As Sure as the Dawn (3 page)

“Neither I nor Rizpah will keep your son from you.”

“I’ve only your word on that, and who are you to me but a stranger? And a mad one, at that!” he said with a telling glance at the worshipers. “I have no reason to trust you.” He gave a sneering laugh. “And even less reason to trust any woman.”

“You trusted Hadassah.”

His face darkened.

John studied him for a moment, then told him how to find Rizpah. “I pray your heart will be moved by the compassion and mercy God has shown you by sparing your son’s life. Rizpah is a woman of tried faith.”

“Meaning what?”

“She has endured many tragedies in her young life.”

“This one is not of my doing.”

“No, but I ask that you lay no blame upon her for what has happened.”

“The fault was with his mother. I lay no blame upon Hadassah or you or this widow,” Atretes said, relenting now that he had the information for which he had come. “Besides,” he added with a wry smile, “I’ve no doubt this widow of yours will feel much better when she is generously recompensed for her trouble.” He ignored John’s wince at his words. Turning away, he saw the crowd had grown quiet. “What are they waiting for?”

“They thought you came to be baptized.”

With a sneering laugh, Atretes strode up the hill, not sparing another glance at those who gathered at the river.

Atretes returned to his villa by way of the outer road and waited again. It would be safer to enter the city after dark, and there were other matters that, in his haste, he had neglected to consider.

“Lagos!” His booming voice echoed up the marble staircase.
“Lagos!”

A man ran along the upper corridor. “My lord!”

“Go to the slave market and buy me a wet nurse.”

Lagos hurried down the stairs. “A . . . wet nurse, my lord?”

“Make sure she’s German.” He strode through the courtyard toward the baths.

Lagos followed, distressed. He had had several masters, and this one had by far been the most mercurial. Lagos had been greatly honored to be counted among the slaves belonging to Atretes, the foremost gladiator in all of the Roman Empire, but he’d never expected the man to be on the verge of madness. During the first week he’d spent in this villa, Atretes had smashed all the furnishings, set fire to his bedroom, then disappeared. After a month, Silus and Appelles, two gladiators Atretes had purchased from Sertes as guards, had gone out looking for him.

“He’s living in the hill caves,” Silus reported upon their return.

“You must bring him back!”

“And risk getting killed? Forget it! You go, old man. Not me. I value my life.”

“He’ll starve.”

“He’s eating the flesh of animals he hunts down with one of those bloody
framea
Germans use,” Appelles informed him. “He’s gone
feri
again.”

“Shouldn’t we do something?” Saturnina said. The slave girl was clearly distressed that her master had reverted to a barbarian savage and was living like a wild beast.

“What would you suggest we do, sweeting? Send you into his cave to improve his mood? You’d have better luck with me.” Silus said, pinching her cheek. She slapped his hand away and he laughed. “You know you’re secretly happy the Lady Julia spurned your master. If he ever regains his mind and comes back, you’ll be waiting in the doorway.”

While Silus and Appelles lolled around, drinking and talking about old battles in the arena, Lagos had taken charge of the household. All was kept in order and readiness should the master regain his mind and return.

Which he had, without warning. After being gone for five months, he simply strode into the villa one day, threw off the furs he was wearing, bathed, shaved, and donned a tunic. Then he sent one of the servants for Sertes, and when the editor of the games came, they were briefly closeted together. The following afternoon, a messenger came telling Atretes the woman he sought was in the dungeon. Atretes left as soon as it was dark.

Now, he was back asking for a wet nurse. A
German
wet nurse, as though they grew like grapes on a vine! There was no child in the household, and Lagos didn’t even want to contemplate his master’s reasons for the demand he was making. He had one main concern paramount in his mind: survival.

Steeling himself, he gathered his courage and opened his mouth to make his master aware of certain unavoidable facts. “It may not be possible, my lord.”

“Pay whatever the going price is. I don’t care how high it is.” Atretes tossed his belt aside.

“It’s not always a matter of price, my lord. Germans are in great demand, especially if they’re blonde, and the supply is sporadic. . . .” He felt the blood draining from his face at the sardonic look Atretes gave him. If anyone knew these facts, he would. Lagos wondered if Atretes was even aware that a new statue of Mars had been erected, and its resemblance to the gladiator who stood looking at him so impatiently was remarkable. Statuettes of Atretes were still being sold outside the arena. Just the other day, at the marketplace, Lagos had seen idolmaker shops selling figures of an Apollo that looked like Atretes, though it was slightly more well endowed than nature made any man.

“I’m sorry, my lord, but there may not be a German wet nurse available.”

“You’re a Greek. Greeks are resourceful. Find one! She doesn’t have to be blonde, but make sure she’s
healthy.”
He stripped off his tunic, revealing the body that countless amoratae worshiped. “And have her here by tomorrow morning.” He stepped to the edge of the pool.

“Yes, my lord,” Lagos said grimly, deciding it was best to work quickly rather than waste time trying to reason with a mad barbarian. If he failed, Atretes would no doubt eat his liver like the raven that feasted perpetually upon the god Prometheus.

Atretes dove into the pool, the cool water a relief to his feverish mind. He came up and shook the water from his hair. He would go back to the city tonight. Alone. If he took Silus and Appelles with him, they would draw attention. Besides, even two trained guards were no match against a mob. It would be far better if he went into the city by himself. He would wear commoner’s clothing and keep his hair covered. Thus disguised, he should have no difficulty.

When he finished bathing, he roamed through the house. Restless and tense, he strayed from room to room until he came to the largest on the second floor. He hadn’t set foot in this chamber since setting it on fire over five months ago. He glanced around, seeing that the servants had taken it upon themselves to remove the charred furnishings, wall hangings, and shattered Corinthian vases. Though they had certainly scrubbed the marble, there was still physical evidence of his rage and the destruction he had intended. He had purchased this villa for Julia, intending to bring her here as his wife. He had been well aware of how Julia reveled in luxury and remembered how proud he had been when he had furnished it with the most expensive things. They would have shared this room.

Instead, she had married someone else.

He could still hear her crying out her lies and paltry excuses when he came to claim her a few months after he had gained his freedom. She said her husband was a homosexual with a catamite and had no interest in her. She said she had married him to protect her financial independence, her
freedom.

Lying witch!

He should have known what she was from the beginning. Hadn’t she, with a heart of pure cunning, gone to the Artemision dressed as a temple prostitute in order to capture his interest? Hadn’t she bribed Sertes in order to summon him from the ludus any time she wanted? As long as it didn’t interfere with Sertes’ training schedule for him, the time had been granted. Ah, but like a fool, he had gone to her at the mere crook of her bejeweled finger. Besotted by her beauty, craving her wanton passion, he had gone—and she’d slaughtered him.

What a fool!

When he’d taken Julia Valerian into his arms, he’d thrown pride to the wind and self-respect into the dust. He had embraced shame. All during the months of their clandestine affair, he’d return to his cell in the ludus, depressed and discomforted, not wanting to face the truth. He’d known her for what she was, even then. Yet he had allowed her to use him, like everyone else had used him since he’d been taken prisoner, torn from his beloved Germania. Julia’s soft, silken arms had been stronger around his body than any chains that had ever held him.

The last time he’d seen her, she’d cried out that she loved him. Love! She’d known so little about love—and about him—that she had actually thought her marriage to someone else would make no difference. She’d thought he would gladly continue to come to her whenever the mood suited her.

By the gods, he knew he could wash for years and never get the taint of her off of him! Now, looking at the barren, devastated room before him, he swore no woman would ever have that kind of hold on him again!

As the sun set, Atretes donned a woolen cloak, tucked a dagger into his belt, and left for Ephesus. He headed northwest along the hills, using a path he knew well before seeking the road. Small houses dotted the countryside, but grew more numerous and closer together as he came nearer the city. Wagons laden with goods traveled the main road toward the gates. He walked unnoticed in the dark shadows of one, seeking cover from the growing throng.

The driver noticed him. “You there! Get away from the wagon!”

Atretes made a rude hand gesture.

“You want a fight?!” the driver shouted, rising from the seat. Atretes laughed derisively, but said nothing. His accent would be noted—Germans weren’t common in this part of the Empire. He left the darkness and strode by the torches and Roman sentries. One soldier glanced at him and their eyes met for the briefest second. Atretes saw a quickening of interest in the Roman’s eyes and lowered his head so his face wouldn’t be seen clearly. The guard spoke to a comrade, and Atretes moved in among a group of travelers, then ducked down the first available street. He waited in the darkness, but the sentry didn’t send anyone to follow.

Atretes started off again, thankful the moon was full enough to reflect off the white stones inset on the granite slab road.

John had explained that the woman who had his son lived on the second level of a rundown
insula
in the poor district, southeast of the complex of libraries near the Artemision. Atretes knew he could find the right building if he went through the heart of the city.

As he neared the temple, the crowds increased. Following a maze of alleyways in an effort to avoid them, he stumbled over a man sleeping against a wall. The man groaned, cursed, pulled his cloak over his head, and curled onto his side.

Hearing voices behind him, Atretes hastened his steps. As he rounded a corner, someone from a third floor window poured night soil down into the street. He jumped back in disgust and shouted up at the open window.

The voices fell silent, but he heard movement in the darkness of the alleyway behind him. Turning, he narrowed his eyes. Six shapes came toward him, moving stealthily. He turned fully, ready. Realizing they had been seen, the stalkers’ manner changed to boldness. Several made mocking sounds meant to frighten him. Spreading out, they came on, circling the front of him. One was clearly the leader, for he motioned and the other five moved into carefully plotted positions intended to block a victim’s escape.

Seeing the glint of a blade, Atretes smiled coldly. “You will not find me easy.”

“Your money pouch,” the leader said. From the voice, Atretes knew he was young.

“Go home to your bed, boy, and you might live through the night.”

The youth gave a derisive laugh, still advancing on him.

“Wait, Palus,” one said, sounding nervous.

“I don’t have a good feeling,” another said in the darkness. “He’s a head taller—”

“Shut up, Tomas! There are six of us and only one of him.”

“Maybe he has no money.”

“He has money. I heard the coins jingle. Heavy coins.” Palus stepped closer. The others followed his lead. “The pouch!” He snapped his fingers. “Toss it to me.”

“Come and take it.”

No one moved. Palus called him a foul name, his young voice shaking with enraged pride.

“I didn’t think you’d do it,” Atretes said, scraping his attacker’s pride again. The youth with the knife lunged at him.

It had been months since Atretes had fought, but it didn’t matter. All the training and finely honed instincts came back in an instant. He moved sharply, dodging the thrust of the dagger. Catching the boy’s wrist, he drew the arm down and around, snapping it from the shoulder socket. Palus went down screaming.

The others didn’t know whether to run or attack, until one fool did the latter, and the rest followed. One of them punched Atretes in the face, while another jumped on his back. Atretes slammed his full weight back against the wall and kicked the one in front low and hard.

Atretes took two punches in the side of the head as he brought his elbow up sharply and connected a blow to an attacker’s chest. The thief dropped, gasping for breath.

In the scuffle, Atretes’ mantle came loose and fell back off his head, leaving his hair to shine blonde in the moonlight.