A Voice in the Wind by Francine Rivers
Laughing, Scorpus watched Malcenas’ guards attempt to get the German back in control. When it was clear that more than Malcenas were in fear of the German and could not stop him, Scorpus snapped his fingers and his own guards took over the situation. “You can come back now and watch, Malcenas!” he called out mockingly. “Our German is being subdued.”
Atretes struggled violently, but Scorpus’ men were stronger and quicker. Working together, two set their full strength against him as a third looped a thick cord around his neck. With his hands chained behind him, Atretes couldn’t break the hold. His air was cut off and the blood could not get to his brain. The cord tightened. Jerking violently as he choked, he fell to his knees. His vision blurred, and he dropped forward into the dirt as the hard weight of a man’s knee bore into the middle of his back. The heavy cord was loosened—but not removed—and Atretes was allowed to drag air into his burning lungs. He gagged on dust and rasped out a curse.
“Stand him up,” Scorpus ordered indolently. Malcenas approached cautiously, his face pale and streaked with sweat.
“Sabinus, I want you to translate what I say exactly.” The guard nodded and did as he was ordered. “My name is Scorpus Proctor Carpophorus and I own you. You will take the oath of a gladiator to suffer yourself to be whipped with rods, burned with fire, or killed with steel if you disobey me. Do you understand?”
Atretes spit on his feet.
Scorpus’ eyes narrowed. “You were right in asking fifty thousand sesterces, Malcenas. A pity you didn’t hold out for it.” At a signal, Atretes was subjected to a savage beating, but still he glared in silence at Carpophorus, refusing to take the oath.
Scorpus nodded to his officer and the beating began again.
“I consider myself fortunate to be rid of him,” Malcenas said with feeling. “You’d do well to take extra precautions where he’s concerned. If he doesn’t take the oath now, he’ll think he’s bested you.”
Scorpus halted the beating with a small wave of his hand. “There are other ways to make a man like him capitulate. I’ve no desire to break his spirit, only his will.” Scorpus glanced at Sabinus. “Brand him and put him in the Hole.”
Atretes understood the command that he be branded a slave of Rome and uttered a cry of rage, struggling violently as the guards half dragged him toward the iron grid door. The door was slammed and locked behind Atretes as his guards shoved him along to the forge, where an iron with emblems on the end was placed in the red coals. He fought harder, uncaring when the cord tightened, choking him. Better to be dead than to bear the brand of Rome.
One man lost hold of Atretes and crashed against a table. The one behind him swore and ordered two more to get a firmer grip. Atretes went down and was held there while the hot iron seared through the layers of skin on his heel. Atretes couldn’t hold back a guttural sound of pain as the mark was burned deeply into him, the sickeningly sweet stench of his own burning flesh filling the air. Then he was dragged to his feet again.
Atretes was taken along a stone block corridor, down stairs, and along another corridor. A heavy door was opened, his chains were removed, and he was forced to his knees and shoved forcefully into a tiny dark chamber. The door slammed behind him and a bar dropped solidly into place, the sound echoing in Atretes’ brain. He wanted to scream. The walls were tight about him, the stone ceiling so low he couldn’t sit up, and the chamber was so short, he couldn’t stretch out his legs. He pushed with all his strength against the door, but it didn’t move. He cursed and heard the guards laugh as their hobnailed shoes echoed softly by. “I’ll make you a bet,” Sabinus said. “One day is all it’ll take and he’ll be screaming for mercy.” Another door closed, and then there was silence.
Panic rose. Atretes closed his eyes tightly, struggling for control as the walls of the small chamber seemed to close in on him. Gritting his teeth, he didn’t make a sound, knowing if he did, he’d be giving in to the terror filling him. His heart pounded heavily and he could hardly breathe. He kicked at the door with all his strength, ignoring the throbbing pain of the brand, and kept kicking until his heels were bruised.
Atretes panted in fear, sweating profusely. One day is all it will take and he’ll be screaming. He said the words over and over again to himself until rage overwhelmed the fear.
Hours passed in total darkness.
To keep himself from going mad, Atretes curled on his side and tried to envision himself in the forests of his homeland. He had no water; he had no food. His muscles cramped, and he groaned in pain, unable to stretch out enough to ease them. Lice crawled on him and bit into his flesh. He kicked at the door again and cursed Rome with every breath.
“He’ll cooperate now,” a guard said. The door opened. As the guard bent down, Atretes kicked him in the face and sent him crashing back. Atretes tried to keep the door open, but the second guard forced it closed and locked it again. He could hear the injured guard swearing in German.
“Two days doesn’t seem to have improved his disposition,” another said.
“Let him rot in there! Do you hear me? You’re going to rot!”
Atretes shouted curses back and kicked the door. His heart pounded and his breath came fast and hard. “Tiwaz!” he screamed, filling the chamber with his war cry. “Tiwaz!” He screamed the name of his god until he was hoarse, then lay in a ball, fighting the fear that once again rose in him.
Smothered in darkness and drifting in nightmares, he lost touch with time. When the door opened, he thought he was dreaming, but knew he wasn’t when strong hands gripped his ankles and straightened his legs, sending pain shooting up through his body. His muscles cramped and he couldn’t stand. A gourd was held to his lips, and he gulped the water that spilled from it. Hauled to his feet, his arms were slung across the shoulders of two guards. They took him to a large room and dumped him into a stone pool.
“You stink!” the guard said in German and tossed a sponge against Atretes’ chest. His nose was swollen and bruised, and Atretes knew him to be the guard he kicked. “Wash yourself or we’ll do it for you.”
Atretes looked at him in contempt. “How does a tribesman happen to be a menial of Rome?” he said through cracked lips.
The guard’s face tightened. “I heard you screaming last night. Another day in the Hole and you’ll lose your mind and whatever honor you think you have left, just like I did!”
Atretes clenched his fists and washed, sensing the two guards nearby. They spoke and Atretes learned that the German’s name was a Romanized Gallus.
Gallus caught Atretes studying him and returned his full attention. “I was taken captive much the same as you and became a slave of Rome,” he said. “I made the best of it.” He held up a small rectangular piece of ivory with writing on it that hung from a chain around his neck. “It took seven years of fighting in the arena, but I earned my freedom.” He dropped the ivory. “You could do the same, maybe even in less time if you put your mind to it.”
Atretes glanced pointedly around the stone block walls and at the armed guard at the top of the stairs, then looked into Gallus’ eyes. “I see no freedom here.” He stood, naked and dripping. “Do I dry myself or is that for your pleasure?”
Gallus took a towel from a shelf and slapped it against Atretes’ chest. “Careful, slave. You will learn or you will die. Your choice, which means nothing to me.” He nodded toward a shelf of clothing. “Take a tunic, a belt, and a robe, and put them on.”
Atretes glanced up the ladder, his mind churning, but he noted another guard had joined the first.
“I wouldn’t try anything if I were you,” Gallus said, hand on the hilt of his gladius.
Clenching his jaws, Atretes donned the clothing and climbed the ladder. Two guards walked in front of him and two in back. They were taking no chances. The corridor was long, with one chamber after another on both sides. Gallus stopped and opened one. “Your new home. Until you’re sold.”
“He doesn’t seem overly eager to go in,” a guard said
The dark-shadowed and dank chamber was seven feet long and four feet wide. A thin, straw-filled mattress lay on a stone shelf. Beneath it was a clay pot for slops. Graffiti was scratched into the stone walls. Atretes couldn’t read, but the pictures were clear enough. Men fighting and dying. Men and women coupling. Lines, one after another, as though a man had counted the days. A niche had been carved into the back wall for an idol—a hideous squatting goddess with a dozen breasts.
Shadows cast by a torch flickered through an iron-grated opening above his head. Atretes heard hobnailed shoes scraping the stone and looked up to see a guard briefly peering down at him before continuing his rounds.
Atretes sat down on the pallet. Raking his fingers back through his hair, he held his head in his hands for a long moment, then leaned back against the cold stone wall. He was shaking again, inside as well as out.
It seemed hours before he heard doors opening and others entering the corridor. Someone whispered and a guard shouted for silence. One door at a time was opened and closed as the men were locked into their chambers for the night. A long silence followed. Atretes heard a man crying.
Lying down on the stone shelf, he closed his eyes and tried to envision the forests of Germania, the faces of his family and friends. He couldn’t. All he could see in his mind was the compound and those men going through their practiced movements.
Sounds of the guard walking back and forth above came with grim regularity, beating into Atretes’ brain that there would be no escape from this place. No escape but death.
He awakened at the shout of a guard and stood waiting for his door to be opened. His door was passed by. He listened and heard the men filing out of the barracks, and then silence closed about him again. He sat, gripping the edge of the stone shelf.
Finally, Gallus opened the door. “Take off the over robe and follow me,” he said. Two other guards fell in behind him as Atretes came out into the corridor. He felt weak from lack of food and wondered if they meant to feed him or let him starve. They took him to the training compound and Tharacus, the lanista, or head trainer, of the ludus.
Tharacus’ face was weathered and hard, and his dark eyes were shrewd. A scar ran the length of one cheek and half of one ear was cut off, but he, too, wore an ivory rectangle around his neck, signifying he’d earned his freedom in the arena.
“We have a new slave from Germania,” he announced loudly to the formation of men. “He thinks he’s a fighter. But we know that all Germans are cowards. When they fight, they hide behind trees and rely on the ambush! Then, as soon as the battle turns against them, as it always does, they run for the woods.”
Some of the men laughed, but Atretes stood silent and rigid, watching Tharacus walk back and forth before the trainees. The heat built higher inside him with each insult the lanista uttered, but the alert and well-armed guards posted every few feet around the slaves convinced Atretes that there was nothing he could do.
“Yes, we know Germans are good at running,” Tharacus said, taunting Atretes further. “Now, let’s see if they can stand and fight like men.” He stopped in front of Atretes. “What’s your name, slave?” He spoke in a German dialect. Atretes looked at him placidly and said nothing. Tharacus struck him hard across the face.
“I’ll ask again,” Tharacus said, a small tight smile curving his mouth. “Your name.”
Atretes noisily sucked the blood from a cut in his mouth and spit it in the sand.
A second blow knocked him off his feet. Without thinking, Atretes lunged up and forward, but the lanista kicked him back and drew his gladius. Atretes felt the tip of that sword at his throat before he could make another move.
“You’ll give your name,” Tharacus said evenly, “or I’ll put an end to you right now.”
Atretes stared at the unrelenting face above him and knew Tharacus meant it. Death he’d welcome if he were on his feet and had a framea in his hand, but he wouldn’t lose his honor by dying on his back in the dust. “Atretes,” he grated, glaring up at the lanista.
“Atretes,” Tharacus said, testing the name, the sword still in position for a quick kill. “Listen well, young Atretes. Obey and you’ll live, defy me again and I’ll slit your throat like a pig and hang you up by your feet so you’ll drain before the ludus for all the world to see.” He flicked the sword tip just enough to break the skin and draw a few drops of blood to show it was not an idle threat. “Do you understand? Answer me. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Atretes said through his teeth.
Tharacus stepped back and sheathed the gladius. “Get up.”
Atretes rose.
“I was told you could fight,” Tharacus said with a mocking smile. “So far you’ve shown me nothing but stupidity.” He nodded to a guard. “Give him one of the poles.” He took one for himself and took a fighting stance. “Let’s see what you can do.”
Atretes didn’t need a second invitation. He weighed the pole in his hands as he moved around the lanista, ducking and parrying and managing a few solid blows before Tharacus made a quick turn and brought the pole up beneath his chin. Another swift blow behind his legs sent him crashing down, then another across the side of his head kept him there. Stunned, Atretes lay on his face, gasping for breath.
“Not good enough to survive in the arena,” Tharacus said, contemptuously, kicking Atretes’ pole away. He tossed his own to the guard standing by and then stood over him. “Get up!”
Face burning with shame, Atretes regained his feet. All muscles rigid, he waited for whatever humiliation the lanista planned next. With a word of dismissal from Tharacus, the others went with their armed guards and instructors to various sections of the compound.
Tharacus returned his attention to him. “Scorpus paid a high price for you. I expected a better performance.” Pride smarting, Atretes clenched his teeth and said nothing. Tharacus smiled coldly. “You were surprised to be dropped so quickly, weren’t you? Ah, but you were in chains for five weeks, and then in the Hole for four days. Perhaps that accounts for your weakened state and befuddled mind.” His demeanor changed subtly. “Arrogance and stupidity will kill you quicker than lack of skill. Keep that in mind and you might live.”
Getting back to business, Tharacus looked him over critically. “You need more weight, exercise, and conditioning. And you’ll be tested. When I’m convinced you’re worth my time, you’ll join those I train.” He nodded toward a motley group of men who were exercising in the far corner of the compound. “Until that time, you’re assigned to Trophimus.”
Atretes glanced toward a short, muscular officer shouting at a dozen men who looked as though they’d come from the mines, not a battlefield. Atretes sneered. Tharacus drew his gladius and slammed the flat of it against Atretes, cold steel pressed against his abdomen.
“I was informed you killed a Roman guard on your way here,” Tharacus said. “You don’t seem afraid to die. I believe only the manner of it disturbs you. That’s good. A gladiator who’s afraid of death is a disgrace. But I warn you, Atretes, insurrection isn’t tolerated here. Lay one hand on a guard and you’ll curse the day you were born.” Atretes felt the blood draining from his face as Tharacus brought the gladius down and up slightly so that he felt its edge against his manhood. “Wouldn’t you rather die with a sword in your hands than be castrated?”
Tharacus laughed softly. “I’ve got your ear now, haven’t I, young Atretes?” He pressed the edge of the sword dangerously closer. The mockery died. “I was told you refused to take the gladiator’s oath when Scorpus ordered it. You’ll swear it to me now, or become a eunuch. They’re much in demand in Rome.”
Atretes had no choice. He obeyed the command.
Tharacus sheathed his gladius. “We’ll see now if a German barbarian has the courage and honor to uphold his word. Rep
Atretes spent the rest of the morning running through a series of obstacles, but having been chained in a wagon for weeks, and denied food for several days, he tired quickly. Even so, the others fared worse than he. One man accused of laziness was whipped every step of the way through the course.
At the sound of a whistle, Trophimus ordered them into single line. They filed into a dining compound of iron lattice. Atretes took the wooden bowl a woman slave handed him. His stomach cramped painfully at the smell of food. He took his place on a long bench with the others and waited as two women carrying buckets walked along the line of men, ladling out portions of thick meat and barley stew. Everything, including food, was calculated here. Meat would build muscle, and the rich grain would cover the arteries with a layer of fat, which would keep a wounded man from quickly bleeding to death. Another woman handed out thick hunks of bread, followed by other women who poured water into wooden cups.
Atretes ate ravenously. When his bowl was empty, a slender, dark-haired woman ladled more stew for him. She moved to another who clacked his cup against his bowl to summon her. When the woman returned and replenished Atretes’ bowl once again, the tattooed Briton beside him whispered in Greek, “Go easy or you’ll suffer for it in afternoon exercises.”
“No talking!” Trophimus shouted.
Atretes swilled the last of his stew as they were ordered to rise. As they filed out, he dropped his bowl and water cup into a half barrel.
Standing in the sun, Atretes felt drowsy as Trophimus lectured them on the need to build their strength and stamina for the arena. Atretes hadn’t had a full meal in weeks, and the heavy weight of food in his belly felt good. He remembered the feasts that always followed a victorious battle and how the warriors stuffed themselves on roasted meat and rich beer until they could do little more than tell stories and laugh.
Trophimus took them to an exercise area where several pali were erected within the iron grated wall. The pali, wheels that were laid on their sides and mounted on the ground, had thick posts up through the center. Two leather covered swords protruded from each post, one at the height of a man’s head and the other at the level of his knees. A slave-driven crank worked the gears that turned the pali, swinging the sheathed swords around at whatever speed was commanded by the instructor. Anyone standing on the wheel would have to jump the lower sword and duck quickly before the higher one struck him in the head.