A Voice in the Wind (29 page)

Atretes thought of Ania, his young wife. Her sweetness had roused a tender protectiveness in him. He had wanted to keep her from harm, but the forest gods had taken her from him, and his son as well.

He looked at a young Roman woman exercising with the men. No woman of his tribe would stride about dressed as a man and brandishing a sword as though the mere mention that she was a woman would inflame rage and shame. Atretes’ mouth twisted in contempt. These Roman women came to the ludus disdainful of men, then strove to become one.

He noticed they never challenged the well trained. They chose instead the smallest novice on which to test their blade, strutting about when they drew blood. They believed they had proven themselves equal. What a joke! All with whom they sparred were constrained by unspoken laws—only free Roman women came to play games with the gladiators, and one scratch on a pretty white Roman hide could cost a man his life, unless the woman was fair-minded and spoke quickly enough to spare him.

Other women came to the ludus as well, not to fight, but to watch from the safe confines of the balcony. Bato allowed it because there were gladiators who worked harder beneath the eyes of a woman, especially if she was pretty. The men flexed and preened and made fools of themselves while the women giggled from the lounges overlooking the courtyard. Others, like Atretes, ignored their presence, training their minds on lessons yet to be learned.

Roman men also came to the ludus to train, but Atretes was kept away from them. He had been training for three months when one young aristocrat who considered himself a skilled gladiator spotted him and told Bato he wanted to spar with him. Bato tried to talk him out of it, but the young Roman, confident of his own skill, insisted.

Bato called out to Atretes and signaled him over. “Give him a good fight, but don’t draw his blood,” he said. Atretes looked the young aristocrat over as he was making practice swings with his gladius, then grinned at Bato.

“Why would I want to draw a Roman’s blood?”

Atretes kept a measured distance, allowing the young man to advance and show his mettle and skill. Watchful and cautious at first, the barbarian tested his opponent until he knew his weaknesses. Within a few minutes, it was apparent even to the foolish young man who was the master. Atretes toyed with him until sweat beaded on the Roman’s face and body, and fear shone vividly in his eyes. “Back off, Atretes,” Bato called out.

“Is this the best Rome has to offer?” Grinning, Atretes made a swift move and nicked the Roman’s face. The man gasped and jerked back, dropping his gladius, and Atretes left a thin line of blood down the Roman’s chest. At the sight of the blood, a rush of heat burst in the barbarian’s brain and he uttered a war cry as he brought the sword up and around. It rang against steel as Bato blocked the blow.

“Another day,” Bato said quietly, gripping Atretes’ sword arm with fingers as strong as a vice. Breathing heavily, Atretes looked into the lanista’s dark eyes and saw complete understanding.

“Another day,” he agreed between his teeth and relinquished his weapon.

The Roman, having salvaged enough of his pride to dust himself off, strode back into the small arena to pick up his gladius with an air of dignity. “You’re going to regret cutting me,” he said, glaring at Atretes.

“Bravely said,” Atretes laughed derisively. The man walked toward the door. “Come back if you can find your courage!” he called after him in Greek, the common language of Rome. “I thought you Romans had a taste for blood. I’ll give you blood! Your own, little boy. In a cup, if you so desire.” He laughed again. “A libation for your gods!”

The door slammed. Atretes felt the still silence that fell on the courtyard. Bato was grim. The two guards said nothing as Atretes was led away to his quarters. He expected to be whipped and put in solitary confinement for his actions. Instead, Bato sent him a woman. This one was not a tired kitchen slave, but a young prostitute with imagination and a sense of humor.

The door opened and she stood looking in at him, a guard just behind her. She was young and beautiful and dressed in finery fitting for a Roman feast. “Well, well,” she said, smiling and looking him over from head to foot as she entered his cell. “Bato said I would like you.” She laughed as he stood frozen with shock, staring at her, and the sound was like long-forgotten music.

The guard didn’t come back until dawn.

“My gratitude,” Atretes said to Bato the next day.

Bato grinned. “I thought you should have one good thing before you died.”

“There are worse things than death.”

Bato’s grin died. He nodded grimly. “The wise man and the fool alike die, Atretes. What matters is that one die well.”

“I know how to die well.”

“No one dies well upon a cross. It’s a lingering foul death without honor, your body stripped for the world to see.” He looked him in the eyes. “You didn’t listen to me yesterday. A foolish mistake and one you may not survive. To best a Roman in a fair match is one thing, Atretes. To deliberately mock and humiliate him is another. The young man you took such pleasure in defeating yesterday is the son of a respected senator. He is also a close and personal friend of Domitian, the emperor’s younger son.” He let his words sink in.

Atretes’ blood turned cold. “So, when am I to be crucified?” he said flatly, knowing he would have to find a way to commit suicide.

“At the emperor’s pleasure.”

A few days later, Bato took Atretes aside. “It seems the gods have smiled on you. The emperor said too much time and money have been invested to waste you on a cross. He’s ordered you scheduled for the games next week.” Bato put his hand on Atretes shoulder. “Two months short of completing your training, but at least you will die with a sword in your hand.”

Atretes was fitted with elaborate gilded armor. He scorned the red cape and gilded helmet with ostrich plumes, throwing both aside when they were handed to him. A slave picked them up again and held them out to Atretes, who told the man in no uncertain terms where he could put them. Bato’s face was rigid.

“You won’t be wearing these things for the fight,” he said in annoyance. “They are for the opening ceremonies. You remove the cape before the crowd. It’s part of the show.”

“Let someone else strut in feathers. I will not.”

Bato jerked his head and the slave left with the finery. “Bearskins then. They better suit a barbarian. Unless you would prefer to wear nothing at all. It is your German custom to fight naked, is it not? The mob would like that very much.”

For the next several days, Bato spent extra time with him, teaching him tricks and moves that might save his life. The lanista worked him until they were both exhausted, then ordered him to the baths and masseur. No more women were sent to his quarters, but Atretes didn’t care. He was too tired to take pleasure in one.

At this rate, he would not have strength left to fight in the arena, let alone survive the ordeal.

Two days before the games, Bato exercised him, but allowed him plenty of rest. On the last night, he came to Atretes’ cell. “You will be taken to other quarters in the arena tomorrow. A feast is always held before the games. It will be unlike any you have ever seen, Atretes. Take my advice. Eat and drink moderately. Forgo the women. Focus your mind and save your strength for the games.”

Atretes raised his head. “No pleasure before I die?” he asked mockingly.

“Heed what I say. If the gods are merciful, you will survive. If not, at least you will make a good fight of it. You will not shame your people.”

Bato’s words struck Atretes’ heart. He nodded. Bato extended his hand and Atretes clasped it firmly. The lanista looked grim. Atretes’ mouth tipped into a lopsided grin. “When I come back, I look forward to my reward.”

Bato laughed. “If you come back, you shall have it.”

Six men from the Great School were to fight in the Ludi Plebeü, games held for the plebians, commonly called the Roman mob. They were brought into an anteroom, where they were to wait until a contingent of guards would arrive and take them to the quarters beneath the arena. The other five gladiators in the room had fought before. One was credited with twenty-two kills. Atretes was the only newcomer. He was also the only man with shackles on his wrists and ankles.

The Thracian was big and strong. Atretes had been paired against him once and knew he was mechanical, his moves predictable. Brute strength was his greatest threat, for he used it like a battering ram. The Parthian was another matter. Leaner and more agile, he struck fast. The two Greeks were good fighters, but Atretes had sparred with both and knew he could beat them.

The last man was a Jew who had somehow managed to survive the destruction of his homeland at Titus’ triumph. Caleb was his name, and he was handsome and powerfully built. Credited with twenty-two kills, he was the greatest threat. Atretes studied him carefully and wished he had had the opportunity to be paired with him at the ludus. Then he would know how the man fought—he would know what to expect, what to watch for, and how to counterattack to best advantage.

The Jew had his head bowed and his eyes closed, seemingly deep in some sort of strange meditation. Atretes had heard that Jews worshiped an unseen god. Perhaps their god was like his own forest gods. Present, but elusive. Atretes watched the man’s lips move in silent prayer. Though relaxed and deep in concentration, Atretes sensed he was alert to his surroundings. This was confirmed as the Jew raised his head and looked straight into Atretes’ eyes, having sensed his perusal. Atretes stared back at him, trying to peel away whatever bravado there might be. What he saw, though, was courage and strength.

They stared at one another for a long moment, assessing one another without animosity. The Jew was older and vastly more experienced. His steady unblinking gaze warned Atretes he would be deadly.

“Your name is Atretes,” he said.

“And you are Caleb. Twenty-two kills to your credit.”

A flicker of emotion shadowed the man’s features. His mouth curved without humor. “I heard you tried to kill a guest of the ludus.”

“He asked for it.”

“I pray God will not pair us, young Atretes. We share a common hatred of Rome. It would grieve me to kill you.”

Caleb spoke with such deep sincerity and simple confidence that Atretes’ pulse quickened. He did not respond. Better to let Caleb believe youth and inexperience made him an easy kill. Overconfidence might be the man’s one weakness, and the only tool Atretes could use in surviving a match with him.

The emperor’s legionnaires arrived. Two were assigned to each gladiator, an extra to Atretes. Grinning coldly, Atretes stood, the bite of his fetters sending a rush of anger through him. Was he to shuffle along the corridor while the others strode? He saw Bato in the open doorway. “Tell these dogs I will not run away from a fight.”

“They know that already. They’re worried you’ll eat one of the Roman guests at the pregame feast.”

Atretes laughed.

Bato ordered his ankle fetters removed so he could walk without restraint. Flanked by the guards, Atretes followed the others through a torchlit tunnel of several hundred yards in length. The heavy plank door closed behind them. At the end of the tunnel was a lighted chamber. When they entered it, the second door was closed and locked. Another opened into a maze of chambers beneath the amphitheater and arena.

Lions roared from somewhere within the darkness, and the hair on the back of Atretes’ neck rose. There was no greater shame than to be fed to the beasts. Gladiators with their guards walked through the narrow, cold stone corridors and climbed stairs into the lower chambers of a palace. Atretes heard music and a burst of laughter as they entered a marble hall. Huge, elaborately carved double doors stood at the end of the room; two slaves, dressed in white tunics trimmed in red and gold, stood ready to open them.

“They are here!” someone cried out excitedly, and Atretes saw the room was thronged with Roman men and women in rich, colorful togas. A young woman in a jeweled belt and little else stopped dancing as Atretes and the others were marched to the center of the great room, the center of all attention. Men and women assessed them like horseflesh, commenting on their height, breadth, and attitude.

Atretes watched the other gladiators with casual interest. The Thracian, the Parthian, and the Greeks all seemed to be enjoying the situation. They moved toward the dais at the far end of the room, grinning and making comments to several of the young women who watched them. Only Caleb remained aloof. Atretes followed his example, his gaze focusing on the honored guests to which they were being ceremoniously presented. His heart leaped as he recognized the man in the center.

The guards lined them up before the platform, and Atretes stood face-to-face with the Roman emperor, Vespasian. On his right was his elder son, Titus, conqueror of Judea; on his left, Domitian.

Atretes focused on Vespasian. The emperor had the powerful build and bearing of a soldier. His gray hair was closely cropped, his face weathered and deeply lined from years of campaigning. Titus, no less impressive, sat nearby, three beautiful young women draping themselves over him. Domitian seemed less commanding by comparison, though it stabbed Atretes’ pride to admit it was this teenage boy who had shattered the unity of the Germanic tribes. He judged the distance he would have to leap to take one of them and knew it was impossible. But just the thought of breaking the neck of one made his blood pound.

Vespasian studied him without expression. Atretes stared back coldly, wishing his wrists were unshackled and he had a gladius in his hand. Before him on the dais sat the almighty power of Rome itself. Guards lined the walls of the chamber, and two stood behind Atretes. One more step toward the dais would be his last.

He paid no heed to the grandiose announcement made by the centurion, nor did he follow suit with the other five gladiators who raised their fists in salute as they hailed Caesar. Vespasian was still staring at him. Whispering buzzed. Atretes raised his shackled wrists and offered a sardonic smile. For the first time, he was glad of his chains. They saved him the humiliation of giving honor to a Roman. He let his gaze move from Vespasian to Titus to Domitian and back again, letting them see the full force of his hatred.