Atretes watched him bleakly. “He should be up with the living, not down here with the dead.”
“He will be, Atretes,” Theophilus said.
“Send Rizpah up from this Hades, or are she and my son prisoners, too?”
“We’ll stay with you where we belong,” Rizpah said firmly.
“None of you are prisoners,” Theophilus said, noting how Atretes ignored her. The only time he ever looked at Rizpah was when she was looking elsewhere, and then his perusal was intense and revealing to anyone who chanced to see it. “As to moving to a different place, ask Lady Alphina when you see her this evening.”
Atretes looked around the large chamber with its arches and frescoes. “This is better than that other place you’ve put me. I’ll stay here.”
Theophilus laughed. “Lady Alphina offered you the use of this chamber the first day you arrived.”
“She offered it to Rizpah and the babe.”
“The invitation included you. She’ll be pleased you’ve decided to be in here. She was surprised you preferred the cubicula. It depresses her.” Amused by Atretes’ look of consternation, he stretched out on a marble bench, put his arm behind his head, and crossed his ankles in comfort. “I much prefer this place myself.”
Atretes’ eyes narrowed. “What do you find so amusing?”
“The way God works.” Theophilus gave a soft laugh and closed his eyes. The Lord had plunked this stubborn, mule-headed gladiator right down in the middle of his sanctuary.
* * *
Rufus and Lady Alphina joined them that evening, two servants following with trays of food and wine. Lady Alphina was delighted they had decided to stay in the cryptoporticus. “It’s so much nicer here,” she said. “More air.”
Rufus grinned as Atretes took an apple from the tray and bit into it. “I’m pleased to see your appetite’s returned. We were beginning to worry.”
“Should any soldiers come to search the villa, one of the servants will come to warn you,” Lady Alphina said.
“Some of the soldiers are being called back. There’s a fire in the city,” Rufus said, as one servant poured wine. Theophilus took two goblets, handing one to Atretes. “It started in one of the poorer insulae south of the Tiber, and I’m afraid it’s spreading fast.”
“You can see the smoke from the balconies,” Lady Alphina said grievously. “It reminds me of the Great Fire during Nero’s reign.”
“Titus has sent more legionnaires to help the firefighters, but it’s burning out of control,” Rufus went on. “The problem is some insulae are so old, they explode. Hundreds of people are dead, and even more are without shelter.”
Atretes relished Rufus’ report. Rome was burning! What more could he ask, other than the demise of Callistus and Domitian?
“Disease will follow,” Theophilus said grimly. “I’ve seen it happen before.”
Rizpah saw how Atretes was taking the news and was disturbed by his callousness. “Don’t be pleased by this, Atretes. Innocent people are losing their homes and their lives.”
“Innocent?” Atretes said derisively. The others looked at him. “Were they all innocent when they filled the seats around the arena and screamed for blood? My blood or anyone else’s. Let them burn. Let the whole rotten city burn!” He gave a hoarse laugh and raised his goblet in salute. He didn’t care if he offended or hurt anyone present. They were Romans, after all. “I’d like the pleasure of watching.”
“Then how are you any different?” she said, appalled by his lack of pity.
His eyes went hot. “I’m different.”
“You’ve suffered. Can you feel no pity for those who are suffering now?”
“Why should I? They’re getting what they deserve.” He drained the goblet and glanced around at the others, daring anyone to challenge him.
“The Jews agree with you, Atretes,” Rufus said. “They think God has cursed Titus because of what he did to Jerusalem. First Vesuvius erupts and kills thousands, and now this fire.”
“I like your god more and more,” Atretes said and tore a leg off the cooked pheasant.
Rizpah looked at him in sorrowful disbelief.
Theophilus filled the embarrassed silence. “Perhaps this will give us the opportunity we need to leave Latium.”
Several more people arrived, most of them poor folk who lived outside the gates of the city. Some were involved in the transport services on the Appian Way while others worked in markets that catered to the hundreds of travelers who came to Rome every day. Someone began to sing, and the gathering of people began to take their places for the reading of the apostle Paul’s letter to the Romans.
Despite numerous warm invitations to join them, Atretes took a pitcher of wine and a goblet and retreated to the furthest recesses of the chamber. He was somewhat surprised to see it wasn’t Theophilus who led the worship. It was the slave who had served wine. He was younger, without the breadth of a soldier, a humble looking man, his voice gentle but somehow powerful.
“‘Therefore you are without excuse, every man of you who passes judgment, for in that you judge another, you condemn yourself; for you who judge practice the same things. And we know that the judgment of God rightly falls upon those who practice such things. And do you suppose this, O man, when you pass judgment upon those who practice such things and do the same yourself, that you will escape the judgment of God?’”
Atretes felt an inexplicable shiver of fear run through him at the words being read. It was as though whoever had written them had looked into his very heart. The words ran together, and then something would burst upon his mind, pouring hot coals upon him.
“‘There is no partiality with God. . . . God will judge the secrets of men. . . .’”
The pitcher of wine was empty, and he craved more, wanting to drown the niggling fear eating at him.
“‘. . . their throat is an open grave. . . .’”
The letter had been written to the Romans! Why then did it cut him and leave him bleeding? He pressed his palms against his ears to shut out the man’s voice.
Theophilus saw and gave thanks to God. He hears you, Father. Plant your word upon his heart and bring forth a new child of God.
Rizpah wept silently and unnoticed beside the Roman, not over hope for Atretes, but in despair of her own sin. Had she not judged Atretes when he stood in judgment of others? She had asked him how he was different. Was she not the same?
O, Father, I want to be like you, and this is what I am! Forgive me. Please, Abba, forgive me. Cleanse my wicked heart and make me your instrument of love and peace.
* * *
When all had gone and night had fallen, Atretes lay restless upon his pallet, the words he had heard still plaguing him. Men had tried to kill him with sword and spear. He had been chained, beaten, branded, and threatened with castration. Through all that, fear had not touched him as it had upon the reading of a single letter by a man he didn’t even know.
Why? What power did this scroll have to torment his mind with the heaviness of what lay ahead of him? Death. Why should he be afraid now when he had never been before? All men die.
“‘. . . be buried with him through the baptism into death. . . .’”
His goal had been to survive. Now there was a resounding echo, Live! Arise and live! Arise from what?
When he finally slept, the old dream returned, the dream that had afflicted him in the hill caves outside of Ephesus.
He was walking through a blackness so heavy he could feel it pressing against his body. All he could see were his hands. He kept on walking, not feeling anything. And then he saw the Artemision. The beauty of it drew him, but as he came close he saw the carvings were alive, writhing and uncoiling upon the marble structure. Stone faces stared down at him as he entered the inner court. When he reached the center, he saw the grotesque goddess. The walls around her began to crumble. He ran to escape, huge blocks falling and just missing him. The temple was coming down around him in fire and dust. He could fee
l the heat and hear the screams of those inside. He wanted to scream, too, but had no air as he ran between the great columns. He was knocked from his feet as the temple fell. The earth trembled.
Everything was black again, a cold devoid of light and color and sound. He rose and stumbled on, his heart beating faster and faster as he searched for something to which he couldn’t put a name.
Before him was a sculptor. The piece of stone on which he worked was the form of a man. As Atretes came closer, he saw the form take shape. It was a statuette of him, like the ones the vendors sold outside the arena. He could hear the roar of the mob like a hungry beast overtaking him, but he couldn’t move.
The sculptor drew back the hammer.
“No,” Atretes groaned, knowing what he was going to do. “No!” he cried out. He wanted to rush at him and stop him, but some force held him where he was as the sculptor brought the hammer down with a mighty blow and shattered the stone image.
Atretes fell to the ground. He lay there for a long time in the darkness and when he finally got up, he couldn’t move his legs. Cold pressure surrounded him, and he felt himself sinking.
Around him was the forest of his homeland. He was standing in the bog, his people around him, watching, but doing nothing to help. He saw his father, his wife, friends, all long dead, staring at him with vacant eyes. “Help me,” he said, feeling the weight pulling at his legs. The cold pressure of the morass sucked him down chest deep.
“Help me!”
And then a man was there before him. “Take my hand, Atretes.”
Atretes frowned, unable to see his face clearly. He was dressed in white and unlike any man he had ever seen before. “I can’t reach you,” he said, afraid to try.
“Take my hand, and I’ll raise you from the pit.” And then he was close, so close that Atretes felt the man’s warm breath as he held his hands out to him.
The palms were bleeding.
Atretes came awake abruptly, breathing hard. Someone touched him and he uttered a hoarse cry and sat up.
“Shhh. It’s all right, Atretes,” Rizpah said in a hushed voice. “You were having another nightmare.”
His heart drummed; sweat streamed from his body. Shuddering, he shook his head as though to dispell the feeling of the dream.
Rizpah took the blanket from her own shoulders and draped it around him. “Were you dreaming about the arena?”
“No.” He felt the stillness of the cryptoporticus around him. One small flame flickered from a small clay lamp across the chamber. Theophilus wasn’t on his pallet. He remembered the Roman had left with Lady Alphina and Rufus as soon as the gathering dispersed.
Rizpah noticed his glance. “Theophilus hasn’t returned yet. He wanted to see for himself what’s happening in the city. He told me he’d be back by dawn.”
“I want to get out of this place.”
“So do I,” she said softly.
“You don’t understand. I’ve got to get out.”
She brushed his hair back from his face. “It’ll be all right.” She rubbed his back. “Try to think about something else. You need to sleep.”
She spoke to him like a child! She touched him like a child! When his arm encircled her waist, she gasped. “What’re you doing?”
“You want to comfort me? Comfort me as a man!” He caught her chin and kissed her angrily, holding her captive despite her struggles.
When at last he let her go, she gave a soft, gasping sob. “What am I to you, Atretes? Another face in the screaming mob? I wasn’t there! I swear to you before the Lord, I was never there.” Her voice broke. Turning her head away, she started to cry.
Shame washed over him. He drew back. Pushing at him frantically, she sat up and tried to leave. He caught hold of her arm. He could see her face in the faint light of the lamp and cursed himself for being a brutish fool.
“Wait,” he said softly.
“Let go of me.” She was shaking violently.
“Not yet.” He touched her hair, and she jerked away from him. She tried to break his hold and, when she couldn’t, turned her face away and wept. Her sobs tore at his heart. “Don’t,” he said raggedly.
“I love you. God help me, I love you, and you would do this!”
Her startling words filled him with a sense of relief and remorse. He knelt behind her and pulled her back into his arms, locking her there when he felt her body stiffen in resistance.
“I won’t hurt you. I swear on my sword.” He rested his head in the curve of her shoulder. “Let me hold you.” Her body shook with weeping. She made hardly any sound, which only made it worse. She didn’t trust him now, and why should she?
“I’m different,” he had said, but how different was he when he took out his wrath upon her? And why? Because she touched him with the tenderness she showed his son rather than the passion he craved?
“When you treated me like a child, I saw red,” he said against her hair, trying to find an explanation to wipe away the inexcusable. He shut his eyes tightly. “I was mad. I wasn’t thinking.”
“You’re always mad. You never think. Let me go,” she pleaded tearfully.
“Not until I make you understand—”
“Understand what? That I’m nothing to you, that you see me as no different from the women given to you in the ludus?” She fought again, gasping soft broken sobs when he held her so easily.
“You’re beginning to mean too much to me,” he said hoarsely. He felt her go still in his arms. “I’ve loved three women in my life. My mother, my wife, Ania, and Julia Valerian. All three are gone. My wife died in childbirth and took my child with her. My mother was killed by Romans, and Julia Valerian . . .” He closed his eyes tightly. “I’m not going to feel that kind of pain again.” He released her.
She turned and looked at him, her soulful dark eyes full of tears. “And so you’ll close your heart to anything that’s good.”
“I’m not going to love like that again.”
She didn’t tell him of her own losses. Family, husband, child. What was the use? “You’d rather I gave myself to you like a harlot, wouldn’t you? You’d rather have dross than gold.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to say it. You show me every time you look at me, every time you touch me!” Grief and anger mingled in her pale face. “You judge me for her actions and take your vengeance.”
“I should’ve known you wouldn’t understand. How can a woman understand a man?”
“I understand you refuse to let yourself love your own son fully because he might die or be taken captive, or grow up and disappoint you like his mother did. Does a man embrace such foolishness?”
A muscle jerked in his face, his eyes narrowing in anger. “Careful.”
“Of what? Your wrath? You’ve done your worst to me already. You’re brave with a sword or spear in your hand, Atretes. You have no peer in the arena. But in the things of life that really matter, you’re a coward!”
She rose quickly and returned to the other side of the chamber. Flinging herself down on her pallet beside Caleb’s basket, she curled on her side, and covered her body and head with the blanket.
Atretes lay back again on his own bed, but he couldn’t sleep for the soft sound of her weeping.
22
When Theophilus returned, Atretes lay in the dim light watching him. The Roman crossed the chamber quietly and stood over Rizpah. Caleb had awakened, and she had nursed him. When she had finished, she had kept him with her. Theophilus bent down and rearranged the blanket to cover her.
Atretes stood slowly, an uncomfortable heat tightening in his chest as he watched the tender gesture. Theophilus glanced toward him and straightened, not appearing surprised to see him awake. He smiled easily as he walked toward him, his smile dimming as he read his expression. “What’s wrong?”
“When can I get out of here?”
“We leave today,” Theophilus said in a hushed voice. “The city is in chaos. Soldiers have bee
n recalled to fight the fire and control the panic. It’ll be easy for us to become a part of the mass of sojourners leaving the city right now.”
Atretes forgot his anger. “What about horses?”
“We’ll buy them farther north. They’ll be less expensive. Besides, if we’re in too much of a hurry we’ll draw the attention of the soldiers patrolling the road.”
“We’ll need supplies.”
“Rufus has already arranged it. We’ll carry enough provisions for a week and stay to the main roads where it’ll be least likely for Domitian’s soldiers to look for you.”
“What about Domitian?”
“His wrath is assuaged for the moment.”
Something in his tone warned Atretes that all wasn’t well.
“What did you find out that you’re not telling me, Roman?”
Theophilus looked at him grimly. “Pugnax is dead.”
“Dead? How?”
“He was sent to the arena on charges of harboring an enemy of the emperor.”
Atretes swore under his breath and moved away. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, Pugnax got what he wanted, a chance for more days of glory.”
“I’m afraid not.”
Atretes turned and looked at him.
“Domitian fed him to a pack of wild dogs.”
“Dogs?” he said, sickened. There was no worse shame than for a man to be fed to wild animals. It was a death of humiliation. He looked at Theophilus and frowned. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
“Domitian ordered the lanista at the Great School questioned.”
“Bato,” Atretes said dully. His heart sank.
“Domitian imprisoned and tortured him. When that didn’t avail him the information he sought, he pitted the lanista against another African. Bato wounded him, and the crowd gave the pollice verso. Your friend turned the dagger on himself instead.”
A heaviness gripped Atretes. His spirit sank into black despair. Groaning, he turned away, not wanting the Roman to see his feelings. Two more deaths could be accounted to him.