He reached the city gates just as the sun was coming up.
2
Lagos heard the door slam and knew his master had returned. He’d only just returned a few hours ago himself, having spent the afternoon, evening, and better part of the night searching slave markets for a German wet nurse. He’d finally found one and was certain Atretes would be pleased with her. She was robust and ruddy and had hair the same color as his.
He came into the entry hall feeling somewhat confident and saw Atretes’ blackened eye and even blacker temper. Deep, bloody scratches still oozed on his neck, staining his ripped tunic with blood. The German looked ready to kill someone. Anyone.
“Did you find a wet nurse?”
Heart thundering, Lagos thanked the gods he had. “Yes, my lord,” he said quickly, perspiration beading on his forehead. “She’s in residence.” He was certain if he had failed, his life would have been forfeit. “Would you like to see her, my lord?”
“No!” Atretes strode into the inner courtyard. Bending, he put his whole head under the water in the fountain. Lagos wondered if the man meant to drown himself. After a long moment, Atretes straightened and shook his head, flinging water in all directions like a dog. Lagos had never before witnessed such uncivilized behavior from a master.
“Can you write?” Atretes demanded coldly, his expression no less fierce.
“Only in Greek, my lord.”
Atretes ran a hand down his face and shook the water off his hand. “Then write this,” he commanded bitterly. “‘I accede to your suggestion. Bring my son to me as soon as possible.’ Sign my name and take the message to the apostle John. Tell him how to get here!” He gave him directions to the small house near a stream on the outer fringe of the city. “If he’s not there, look for him by the river.” He strode out of the courtyard.
Lagos let out his breath and thanked the gods he was still alive.
* * *
The heavy stick in Silus’ hands splintered as Atretes brought his own down. The servant fell back sharply to avoid the blow and staggered, barely managing to keep his feet. Swearing, Atretes stepped back. Mouth grim, Silus regained his balance and tossed the useless weapon aside.
Atretes made an impatient gesture. “Again!”
Gallus took another pugil stick from a barrel against the wall and tossed it. Silus caught it and took a fighting stance once more. The man would not let up!
Standing near the archway to the baths, Gallus watched with hidden empathy. Silus was sweating profusely, his face red from exertion. Their master, on the other hand, was breathing as easily as when the sparring match had begun.
Crack!
“Take the offensive!” Atretes shouted.
Crack!
Silus managed to block again, but seemed to be losing his strength.
Crack! “I would . . .” Crack! “. . . if I could,” Silus gasped. He swung his stick wide, but missed entirely. He felt an explosion of pain behind his knees. For an instant, nothing but air was beneath him, and then his back hit the marble floor. He grunted and lay helpless, trying to get his breath back as Atretes stood over him. He saw the pugil stick coming down at his throat and thought he was about to die. It stopped a fraction of an inch away.
Atretes made a sound of disgust. “How did you ever survive the arena?” He sent the stick clattering across the floor and bouncing off the wall.
Silus grimaced, embarrassed. He watched Atretes warily, wondering if he was fated to another round with him.
Swearing in German, Atretes kicked over the barrel, scattering pugil sticks across the marble. He gave a shout of spine-tingling frustration and let out a string of unintelligible German.
Having regained his breath, Silus rose slowly, wincing in pain. He prayed to Artemis that Atretes would wear himself out breaking sticks over his knee and not decide to break him instead. He saw Lagos peering nervously into the room and saw a way to avoid further humiliation. “Well, well. The warthog returns.”
Atretes swung around, expression fierce. “What took you so long?!”
Lagos entered the gymnasium as though he were entering a lion’s den. “It was—”
“Never mind the excuses. Did you find him?”
“Yes, my lord. Late last night.”
“And?”
“Your message is delivered, my lord.”
“What did he say?”
“He said it will be done, my lord.”
“The instant he arrives, notify me.” Atretes jerked his head in dismissal. Grabbing a towel from the shelf near the door, he wiped his face and neck. He tossed it on the floor and glanced balefully at Silus and Gallus. They awaited his command. “Enough for today,” he said tonelessly. “Go!”
Alone in the gymnasium, Atretes sat down on a bench. He pushed his hands back through his hair in frustration. He’d give John a few days to keep his word, and if he didn’t, he’d hunt the apostle down and break his neck!
Restless, Atretes rose and strode out of the gymnasium, through the baths, and entered a corridor leading to a heavy door at the back of the villa. He banged it open and strode across the smooth dirt to another door in the wall. It was open. A guard stepped through it and nodded. “Clear, my lord,” he said, having already checked for amoratae who, in hopes that Atretes would appear, might have stationed themselves outside the walls. People often came in hopes of a glimpse of him.
Atretes jogged in the hills until his body was slick with sweat. He slowed to a fast walk until he reached the crest of a hill facing west. In the distance was Ephesus, the great city, which spread like a disease along the northern, southern, and eastern hills. From where he stood, Atretes could see the Artemision, the complex of libraries near the harbor. Turning his head slightly, he could see the arena.
He frowned. Odd that he found himself always coming to this hill and looking back. As a gladiator, his life had had a purpose: to survive. Now his life was aimless. He filled his days with training, but to what purpose?
He remembered Pugnax, an ex-gladiator who owned an inn in Rome, saying to him, “You’ll never be as alive as when you face death every day.” Atretes had thought him a fool then. Now, he wondered. At odd times, he found himself craving the excitement of a fight to the death. Survival. Nothing short of the struggle for it had given him that rush, the sense of real meaning in life. Survival.
Now, he merely existed. He ate, drank, exercised. He slept. Sometimes he enjoyed the pleasures of a woman. Yet, all in all, the days rolled one into another, each empty, insignificant.
His son was somewhere in that foul city and he was the lone reason Atretes remained in Ionia. Somewhere beyond the expanse of cerulean blue was Italy, and north was his homeland. The longing to return to Germania was so strong his throat closed. He had his freedom. He had money. Once he’d taken possession of his son, there’d be nothing to keep him here. The villa would be sold, and he would buy passage on the first ship that set sail west.
And when he reached his homeland, he would teach his people better ways of fighting the Roman war machine.
Returning to the villa, he passed the evening drinking wine in the triclinium. Pilia brought in a tray of fruit. He watched her set it upon the marble table before him. She had loosened her hair. Her eyes grazed his, hopeful, hungry. “Would you care for a peach, my lord?”
Julia had wanted beauty in the things around her, including the slaves who served her. Except for Hadassah, all of her servants had been comely, like this one. His eyes moved slowly down over Pilia’s body. His blood stirred. He had purchased her to serve Julia, but now she would serve him instead.
Remembering the women who had been ordered to his cell in the ludus, he gave Pilia the choice. “You wish to serve me?” he said, his brow raising slightly.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Look at me, Pilia.” When she did, he smiled faintly. “I’m not hungry for a peach.”
She put it back on the tray. Her hand trembled slightly, but her eyes were dark and telling
. When he held his hand out, she came to him without compulsion.
He was pleasantly surprised at her skill and eagerness.
“Did you serve your last master so well?” he asked much later.
She smiled slyly. “That’s the reason his wife sold me!”
Atretes’ expression hardened and he turned from her.
Pilia frowned slightly, perplexed. “Have I displeased you, my lord?”
He turned and looked at her coolly. “You served me very well,” he said dryly.
She rose uncertainly. “Do you want me to accompany you to your chambers?”
“No.”
She blinked in surprise. “No, my lord?” She attempted a seductive smile.
He looked her straight in the eyes. “You may go.”
She paled at his coldness, her gaze dropping from his. “Yes, my lord,” she said and left the room quickly.
Atretes wiped a hand across his mouth as though to remove the feel of her. Taking up the wineskin, he drank deeply. He left the triclinium. His footsteps echoed softly across the marble tiles of the antechamber. Loneliness closed around him, squeezing him until his heart ached. For what? A harlot like Julia?
He climbed the steps and went to his chambers. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he tipped the wineskin again, wanting to get drunk—so drunk he’d fall into black oblivion and sleep without dreaming.
Dropping the wineskin, he lay back on his bed, his vision blurred, his head light. It was a good feeling, a familiar feeling. Tomorrow it wouldn’t feel so good, but for right now it was just right. He closed his eyes, drifting, and thought about the black forests of Germania and bathing in the river. Then there was nothing.
* * *
He awakened in darkness, hot and uncomfortable. Groaning, he rolled over and sat up, not used to the softness of a mattress. Dragging one of the furs with him, he lay down on the floor and sighed. The cold marble was like the granite bench on which he had slept in the ludus cell.
Lagos found him there in the morning. Had he choice, he would have left. As it was, he couldn’t without incurring the master’s wrath later and perhaps more dire consequences. Swallowing hard, he crossed the muraled floor and bent down. “My lord,” he said, but Atretes snored loudly. Summoning his nerve, Lagos tried again. “My lord!”
Atretes opened one eye and focused slowly on the sandaled feet near his head. Muttering a curse, he covered his head with the fur. “Get out.”
“You said to notify you the moment the apostle arrived.”
Atretes muttered a foul curse in Greek and shoved the fur aside. “He’s here?”
“No, my lord, but Silus sent word a woman is at the gate. Her name is Rizpah and she says you are expecting her.”
Atretes threw off the fur. Squinting at the sunlight streaming in from the balcony, he rose.
“She has a babe in arms, my lord.”
Atretes gestured impatiently. “Tell Silus to take the child from her.”
“My lord?”
“You heard me!” he bellowed and winced in pain. “The child is mine, not hers. Give her a hundred denarii and send her on her way, then take the child to the wet nurse.” When Lagos just stood staring at him, he shouted, “Do it!” He winced again.
“It shall be as you command, my lord.”
Head pounding, mouth dry, Atretes looked for something to drink. Kicking the flaccid wineskin out of his way, he went to an elegantly carved table. Scorning the silver cup, he drank from the pitcher. Setting it down, he rubbed his face, feeling the stubble of several days’ growth of beard. He walked back to his bed and fell on it, intending to sleep until nature awakened him.
“My lord?”
Atretes roused enough to ask, “Is it done?”
Lagos cleared his throat nervously. “The woman said the child is hers.”
“I told you he’s mine,” he ground out, his throbbing head still on the soft furs.
“Yes, my lord, but she’s unwilling to hand him over, and Silus hesitates to use force. She said she came to speak with you on her son’s behalf.”
Her son? Atretes rolled over and sat up, temper rising as he did. “Did the woman say anything else?” he said sarcastically.
Lagos swallowed. “Yes, my lord.”
“You seem less than eager to impart her words,” Atretes growled. “Out with them!”
“She said to give the denarii back to you and tell you to eat them.” He held the offending pouch of coins out.
Atretes’ face paled in rage. He walked over, snatched the pouch, and glared at Lagos. “Invite her in,” he said through clenched teeth.
If the woman wanted to do battle, he’d oblige her.
* * *
Silus glanced at Lagos as he crossed the yard. He could tell by the Greek’s lackluster smile that all had not gone well with Atretes.
“The master will speak with you, my lady,” Lagos said and gestured. “Please, follow me.”
Rizpah felt faint relief as she did as he bade. She sent a silent prayer of thanks to the Lord and followed the servant. She’d regretted her cross words about the coins as soon as they parted her lips but hadn’t had the opportunity to take them back. Perhaps the servant was far wiser than she and hadn’t imparted her impetuously spoken insult.
She glanced around, disquieted by her surroundings. Despite the grandeur of the villa itself, there were no gardens. The entire area around the house was bare. She felt as though she’d entered the gates of a fortress rather than a home.
As she went up the steps, she tried to still the trembling in her stomach. The little she knew about Atretes she’d learned from John, and he’d only been able to tell her that the man was a captive from Germania who had been trained as a gladiator and freed when he survived an elimination match during the Ephesian games. A great deal of grief and violence were embodied in those few words. A barbarian from the frontier; a man trained to kill men.
“Is he a Christian?” she had asked John weakly, clinging to that small hope against a mountain of despair. Christ could transform a man. And a transformed man might have compassion upon her!
“No,” he said sadly, “but he is Caleb’s father.”
“What sort of father would command his son be left on the rocks to die?”
“It was Caleb’s mother who commanded it, Rizpah. He says he didn’t know.”
“And you believe him?”
“Hadassah sent him to find his son,” John answered simply, and she had wept.
“I can’t give him back. I can’t. Haven’t I lost enough? Oh, John, I can’t give him up. He’s my life now. All the life I shall ever have . . .”
“Be still, beloved.” John had talked with her far into the night, comforting her and praying with her. “I will take the child to his father,” he had said when dawn came.
“No,” she said. “I will go.” Perhaps he would relent and allow her to keep the baby.
John hesitated, troubled. “Do you want me to accompany you?”
“No,” she said, her throat tight with tears. “I’ll go alone.” As she had seen John out of her small tenement apartment, a fleeting thought had entered her mind: She could take Caleb and run away where no one could find them.
And will you hide from me also, beloved?
The question had come so clear, she knew she couldn’t pretend she didn’t know the will of God. She put her forehead against the door, tears running down her cheeks. She knew if she waited at all, she’d give in to temptation and never go.
Caleb always roused hungry. Lifting the babe from his box-bed, she had nursed him before setting out to meet his father. All along the long walk, she prayed God would soften Atretes’ heart and that Caleb would be left in her care.
Now, walking across this barren yard and into the silent house, she felt the cold remoteness of the place. Did it reflect the man?
Lord, help me. Help me!
She followed the servant through the front door and entered a large atrium, which was designed for r
eceiving guests. Light streamed down from the opening in the roof, making the fountain pool shimmer with reflected light. A soft mist rose from the spilling water, cooling the chamber. It was a welcome relief after so many hours on the dusty road.
“Wait here, my lady,” the servant said. Rizpah watched him walk beneath an archway and disappear around the corner.
Pacing nervously, she rubbed Caleb’s back. He was stirring and would be hungry soon. Her breasts were full in readiness.
She heard footsteps coming, and her heart thumped. Closing her eyes, she prayed fervently that Atretes would consider his son’s needs above all else.
Lord, help me. O Father, how can I give up my son? How can you ask it of me? Isn’t it enough that I have lost Shimei and Rachel? You gave Caleb to me. Surely you do not give that you might take away again?
“The Lady Rizpah, my lord,” the servant said, and she opened her eyes. Alarm spread through her as she saw the man with him. Tall and powerfully built, his hair long, blonde, and unkempt, he stared at her, his blue eyes blazing with fury. She’d never seen so fierce a countenance. She felt the power of his anger from across the chamber.
“Leave us,” Atretes said, and the servant departed with an alacrity that was even more alarming.
Her trepidation grew as she found herself alone with the imposing master of the house. The only sound was that of the running water in the fountain. Her heart beat wildly as Atretes walked toward her, slowly, his blue eyes narrowing coldly as they drifted over her from head to foot, pausing with an almost cursory interest on his son, and then returning to her eyes. She sensed the violence in him. She could feel the dark force of it emanating from him.
This man was her sweet little Caleb’s father? How could it be?
She held her son closer, enfolding him in her arms.
Atretes felt the anger grow in him with each step he took. The woman who held his son so possessively reminded him of Julia. She was small and the drab woven shawl that covered her hair failed to conceal the fact that she was exquisitely beautiful. Strands of damp, curling black hair framed a smooth, oval, olive-skinned face. Her mouth was full and soft, like Julia’s. Her eyes were brown, like Julia’s. Her body lush, like Julia’s.