A Voice in the Wind by Francine Rivers
“So I will become a butcher,” Atretes said, translating the word to its literal meaning.
Bato took no offense. “Where is the difference in what I do and what you did in your homeland? I prepare men to fight and die with honor.” He put his hand on Atretes’ shoulder. “Take my advice and live well while you can. Take whatever is offered. The day you killed Celerus, you became the reigning king of the Roman arena. An enviable position, as long as you can hold it.”
Atretes gave a humorless laugh.
“I understand your bitterness, Atretes. My own almost destroyed me until I found balance. You will train continually, but fight only four to six times a year. That is not a bad life. Between games, you have plenty of time for other pursuits.”
“Like making money? For what purpose if it will not buy freedom?”
“Money can buy many things. Celerus didn’t live in the barracks of a ludus. He owned his own house and had a staff of servants.”
Atretes glanced at him in surprise. “I thought he was a slave.”
“A slave who owned slaves. Celerus was a better fighter than you,” Bato said with his usual brutal frankness. “What defeated him was his own arrogance. He underestimated your intelligence, and for the first time since I’ve known you, you didn’t lose your temper.”
Atretes grew thoughtful. Having someplace other than a rank, stone cell to live in appealed to him. He rose from the bench and bent down over a bowl of water. He splashed his face. Maybe Bato was right. He should get what he could while he could. He had narrowly missed being disemboweled by Celerus two weeks before. He remembered the look in Celerus’ eyes as he drove the sword into his side. He hadn’t managed a killing wound, only a disabling one. It was the Roman mob who had killed Celerus. The sound of the masses screaming “Jugula! Jugula!” still rang in his ears.
Blood pouring from his side, Celerus had dropped to one knee before him. “Listen to them screaming for my blood! They were in love with me an hour ago.” The mob screamed louder, the swelling noise making the ground itself vibrate. “They’ll turn on you, too.” Celerus lifted his head and Atretes saw his eyes through the visor the man wore. “Get it done,” he said.
Atretes put his hand on Celerus’ helmet, tipped his head back slightly, and made the swift dagger slash that opened the jugular. The mob went mad as Celerus’ blood splashed across Atretes’ chest. Celerus fell back, bracing himself feebly on his elbows, dying with a look of confused bitterness in his eyes as the mob chanted ecstatically, “Atretes! Atretes!”
Atretes closed his eyes and splashed more water on his face and chest. No matter what he did, he couldn’t wash away the blood of his kills. Twenty-one men dead at his hand. . . .
He took a towel from the pile and dried himself. “I’ll sleep in the man’s inn, but tell him thirty aurei or no deal.”
“Thirty it will be. I keep twenty, five for myself for having arranged it, and fifteen to be sent to the emperor as a goodwill offering.”
“Goodwill offering?” Atretes glanced back at him coolly. “Tell Vespasian to sleep in the man’s inn, and may the gods infest his bed with fleas!”
Bato laughed, then grew serious again. “Be wise for once, Atretes. The emperor owns you whether you like it or not. You can’t change what the gods decree. The emperor has the power of life and death over you, and you’ve done everything in your power to irritate him. One word from Vespasian and you’ll find yourself pitted with lions or wild dogs. Is that the way you want to die?”
Atretes threw the towel aside. “If I give him more than I get, I honor him,” Atretes said.
“As is his due. He is leader of the empire that defeated Germania. Need I remind you? You don’t stand before him as a victor.”
Atretes lifted his head. “I am not defeated.”
“You’re still leading your clan? You’re still living in the wilds of your black forest? You fool! Have you ever asked yourself why you’re matched against men like Celerus and not other captives brought from the frontier?”
It was a common practice for owners to match their best gladiators with nonprofessionals, thus assuring wins and protecting their investments. Vespasian, however, had ordered Atretes matched against the best professionals with the most impressive kill records. The intent was obvious. He wanted him dead, but in a way that turned a profit and pleased the mob, thus furthering his own political popularity.
“I know why,” Atretes said.
“Push too hard, and the emperor will feed you to the lions.”
Atretes’ mouth tightened. To die the prey of beasts was a death as shameful as crucifixion, perhaps more so. “Give Vespasian his fifteen aurei,” he said, giving a scornful bow. As he turned away, he added softly, “And may every one of them bring a curse on him.”
Bato came for Atretes late that night. Drowsy, Atretes arose. Bato tossed him a red tunic with gold trim and handed him a handsome leather-and-brass belt. Last, he gave him a voluminous cape. “Cover your hair. It’s safer for all of us if you aren’t recognized when we’re outside.”
Guards waited in the corridor. Atretes gave Bato a questioning look. “Am I so dangerous, I need six guards?”
Bato laughed. “Pray to your gods we don’t need them.”
The guards surrounded him as they went out into the city. The narrow streets were thronged with wagons and people. Friends gathered around fountains, drinking wine and talking. “Keep your head down,” Bato ordered when a group of young men passed by and stopped to stare at Atretes. “Cut through that alley.” They hurried along. In the shadows again, they slowed. “We don’t have far to go. Luckily, Pugnax’s inn is close to the Circus Maximus.”
The soldiers fell into a march, the sound of their hobnailed shoes on the cobblestones reminding Atretes of the legion he had faced in Germania. Bato nudged him and pointed to a stone wall with words painted on it. “See what it says?”
“I don’t read.”
“You should learn. The writing proclaims you a young girl’s dream. Over there is an announcement for the next games.” He read it aloud as they passed it. “‘Weather permitting, twenty pairs of gladiators, furnished by Ostorius, together with substitutes in case any get killed too quickly, will fight May first, second, and third at the Circus Maximus. The famous Atretes will fight. Hurrah for Atretes! The fights will be followed by a magnificent wild beast hunt. Hurrah for Ostorius.’”
“I’m impressed,” Atretes said drolly. “Who is Ostorius?”
“He’s running for some political office. I’ve heard he was a merchant. Vespasian approves of him because he came up from the plebeian class, but Ostorius still has to get the vote of the people. Financing games could do that for him.”
“Is he a good leader?”
“No one cares as long as he finances games and gives out a little bread to stave off starvation. Once in office, Ostorius can do what he pleases.”
“We’re almost there,” one of the guards said, “and I think we’re in for trouble.”
At the end of the street was an inn alight with lanterns and revelry. The place was overflowing with people, and even more clamored to get inside. Bato paused and studied the situation. “It would appear our friend mentioned you’re coming,” he said grimly. “We’ll try going in the back way.”
They skirted the crowd and came in by another narrow street behind the inn. Men and women were standing in line at the back door, shouting to be let in. A woman turned and saw the guards. Her eyes went wide and she pulled at the man with her. “Atretes! Atretes!” she cried and several other women began to scream when they spotted him. “Atretes! Atretes!”
Atretes laughed, excitement quickening his blood.
Bato wasn’t amused. “We’d better run!”
“From women?” Atretes said in disbelief and then saw the crowd break from around the door and rush at him en masse, shoving and pushing to be first. The guards moved into position to block them, but the tide swept over two. One woman threw herself upon Atretes, wrap
“Get out of here or they’ll tear you to pieces!” Bato shouted, grabbing one woman by the hair and flinging her back. His swift action gave Atretes enough of an opening to escape.
Atretes ran and kept running until the sound of hysterical screaming and pursuing footsteps were lost behind him. Soon Bato caught up with him. “Duck in here,” he ordered, and they pressed themselves into a doorway to catch their breath. Bato leaned out and looked back down the street. “No one coming. I think we lost them,” Bato said. He glanced at Atretes. “Well, how does it feel to be the object of so much affection?” he asked, laughing.
Atretes gave him a disgruntled look and leaned his head back, his heart still racing.
“Any serious damage done?” Bato inquired, grinning.
Atretes rubbed his head. “Some of my hair got yanked out, and it felt as though they were trying to rip me apart so they could take the pieces home with them. But I think I’m still intact.”
“Good,” Bato said. “Let’s hope we can keep you that way.” He stepped out into the street. “I know a place not far from here where we can go. The sooner we get there, the better. With your height and build and that blond hair, you’re too easily recognized. And those women are probably scattered all through the streets hunting for you.”
“This was all your idea. Remember? Thirty aurei!” He swore roundly. “You didn’t warn me what would happen. Are all Romans crazy?”
“When they have their idol in arm’s reach, they get a little excited. Relax. I’ll get you safely back to the ludus. And Pugnax got his money’s worth. You’ll get your ten aurei and then some. I’ll see to it myself.”
They entered a narrow alleyway that led into a large court surrounded by tenement buildings. “I used to spend a lot of time here,” Bato said, pausing before a door and knocking on it. When no one answered, he pounded. A muffled voice demanded who was there. Bato identified himself, and the door was opened. Atretes entered the darkened room after him. The door closed behind them and a bar was dropped into place.
A tall, slender black woman appeared in the back doorway. She held a small terra-cotta lamp in her hand. “Bato?” she said, and there was a catch in her voice. Bato spoke to her in his native tongue. She said nothing, and he crossed the room to her, took the lamp from her hand, and set it on a table. Cupping her face with one large hand, he spoke again in a voice tender and tentative. She answered softly, and Bato glanced back at Atretes.
Bato turned slightly. “This is Chiymado,” he said to Atretes. “An old friend. She’s agreed to let us stay here until morning. There’s a small room in the back,” he said. “You can sleep there. One of the servants will bring you something to eat. We’ll return to the ludus midmorning, when most of the city is asleep.”
Atretes nodded and followed the servant out of the room. A tray was brought to him. Sitting on the straw pallet, he leaned against the wall and drank the wine. Though he was hungry, he left the stale bread. The room was no bigger than his cell and just as cold. He wondered if the inn that had his name painted over the door was any better. Never having been inside, he wouldn’t know. The more he thought about it, the more angry he became.
Eventually Bato came to lean against the doorjamb. “It’s almost morning. We’ll leave soon.”
“Before we go back to the ludus, I want to pay a visit to Pugnax.” Atretes thumped the empty bottle of wine down on the floor and stood up. “All those Roman harpies would have flown by now.”
It was near dawn and the streets were empty, all the revelers of the night before having returned home to their beds. Bato led Atretes through the maze of alleys and streets until they reached the inn. No one was outside. The curtains were drawn and the shutters closed. Debris was scattered around in the street. Bato knocked loudly.
“Go away!” A man shouted from inside. He cursed them roundly. “I told you before, Atretes isn’t here! Go on home!”
Temper fired, Atretes stepped forward to break the door down. Bato shoved him back and banged on the door again. “It’s Bato, you idiot. Open the door or the two of us will burn this inn down around your ears!”
As soon as Atretes heard the bar removed and the latch lifted, he slammed his way into the inn. “You owe me thirty aurei for the use of my name over your door!”
“Bank your fire,” retorted Pugnax, unintimidated. “You’ll have what I promised.” He was a solid man of Bato’s height and boasted a massive chest and arms. His hair was gray and cropped short, and he wore the rectangular piece of inscribed ivory around his neck that proclaimed him a freed gladiator. He grinned at Atretes’ surprise, and gaps showed where several teeth had been chipped or knocked out completely. “You should’ve brought a few more guards with you,” Pugnax said and glanced at Bato. “A good thing this pretty fellow can run so fast, eh, old friend?”
Bato laughed. “I’ve never seen him faster.”
“Sit down,” Pugnax said, and it sounded more an order than an invitation. He shoved Atretes toward the center of the room.
“You should have waited to put up your sign.” Atretes took a seat near the brazier to warm himself. He fingered his tattered tunic. “You owe me a new set of clothes.”
“Anything else, your lordship?” Pugnax said dryly.
“A decent meal and bed would improve his disposition,” Bato said. “And a woman, if one’s available.”
“I sent them all home.” Pugnax nodded toward a long table where a sizable picked-over feast was congealing. “As for food, that was laid out in his honor,” he said. He picked up a peach and tossed it to Atretes. “Eat it in good health. I promise you better the next time you come.”
“What makes you think I’d come back to this rat hole?”
“You like your cell so much better?” Pugnax mocked him. He grinned at Bato. “I think he’s afraid of a few women.” He laughed when Atretes rose from his chair, livid with rage.
“Sit down,” Bato commanded. “Pugnax was fighting men better than you before you were born.”
Pugnax laughed deeply. “Seeing him run reminded me of my own glory days. Remember the Ludi Apollinare, Bato? The women were after me that day.” His smile dimmed. “Everyone knew my name in those days.” He spread his arms. “Now, look what I have.”
“Freedom and property,” Bato said.
“Ha! Taxes and debts. I lived better when I was a slave.” He poured wine into three goblets, handed the first to Bato, the second to Atretes, then held up the third. “To the games,” he said and drank deeply.
Pugnax and Bato talked over their younger years. They relived their exploits in the arena, discussing the tactics of gladiators long since dead. Pugnax recounted several of his own battles and showed off the scars he had earned. “Emperor Nero gave me the wooden sword,” he said. “I thought it was the greatest day of my life. It wasn’t until later that I found my life was really over. What is left for a retired gladiator?”
“When I earn my freedom, I will return to Germania,” Atretes said. “Then my life will begin again.”
Pugnax gave Atretes a grim smile. “You don’t understand yet, but in time, you will. You’ll never be as alive as you are right now, Atretes, when you face death every day.”
Bato rose from his stool and said they had to head back before light. Pugnax gave Bato the pouch of aurei. He handed Atretes another tunic and cape to wear and slapped him on the back as they walked him to the door. “I’ll make the ladies line up proper next time,” he said, giving him a gap-toothed grin. “No more than two or three on you at a time.”
With the city gates closed to wagons and carts, the streets were quiet. While the citizenry slept, shopkeepers
“Pugnax is a fool,” Atretes said. “He is free. Why doesn’t he return to his homeland?”
“He tried, but he no longer belonged in Gaul. His wife was dead, his children adopted and raised by others. His people welcomed him for a while, but later avoided him. Pugnax was taken from Gaul a simple herdsman. He returned a warrior.”
“I was not a herdsman.”
“What is there for you in Germania? A young wife who holds your heart? Do you think she will wait ten years, maybe twenty for you to return to her?”
“I have no wife.”
“A village then? What’s left of it? Rubble and ash? Your people? Dead? Taken as slaves? Scattered? There’s nothing left for you in Germania.”
Atretes didn’t answer. The old futile rage filled him as he remembered all that was lost. Bato stopped at a baker’s stall and purchased bread. He tore off a hunk and offered it to Atretes. “There is nothing left for either of us, Atretes,” he said grimly. “I was a prince. Now I am a slave. But sometimes a slave of Rome lives better than a prince of a defeated country.”
They returned to the ludus in silence.
Caius Polonius Urbanus was the most handsome man Julia had ever seen. The first time she met him at Calabah’s, he had done nothing more than smile at her and take her hand, but she had felt almost faint from the rush of excitement that raced through her blood.
Now she looked at him across the room, and then at Calabah as she spoke to the women gathered there. This was what she wanted, where she wanted to be. True, her father had relaxed the restrictions he set on her, but it was not enough for Julia—especially when one condition of her father’s leniency was that she was not to visit Calabah. Far from giving in, Julia’s visits to Calabah increased. She simply lied about where she was going and with whom she was visiting, all the while being careful to give every appearance of following her father’s wishes. Thus she avoided the conflict—and the lecture—she would receive if her father knew she continued her friendship with Calabah.