Again, silence fell over the kitchen as he stood alone in the room with the widow nursing his son. Hooking the stool with his foot, he scraped it closer to the fire. “Sit.” The woman did so without looking at him. Her head was bent over the child, and she murmured softly to him as he nursed.
Atretes moved restlessly around the kitchen, finally stopping and leaning his hip against a counter. Clenching his teeth, he turned again. She had draped the shawl modestly over her shoulder; the babe nestled against her breast beneath it. He noticed the dampness seeping through the left side of her tunic.
Rizpah shifted Caleb tenderly, remaining covered as she loosened the ties on her left shoulder. She felt Atretes watching her and was embarrassed. Her eyes flickered to him.
Surprised, Atretes saw the color mount her cheeks. How many years had it been since he’d seen a woman embarrassed by anything? She turned herself on the stool so her back was to him, clearly disturbed by his presence. She could suffer it; he wasn’t leaving her alone with his son.
Rizpah could sense his gaze boring into her back. She could feel the heat of his anger.
“I told you to leave,” he said darkly.
“You don’t own the road.”
He gave a bleak laugh. “It would seem you own my son.”
Rizpah glanced back over her shoulder and saw something in his face she knew he would prefer to have hidden. His mouth flattened and his eyes glittered as they held hers. “I had a long time to think,” she said softly.
“About what?”
“I know very little about you. Only grim details about the violent life you’ve led.”
His smile was cold and derisive.
Disturbed, she looked down at Caleb. He would soon be asleep at her breast. He was so beautiful, so precious to her, and yet she knew the harder she clung, the more fiercely determined Atretes would be to take him from her.
When she moved Caleb slightly, his mouth worked again, almost frantically, holding to her. Touching a finger against her breast, she broke the suction. A dollop of milk trickled from his mouth and she smoothed it away. Kissing him lightly, she laid him tenderly on her thighs and retied her tunic. She could still feel Atretes watching her.
She adjusted the shawl to cover the dampened bodice of her tunic, remembering how, the moment she entered the hall and heard Caleb crying, her milk had come forth. God was truly marvelous! Lifting Caleb to her shoulder, she rubbed his back gently as she stood. She paced slowly, patting him softly. He was warm and relaxed against her. She glanced at Atretes and saw his troubled frown.
Seeing the set of his jaw, Rizpah remembered the story of King Solomon and the two women fighting over a child. The one who had been the true mother had been willing to give up the child in order to preserve his life.
Caleb’s mother had wanted him dead. And this man! She’d never seen anyone so ruthless and beautiful. His features seemed chiseled by a master sculptor. Everything about him exuded a profound, overpowering masculinity. There was not even the hint of softness. His expression was utterly implacable. But was he?
O Lord, God, soften his heart toward me.
Heart beating dully, Rizpah came and stood before him. She held his sleeping son out to him. “Take him.” Frowning, he straightened. His eyes narrowed warily on her as he took his son. Caleb awakened immediately and began to cry, and Rizpah saw a flinch of raw pain flicker across Atretes’ face.
“Hold him next to your heart,” she said gently, fighting tears. “Yes, like that. Now rub his back gently.” His hand was huge against Caleb’s back.
Atretes held his son uneasily, half-expecting the soft pitiful cries to turn to screaming.
“I beg your forgiveness, Atretes,” Rizpah said, meaning it. “My tongue is like a fire sometimes. I’m sorry for the cruel things I said to you. I had no right to judge.”
Surprise flickered in his bleak face and then a cynical smile twisted his mouth. “Sweet,” he sneered.
Why should he believe her after the way she had acted?
She looked at Caleb nestled in Atretes’ powerful arms and thought how fragile he looked there. Her throat closed and she nodded slowly, blinking back tears.
Atretes studied her intently, disturbed by the feelings stirring in him. Her brown eyes were dark with exhaustion, her cheeks smudged with dirt and streaked where tears had run. She looked up at him now, her expression full of appeal.
“I know by all the laws of Rome, Caleb is yours to do with as you will,” she said shakily, “but I ask you to think of his needs.” When he said nothing, her heart sank. “Caleb and I are bonded as strongly as if he had issued from my own womb.”
“You are not his mother.”
“I am the only mother he’s known.”
“Every woman I’ve known since being taken in chains from Germania has been a harlot, save one. You appear no different from the majority.”
She drew the shawl more closely around her shoulders, chilled by the anger she saw in his blue eyes. It made no difference that he condemned her without even knowing her. Other things mattered more. “Caleb will awaken in a few hours. If he still won’t accept the wet nurse, send the guard again. I’ll be outside the gate.”
Surprised, Atretes watched her leave. Frowning, he listened as her soft footsteps receded down the darkened corridor. He felt a vague disquiet as he sat down and looked at his sleeping son.
* * *
Mouth grim, Atretes strode across the barren courtyard, dismissed Gallus with a jerk of his chin, slammed the bar back, and opened the gate. He went out and looked around. The widow was exactly where she’d said she would be, sitting with her back against the wall. Her knees were drawn up against her chest, her shawl drawn around her for warmth.
When his shadow fell across her, she awakened and lifted her head. Her eyes had dark circles beneath them.
He stood over her, arms akimbo. “The wet nurse tried again with no more success than last night,” he said, feeling it was somehow her fault. “Come feed him.”
Rizpah noticed that he’d come to issue a command and not make a request. She rose stiffly, her body aching from her long vigil in the cold. Caleb was not the only one who was hungry. She’d not eaten since leaving Ephesus yesterday morning.
“You will stay,” Atretes said in a tone that said the decision was made whether she liked it or not. Smiling in relief, she said a silent prayer of thanksgiving as she followed him up the steps and into the villa. “Silus will go for your belongings,” Atretes said. “You’ll have quarters near the kitchen.” He glanced back and saw her smile. “Don’t think you’ve won.”
“I will not pull at Caleb as though he were a bone between two dogs,” she said, following him through the atrium. She could hear the baby’s cries. “It would be better if he was with me.”
Atretes stopped and glowered at her. “You’ll not take him outside these walls.”
“I didn’t mean that. I mean it would be better if he was with me in my quarters where I can watch over him and answer his needs as they arise.”
He hesitated. “As you wish,” he said grimly. “Satisfied?”
She looked at his hard face and knew his pride was hurt. Swallowing her own, she made a simple request that made her feel a beggar. “May I have something to eat and drink?”
His brows rose slightly in realization. “Tell Lagos what you want and he’ll see it’s prepared for you.” His mouth curved sardonically. “Goose livers, oak-fed beef, ostrich, wine from Northern Italy? Whatever is your taste. I’m sure whatever you crave can be obtained.”
Rizpah pressed her lips together, holding back an angry retort. Any harsh reply would only serve to stir his anger further, and she had already done damage enough with her wayward tongue. “Seven-grain bread, lentils, fruit, and watered wine will more than satisfy me, my lord. Other than that, I ask for nothing.”
“You will receive a denarius each day for as long as you remain in my household,” he said, starting down the corridor toward the kitc
hen.
“I will not be paid for—”
She broke off when Atretes stopped and came back toward her. Bending down, he brought his face close to hers. “A denarius a day,” he said through his teeth, his blue eyes blazing. “Just so you understand you are here by hire. When my son is weaned, you go!”
She refused to be intimidated. A year, at least, with Caleb, she thought, thanking God again. She was done with crying. She would cling to the knowledge that many things could change in a year, not the least of which was a man’s heart.
Atretes’ eyes narrowed. When the woman made no further comment, he straightened slowly. He had cowed men with less anger than he had shown her, and yet she stood quiet, clear-eyed, gazing up at him without the least concern. “You know the way,” he said, wary.
Rizpah stepped past him and walked down the hall.
Struck by her grace and dignity, Atretes stared after her until she entered the kitchen.
A moment later, the baby stopped crying.
4
Sertes leaned against a door in the east wall of the villa, smiling as he watched Atretes in the distance. “He’s staying in condition,” he said, watching the German run down a rocky slope.
Gallus gave a brittle laugh. “Don’t assume too much, Sertes. Atretes labors to drive demons from his head.”
“May the gods prevent him from succeeding,” Sertes said with a slight smile. “The mob misses him. No man has excited them as he did.”
“You can forget what you’re thinking. He won’t go back.”
The Ionian laughed softly. “He misses it. Perhaps he won’t yet admit it, even to himself, but one day he will.” Soon, Sertes hoped. Otherwise, he’d have to devise a way of making him want to return, which was always easier when the man was so conditioned as a gladiator that he couldn’t function in any other realm. And a gladiator with Atretes’ passion and charisma was worth a fortune.
Sertes watched Atretes run up the last hill before the villa. The German’s face darkened when he saw him, but Sertes was not offended. Rather, he smiled.
Slowing to a fast walk, Atretes shrugged off the weights, tossing them aside as he strode past Sertes into the villa’s barren yard. “What are you doing here, Sertes?” he said without stopping.
Sertes followed at a more leisurely pace. “I came to see how you fare with your freedom,” he said in good humor. He had been dealing in gladiators for twenty years and could see the quiet life was already chafing. Once a man had experienced the excitement and bloodlust of the arena, he couldn’t leave the life without denying an essential part of his nature. He saw that very nature was goading the German, driving him, though Atretes himself didn’t yet know it. Sertes had watched a tiger pace in its cage once. Atretes had the same air about him now.
Entering the baths, Atretes stripped off his tunic and dove into the frigidarium. Sertes strolled in and stood on the marble walk against the wall, watching him in admiration. He was the embodiment of power and masculine grace. No wonder women cried out for him. Atretes came up out of the pool at the other end with a single fluid movement of strength, water cascading from his magnificent body. Sertes was proud of him. “They still call your name, you know.”
Atretes took a towel and wrapped it around his waist. “My fighting days are over.”
Sertes smiled slightly, a tinge of mockery entering his black eyes. “No offer of wine for a friend?”
“Lagos,” Atretes said and gestured. Lagos poured wine into a silver goblet and brought it to Sertes.
He lifted the goblet in a toast. “To your return to the arena,” he said and drank, undisturbed by the tight-lipped glance Atretes cast him. He lowered the goblet. “I’ve come with an offer.”
“Save it.”
“Hear me out.”
“Save it!”
Sertes swirled the wine. “Afraid you might change your mind?”
“Nothing could induce me to fight in the arena again.”
“Nothing? You challenge the very gods, Atretes. That’s never wise. Don’t forget it was Artemis who called you to Ephesus.”
Atretes gave a cynical laugh. “You paid Vespasian’s price. That’s what brought me here.”
Sertes was affronted, but thought better than to remark on such blasphemy. “You will welcome the news that Vespasian is dead.”
Atretes glanced at him. “Murdered, I hope.” He snapped his fingers. “Wine, Lagos. Fill the goblet to the brim. I feel like celebrating.”
Sertes laughed softly. “You will be sorry to hear he died of natural causes. Not that there weren’t those, like you, who wished him ill, especially the old aristocracy who found themselves sharing the senate with provincials recruited from Espania. Vespasian’s father was rumored to be a Spanish tax collector, but then, who knows?”
“Who cares?”
“I imagine those in Espania. He did seem to favor them. He granted Latin rights to them as well as Roman citizenship to all the magistrates.” He laughed. “Something that hardly sat well with the old families who considered Vespasian a plebeian.” He raised his goblet again. “Despite his bloodlines, he was a great emperor.”
“Great?” He muttered a foul word and spit on the marble tiles.
“Yes, great. Perhaps the greatest since Julius Caesar. Despite his reputation for avarice, Vespasian’s tax reforms saved Rome from financial ruin. His philosophy was to first restore stability to the tottering state, then adorn it. He accomplished much of that. The Forum and Temple of Peace stand in Rome as tribute to his efforts. A pity he was not able to finish the colossal arena he began building on the foundations of Nero’s Golden House.”
“Yes, what a pity,” Atretes said sarcastically.
“Oh, I know you hated him. With good reason. After all, wasn’t it his cousin that crushed the rebellion in Germania?”
Atretes cast him a dark look. “The rebellion lives.”
“No longer, Atretes. You’ve been away from your homeland a long, long time. Vespasian annexed Agri Decumates in Southern Germania and cut off the reentrant angle formed by the Rhine at Basel. Germans are too fragmented to be of any threat to Rome now. Vespasian was a military genius.” He could see Atretes did not like hearing plaudits for his nemesis. It fanned the hatred within him. Exactly what Sertes wanted. Keep the fire hot.
“You will remember his younger son, Domitian.”
Atretes remembered all too well.
“I believe he arranged your last match in Rome,” Sertes said casually, driving the knife in deeper. “His older brother, Titus, is now emperor.”
Atretes downed the rest of his wine.
“His military career is as illustrious as his father’s,” Sertes said. “It was Titus who crushed the rebellion in Judea and destroyed Jerusalem. Other than his unfortunate attachment to the Jewish princess Berenice, his career is flawless. Pax Romana at any price. We can only hope his talents extend to administration as well.”
Atretes set his empty goblet aside and took another towel from the shelf. He dried his hair and upper body, his blue eyes glittering.
Sertes studied him with veiled satisfaction. “Rumors abound that you were in the city a few nights ago,” he said, as though remarking on some casual occurrence. He didn’t add that Gallus had confirmed the rumors, though he had not known the reason for Atretes’ clandestine visit. Something important must have been transacted, and Sertes wanted to know what it was. It might prove useful in getting Atretes back into the arena.
“I went to pay my respects to the goddess and found myself mobbed instead,” Atretes said, the lie coming easily.
Seeing an opportunity, Sertes grasped it. “I know the proconsul very well. I’m sure, with a word, he’ll put a company of legionnaires at your disposal. You can enter the city anytime you want and pay proper homage to our goddess whenever you choose without worrying about whether you’ll live through it.”
Sertes smiled inwardly. Such measures as he was suggesting would draw attention. Once Atretes was recogni
zed, the excitement would spread like a fever, and such a fever could heat Atretes’ cold blood. Let him hear the masses screaming his name. Let him see how they still worshiped him.
“I’d like the mob to forget I ever existed,” Atretes said. He wasn’t fooled by Sertes’ machinations. “And your measures would merely serve to whet their appetite, wouldn’t they?” he said, raising one brow sardonically.
Sertes smiled drolly and shook his head. “Atretes, dear friend, I’m dismayed to find you don’t trust me. Have I not always had your best interests in mind?”
Atretes gave a cold laugh. “As long as they coincided with yours.”
Sertes hid his annoyance. Atretes’ perceptiveness had always been a problem. His success in the arena hadn’t hinged merely on physical prowess and courage. Atretes was surprisingly intelligent for a German barbarian. The combination of hatred and sagacity was dangerous, but made him that much more exciting.
“Perhaps we can make arrangements more suitable to your desires,” Sertes said.
“My desire is to be left alone.”
Sertes was undaunted. He knew Atretes better than the gladiator knew himself. He had observed him in captivity and out. “You have been left alone,” he said, watching Atretes drop the towel from around his waist and pull on a fresh, richly woven tunic. He was the most magnificently built man Sertes had ever seen. “For several months. You seem little satisfied by your solitude.”
Putting on a thick leather belt with brass studs, Atretes looked at him with eyes so cold Sertes knew he had pressed him far enough for today. He wasn’t distressed by his failure to gain Atretes’ agreement to reenter the arena. There would be other opportunities. He would make use of them as they came. He waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Very well,” he said with a smile. “We’ll talk of other things.” And he proceeded to do so. Sertes left an hour later, but not before inviting Atretes to one of the banquets before the games. He said the proconsul of Rome was eager to pay his respects. Atretes sensed the undercurrent of warning. One didn’t slight a high official of Rome without consequences. Still, he declined.