Hadassah shuddered. Sometimes she could forget the gruesome visage of the thousands of crosses before the walls of Jerusalem. Tonight she saw them again—and the faces of the men who hung on them. “I have some final packing to do for the Lady Julia,” Hadassah said and bid Sejanus good night.
The oil lamp was still lit in Julia’s empty bedchamber. Four trunks were closed, already packed full. Two more remained open. Hadassah picked up a pale blue tunic and folded it carefully, laying it on top of a yellow one already in the trunk. She removed the rest of Julia’s possessions and packed them. Closing the trunks, she locked them. She straightened and looked around the room. With a sigh, she sat down on a stool.
“It’s barren, isn’t it?” Phoebe said from the doorway and saw the young slave start in surprise. She had looked small and forlorn, sitting with the locked trunks around her. Now she stood and faced her mistress. “I wonder how she fares this night,” Phoebe said and came into the room.
“Well, my lady,” Hadassah said.
Phoebe smiled. “I couldn’t sleep. Too much excitement.” She sighed. “I miss her already. You looked as though you were missing her, too.”
Hadassah smiled back at her. “She is so full of life.”
Phoebe ran her hand along the smooth surface of Julia’s vanity, now denuded of her cosmetics, perfumes, and jewelry boxes. She raised her head slightly and looked at Hadassah. “Claudius will send someone to fetch you and Julia’s things.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Probably by the end of the week,” she said, looking around the room. “It’s not a difficult journey to Capua. There is beautiful countryside along the way. You’ll have plenty of time to unpack Julia’s things and prepare for her arrival in her new home.”
“All will be ready for her, my lady.”
“I know.” Phoebe looked at the young girl and felt a deep warmth toward her. She was kind and faithful, and despite how difficult Julia could be, Phoebe knew this young Jewess loved her daughter. She sat on Julia’s bed. “Tell me about your family, Hadassah. What did your father do for a living?”
“He was a merchant of earthen vessels, my lady.”
Phoebe gestured for Hadassah to sit on the stool near the bed. “Did he make a good living?”
Why was she asking her such personal questions? Of what possible interest was she to this fine Roman lady? “We were never hungry,” Hadassah said.
“Did he make the earthen vessels or just sell them?”
“He made many of them, some plain and some very beautiful.”
“Diligent and hardworking, but creative.”
“People came to him from other provinces.” Though they had purchased his wares, she knew they had come more to hear his story. She remembered the many times she had listened to her father speak to a stranger who had come to hear of his resurrection.
Phoebe saw the tears shimmering in the slave girl’s eyes and was saddened. “How did he die?”
“I don’t know,” Hadassah said. “He went out into the street to speak to the people and he never came back again.”
“To speak to them?”
“About the peace of God.”
Phoebe frowned. She started to say something and then hesitated. “And your mother? Is she alive somewhere?”
“No, my lady,” Hadassah said and bowed her head.
She saw the tears the girl tried to hide. “What happened to her? And the others in your family?”
“She starved to death a few days before the Roman legions took Jerusalem. Soldiers were going from house to house, killing everyone. One entered the house where we were and killed my brother. I don’t know why he didn’t kill me and my sister, too.”
“What happened to your sister?”
“The Lord took Leah the first night we were in captivity.”
The Lord took . . . what a strange way of putting it. Phoebe sighed and looked away. “Leah,” she said softly. “A pretty name.”
“She wasn’t yet ten years old.”
Phoebe closed her eyes. She thought of her own two children who had died of fever. Fevers often ravaged the city, for it was surrounded by marshes and frequently struck by noxious floods of the great Tiber. There were those who survived the fever, like Decimus, only to suffer from bouts of chills year after year. Others coughed until their lungs bled and they died.
Life was so uncertain, as Hadassah’s testimony bore witness. She had lost everyone she loved in Jerusalem. She had spoken of the peace of God, yet even with the gods there seemed no guarantees. No matter how many hours Phoebe spent beseeching Hestia, goddess of the hearth, Hera, goddess of marriage, Athena, goddess of wisdom, Hermes, god of travel, and a dozen other household gods to protect her loved ones, might there not be another god or goddess more powerful to snatch them from her?
Even now, Decimus, her beloved, was ill and trying to hide it from everyone. Tears burned in Phoebe’s eyes as she clenched her hands. Did he think he could hide anything from her?
“You are distressed, my lady,” Hadassah said and laid a hand over hers.
Phoebe was surprised by the girl’s tender touch. “The world is a capricious place, Hadassah. We are blown by the whims of the gods.” She sighed. “But you know that, don’t you? You have lost everything, family, home, freedom.” She studied Hadassah in the lamplight, the smooth curve of her cheeks, the dark eyes, her slender frame. She had seen Marcus looking at the girl with curious fascination. Hadassah was no more than a year older than Julia, sixteen at most, yet she was profoundly different. She had a quiet humility gained through suffering. And there was something more . . . a sweet and rare compassion lit her dark eyes. Perhaps, despite her tender age, she possessed wisdom as well.
Phoebe took her hand firmly. “I entrust my daughter to you, Hadassah. I ask that you watch over her and care for her always. She will often be difficult, even cruel perhaps, though I can’t believe she would ever be deliberately so. Julia was such a sweet and loving child. Those qualities are still within her. But she desperately needs a friend, Hadassah, a real friend, and she’s never chosen wisely. That’s why I selected you that day when Enoch brought you to us with the other captives. I saw in you someone who might be able to stand by my daughter in all circumstances.” She searched her eyes. “Will you promise me to do that?”
As a slave, Hadassah had no other choice but to do the will of her masters. Yet, Hadassah knew the promise the mistress asked was not one to be given for that reason alone. Phoebe Luciana Valerian spoke, but Hadassah sensed that it was God himself who was asking her to love Julia, in all circumstances, whatever came from this day forward. It wouldn’t be easy, for Julia was willful and selfish and thoughtless. Hadassah knew she could say she would try. She could say she would do her best. Either answer would satisfy the lady. But neither would satisfy the Lord. Shall your will or mine be done? the Master asked. She had to choose. Not tomorrow, but now, in this room, before this witness.
Phoebe knew full well what she asked. Sometimes it was difficult for her to love her own daughter, especially during these last days when Julia had made life so miserable for Decimus, who acted only for her own good. Julia wanted her own way at all costs, and this time she hadn’t gotten it. She saw struggle in the slave girl’s face and was pleased she hadn’t answered quickly. A quick answer would soon be a forgotten promise.
Hadassah closed her eyes and let out her breath slowly. “Your will be done,” she said softly.
Phoebe felt a wave of relief that Julia would be in Hadassah’s care. She trusted this girl and, at this moment, felt deep and abiding tenderness toward her as well. A loyal slave was worth her weight in gold. Her instincts about purchasing this little Jewess had been right.
She rose. Touching Hadassah’s cheek, she smiled down at her through her tears. “May your god always bless you.” She laid her hand against the soft dark hair, like a mother would, then quietly left the room.
Chapter 10
Atretes ran down the road, keeping
up with the grueling pace Tharacus set as he rode horseback beside him. Tharacus alternately insulted and encouraged him, keeping the animal reined in to a steady trot. The sleek stallion snorted and tossed its white mane angrily, wanting its head, while the weights Atretes wore felt heavier with each mile. Gritting his teeth against the pain, the German kept on, his body drenched in sweat, his muscles straining, his chest burning.
Stumbling once, Atretes caught himself and swore under his breath. Much more of this and he would drop and shame himself. He focused his mind on reaching the next milestone and, when he saw it, set his mind on attaining the next.
“Hold up,” Tharacus ordered. Atretes took three more steps and stopped. Bending over, he gripped his knees and dragged air into his starved lungs.
“Straighten up and walk it off,” Tharacus said tersely. He tossed Atretes a water pouch.
Mouth parched, Atretes tipped it and drank deeply. Before he tossed it back, he squirted water onto his face and down his bare chest. He returned the bag and walked back and forth on the roadside until his breathing slowed to normal and his body cooled from its furnace heat.
“You have gained attention, Atretes,” Tharacus said, grinning as he nodded toward the other side of the road.
Atretes glanced across the road and saw two young women in a peach orchard. One wore a fine white linen tunic, the other a brown tunic with paler brown overdress belted with a striped sash.
“She is poised like a hart ready to flee,” Tharacus mocked. “It would seem they have never seen a naked man before.” He laughed cynically. “See how the lady stares.”
Atretes was too tired to be much affected by the rapt attention of a pretty girl or a shocked little Jewess or, for that matter, by the mockery of his lanista. He longed for his bench and the quiet coolness of his cell. He was rested enough to start back, but Tharacus seemed in the mood to amuse himself.
“Take a good long look at her, Atretes. Beautiful, isn’t she? You will meet many like her when you enter the arena. Women of aristocratic breeding will clamor for your attentions. And men as well. They will give you anything—gold, jewels, their bodies—whatever you ask and in whatever way you ask.”
He smiled faintly, then went on. “I had a woman who used to wait for me while I fought. She wanted me to touch her when my hands were still slick with the blood of a good kill. It drove her nearly mad with passion.” His smile twisted into a sardonic sneer. “I wonder whatever happened to her.” He swung his horse around.
Atretes looked across the road again, straight at the girl in white who stood in the shade of the tree. He stared at her boldly until she looked away. The little Jew spoke to her, and they turned and walked back through the orchard. The girl in white glanced back over her shoulder at him, then lifted her hem and began to run, her merry laughter drifting back to him.
“Romans are partial to blonds,” Tharacus said. “Enjoy the adoration while it lasts, Atretes. Take all you can get!” He rapped Atretes with the butt end of his whip. “She’s gone. Begin the run back. Turn left at the crossroads and go back through the hills,” Tharacus said, assigning him the uphill road.
Atretes forgot about the girl and started off again. He set an even pace he knew he could keep, but Tharacus shouted at him to pick it up. Steeling himself, Atretes ran up the hill, timing his breathing.
He had undergone four months of grueling training at the ludus. The first month he had been trained by Trophimus. Tharacus had watched him closely and soon taken over his training. Turning the other trainees over to Gallus and the others, Tharacus spent most of his time working with Atretes. He pushed him harder than all the rest, teaching him tricks he didn’t share with the others.
“If you listen to me and learn, you may survive long enough to earn your freedom.”
“I am honored by your attention,” Atretes said through gritted teeth.
Tharacus grinned coldly. “I will make you into a champion. If you succeed in surviving, I succeed in building reputation enough to earn a place at the great ludus of Rome rather than spend the rest of my life in this rabbit warren.”
Unlike many of the others, Atretes reveled in the exercises. Having trained all his life as a warrior, to be trained as a gladiator was merely an expansion of his skills. He vowed to someday use all he learned against Rome itself.
To that end, he became expert with the gladius, though Tharacus assigned him more frequently the trident and net of the retiarius. Several times, Atretes tossed the net aside in frustration and attacked his opponent with such ferocity that Tharacus was forced to intercede or lose a trainee.
It was anger that kept Atretes going. He used it to drive himself on the long runs; he used it to drive away the depressions that came upon him in the night, hearing the hobnailed shoes of the guard as he walked his rounds; he used it to give himself the desire to learn every way possible to kill a man, hoping someday to earn his freedom so no one could ever be master over him again.
Atretes made no friends. He kept himself aloof from the other gladiators. He didn’t want to know their names. He didn’t want to know whence they came or how they had been taken. Someday he might face one of them in the arena. He could kill a stranger without the least regret; to kill a friend would haunt him forever.
He saw the ludus in the distance and got his second wind. His legs ate up the flat stretch of road. Tharacus allowed the horse just enough rein to pull ahead. A guard whistled shrilly from his position on the wall and, in response, the gate of the compound opened.
Tharacus dismounted and tossed the reins to a slave. “To the baths, Atretes, then report to Phlegon for a massage.” His mouth tipped. “You did well today. You will be rewarded.”
Entering the changing room, Atretes stripped off the damp loincloth, took a towel, and went into the tepidarium chamber. The water was warm and soothing. He relaxed and washed in a leisurely manner, ignoring the others talking in low voices so the guards wouldn’t hear. He left the tepidarium and went into the next chamber, the caldarium, the room nearest the boilers. Atretes breathed in the steamy air while a slave rubbed his body with olive oil and then scraped it off with a knifelike strigil.
In the next chamber, Atretes plunged into the frigidarium. The cold water was a pleasant shock, and he swam the length of the pool and back. He swung himself up onto the edge and shook his head, splashing water about like a dog shaking its fur. He returned to the tepidarium for a last few minutes of respite before he was ordered to the massage room.
Phlegon was rough. He pounded and kneaded Atretes’ muscles until they loosened. It seemed everything in this foul place was designed to break down the body and then build it up again, turning flesh into steel.
Atretes ate heartily of the meat and barley stew and then marched with the others back to the cell block. Closed in for the night, he stretched out on his bench and put his arm behind his head. He tried not to think about anything. Then the murmur of male voices and a door opening roused him. Someone was coming toward his cell. He sat up and leaned back against the cold stone, his heart pounding heavily.
The iron lock gave way and the heavy plank door opened. Gallus stood outside, a slave girl in front of him. She entered the cell without looking at Atretes, and Gallus locked the door behind her. Without a word, she came forward and stood before him. Atretes rose from the bench, looking at her. He remembered the beautiful girl in white who had watched him from the shade of a peach tree, and he felt a surge of desire and anger. He could have poured his hatred into her and relished it. But this girl was more like the little Jewish slave. When Atretes reached out to touch her, he did so without animosity.
Afterward, Atretes stood on the other side of the cell. He heard a scrape from above and knew a guard had been watching. The stain of humiliation filled his face and he had to stifle the urge to cry out. He had become little more than an animal at which to gawk.
The girl went to the door, rapped twice, and stood waiting. Atretes kept his back turned to her, less because
of his own shame and more in consideration of hers. The lock scraped and the door opened, then it closed again and was relocked. The slave girl was gone. The reward Tharacus promised, given.
A deep, debilitating loneliness washed over Atretes. What if he had spoken to her? Would she have answered? She had come to him before, and he had felt the unspoken appeal to say nothing, to not even look into her face. She came to him because she was sent to serve him. He accepted in order to release the unbearable tension slavery built in him, but there was no warmth, no love, no humanity. She gave him a fleeting physical satisfaction, always followed by a drenching shame.
He lay down upon the stone bench and put his arm behind his head, staring up at the grate. He remembered his wife laughing and running through the forest, her blonde braid bouncing against her back. He remembered making love to her in the sunlight of a meadow. He remembered the tenderness they shared. Death had taken her all too soon. His eyes burned and he sat up, fighting against the despondency that made him want to smash his head into the stone wall.
Was he no longer a man? Had six months in this place turned him into an animal who gave in to the basest instincts? He was better off dead. He veered away from the thought of suicide. The guards were always on the lookout for attempts, but men found ways to kill themselves despite all efforts to prevent it. One man had eaten a pottery cup before the guards could stop him. He had died within hours, his insides lacerated. Another had put his head through the spokes of the training wheel, breaking his neck. The last, only two nights before, had torn his cloak and tried to hang himself from the grate.
Atretes believed no honor lay in taking his own life. When he died, he wanted to take as many Romans, or those who served Rome, with him as possible. Finally he closed his eyes and slept, dreaming of the black forests of Germania and of his dead wife.
Tharacus did not run him the next day. Instead, he took him to the small exhibition arena. He joined him in a series of warm-up and stretching exercises. Atretes wondered at the four armed guards who stood at equidistance within the walls, and he glanced up at the viewers’ box. Scorpus stood with a tall black man dressed in a red tunic trimmed in gold.
A Voice in the Wind Page 18