A Voice in the Wind (7 page)

Astride his black stallion, Severus watched the young German fight. Though surrounded by soldiers, death assured, the dog mocked his attackers openly. As Severus looked on, the giant swung his weapon in a wide circle, laughing loudly as the Roman soldiers drew back. When another challenged him, he made swift work of him, using his long spear like a sword and club in one. Stepping over the fallen man, he held the weapon between two hands and grinned fiercely, taunting the others in that heathenish language only a German tribesman could understand. When yet another challenger came at him, he moved so swiftly that the soldier passed him altogether. The man tried to check himself, but it was too late. The barbarian slammed one end of the spear into the soldier’s helmet and, bringing the other end around, sliced mercilessly across the exposed neck.

“Enough of this!” Severus shouted, furious. “Do you plan to die one by one? Take him down!” When three entered the circle, intent upon the young German’s blood, he shouted again. “
I want him alive
!”

Though Atretes didn’t understand the orders, he knew something was changing by the look on his attackers’ faces. They used their swords to block his blows, but not to return them. Perhaps they meant to keep him alive long enough to crucify him. Uttering an enraged scream, he lashed out with fury. If death were coming for him, he’d greet it with a framea in his hands.

More soldiers closed in on him, slamming him with their shields. The biggest caught hold of the spear, while another brought the flat of his sword against the side of his head. Crying out in fury to Tiwaz, Atretes brought his framea down and cracked his forehead hard against his adversary’s face. As the man dropped, Atretes lunged forward over two other men. He dodged a shield, but, before he could raise his weapon again, the flat of a sword hit and briefly stunned him. He brought his foot up hard into the groin of one attacker, but another blow to his back made his knees buckle. Another blow dropped him.

Instinctively, he rolled and attempted to regain his feet, but four men grabbed his arms and legs. They forced him down while another tried to bang the spear free of his clenched fist. Atretes kept up his savage yell, bucking and struggling. The Roman commander dismounted and stood over him. He gave a quiet order, and the butt of a sword was brought against Atretes’ temple. He gripped the framea until blackness overcame him.

Atretes awakened slowly. Disoriented, he didn’t know where he was. His vision was blurred and, instead of the clean scent of the forest, the smell of blood and urine filled his nostrils. His head throbbed and he tasted blood in his mouth. He tried to rise and only managed a few inches before the sound of rattling chains sent stabs of pain through his temples and brought back the full realization of his defeat. Groaning, he sank back.

His mother’s prophecy mocked him. She’d said he would be undefeated by any foe, yet here he lay, chained on a slab of wood, awaiting an unknown fate. He had failed his people; he had failed himself.

“If we die, let us die free men!” his warriors had cried when he offered them the choice of moving the tribe north or continuing the fight against Roman dominion. How bitterly this pledge stuck in his throat now, for neither he nor they had ever once considered being taken captive. Unafraid of death, they had gone into battle intent on slaying as many of their enemy as they could. All men were fated to die. Atretes and his clansmen always believed their deaths would come in battle.

Now, chained down, Atretes knew the gut-wrenching humiliation of defeat. He struggled violently against his chains and blacked out. Rousing again moments later, he waited for the dizziness and nausea to pass before he opened his eyes.

Turning his head, he tried to evaluate his position. He was in a small room built of thick logs. Sunlight streamed in through a small, high window, making him squint as pain shot through his head. He was stretched out and chained down to a large table. Even his sagum had been stripped from him. He moved sluggishly, testing his bonds as pain licked through his shoulders and back. Short, thick chains were attached to iron manacles around his wrists and ankles.

Two men entered the room.

Atretes rose slightly, jerking at his restraints. He uttered a short, foul curse, insulting them. They stood placidly, savoring their victory. One, dressed in magnificent armor and a scarlet cloak, held a bronzed helmet beneath his arm. Atretes recognized him as the high-ranking officer who had stood at the battle’s end. The other man wore a finely woven tunic and dark travel cloak, both bespeaking wealth.

“Ah, so you are conscious,” Severus said, grinning down into the fierce blue eyes of the young warrior. “I am gratified to know you are alive and have some wits about you. My men would like to see you flogged and crucified, but I have other, more profitable plans for you.”

Atretes did not understand Latin or Greek, but the officer’s insolent manner fanned his rebellious nature. He fought the restraints violently, uncaring of the pain it caused him.

“Well, what do you think of him, Malcenas?”

“He growls like a beast and stinks,” the merchant said.

Severus laughed softly and straightened. “Take a good long look at this one, Malcenas. I think you’ll find him out of the ordinary and the price I have set on him more than fair.”

Atretes’ rage grew as the merchant moved closer and began an avid perusal of him. When the man reached out to touch him, Atretes lunged, jerking hard against the chains. The explosion of pain in his head and shoulder only incensed him further. He spit on the man. “Foul Roman pig!” He swore and struggled.

Malcenas grimaced and took a small cloth from his sleeve and dabbed his tunic delicately. “These Germans are no better than animals, and what a heathenish tongue he speaks.”

Severus grabbed the young man by the hair, forcing his head back. “An animal, yes. But what an animal! He has the face of Apollo and the body of Mars.” The German jerked violently, trying to sink his teeth into his tormentor’s arm. Severus yanked his head back again, holding him tighter this time.

“You know very well, Malcenas, that one look at this well-formed young barbarian, and the women of Rome will go mad for the games.” He looked at Malcenas’ flushed face, and his mouth tipped cynically. “And some men as well, I think, if I may judge by the look on your face.”

Malcenas’ full lips tightened. He could not look away from the young warrior. He knew Germans to be fierce, but one look into this warrior’s blue eyes sent a shudder of fear through him. Even with him chained, Malcenas didn’t feel safe. It excited him. Ah, but money was money, and Severus was demanding a fortune for this captive. “He is very beautiful, Severus, but is he trainable?”

“Trainable?” Severus laughed and let go of the warrior’s blond hair. “You should have seen this barbarian fight. He is a better gladiator now than any you have sent to the arena in the last ten years.“ His smile flattened out. ”He killed more than a dozen trained legionnaires in the first few minutes of battle. It took four seasoned soldiers to hold him down. They couldn’t pry that bloody framea from his hand. Not until I had him knocked out.“ He gave a sardonic laugh. ”I don’t think he’ll need much training. Just keep him chained until you’re ready to turn him loose in the arena.“

Malcenas admired the straining muscles of the powerful young body. Oiled, he would look like a bronzed god. And that mane of long blond hair. Romans loved blonds!

“Nevertheless,” Malcenas said with a regretful sigh, hoping to drive Severus’ price down, “what you ask is too much.”

“He’s worth it. And more!”

“Mars himself is not worth your price.”

Severus shrugged. “A pity you cannot afford him.” He gestured toward the door. “Come. I will sell you two others of inferior quality.”

“You won’t bargain?”

“It’s a waste of my time and yours. Prochorus will buy him without quibbling over a few thousand
sesterces
.”

“Prochorus!” At the mention of his competitor, Malcenas knew an instant of fury.

“He arrives tomorrow.”

“Very well,” he said impatiently, his face darkening. “I’ll take this one.”

Severus grinned. “A wise decision, Malcenas. You are a shrewd man when it comes to human flesh.”

“And you, my dear Severus, have a merchant’s black heart.”

“Do you wish to see the others?”

“You said they were inferior. Offer them to Prochorus. I’ll put my seal on the contract for this one, and the funds will be transferred to you as soon as I return to Rome.”

“Agreed.”

Malcenas went to the closed door and rapped on it. A man in a simple tunic entered quickly. Malcenas nodded to Atretes. He knew the journey to the
ludus
, the training school for gladiators, would not be a short one. “See to him, Quintus. He’s opened his wounds. I don’t want him bleeding to death before we reach the ludus in Capua.”

ROME

3

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Decimus Vindacius Valerian poured more wine, then thumped the silver pitcher down on a marble table. He looked across the marble table at his son, who was lounging on the couch, an indolent look on his handsome face. The young man was trying his patience. They’d been talking for over an hour and Decimus had gotten nowhere with him.

Marcus sipped the Italian Falernian and nodded. “Excellent wine, Father.” The compliment was met with a stony glance. As always, his father was trying to direct him down the course he’d chosen for his son. Marcus smiled to himself. Did his father really expect capitulation? He was part of his sire, after all. When would the elder Valerian realize that his son had his own ideas to carry out, his own way to follow?

His father was a restless man, given to fits of irascibility when he didn’t get his way. Doggedly, he continued, his demeanor seemingly calm, which Marcus was well aware was only a veneer concealing the temper boiling beneath.

“Vespasian, for all his brains and tactical ability as a general, is still a plebeian, Marcus. And as a plebeian, he hates the aristocracy that has almost destroyed our Empire. A member of the senate claimed his genealogist had traced the emperor’s line back to Jupiter. Vespasian laughed in his face.”

Marcus shrugged and rose from the couch. “So I’ve heard, Father. He removed four senators whose bloodlines go back to Romulus and Remus.”

“If you believe in such nonsense.”

“It’s in my best interest to believe. This Flavian admits openly to being the son of a Spanish tax collector, and that may be his ultimate downfall. He is a commoner who has taken the reins of an Empire founded on royal bloodlines.”

“Just because you’re the biggest dog doesn’t mean you’re the smartest or the best. Vespasian may not have the bloodlines, but he is a born leader.”

“I share your admiration of Vespasian, Father. Galba was a senile fool and Otho, greedy and stupid. As for Vitellius, I suspect the only reason he wanted to be emperor was to have the wealth to fill his belly with goose livers and hummingbird tongues. I’ve never seen a man eat with such passion.“ His dry smile flattened. ”Vespasian is the only man strong enough to hold the Empire together.“

“Exactly, and he will need strong young senators to help him.”

Marcus could feel his smile stiffening. So that was it. He had wondered why his father had given in so easily when Marcus had refused his suggestion of a suitable marriage. Now it made sense. Father had a bigger topic to approach: Politics. A blood sport if ever there was one, to Marcus‘“ way of thinking.

The gods hadn’t been kind to his father the last few years. Fire and rebellion had cost him several warehouses and millions of sesterces in goods destroyed. He’d blamed Nero, despite the emperor’s efforts to blame the conflagration on the Christian sect. Those close to Nero had been aware of his dream to redesign and rebuild Rome, renaming it Neropolis. Instead, the madman had succeeded in the city’s destruction.

Rome staggered in rebellion over Nero’s mismanagement.

Emperor Galba had proven a fool. When he ordered all those who had received gifts and pensions from Nero to return nine-tenths to the treasury, he had assured his death. Within weeks, the Praetorian Guard had handed his head to Otho and proclaimed the bankrupt merchant the new emperor of Rome.

Rome stumbled.

Otho served no better. As Vitellius’ legions invaded Italy and swept away the northern garrisons of the Praetorian Guard, Otho committed suicide. Yet, once in power, Vitellius worsened the situation by relinquishing his responsibilities to the corruptions of his freedman, Asiaticus. Vitellius, foul pig that he was, retired to the life of a fat, slothful, epicurean gourmand.

As power washed back and forth like a tide, upheaval spread throughout the Empire. The Judean revolt continued. Another started in Gaul. German tribes united under the command of the Roman-trained Civilis and attacked frontier outposts.

Rome was on her knees.

It took Vespasian to bring her to her feet again. As word carried through the provinces the disintegration of government, the generals’ legions proclaimed Vespasian their emperor, and they upheld their proclamation by sending General Antonius and a great army into Italy to dethrone Vitellius. Defeating an army at Cremona, Antonius marched into Rome, killing Vitellius’ troops without quarter. Vitellius himself was found hiding in the palace and was dragged half-naked through the streets. The citizenry pelted him with dung and tortured him without mercy. Even with his death, the masses and soldiers were not satisfied. They mutilated Vitellius’ body, dragging it by hook through the city streets and finally discarding what remained in the muddy Tiber.

“You say nothing,” Decimus said, frowning.

His father’s words drew Marcus out of his reverie. He had seen too many die in the past few years to desire a career in politics. Young men, whose only mistake was to support the wrong man, were dead. Granted, Vespasian was an honorable and able man, a man accustomed to battle. However, to Marcus’ thinking, that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t fall prey to a concubine’s poison or an assassin’s dagger.