A Voice in the Wind (15 page)

“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. Report to Trophimus.”

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.

Trophimus ordered Atretes and the Briton to demonstrate. They took their places on the wheel first while a Numidian trainee manned the crank. As the post turned, Atretes jumped and ducked the sheathed sword each time. On the sixth time around, the Briton was struck squarely in the forehead and knocked backwards off the wheel. Atretes kept going. “Faster,” Trophimus ordered.

The Numidian turned the crank harder. Atretes was tiring fast, but kept on, muscles burning. The heavy weight of food in his stomach lurched, but around and around the post swung. Trophimus stood by and watched without expression. Atretes’ chest heaved, his gorge rose. The high sword brushed his head and he barely made it over the lower one. Sweat poured down into his eyes. He glared at Trophimus and felt an explosion of pain across the bridge of his nose. He flew backwards and hit the ground heavily. Groaning, he rolled over, pushed himself up, and vomited into the dust. His broken nose gushed blood. Not far away, Gallus stood laughing at him. Crawling a few feet away from the wheel, Atretes shook his head, trying to clear it.

Trophimus ordered two others onto the wheel and came over to Atretes. “Kneel and tilt your head back.” Tharacus’ warning of castration hung over Atretes and he took the subservient position as ordered. Trophimus gripped his head, positioned the length of his thumbs on either side of his broken nose, and worked the cartilage. “Your mistake was looking at me.” Atretes clenched his teeth, afraid he was going to disgrace himself further by passing out. Blood poured down over his mouth and chin and stained the brown tunic. Trophimus didn’t take his hands away until the cartilage snapped back into place.

“The ladies like something pretty to look at,” Trophimus said with a grin. He washed his hands in a bucket of water that a slave held for him. He took the sponge from the bucket and tossed it to Atretes. “You need stamina for a good fight,” he said, drying his hands on a towel the slave handed him. “When the bleeding stops, rejoin the others.” He dropped the towel in the dust beside Atretes and turned his attention to the next two on the wheel.

Atretes pressed the dripping sponge to his throbbing face. Cool water eased the pain, but not his rage or embarrassment. He heard a thud and groan as another man was quickly struck down. “Next!” Trophimus shouted.

The afternoon wore on. Trophimus didn’t move the men to another section of the compound until every one of them had taken several turns on the wheel.

The sun rose higher, beating down on the trainees as they returned to the obstacle course. Even tired, his tunic soaked with blood and sweat, Atretes managed it without too much difficulty. He’d spent his life in the forests of Germania—running through obstacles was nothing new to him. Ducking branches, leaping roots and boulders, and zigzagging through clusters of pine were second nature.

Others who had been purchased from mines and fields stumbled and fell, gasping for breath and rising only when the whip sang through the air and cracked across their backs. But as his overstuffed belly emptied, the obstacles these Romans had set up were child’s play to Atretes.

Trophimus was disgusted with the display of some of the trainees. “How many days have we been doing this and still you can’t make it through the course! It’d do you all well to observe the German! If there is one thing a German knows, it’s how to run!”

Atretes burned with rage as he was ordered through the course twice more while the others watched.

When another whistle blew, the men filed into their building and down a ladder to the baths. Exhausted, Atretes rested his forearms on the stone as he sat in the bath. His nose throbbed and every muscle in his body ached. He filled the sponge and pressed it against the back of his neck. The water felt good, as did the knowledge that he had done well.

The only sound in the torchlit chamber was water running into the baths. No one spoke. Four guards were stationed around the room. As much as he longed to kill one, Atretes knew Tharacus would enjoy carrying out his threatened punishment.

He was handed a fresh tunic. Once dressed, he was ordered up the ladder. Following another meal of meat and barley stew, which Atretes ate sparingly, the trainees were taken to their chambers and locked in for the night. He pulled on the heavy robe he had left on the stone shelf and stretched out on the thin straw mattress.

All his life, he had wanted nothing more than to feel the rush of hot blood, to be a warrior, to fight. There was honor in destroying an enemy who invaded your lands; there was honor in fighting to protect your people; there was honor in dying in battle. But there was no honor in killing your peers to entertain a Roman mob.

Atretes stared up through the iron bars at the shadows flickering on the walls of the corridor above. He was too tired to feel anything except deep shame and futile rage at what lay ahead of him.

7

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Julia tried to squeeze past the others ahead of her in order to see the arena below, and she felt Marcus’ hand clamp on her arm. “There’s no hurry, Julia,” he said in amusement. “The
locarius
will show us to our seats when our turn comes,” he said, watching for the usher as he spoke.

“I thought you had a special box.”

“I do, but it’s in use today, and I thought you’d like to sit among the crowd and feel the real excitement of the games.”

Spectators were already crowding into the theater, swarming down the steps and into the tiers of seats, called the
cavea
. Three circular walls, the
baltei
, were in four superimposed sections. The highest and least desirable section was the
pullati
. Closest to the arena was the
podium
, where the emperor would sit. The knights and tribunes were behind and above in the first and second
tnaenianum
. The third and fourth maenianum were reserved for the patricians.

“Why are they taking so long?” Julia said, exasperated. “I don’t want to miss anything.”

“They’re trying to handle the crowd. Don’t worry, little sister, you won’t miss anything. They haven’t even presented the sponsor yet.” He handed their ivory passes to the usher and supported Julia with a firm hand beneath her elbow as she went down the steep steps. The usher took them to the proper row and handed the ivory chits over again so Marcus could match the numbers with the stone seats. “The first hours will be tedious,” Marcus said as Julia sat down. “I don’t know how I allowed you to talk me into this. The real fighting won’t begin for a long while yet.”

Julia scarcely heard Marcus’ complaint, so completely enthralled was she by the crowd. Hundreds were in attendance, from the wealthiest patricians to the lowliest slaves. Her gaze became fixed on a woman coming down the steps, a Syrian slave wearing a white tunic right on her heels. He was carrying a sun guard to shade her and a basket undoubtedly laden with wine and delicacies.

“Marcus, look at that woman. She must have a fortune in jewelry on her! I’ll bet those bracelets weigh ten pounds each, and they’re set with jewels.“

“She’s a patrician’s wife.”

She glanced up at him. “How can you sound and look so bored when it’s all so exciting?”

He’d been to the games a hundred times or more. The only part he enjoyed were the death matches, and they wouldn’t come for hours yet. “Because I
am
bored. I’d enjoy it more if they’d cut through all these preliminaries.”

“You promised you’d let me stay as long as I liked, Marcus, and I’m going to stay for
everything
. Besides, the signs said that Celerus is going to fight today. Octavia said he’s wonderful.”

“If you like scarred
Thracians
who use their weapons with the skill of a bull in full charge

Julia ignored his sarcasm. Ever since he’d begun building houses on Aventine Hill, all he talked about was business and how much lumber and stone cost, and how many more slaves he needed to buy in order to complete the contracts. She’d looked forward to this moment too much to allow his moodiness at missing a few hours of work spoil it for her. After all, she was the only one of her friends who hadn’t attended the games. She deserved to have fun. She was going to drink in every sound, sight, and moment.

But a flicker of doubt made her frown. Mother and Father thought she and Marcus were on a day’s excursion to the country. It was just a small lie; it wasn’t really deceit. Marcus had taken her out in his chariot before. What did it matter when Father and Mother were unreasonable? Their rules were unfair and ridiculous. Just because Father despised what the games had become didn’t mean she and Marcus had to feel the same way. Father was prudish and traditional and a hypocrite. Even he attended the games on occasion, though he claimed he did so only when social and political reasons demanded it.

“It disgusts me to hear young women screaming for a man who is nothing more than a thief and murderer,” he had said only the other day. “Celerus struts around the arena like a cock and fights just well enough to survive. Yet they make him a god.”

She thanked the gods for Marcus, who couldn’t say no to her. He was just and reasonable, and willing to risk their father’s ire to give her the same simple privileges her friends possessed.

“I’m so glad you brought me, Marcus. Now my friends won’t be able to make fun of me anymore,“ she said, putting her hand over his.

Distracted, he gave her a slight smile. “Enjoy yourself and don’t worry about anything.”

Marcus was thinking about what his father had said about using slaves rather than free men to complete the labor contracts. Father claimed slaves were the reason Rome was going soft. Free men needed work and purpose. Marcus said free men demanded too high a wage. He could buy a slave, use him until the work was done, and sell him when the projects were completed. That way he saved money while the work was going on and even gained a further profit once it was finished. Father had been enraged by the logic, claiming that if Rome were to survive, she needed to hire her own citizens rather than import slaves from elsewhere.

Julia leaned over and looped her arm through his. “You needn’t worry about my telling Father you brought me to the games. I won’t say a word.”

“That relieves me greatly,” he said.

She pulled away, offended by his patronizing tone. “I can keep a secret.”

“I wouldn’t trust you with one!”

“Isn’t this a secret? Father would skin you alive if he learned you brought me here.”