking the diners’ view of the two-horned crest of his house, which hung on the wall behind him. His fingers clutched at the wine-stained tablecloth, snagging and dragging several dishes toward him. A lamp clattered to the floor, bouncing into the shallow atrium pool, where it joined several floating dishes, apples, animal bones and a partially submerged, half-eaten bunch of grapes. The lamp sputtered and died, leaving a tail of fading smoke and an ever-growing film of oil on the surface of the pool.

“Friends…! Romans…! I entreat you! Silence for but a moment or two,” Pelorus called, half laughing. Someone in the shadows told him to fuck off, and there was more merriment all around.

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