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 Plebeii, 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 al
l 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.
The two guards took him by the arms as he and the others were led from the great hall into a lesser chamber. He was pushed onto a couch. “You are to be honored this evening,” one said dryly. “Tomorrow you die.”
Atretes watched the other gladiators ushered to couches of honor. Some of the emperor’s guests had followed them into the room and surrounded them. A lovely young Roman girl was laughing and stroking the Parthian as though he was a pet dog.
Several men and women approached Atretes as well, looking him over and discussing his strength and size. Atretes glared at them with contempt and loathing. “I don’t think he likes being discussed,” a handsome, well-built man remarked dryly.
“I doubt he understands Greek, Marcus. Germans are reputed to be strong, but stupid.”
The man named Marcus laughed. “By the look in his eyes, Antigonus, I’d say he understood you very well. I’ll put my wager on this one. He has a certain look about him.”
“I’ll still put my wager on Arria’s Greek,” the other said as they walked away. “She said he has tremendous stamina.”
“No doubt she’s tested it,” Marcus said as he strolled over to take a closer look at the Parthian.
Atretes wondered how long he was to endure being “honored.” Trays of delicacies were brought to him and he scorned them. He had never seen or smelled such food before and did not trust it. He drank the wine sparingly, his blood warming at the sight of scantily clad dancing slave girls twirling and swaying, rocking and undulating in an erotic dance.
“A pity, Orestes,” a man said, standing in front of him with another. “The German seems to prefer women.”
“A pity indeed,” the other sighed.
Atretes’ jaw locked and his hand whitened on his goblet. He felt their foul perusal and swore if one laid a hand on him, he would kill him.
A burst of laughter caught Atretes’ attention. One of the Greeks had pulled a slave girl onto his lap and was kissing her. She was screaming and struggling to get away while the Romans around him laughed and encouraged him to take further liberties. On the couch a few feet away, the Parthian stuffed himself with all manner of delicacies and swilled wine without restraint. The fool had better enjoy himself, because it’s the last meal he’ll ever eat if I have the good fortune to face him on the morrow, thought Atretes.
Caleb reclined on a couch well back from the others. He held no wine goblet and the platter before him was untouched. A woman was standing behind him, speaking with him and caressing his shoulder. He paid her no attention. His eyes were half closed, his expression withdrawn and grim. She persisted for some time, and then, annoyed, left.
No one sat on the cushions of Atretes’ couch. Vespasian had ordered his wrist restraints removed, but the guards stood alert and ready should he try anything, warning guests to keep a safe distance. “Germans are like berserkers,” he overheard someone say. It seemed that half of the gathering was watching him, hoping to witness a mindless rage. Several young women in rich finery kept staring avidly at every part of him. He gritted his teeth. Were all Roman women so bold? Trying to ignore them, he lifted his wine goblet and sipped. They moved toward him until they were close enough for him to hear plainly what they were saying about him. Did they think him deaf or stupid?
“Domitian said his name is Atretes. He’s beautiful, isn’t he? I just love blonds.”
“He’s too savage for my taste. Those blue eyes give me chills.”
“Oooh,” one said, fanning herself dramatically. “They give me a fever.”
Several laughed softly, and one asked, “How many men do you suppose he’s killed? Do you think he’ll have a chance tomorrow? Domitian told me he’s matched against Fadus’ Thracian, and he’s every bit as good as Caleb.”
“I’ll put my bet on this one. Did you see the look in his eyes when he was brought into the room? And he didn’t hail Caesar.”
“How could he? He was in chains.”
“They say Germans enter battle naked,” another said in a hushed voice. “Do you think Vespasian will have him stripped bare for the contests tomorrow?”
One laughed huskily, “Oh, I do hope so.” The tittering laughter of the others joined hers.
“I’ll suggest it.”
“Arria! I thought you liked the Parthian.”
“I’m tired of him.”
Atretes was tired of them. Turning his head slightly, he stared straight into the brown eyes of the prettiest of the five young women, the one who’d said she would suggest he fight naked. The mass of braids and curls of improbable blonde hair seemed too much weight for her slender neck, which was encircled by rare pearls. She was beautiful. Taking full note of his attention, she raised a smug brow at her friends and smiled at him. His bold stare didn’t make her blush.
“Do you think we should stand so close?”
“What do you think he’s going to do? Grab me?” Arria said in a purring tone, still smiling into his eyes as though challenging him to do exactly that.
Atretes continued to stare at her. She was wearing a jeweled belt designed like one the rapacious Greek was wearing. His gaze lingered for a moment, then he lifted his goblet, took a slow swallow of wine, and returned his attention to the dancing slave girls as though they were far more alluring.
“I think you’ve just been insulted, Arria.”
“So it would seem,” came the cold response. They moved away, relieving Atretes of their irritating presence. He wondered again how long he would have to endure this evening of “pleasure.” He allowed his wine goblet to be refilled and tried to close his mind to the merriment that assaulted his soul.
Finally they were taken from the feast and, one by one, they were locked into small holding cells beneath the amphitheater. Atretes stretched out on the stone shelf and closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep. He dreamed of the forests of his homeland, of standing among the elders as his mother prophesied he would bring peace to his people. The confusion of a battle made him writhe and moan, and one of the guards rapped loudly on the door, awakening him. He slept again, fitfully, dreaming he was in the bog. He could feel it sucking at
his ankles and, struggling to get free, he sank deeper, the weight of the moist earth pressing around him and pulling him down, down, until he was beneath it and couldn’t breathe. He could hear his mother and the others from his village crying out as the ring of steel sang out through the forest. The air was filled with the screams of his people dying. He couldn’t free himself from the weight of the earth.
With a harsh cry, Atretes sat up, coming out of the nightmare with a sharp jolt. It was a moment before he realized where he was. Sweat streamed down his chest despite the chill of the stone walls. Letting out his breath, he raked shaking hands back through his hair and dragged in air.
His mother had said he would bring his people peace. What peace had he brought them? What peace but death? How many Chatti were still alive and free in the forests of Germania? What had become of his mother? What of the rest? Were they, like he, all now slaves of Rome?
Full of rage, he clenched his fists. Trembling with it, he lay back, trying to relax, trying to rest for the battle ahead, even as his mind roiled with images of violence fed by his longing for vengeance.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would die with a sword in his hand.
Chapter 13
The guards came for him at midmorning, bringing a heavy bearskin. He was taken along the torchlit corridor as the others were brought out to the confusion behind the Porta Pompae, the central door for processions leading into the Circus Maximus. The sunlight was like a physical blow.
“The emperor has arrived and the opening ceremonies have begun,” a guard shouted, his contingent hurrying them to the chariots that waited to carry them into the arena so they could be displayed before the thousands of spectators crowded into the tiered seats.
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