“Where should we go once we’re outside?” Beth asked.
“How am I supposed to know? Go back to your master,” the slave said. “Or go to church and pray.”
“Where is the nearest church?” Patrick asked.
The man burst into laughter. “That’s very funny,” he said. “A monk asking me where a church is!”
The slave turned away from Beth and Patrick. “You’re on your own now,” he said. He laughed again as he walked down the hallway. The sound echoed off the stone walls.
The City Gate
The cousins walked down the narrow hallway and turned left. They found themselves in a wider hallway. Sunlight streamed in from somewhere just ahead.
The hallway fl oors were stone. All the doorways were arched. Beautiful white marble columns held up the plastered ceilings. Colorful pictures of animals, people, and sea battles were painted on the walls.
Beth touched one of the paintings. She felt tiny bumps of plaster under her fingertips. “My art teacher told me about those kinds of paintings,” Beth said. “They’re called frescoes.”
The cousins heard footsteps echo down the hallway. Lots of footsteps.
“It might be soldiers,” Patrick said. “Let’s get out of here. I don’t want them to use me for target practice.”
They looked around. Where should they go?
Beth pointed to a staircase. “Let’s go up,” she said. “We can look out over the city. Maybe we’ll see a church.”
Beth and Patrick ran up three flights of stairs. At the top, there were more hallways and more stairs.
“This place is a maze,” Patrick said. He leaned against a wall to catch his breath.
Beth’s gaze went to marble statues lining the hallways. “Wow! It’s like an art museum!” she said.
Beth went to one of the marble figures standing in an arched window. She looked out of the window. She had a clear view of the city with its crowded rooftops, towers, and tall trees. A wall circled everything like a fortress. Her eyes went down to a large gate in the wall.
Beth gasped. “Patrick, look at this!” she called.
Patrick joined her. “Soldiers,” he said. Hundreds of them were coming into the city.
The soldiers marched in like an army of ants on green hills. They flooded the stone streets and filled the steps of the white buildings.
The soldiers wore silver helmets with crests of red feathers. Some had on red capes; others had on white tunics. They wore red tights with gold shin guards. Most of them held spears.
Along with the soldiers were people with their heads held low. Their hands and feet were in chains.
“What’s going on?” Beth asked.
“It looks like a victory march,” Patrick said. “The Romans must have won a battle. They’re bringing home prisoners.”
“But those aren’t just men. They’re women and children,” Beth said.
“The winner takes everyone prisoner,” Patrick said. He leaned forward and looked straight down. “More soldiers are coming through the gate.”
Beth looked off toward the horizon. “There’s a big building with a dome on top. Maybe it’s a church.”
“It’s worth checking out,” said Patrick.
“Let’s go.”
The cousins hurried down the hallway and found another flight of stairs. They carefully went down, being sure to walk quietly. They passed several floors. Finally they reached a doorway on the ground.
They made sure they wouldn’t be noticed and then stepped into the courtyard. They hid near a bronze statue of a man with a crown. It stood about seven stories high.
“It’s that way to the domed building,” Patrick said. He pointed down a wide road. The street was crowded with people and food stalls.
“Let’s mix into the crowd,” Patrick said. “That way we’ll blend in.”
The cousins passed buildings of wood and stone. The houses seemed piled onto one another.
The flow of people was like a strong river. The noise was like the ocean’s roar. The smell was like wet gym socks.
More than once, Patrick had to move away from a loose dog. The cousins struggled to stay together.
After a few minutes, they passed a woman selling food. Her stand wasn’t busy, and so Patrick asked for directions to the church.
“It’s near the city gate—that direction,” she said, pointing. “They call it the Bishop’s Palace.”
Patrick thanked her. The cousins were on their way.
“Follow me, Beth,” he said. “I see the dome of the church.” He used his elbows to clear a path through the crowd.
Beth followed. She didn’t want to lose sight of Patrick. She kept her eyes on his blond hair and brown robe. She was so focused on Patrick that she didn’t see the city gate ahead—or the soldiers who were coming through it.
But a soldier saw her.
He grabbed her arm suddenly and spun her around. They were face-to-face. His eyes were dark and angry. Around his frowning mouth were a short black beard and moustache.
“You, slave girl,” the soldier said. “Who gave you permission to wander the city?”
Beth’s mouth went dry. Her heart leaped to her throat.
The soldier picked her up and threw her over his shoulder.
“Patrick,” she called. “Help!”
The Monk
Patrick heard Beth cry out. He turned around quickly. She had been fl ung over a soldier’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
“Stop!” Patrick shouted. He pushed through the crowd. He blocked the soldier’s path. “Put her down! You can’t take her!” Patrick said.
“I can do anything I want,” the soldier said. He laughed, but it was not a happy sound. “I’m part of the emperor’s bodyguard—and this is one of the emperor’s slaves. Move aside, little boy.”
Beth pounded on the soldier’s back with her fists. “Let me go!” she cried.
“Ooh,” the soldier said, “I feel a little flea hopping on my back. Is that the best you can do, slave girl?”
“She didn’t do anything wrong,” Patrick said.
“Nothing wrong?” said the soldier. “Why is the emperor’s slave free in the city?”
“Why do you think she works for the emperor?” Patrick asked. He was hoping to think of a way to free his cousin.
The soldier looked surprised by the question. “Are you blind?” he asked. “Her tunic bears the emperor’s mark: the bright gold border.” He shook his head in disgust. “Enough with all this talk. I might get a reward for returning a runaway.”
“I’m not a runaway!” Beth shouted.
Patrick stepped forward, but he was stopped by four soldiers.
The man carrying Beth turned on his heel and hurried away. Beth took one last look at Patrick. Her eyes were as shiny and round as the soldiers’ shields.
Patrick leaped forward, but the men grabbed his arms. They roughly pulled him back.
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” said one of the soldiers. He pulled out a shiny sword. “Or you may meet the sharp end of my blade.”
He pointed the sword at Patrick. Patrick struggled to step back, but the soldiers held him tightly.
“There you are!” a voice said. It was soft and low, and yet the voice still cut through the noise.
A man stepped into view. He had thick, dark hair and a long, dark beard. He was short and wore a brown robe. It had a rope belt, just like Patrick’s.
“I’ve been looking for you,” the monk said with a gentle smile.
The hands on Patrick’s arms loosened.
One of the soldiers asked the man, “Does this boy belong to you?”
“To me?” the monk said. “All children belong to the one true God.”
“Then take him outside the city,” the soldier said. “Or he’ll belong to the dirt when he falls from my sword.”
The soldiers stepped back.
“Come along, then,” the monk said gently to Patrick. He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Let’s go now.”
“I can’t!” Patrick said. He pushed the monk’s hand off him. “I’m not leaving without Beth!”
The monk leaned close to Patrick’s ear. He whispered, “You have great courage, but you lack wisdom. Stay and they’ll make you a slave. Come with me. God may let you find your friend later.”
Patrick hung his head. The monk was right. There was no way he could help Beth. Not here. Not now.
Patrick gave the soldiers an angry glare. But he allowed the monk to lead him away.
“I am Brother Telemachus,” said the monk when they were outside the city.
“I’m Patrick,” he said. “Thank you for saving me from the soldiers.”
Patrick followed the monk down a dirt road. He didn’t say anything else, and so the monk said nothing more.
They walked for a long time. Then they came to a little hill. It was covered with trees. Spring snow covered the ground in the shady areas. Snow also dusted the leaves on each tree. Near the top of the hill was an opening. Patrick thought it might be a cave.
They climbed to the top of the hill.
“Welcome to my humble home,” said the monk.
Home was a fire pit with some logs around it. Inside the cave was a pile of blankets.
Patrick sat on a log and buried his face in his hands. He was still sad and angry that the soldier had taken Beth away.
After several minutes, Patrick smelled something burning. It was a strange smell. He looked up.
The monk was cooking a lump of something over the flames. It looked like it might be rabbit—or what had once been a rabbit.
The monk poked the fire with a stick. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “Come and share my small meal.”
Patrick walked over to the fire.
The monk took the rabbit from the fire with the stick. He held it up and looked at it. “This will do,” he said.
Patrick wasn’t so sure. He thought he saw clumps of burned fur.
The monk took out a knife and began to cut the meat. Telemachus offered some to Patrick. Patrick politely said no.
The monk shrugged and sat down on another long log. He bowed his head as if praying. Then he put bits of meat in his mouth.
“Do you live here?” Patrick asked.
“No. I live far away,” the monk said.
“Why are you in Rome?” asked Patrick.
“God told me to come here,” Telemachus said.
“Really?” Patrick said. He wasn’t sure what the monk meant. “What does God want you to do in Rome?”
“I don’t know,” said the monk. He put another piece of meat in his mouth. “It is for God to know. It is for me to obey and go. Perhaps we’ll find your friend.”
“My cousin Beth,” Patrick said. He was worried about Beth and where she might be.
Telemachus quickly lifted his head. The monk seemed to be listening to something. He nodded toward the trees.
“We’re not alone,” he whispered.
The Barbarian
Suddenly a man stepped out of the woods. He was large with wild brown hair. His beard was just as wild. He wore a leather vest over a long tunic.
Patrick braced himself. Was this man dangerous? Patrick got ready to run away.
Telemachus didn’t look scared at all. He gazed up at the man. “Greetings, Brother,” he said.
“I smelled the meat,” the man said. “I want some.” His voice was low and raspy.
“You’re welcome to it,” Telemachus said. He handed him the knife and the rabbit.
The man took a bite of the meat. Patrick saw the man tuck the monk’s knife into his belt. Patrick also noticed that the man’s eyes darted back and forth. What was the man looking for?
The stranger asked the monk, “You’re a man of God?”
“Humbly, I hope to be,” Telemachus said. “You don’t look Roman.”
“I’m not,” the man said. He spat out a piece of rabbit bone. “You would call me a barbarian—though I am a Christian.”
“You have come far from home,” Telemachus said.
“I was captured by Roman soldiers,” the man said. “They were taking me to the arena to fight. I’m not interested in dying, and so I escaped.”
“I was at the arena this morning,” Patrick said. “A man there said they kill animals at the games.”
“Animals?” said the barbarian. He snorted. “You’re worried about the animals?”
“Yes,” Patrick said. “Aren’t you?”
The barbarian scowled. “I’m more worried about how the animals will tear apart the prisoners. I’m worried the Romans will kill us all—just for sport.”
Telemachus stroked his beard. “I knew such things happened long ago,” he said. “But I didn’t want to believe our emperor would allow it now.”
The barbarian spat again. “Believe it,” he said. “The crowds will watch and wait for blood. Each time a man is hurt, the people will cheer.”
Patrick heard shouts somewhere deep in the forest. The man heard them too. He threw down what was left of the meat.
“They’re coming,” the barbarian said.
“Hide in the cave,” Telemachus said.
“No,” the man said. “I don’t expect a holy man to protect me.” He pulled the knife out of his belt. He pointed it at Telemachus. “Do you have anything I can sell?”
“I have only a few worthless things,” he said. “But they belong to God.”
“Give them to me,” the man said.
“But I am to take them to the bishop of Rome,” Telemachus said.
“Give them to me now!” said the barbarian.
Patrick remembered the armband hidden under his robe. Was this the man Mr. Whittaker mentioned? Should he offer the armband to him? Maybe it would keep them from being harmed.
Before Patrick could speak, the monk said, “As you wish.”
Telemachus looked behind the log. He picked up a small sack that had been hidden.
The barbarian moved quickly. He grabbed the sack from the monk. Everything inside it fell out. Something shiny clanged against the ground. It was a large silver cup.
Patrick’s heart leaped as he remembered his mission. It’s the monk’s cup!
The barbarian picked up the cup. “You call this worthless?” he asked. “This chalice has great value.”
“It was a gift,” Telemachus said. “I plan to use it in Rome. I’ll share the Lord’s Supper with it.”
“Not now, you won’t,” the man said. “I can sell this. I’ll need money for my trip home.”
There were more shouts in the forest. The sounds were coming closer.
The barbarian looked at Telemachus and then at Patrick. He held up the silver cup.
“I’m called Aldric,” he said. “One day I will repay you for this.”
Patrick watched as the barbarian ran off through the snow.
The monk’s cup was gone.
Telemachus lowered his head. He looked as if he were praying.
“That was a bad thing for him to do,” Patrick said.
Telemachus shook his head. “No,” the monk said, “all that I have belongs to God, not to me. Let us pray the chalice will be used for good.”
Patrick hoped so. He wasn’t likely to bring it to Mr. Whittaker.
All of a sudden a small group of soldiers pushed through the trees. They used their spears to move the branches. The red crests on their helmets were dusted with snow.
“We’re looking for a runaway slave. A barbarian,” one of them said. “Have you seen him?”
Patrick looked at Telemachus to see what he would say. The monk said nothing.
A second soldier pointed to tracks in the snow. “There!” he said. “The barbarian went that way!”
The Roman soldiers ran off after Aldric. Their swords and shields clanked as they ran.
Telemachus picked up a dry branch. He threw it on the fire. The fire popped and sizzled.
“We’ll sleep by the warm fire tonight,” he said.
“Then we’ll look for your cousin in the morning.”
Patrick wanted to protest. He wanted to find Beth right away. But he knew he should listen to the monk.
Besides, he didn’t have a better idea.
Night fell and the moon appeared. It was a thin sliver. It made Patrick think of Albert and the mysterious letters.
Is the new moon here the same as it was in Greenland—is it the same where Albert lives? What exactly is Lord Darkthorn’s tower? Could it be worse than knowing that Beth is in the hands of a Roman soldier?
The Emperor
While the monk saved Patrick, the soldier had carried Beth away. He took her to a large Roman palace.
Inside, they came to a large courtyard. Beth could hear birds chirping and cooing.
The soldier dumped Beth onto the dusty ground.
“You’re not a very nice man,” Beth said, rubbing her back. She glared at the soldier.
He glared back. His eyes narrowed as she stood up.
“What’s that on your belt?” he asked. “A sack of coins?” The soldier grabbed the bag. The string didn’t break, but a little of the birdseed spilled on the ground.
“What?” he said. “Only birdseed!” He let go of the sack and looked at Beth with curiosity.
“So, you’re one of the slaves who takes care of the birds,” he said and then laughed. “No wonder you ran away. I would hate to take care of the emperor’s ‘darlings.’”
Beth didn’t understand him. She scowled and looked around.
Beautiful plants and small fountains made up a lovely garden. It was filled with birds: peacocks, chickens, and small brown sparrows. Noisy green parrots and white doves perched in the trees.
A stooped old man in a slave’s tunic was leaning over a birdbath. He was pouring water into it from a bucket.
The soldier walked over to the slave.
“This slave girl belongs here!” the soldier said. “See that she doesn’t run away again!”
The soldier turned back to Beth. “Do not leave this courtyard, or you’ll be sorry,” he said. He patted a bow that was hanging at the back of one shoulder. “I can knock a sparrow off a tree branch at twenty paces.”
Attack at the Arena Page 2