As Sure as the Dawn by Francine Rivers
With a sneering laugh, Atretes strode up the hill, not sparing another glance at those who gathered at the river.
* * *
Atretes returned to his villa by way of the outer road and waited again. It would be safer to enter the city after dark, and there were other matters that, in his haste, he had neglected to consider.
“Lagos!” His booming voice echoed up the marble staircase. “Lagos!”
A man ran along the upper corridor. “My lord!”
“Go to the slave market and buy me a wet nurse.”
Lagos hurried down the stairs. “A . . . wet nurse, my lord?”
“Make sure she’s German.” He strode through the courtyard toward the baths.
Lagos followed, distressed. He had had several masters, and this one had by far been the most mercurial. Lagos had been greatly honored to be counted among the slaves belonging to Atretes, the foremost gladiator in all of the Roman Empire, but he’d never expected the man to be on the verge of madness. During the first week he’d spent in this villa, Atretes had smashed all the furnishings, set fire to his bedroom, then disappeared. After a month, Silus and Appelles, two gladiators Atretes had purchased from Sertes as guards, had gone out looking for him.
“He’s living in the hill caves,” Silus reported upon their return.
“You must bring him back!”
“And risk getting killed? Forget it! You go, old man. Not me. I value my life.”
“He’ll starve.”
“He’s eating the flesh of animals he hunts down with one of those bloody framea Germans use,” Appelles informed him. “He’s gone feri again.”
“Shouldn’t we do something?” Saturnina said. The slave girl was clearly distressed that her master had reverted to a barbarian savage and was living like a wild beast.
“What would you suggest we do, sweeting? Send you into his cave to improve his mood? You’d have better luck with me.” Silus said, pinching her cheek. She slapped his hand away and he laughed. “You know you’re secretly happy the Lady Julia spurned your master. If he ever regains his mind and comes back, you’ll be waiting in the doorway.”
While Silus and Appelles lolled around, drinking and talking about old battles in the arena, Lagos had taken charge of the household. All was kept in order and readiness should the master regain his mind and return.
Which he had, without warning. After being gone for five months, he simply strode into the villa one day, threw off the furs he was wearing, bathed, shaved, and donned a tunic. Then he sent one of the servants for Sertes, and when the editor of the games came, they were briefly closeted together. The following afternoon, a messenger came telling Atretes the woman he sought was in the dungeon. Atretes left as soon as it was dark.
Now, he was back asking for a wet nurse. A German wet nurse, as though they grew like grapes on a vine! There was no child in the household, and Lagos didn’t even want to contemplate his master’s reasons for the demand he was making. He had one main concern paramount in his mind: survival.
Steeling himself, he gathered his courage and opened his mouth to make his master aware of certain unavoidable facts. “It may not be possible, my lord.”
“Pay whatever the going price is. I don’t care how high it is.” Atretes tossed his belt aside.
“It’s not always a matter of price, my lord. Germans are in great demand, especially if they’re blonde, and the supply is sporadic. . . .” He felt the blood draining from his face at the sardonic look Atretes gave him. If anyone knew these facts, he would. Lagos wondered if Atretes was even aware that a new statue of Mars had been erected, and its resemblance to the gladiator who stood looking at him so impatiently was remarkable. Statuettes of Atretes were still being sold outside the arena. Just the other day, at the marketplace, Lagos had seen idolmaker shops selling figures of an Apollo that looked like Atretes, though it was slightly more well endowed than nature made any man.
“I’m sorry, my lord, but there may not be a German wet nurse available.”
“You’re a Greek. Greeks are resourceful. Find one! She doesn’t have to be blonde, but make sure she’s healthy.” He stripped off his tunic, revealing the body that countless amoratae worshiped. “And have her here by tomorrow morning.” He stepped to the edge of the pool.
“Yes, my lord,” Lagos said grimly, deciding it was best to work quickly rather than waste time trying to reason with a mad barbarian. If he failed, Atretes would no doubt eat his liver like the raven that feasted perpetually upon the god Prometheus.
Atretes dove into the pool, the cool water a relief to his feverish mind. He came up and shook the water from his hair. He would go back to the city tonight. Alone. If he took Silus and Appelles with him, they would draw attention. Besides, even two trained guards were no match against a mob. It would be far better if he went into the city by himself. He would wear commoner’s clothing and keep his hair covered. Thus disguised, he should have no difficulty.
When he finished bathing, he roamed through the house. Restless and tense, he strayed from room to room until he came to the largest on the second floor. He hadn’t set foot in this chamber since setting it on fire over five months ago. He glanced around, seeing that the servants had taken it upon themselves to remove the charred furnishings, wall hangings, and shattered Corinthian vases. Though they had certainly scrubbed the marble, there was still physical evidence of his rage and the destruction he had intended. He had purchased this villa for Julia, intending to bring her here as his wife. He had been well aware of how Julia reveled in luxury and remembered how proud he had been when he had furnished it with the most expensive things. They would have shared this room.
Instead, she had married someone else.
He could still hear her crying out her lies and paltry excuses when he came to claim her a few months after he had gained his freedom. She said her husband was a homosexual with a catamite and had no interest in her. She said she had married him to protect her financial independence, her freedom.
Lying witch!
He should have known what she was from the beginning. Hadn’t she, with a heart of pure cunning, gone to the Artemision dressed as a temple prostitute in order to capture his interest? Hadn’t she bribed Sertes in order to summon him from the ludus any time she wanted? As long as it didn’t interfere with Sertes’ training schedule for him, the time had been granted. Ah, but like a fool, he had gone to her at the mere crook of her bejeweled finger. Besotted by her beauty, craving her wanton passion, he had gone—and she’d slaughtered him.
What a fool!
When he’d taken Julia Valerian into his arms, he’d thrown pride to the wind and self-respect into the dust. He had embraced shame. All during the months of their clandestine affair, he’d return to his cell in the ludus, depressed and discomforted, not wanting to face the truth. He’d known her for what she was, even then. Yet he had allowed her to use him, like everyone else had used him since he’d been taken prisoner, torn from his beloved Germania. Julia’s soft, silken arms had been stronger around his body than any chains that had ever held him.
The last time he’d seen her, she’d cried out that she loved him. Love! She’d known so little about love—and about him—that she had actually thought her marriage to someone else would make no difference. She’d thought he would gladly continue to come to her whenever the mood suited her.
By the gods, he knew he could wash for years and never get the taint of her off of him! Now, looking at the barren, devastated room before him, he swore no woman would ever have that kind of hold on him again!
As the sun set, Atretes donned a woolen cloak, tucked a dagger into his belt, and left for Ephesus. He headed northwest along the hills, using a path he knew well before seeking the road. Small houses dotted the countryside, but grew more numerous and closer together as he came nearer the city. Wagons laden with goods traveled the main road toward the gates. He walked unnoticed in the dark shadows of one, seeking cover from the growing throng.
Atretes made a rude hand gesture.
“You want a fight?!” the driver shouted, rising from the seat. Atretes laughed derisively, but said nothing. His accent would be noted—Germans weren’t common in this part of the Empire. He left the darkness and strode by the torches and Roman sentries. One soldier glanced at him and their eyes met for the briefest second. Atretes saw a quickening of interest in the Roman’s eyes and lowered his head so his face wouldn’t be seen clearly. The guard spoke to a comrade, and Atretes moved in among a group of travelers, then ducked down the first available street. He waited in the darkness, but the sentry didn’t send anyone to follow.
Atretes started off again, thankful the moon was full enough to reflect off the white stones inset on the granite slab road.
John had explained that the woman who had his son lived on the second level of a rundown insula in the poor district, southeast of the complex of libraries near the Artemision. Atretes knew he could find the right building if he went through the heart of the city.
As he neared the temple, the crowds increased. Following a maze of alleyways in an effort to avoid them, he stumbled over a man sleeping against a wall. The man groaned, cursed, pulled his cloak over his head, and curled onto his side.
Hearing voices behind him, Atretes hastened his steps. As he rounded a corner, someone from a third floor window poured night soil down into the street. He jumped back in disgust and shouted up at the open window.
The voices fell silent, but he heard movement in the darkness of the alleyway behind him. Turning, he narrowed his eyes. Six shapes came toward him, moving stealthily. He turned fully, ready. Realizing they had been seen, the stalkers’ manner changed to boldness. Several made mocking sounds meant to frighten him. Spreading out, they came on, circling the front of him. One was clearly the leader, for he motioned and the other five moved into carefully plotted positions intended to block a victim’s escape.
Seeing the glint of a blade, Atretes smiled coldly. “You will not find me easy.”
“Your money pouch,” the leader said. From the voice, Atretes knew he was young.
“Go home to your bed, boy, and you might live through the night.”
The youth gave a derisive laugh, still advancing on him.
“Wait, Palus,” one said, sounding nervous.
“I don’t have a good feeling,” another said in the darkness. “He’s a head taller—”
“Shut up, Tomas! There are six of us and only one of him.”
“Maybe he has no money.”
“He has money. I heard the coins jingle. Heavy coins.” Palus stepped closer. The others followed his lead. “The pouch!” He snapped his fingers. “Toss it to me.”
“Come and take it.”
No one moved. Palus called him a foul name, his young voice shaking with enraged pride.
“I didn’t think you’d do it,” Atretes said, scraping his attacker’s pride again. The youth with the knife lunged at him.
It had been months since Atretes had fought, but it didn’t matter. All the training and finely honed instincts came back in an instant. He moved sharply, dodging the thrust of the dagger. Catching the boy’s wrist, he drew the arm down and around, snapping it from the shoulder socket. Palus went down screaming.
The others didn’t know whether to run or attack, until one fool did the latter, and the rest followed. One of them punched Atretes in the face, while another jumped on his back. Atretes slammed his full weight back against the wall and kicked the one in front low and hard.
Atretes took two punches in the side of the head as he brought his elbow up sharply and connected a blow to an attacker’s chest. The thief dropped, gasping for breath.
In the scuffle, Atretes’ mantle came loose and fell back off his head, leaving his hair to shine blonde in the moonlight.
“Zeus! It’s Atretes!” Those still able scattered like rats into the darkness.
“Help me!” Palus cried out, but his friends had deserted him. Moaning in pain and cradling his broken arm against his chest, Palus scooted backwards until he was against the wall. “Don’t kill me,” he sobbed. “Don’t kill me. Please! We didn’t know it was you.”
“Boy, the least in the arena had more courage than you.” He stepped past him and headed down the alleyway.
He heard voices ahead of him. “I swear! It was him! He was big and his hair was white in the moonlight. It was Atretes!”
“Where?”
“Down there! He’s probably killed Palus.”
Swearing under his breath, Atretes ran down a narrow street that took him in the opposite direction from where he wanted to go. Jogging along a street between insulae, he turned up another avenue and came around a corner that put him back on track. Ahead was a main thoroughfare not far from the Artemision. He slowed as he neared it, not wanting to attract attention by his haste. He drew the mantle up over his head to cover his hair again and lowered his chin as he entered the evening bazaar.
The street was lined with booths and street vendors hawking their wares. As Atretes wove his way among the crowd, he saw miniature temples and statuettes of Artemis, trays of amulets, and pouches of incense. He came to an idolmaker’s shop and glanced at the counter laden with marble statuettes. Someone bumped into him and he stepped closer, pretending interest in the wares on display. He needed to blend in with the crowd of evening shoppers. Visitors from every part of the Empire milled around, looking for bargains. Atretes froze as he looked at the detailed statuettes.
The merchant thought him interested. “Take a closer look, my lord! These are replicas of the new statue just erected in honor of Mars. You won’t find better workmanship anywhere.”
Atretes stepped closer and picked one up. He hadn’t imagined it. It was him! He glared at the offensive idol. “Mars?” he said in an accusing growl, wanting to crush the marble into dust.
“You must be new to the city. Are you making a pilgrimage to our goddess?” The vendor produced a small statue festooned with breasts and wearing a headdress punctuated with symbols, one of which was the rune of the god Tiwaz, whom Atretes had once worshiped.
“There he is! Over there by the idolmaker’s shop.”
Atretes glanced around sharply and saw a dozen young men pushing their way through the crowd toward him. “I told you it was Atretes!”
“Atretes! Where?”
People on the left and right of him turned to stare. The idolmaker stood, mouth agape, staring at him. “It is you. By the gods!”
Sweeping his arm across the table, Atretes grasped the edge and upended the table. Shoving several people aside, he tried to run. A man grasped his tunic. Uttering an enraged shout, Atretes hit him in the face. As the man went down, he took three others with him.
Excitement erupted up and down the street. “Atretes! Atretes is here!”
More hands fell upon him; voices cried his name out feverishly.
Atretes was unaccustomed to real fear, but knew it now as the furor in the marketplace grew. In another moment there would be a riot, with him at the center. He plowed through half a dozen clawing bodies, knowing he had to get away. Now.
“Atretes!” A woman screamed, flinging herself upon him. As he shook her off, her nails scraped his neck. Someone else yanked out a hank of his hair. The mantle was torn from his shoulders. People were screaming.
Breaking free, he ran, knocking people aside as they got in his way. Amoratae shouted and followed him like a pack of wild dogs. Ducking into the narrow avenue of shops, he knocked over another table. Fruit and vegetables spilled across the walkway. He upended another counter of copperware, scattering more obstacles in the mob’s path. There were cries behind him as several went down. Leaping over a small cart, he turned sharply and ran down an alleyway between two insulae. When he saw it was a dead end, he came nearer to panic than he had in his life. He had once seen a pack of wild dogs chase down a man in the arena. When
Turning frantically, Atretes sought escape. When he saw a door, he ran to it. It was locked. Ramming it with his shoulder, he broke it open and ran up a darkened passageway of steps. One floor, then two. Stopping on a landing, he waited. Catching his breath, he listened.
Muted sounds of voices came from outside on the street. “He must have gone in one of the insulae.”
“Look over there!”
“No, wait! This door’s been broken in.”
Hurried footsteps headed up the stairs. “He’s in here.”
Atretes ran along the corridor as quietly as he could. Even with tenement doors closed, the place reeked of humanity. A door opened behind him and someone peered out just as he ducked up a narrow, dank passageway. He reached the third floor and then the fourth. Still shouting, his pursuers were awakening everyone in the building. When he reached the roof, he was in the open with no place to hide.
Voices came up the stairs.
Seeing only one way to escape, he took it. Running full-out, Atretes took a flying leap across the yawning distance to another building. He hit hard and rolled. Coming to his feet, he scrambled across to another doorway, dove into it, and hid in the shadows of another stairwell just as a dozen people spilled out onto the rooftop from which he had just leapt.
Atretes drew back sharply, heaving for air, heart pounding.
The voices receded as one by one, they ran down the stairs again, searching for him in the dim environs of the insula. Atretes sank back against the wall and closed his eyes, trying to regain his breath.
How was he going to cross the city, find a widow with his son, and get the child and himself out of the city without losing both their lives in the process?
Cursing the idolmakers for making him a graven image to these idol-hungry people, he closed down his mind to anything else but getting out of the city in one piece. That accomplished, he would find another way to get his son.
He waited for an hour before venturing down the stairs and hallways into the insula. Every sound made him flinch. When he reached the street, he kept close to the walls, using the veil of dark shadows for protection. He got lost. Using up precious hours of darkness, he found his way like a rat in the maze of alleys and narrow streets.