A muscle jerked in his cheek. “I don’t care if you’re happy or not. The fact is I need money to get us where we’re going. This is the cleanest and fastest way I could think to get it.”
“Cleanest way?”
“No doubt you prefer me in the arena.”
She would rather he had trusted Theophilus, but knew saying so would only exacerbate his darkening mood. She had already learned Atretes couldn’t do anything the easy way, especially if it meant swallowing his monumental pride. “No, I don’t want you in the arena. I want you safe and at peace with yourself and God.”
“And you think that would’ve been the case if I’d handed myself over to that bloody centurion of yours.”
“Theophilus saved your life twice. He said—”
Atretes made a harsh sound. “The arena would be the quickest way.” He raked his hands through his hair. “I’d either have the gold to return home or I’d be dead. Either way, I win.”
Appalled at his words, she stared at him. “You can’t mean it.”
“I mean it. Oh, I mean it.”
“If it was my wayward tongue that put such a thought in your head, forgive me. Atretes, please,” she said, laying her hand against his cheek, “you have too much to live for to allow yourself to think in this way.”
Her touch sent a rush of sensation through his body, rousing an intense physical desire as well as a deeper longing he didn’t want to analyze. He looked straight into her eyes. Hers went wide and she took her hand from him. “Why must you always misunderstand me?” she said and looked away.
He turned her face back and smiled sardonically. “Maybe I do have something to live for, but I doubt the reasons I can think of right now have any similarities to yours.” He liked the rosy color that poured into her cheeks, the warmth of her skin when he brushed it with his fingertips.
She drew back from his touch. “People are watching us,” she said, embarrassed.
“Good. They’ll know to stay away from you.”
Pugnax showed them upstairs and opened the door into a spacious bedchamber. Rizpah didn’t move from the corridor until Atretes took her arm and pulled her into the room.
“Through here, my lady,” Pugnax said. He showed Rizpah into a small connecting room meant to accommodate a manservant or lady’s maid and left her there.
“Close enough?” she heard him say to Atretes. “Or would you prefer more privacy and her in a chamber not connected to your own?”
“She will be safe where she is.”
“And if you want other women?”
Atretes said something low and dismissed him.
Pugnax did exactly as she feared. “Atretes has returned to Rome,” a crier called below their window. “You can see him at the inn of Pugnax, gladiator of the great Circus Maximus!” Within hours, people began to arrive. Pugnax charged a fee for entry into his inn, the price increasing as did the numbers.
Although Atretes agreed to spend several hours in the banquet room so that guests could see him, he made no attempt to entertain anyone with stories of his exploits in the arena. In fact, he made no effort to talk to anyone who approached him. Women were enticed by his reticence; men resented it.
Rizpah remained in the upstairs room, eager to avoid curious eyes and embarrassing speculations. Atretes would return to the room tense, restless, and it worsened with each day that passed.
Caleb fussed incessantly. She was afraid he was sick until she felt the two small nubs sink into her breast and realized what was the matter. She rubbed his sore gums. Still he cried in frustration, and she put him down on a blanket, watching as he crawled off of it and headed across the room toward the carved legs of a couch. When he began to chew on one, she picked him up and put him back on the blanket again. He screamed in outrage.
Sure the sound carried right through the walls, Rizpah snatched up one of the fancy cushions and dangled it above him. “Caleb,” she said and swished his nose with a tassel. He stopped crying and reached up to grasp hold. She sat down and watched him chew on the captured cushion. He was not distracted for long.
She was exhausted when Atretes entered the room. He threw a pouch of coins onto the bed and stared at her for a moment in silence. “I’ve been invited to a banquet,” he finally said cryptically.
She was sure it wasn’t the first or only kind of invitation he had received over the past few days. She had dared go downstairs only once, curious to see his many amoratae and how they behaved toward him. It had only taken a few minutes to see the temptations he faced. Women surrounded him; beautiful, bold women who wanted him.
“Are you going?”
He turned his head and looked at her. Did she want him to leave? Was his company so distasteful? “Lady Perenna is not without a certain charm,” he said cynically, testing her reaction.
She fought down the sudden desire to jump up, slap his face, and scream at him the way Caleb had been screaming all afternoon. Instead, she rose from the floor and picked Caleb up with as much dignity as she could. “Do whatever pleases you, my lord, with Lady Perenna or anyone else who might wish to kiss your feet.” She carried the baby into the small servant’s quarters.
Caleb started to cry again. She tried to hold him close and comfort him, but he screamed louder, pushing at her. “Oh, Caleb,” she whispered brokenly, fighting back tears.
“Why don’t you nurse him?” Atretes said, standing in the doorway, smiling faintly.
“While you stand watching? I think not.”
His jaw stiffened. “There’s more to view downstairs.”
“Then go downstairs.”
“Give him suck, woman, or he’ll scream the walls down around our heads.”
Her eyes pricked with angry tears. “It won’t do any good. He’s not hungry.”
He frowned, straightening. He stepped into the small enclosure and knelt down before her. “Why didn’t you tell me something was wrong with him?”
“Nothing’s wrong. He’s teething. He hurts, and I can’t do anything to soothe—”
“Give him to me.”
“I thought you were going to a banquet this evening.”
He looked at her, brows raised slightly.
Heat flooded her cheeks, and she was immediately ashamed. She sounded like a nagging wife and she was nothing to him. He took Caleb from her, and she lowered her eyes, mortified. As Atretes straightened, she could feel him staring at her, willing her to look up at him. She closed her eyes and fought her roiling emotions. If he didn’t leave soon, she would completely humiliate herself by dissolving into tears.
He left her small servants quarters, and she took a ragged breath, relieved that he had said nothing to mock her.
She knew what was wrong. O Lord, she knew, but prayed Atretes didn’t. She was in love with the wretched man and jealous over the lovely, wealthy women who fawned over and petted him. She had loved Shimei, but it had been a sweet love, full of tenderness as he led her closer to the Lord. She had never felt the fierce, frightening, heart-pounding passions Atretes roused in her. Surely such feelings were not of God. They made her feel vulnerable. The man touched her, and she trembled. He looked at her, and her insides melted. She put her clenched fists against her burning eyes.
Atretes stretched out on the bed, waiting for Rizpah to come back into the room, willing her to do so. He put his fretting son on his chest and let him chew on the ivory chip. When Caleb began to quiet, he took the chip away, knowing his crying would bring Rizpah quicker than any command he might give her. The woman didn’t have a submissive bone in her body. Just as he thought, a moment later she appeared around the corner. As she did so, he gave the chip back to Caleb to calm him again. She started to turn away.
“Count the money and tell me how much there is,” he said, annoyed. He watched her walk to the foot of the bed, pick up the pouch and pour the gold coins into her hand. She told him how much there was.
“This is more than you had with you when we left Ephesus.”
; “Not enough to get us to Germania.”
She poured the coins back into the pouch.
Her expression was telling. “You have something to say?” he asked, his voice challenging.
She raised her head, her beautiful dark eyes meeting his. “Would you listen?” she said quietly.
“If your words have any merit.”
“You have enough now, Atretes,” she said, not rising to his provocation. “The Lord has provided you with the means to return home.”
“There are other things to consider,” he said coolly.
“What things?” A muscle tightened in his jaw but he didn’t answer. She moved to the table near the head of the bed and put the pouch on it. “Sometimes I find myself wondering if you’re so conditioned to fighting for your life that you only feel comfortable when your life is at risk.”
“Don’t talk like a fool.”
“Is it foolish? The longer we remain, the greater the risk becomes. And you know it.” She leaned down to take Caleb. “I think money is the least of the reasons we are here,” she said, straightening.
His eyes flashed. “Then why do you think we’re here?”
She hesitated and then told him the truth. “There’s a part of you that wants to fight again.”
19
Bato came the following night. He spread out a map on the table. Atretes held the clay lamp over it. “Here’s Rome,” Bato told him, tapping his finger on the scroll. “All of this is Germania,” he said, sweeping it up and across a broad portion of the map. “I hope you know exactly where you’re going.”
Atretes set the lamp down and held the scroll open, staring at it bleakly.
What Rizpah had said had plagued him for the past two days. She was right, and it disturbed him no small bit. The battle aboard the Alexandrian had brought back the heated rush he had always felt in the arena. He hadn’t realized how much he missed it or how good it had sometimes felt. He felt it here, in this inn, facing the crowds and waiting.
But waiting for what? To be locked in a cell again and brought out only for training, viewing, and fighting in the arena?
He shook the thoughts from his head. He was faced with even worse questions at the moment. He looked at the map on the table and was overwhelmed with a terrible realization: It had been ten years since he had been brought in chains by wagon across the mountains and down the boot of Italy past Rome to Capua. It had taken months to make the journey, long, arduous months of travel, attempted escapes, and savage beatings. He had given no thought to memorizing landmarks or townships. Instead, hatred had fed upon him and given him reason to live, all the while blinding him to what he needed to remember in order to return to his homeland.
Studying the scroll, he realized the vast territory it represented. How many rivers and mountains lay between him and home?
Rizpah stood looking at him, Caleb in her arms. The question he was asking himself shone in her eyes. Could he find his way back to his people?
“Are you still going?” Bato said, fully aware of the monumental task ahead if Atretes should choose to do so.
“Yes.”
“You could name your price in the arena,” he said and earned a hard look from Atretes. “As you will it, my friend, but I suggest you leave soon. Domitian knows you’re here. He sent for me yesterday and told me to make you an offer.”
“Save it.”
Bato wished him well and left.
“We’ll leave at first light,” Atretes said and saw relief flood Rizpah’s face.
“Thank God,” she murmured.
“Pugnax owes me for the last two days. It will be enough for our purposes.” He left the room to collect it.
A hum of excitement filled the banquet room as he entered. People greeted him, some staring at him in awe while others spoke to him with an unearned familiarity as he passed. Atretes spotted Pugnax across the elaborately decorated chamber. He was speaking to a man dressed in a fine white toga trimmed richly in red and gold.
“A word with you, Pugnax,” Atretes said, jerking his head.
Pugnax’s guest turned to face him, and Atretes recognized him immediately. He had changed little in the four years since he had seen him and Atretes was in no doubt of why he had come.
“Ephorbus Timalchio Callistus,” Pugnax said with the respect due a man of power and position. Atretes ignored his look of warning as well as the proffered wine goblet.
“Atretes,” Callistus said with a catlike smile. He lifted a goblet in mock salute. “We met once before, though I doubt you remember my face.”
Indeed, he remembered. The son of a senator had come to the ludus for the fashionable exercise of sparring with a gladiator. Bato had tried to warn Callistus away from Atretes, but the supercilious little aristocrat insisted. With no choice, Bato spelled out the rules to Atretes. He followed them to a point and then cast them to the wind. He had toyed with the arrogant young man, intending to kill him in the end. It would have given him great satisfaction to cut down the Roman aristocrat who thought he was better than a German slave. Had Bato not stayed his hand, Callistus wouldn’t be standing here with only a scar on his cheek and another hidden beneath his expensive embroidered toga. He’d be entombed along the Appian Way.
Atretes smiled coldly. “Do you still go to the ludus to spar with gladiators?”
Callistus’ eyes narrowed at the challenge. “Indeed. I’ve thirteen kills to my credit since my match with you.”
A war cry echoed in Atretes’ head. “Match?” he said, contemptuous. “Is that what you call it?” He sneered. “I imagine your opponents were given the same command I was. Don’t draw the boy’s blood.”
Callistus’ expression changed. His eyes flickered to those around him, feeling the hush and then the whispers as Atretes’ words were spread around the room.
Atretes smiled as he watched the scar he had put on Callistus’ face whiten.
“Perhaps you’ve forgotten the results of your last insult,” Callistus said quietly.
“Results?” Atretes said sardonically. “I know what you hoped to see. Me, crucified. I was told Vespasian felt that was a sorry waste of money already spent on my conditioning and training. So he sent me into the arena a few months earlier than scheduled. As you can see, I survived. And earned my freedom.”
“Only a fool would speak to me in such a manner.”
“Or a man who knows who and what you are,” Atretes said with disdain.
Pugnax grasped his arm in warning. “Enough,” he said under his breath.
“You’re asking to die,” Callistus said, shaking with rage.
Atretes looked straight into his eyes and laughed contemptuously. “Do you really think you could kill me?” He stepped forward and saw fear pour into Callistus’ eyes. “Do you think you’d come out alive in a match against me? You know what I think? I think you’re still the same spoiled boy who tucked tail and ran to Domitian.”
Several spectators drew in their breath at his words, moving back to whisper among themselves.
Red-faced, Callistus turned away. Halfway across the room, he turned back, face mottled with rage. “Enjoy your freedom while you can, barbarian! It’s about to end!”
Atretes took a step forward, but Pugnax blocked his way. He tried to shove past him, but the ex-gladiator had the help of two bodyguards. “Running to Domitian again, you coward?” Atretes shouted.
“Have you gone mad?” Pugnax said, grappling with him.
“You want a fight, Callistus? I’ll give you one. Anytime. Anywhere!”
“Shut up!”
Atretes broke his hold and pushed one of the guards out of his way, but Callistus was already gone. People drew back from Atretes as though he had gone mad. What man in his right mind would insult and challenge a man with the ear of Domitian, Emperor Titus’ own brother?
Atretes stood in the middle of the room and felt the force of their stares. He looked around, his gaze passing from face to face and saw what they wanted, what they hoped, ha
d been accomplished. And he knew if he stayed, it would happen.
* * *
Rizpah jumped when the door burst open, banging loudly against the wall as Atretes stormed in. Caleb yelped in fright and started to cry. She picked him up from the floor where she had been playing with him and rose.
“What’s happened?” she said softly and received no answer.
Atretes paced like a caged animal, pausing only long enough to pick up a wine goblet and send it crashing against a wall as he muttered blackly in German.
Pugnax entered and tossed a pouch of gold coins onto the table. “Take it and get out of here while you can.”
Atretes swept the pouch onto the floor. “I’m not tucking tail and running from that little—”
“Then you’ll be back in the ludus by tomorrow night! Just in time to get a good night’s sleep before the games begin!”
Atretes spat out a harsh word and kicked the table over. Rizpah drew back sharply.
“You knew what you were doing!” Pugnax said in accusation. “Did it salve your bloody pride? Will it when they have you in chains? By the gods, you may have me in chains as well!”
“Remind Callistus you kept me from breaking his neck!”
“What about her?” Pugnax said, nodding to Rizpah, who stood on the far side of the room trying to calm a screaming Caleb.
Atretes stopped and turned, his expression dangerous. “What about her?”
“Have you forgotten how things work? Domitian and Callistus will make her part of whatever they’ve planned for you. And it won’t be pretty.”
Atretes looked at her ashen face and remembered some of the things he had seen done to women in the arena, things too foul and depraved to even contemplate happening to a stranger, let alone her. He would rather forfeit his own life than see Rizpah harmed in any way, and the realization shook him.
“Let me take her,” Pugnax said.
Atretes turned on him. “Get out!”
“Her fate will be on your head.”
As Pugnax left, Rizpah came close to him and put her hand on his arm. “My fate is in the hands of the Lord, Atretes. Not in yours, not even in my own.”
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