A Voice in the Wind

  The owner entered when they were finished. When he came to stand in front of Hadassah, he studied her carefully. Then he lifted the slate and wrote something on it before moving on to the next.

  Roped together, they were taken to the slave market. The owner haggled with the auctioneer until a commission was agreed upon. Then a hawker was sent into the thronging quay to attract a crowd. “Jewish women for sale!” the hawker shouted. “Best of Titus’ captives at the lowest prices!” When a throng was gathered, the owner untied one woman and ordered her to stand on a huge round table fashioned like a potter’s wheel. A half-naked slave stood with a rope over his broad shoulder, awaiting the order to turn it.

  Jests and insults were flung at the woman by the onlookers. “Strip her and let us see what you’re really selling!” one shouted. “Cursed Jews! Send them to the dogs in the arena!” The woman stood erect, eyes staring straight ahead as the wheel was turned so that those staring at her could see all sides of the merchandise offered.

  However, there were those present who were in search of slaves for their households. One by one, the women were sold as a cook, a weaver, two seamstresses, a child’s nurse, a kitchen slave, and a water carrier. As each was sold, she was ordered down from the great wheel and led away on a rope by her new master. Hadassah felt bereft watching them go.

  She was the last to stand on the wheel.

  “She’s small and skinny, but she made the march to Antioch from Jerusalem, so she’s strong. She’ll make a good household slave!” the auctioneer said and opened the bidding at thirty sesterces as he had with the others. No one offered, so he lowered the price to twenty-five, then twenty, then fifteen.

  A thin man in a white toga with purple trim finally purchased her. She came down from the wheel and stood before him, her head bowed in obeisance, her hands clasped. The longer he studied her, the tighter seemed the brass slave collar. When he yanked the cloth from her head, she glanced up just long enough to look into his dismayed eyes. “What a pity they shaved your head,” he said. “With hair, you might look more like a female.” He thrust the cloth at her, and she quickly retied it.

  “I wonder which god is playing a joke on me this time,” he muttered in great annoyance as he took the rope that tied her wrists and began to walk briskly along the dock. Hadassah took two steps to his one, hurrying to keep up with him. Her side began to ache.

  Procopus dragged her along behind him, wondering what to do with her. His wife, Ephicharis, would have his head if he took her home with him. Ephi despised Jews, calling them treacherous and worthy of extermination. Her best friend’s son had been killed in Judea. He shook his head. What had possessed him to buy the girl in the first place? And what was he to do with her now? Ten sesterces for this mite. Ridiculous. He had been wandering the docks, minding his own business, dreaming of sailing off to Crete and leaving all his troubles behind when he had followed that hawker. He’d been curious to see the Jewish captives and had felt an unfamiliar pity when this one had had no buyer.

  He shouldn’t have gone to the docks today. He should have gone to the baths and had a massage. His head ached; he was hungry; he was furious with himself for feeling the least pity for this sprout. Had he kept his hand at his side, someone else would have her on a rope at this moment and he wouldn’t have this problem to deal with.

  Maybe he would make a gift of her to Tiberius and thus get her off his hands. Tiberius liked young girls, especially those too young to get pregnant. He glanced back at her. Her wide brown eyes flickered up to his and then dropped quickly away. Scared to death. And why not? Most of her race was dead. Hundreds of thousands of them, from what he had heard. Not that the Jews didn’t deserve extermination after all the trouble they had been to Rome.

  He frowned heavily. Tiberius wouldn’t want her. She was all bones and drawn skin and great, dark suffering eyes. Even a satyr couldn’t be aroused by such as this. Who else then?

  Clementia perhaps. She might need another maid, but he didn’t feel like facing his vitriolic mistress today. He doubted the gift of a scrawny female slave would endear him to her, especially as he hadn’t had the time to see his jeweler and purchase the needed bauble to dangle before her avaricious eyes. She was still furious over the brooch he had given her. He had not realized she was so astute, nor had he considered the possibility she’d have it so quickly appraised.

  “After all your promises, how dare you give me an imitation!” she’d screamed at him, flinging the lovely piece of jewelry at his head. Women were grotesquely unattractive when they wept, especially when the tears were inspired by rage. Clementia’s normally lovely countenance had been twisted into a mask of such ugliness that Procopus had retrieved the disparaged bauble and fled the apartment. His wife had accepted it with appropriate appreciation.

  Several Roman centurions stood guard over a line of ragged, emaciated slaves who were roped together and boarding a ship. There were forty or more men and women in the group. “Where are you bound for?” Procopus called to the commander who stood at the top of the loading plank.

  “Rome,” he called down.

  Hadassah’s heart plunged. She looked at the captives and knew their fate. Oh God, spare me, please.

  “Are they Jews?”

  “What do they look like? Roman citizens?”

  “Would you have use of another?” Procopus said, yanking the rope and pulling Hadassah forward. “Fifteen sesterces and you can have her.” The Roman laughed derisively. “Ten, then.” The Roman ignored him. “She’s strong enough to have made the march from Antioch. She’s strong enough for whatever you have in mind for those slaves.”

  “Strength won’t be required of them.”

  “I’ll sell her to you for seven sesterces.”

  “I wouldn’t pay one coin for a Jew,” the Roman called down. “Be off with you.”

  Procopus gave Hadassah a shove forward. “You can have her then! For nothing! Take her to Rome with the rest.” He tossed her rope out of his hands. “Go on and get in line with the others,” he ordered her. “I wash my hands of you.”

  Hadassah watched him stride away and felt the brief flicker of hope dwindling. “Move along,” the legionnaire said and pushed her. When she reached the top of the plank, she looked into the commander’s face. He was weathered by years of campaigning and stared back at her with hard, cold eyes.

  Festus despised Jews. Too many of his friends had died at their treacherous hands for him to feel pity for even a small girl like this one. He had watched her lips move as she came up the plank and knew she was beseeching her unseen god to save her. She was the only Jew in the bunch who had looked him full in the face, straight into his eyes. He caught hold of her rope and yanked her out of line. She looked at him again. He saw only fear, no rebellion.

  “You’re bound for Rome,” he said. “You know what that means, don’t you? The arena. I watched you beseech your god to save you, but you’re still bound for Rome, aren’t you?”

  When she said nothing, he grew angrier.

  “Do you understand Greek?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Her voice was soft, but held no tremor. Festus’ lips hardened. “It would seem your unseen god doesn’t mean to spare you after all, does he? What have you to say to that?”

  She looked up at him. “If God wills that I die, then I die. No power on earth can change that.”

  Simple words, quietly spoken and from a frail girl, but in them lay the seeds of more bloody rebellion. Festus’ lips tightened. “There is only one true power on this earth, girl, and it is the power of Rome.” He jerked his head at the centurion standing by. “Take her below with the rest.”

  Chapter 6

  Chains rattling and manacles digging into his ankles, Atretes was forced down off the wagon just inside the gates of the ludus of Capua. Malcenas had purchased nine other men on the way south, several purely for their size. Atretes learned quickly that they had no heart for blood, nor wits for a good fight. Like beasts o
f burden, they followed every order given. The German warrior held them in contempt.

  Atretes moved sluggishly, aching from the beating he’d taken after his latest escape attempt. “Get in line,” the guard ordered and swung his whip. Atretes drew in a quick breath as his back was laced with sharp needles of pain. He cursed the guard and was shoved into line.

  Malcenas walked down the line of men in chains, issuing orders. “Stand up straight!” he snapped to one, and a guard jabbed the obviously ill slave into compliance. The other captives kept their eyes downcast in proper subservience—except for Atretes, who spread his legs and glared openly at the merchant, showing all the hate he felt pumping through him. A guard lay his whip hard across his shoulders. Other than a flinch, Atretes didn’t alter his manner. “Enough,” Malcenas said before the whip was used again. “I don’t want him marked up any more than he already is.”

  Consumed with pain, Atretes squinted his eyes against the sunlight, trying to study his surroundings and judge any possibility of escape. High, thick stone walls surrounded him. Iron bars, heavy doors, and alert armed guards boded a grim future of enforced servitude to his enemy. In front of him, men were training for the arena. So, they meant to make a gladiator of him, did they?

  The instructor was easy to spot, for he was tall, powerfully built, wore a heavily armored leather tunic, and was the only one carrying a gladius, which remained in the sheath at his belt. It was more for appearance than for anything else. He didn’t need it for protection or to enforce his orders.

  Malcenas noted where the young German’s gaze was fixed and grinned maliciously. “That’s Tharacus. It wouldn’t do you well to annoy him as you’ve annoyed me these past weeks. He’s been known to slit the throat of a slave for no reason other than to make an example.”

  Atretes had learned a little Greek during his few weeks of captivity, but he cared nothing about Malcenas’ threat. He made a sudden move as though to attack the merchant and laughed at the Roman’s quick retreat. It was the only pleasure Atretes had left—seeing a man who called himself “master” recoil in fear of him. “Had you been born a Chatti, we would have drowned you in a bog,” he sneered.

  Malcenas didn’t need to understand German to know he had been grossly insulted. Red-faced with rage, he grabbed the guard’s whip and struck Atretes across the chest, ripping away skin. Atretes sucked in his breath, but didn’t move. He looked at Malcenas and then spit at his feet.

  “Scorpus arrives,” one of the guards said when Malcenas again raised the whip.

  Lowering it, Malcenas tossed it back to a nearby guard. “Watch him.”

  “We ought to kill him,” the guard muttered.

  “He’s the only one worth selling,” Malcenas said grimly. But remembering he had guests, Malcenas turned away with a confident smile and politic greeting.

  Atretes watched a man flanked by two armed guards greet “the master.” The guest had the look of a soldier, but was garbed like a soft Roman aristocrat. After a brief perusal, Atretes returned his attention to the men training behind the grid wall. They were a mixed lot, brought from the farthest reaches of the Roman Empire. Tattooed Britons, olive-skinned Gauls, black Africans all moved with each shouted command. Armed only with wooden swords, they went through their drills, every man moving in unison to the deep voice of Tharacus. “Thrust, parry, swing high and round, block, turn, thrust. Again.”

  Atretes studied the compound, searching again for possible ways of escape. His hopes quickly dwindled. He had never seen a place more fortified. The walls were thick and high, every door heavy-timbered and equipped with double bolts and locks, and there were armed guards everywhere, some looking down at him as though they could sense his mind and were prepared to stop him.

  Malcenas’ laughter grated, making Atretes’ blood heat; he longed to feel Malcenas’ fat neck between his hands. Even if it were the last thing he did in this world, he wanted the satisfaction of killing Malcenas.

  “Well, Scorpus? Do you see any that suit your needs?” Malcenas said, smugly aware that the wealthy proprietor of the ludus had fixed his attention on that defiant German. “He is beautiful, isn’t he?” He tried not to sound like he was rubbing his hands together.

  “I’m not interested in beauty, Malcenas,” Scorpus said dryly. “Stamina and endurance are far more profitable.”

  “He has both.”

  “Where did you get him?”

  “On the frontier of Germania. He was high chieftain of one of the tribes and killed more than twenty soldiers in a single battle.”

  “A typical exaggeration, Malcenas. He’s too young to be a high chief,” Scorpus said and walked along the line of men. He noted every flaw from rotting teeth to sallow skin. Malcenas was edgy and argued halfheartedly, his gaze returning frequently to the German. Obviously he was eager to be rid of the barbarian. Scorpus returned to the young man and studied him again. Malcenas looked uneasy, sweat beading his brow and upper lip.

  “He’s taken several beatings by the looks of him. What cause, Malcenas? Did he object to your advances?”

  Malcenas was not amused. “He attempted escape,” Malcenas said, motioning his guards closer. “Four times.” It wouldn’t do to have Scorpus attacked within his own ludus, and that young barbarian was mad enough to do it.

  Scorpus noted the movement of the guards. The German did have a certain look about him. Malcenas was sweating in fear of him, and Scorpus found that amusing. The blue eyes staring back at him were fierce and full of open hatred. Untamed ferocity was worth buying. “How much for him?”

  “Fifty thousand sesterces,” Malcenas said, casting a quick silent prayer to Mars to be free of the heathen.

  “Fifty thousand?”

  “He’s worth it.”

  “The whole lot of them are not worth fifty thousand sesterces. Where did you find them? Picking grapes or building roads? Down in the mines, perhaps? They have all the intelligence and life of stones.” Except the German, who appeared to have some intelligence—something that was both desirable and dangerous.

  Malcenas haggled a moment over price, but Scorpus shook his head, looking over two others. Malcenas ground his teeth; he wanted to be rid of that young German even if it meant selling him for a lower price than he was worth. The young devil had already killed one of his guards on the way here, and Malcenas knew the German would like nothing better than to kill him as well. He saw it in those cold eyes every time he looked at him. He felt it now, raising the hair on the back of his neck and turning his bowels to water.

  “I’ll let you have the German for forty thousand sesterces, but that is as low as I can go.”

  “Keep him then,” Scorpus said. “How much for this one?” He stood looking over a Gaul that Malcenas had purchased from a road crew.

  As usual, Scorpus was correct in his assessment of the stock Malcenas had brought. Most of the men standing in line had not the wits to last five minutes in the arena. “Ten thousand,” Malcenas said, not even looking at the man he was pricing. Instead, he glanced warily back at the German, feeling the chill of those blue eyes right into the marrow of his bones. He wasn’t going to travel another mile with that devil. “Match the German against Tharacus if you don’t think he’s worth the price I’ve set on him.” If he couldn’t sell the German, he’d have the satisfaction of seeing him die.

  Scorpus glanced at him in surprise. “Tharacus?” He laughed without humor. “Do you mean to see this one slaughtered before he’s sold? He wouldn’t last one minute with Tharacus.”

  “Put a framea in his hands and see what he can do,” Malcenas said in challenge.

  Scorpus smiled mockingly. “I think you’re afraid of him, Malcenas. Even with all your guards to protect you.”

  The taunt smarted. If it weren’t for Malcenas, Scorpus would have to leave his lavish quarters and look for stock for his ludus. Gritting his teeth, Malcenas said coldly, “He’s attempted escape four times; the last time he killed one of my men. Broke his neck.”
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  Scorpus’ brows rose. “Four attempts.” He looked at the young German again. “He does have a certain air about him, doesn’t he? He looks as though he’d like nothing better than to drink your blood. All right, Malcenas. I’ll take him off your hands. Thirty thousand sesterces.”

  “Done,” Malcenas said, far from pleased with the meager profit he’d make. “And the others?”

  “Just him.”

  “The Gaul is strong and well proportioned.”

  “Just the barbarian.”

  Malcenas took a step back as he ordered his guards to remove the leg chains from Atretes. “Make sure his hands are securely chained behind him before you remove the ankle restraints,” he ordered. Scorpus laughed derisively, but Malcenas was too afraid to take offense.

  Heart pounding faster, Atretes stood placidly as the locks were released and the chains pulled through the rings of the other slaves. One chance, that’s all he would have—one chance. Tiwaz would see him die a warrior. The guard pulled the chains through the rings on the ankle manacles, freeing four other slaves before he reached Atretes. Another guard breathed down his neck. “You try anything, and I’ll club you down like the dog you are.” He yanked the chains hard around Atretes’ wrists to make sure they were well secured.

  As the chain rang free of his ankle manacles, Atretes’ blood caught fire and he exploded into action. Ramming the full force of his body back against the guard behind him, he brought his leg up and slammed his foot into the groin of the one in front. Giving his battle cry, he shook off another who tried to take him down and made a run at Malcenas, who screeched frantic orders as he fled madly for cover.