A Voice in the Wind (24 page)

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.

“Let’s see if you can best me, Atretes,” Tharacus said in German, and tossed Atretes one of two thick long poles. He crouched and moved to one side, flipping the stick over and over expertly, waiting. “Come on,” he said, mocking him. “Attack me if you dare. Show me if you have learned anything.”

The weight of the oak felt good in Atretes’ hands. The ends were blunted by leather. Scorpus had ordered this match for one of two reasons: either the African was wealthy and looking for a little entertainment, or he was buying himself a gladiator. Neither reason suited Atretes’ pride. With Scorpus out of reach, he focused all of his hatred on Tharacus.

Moving slowly and cautiously around Tharacus, he looked for an opening. Tharacus made a sharp swing. Atretes blocked it, and the crack of wood on wood resounded in the arena. Tharacus shifted his weight, turned swiftly, and caught Atretes across the side of his head, opening a cut next to his eye.

Hot rage raced through Atretes’ blood, but with force of conditioning and will, he subdued it. He took two more blows and then landed two of his own, rocking Tharacus on his feet. Using the heat of his anger to give him strength, he took the offensive. He had learned to watch an opponent’s eyes rather than his hands to know what he intended. He blocked two swings and drove the long pole into Tharacus’ kidney, catching the lanista’s startled look as he stumbled. He swung the stick in a swift circle and aimed the blow at Tharacus’ head. The lanista dodged it and rolled to his feet. One word from him and the guards would intercede. But he said nothing.

The swift, sharp cracks of the long poles rang across the small arena. Sweat poured from both, and they grunted with each powerful blow. Seeing they were too evenly matched for him to gain an advantage, Atretes dropped his stick and caught hold of Tharacus‘, using the full force of his strength to bring it down to the lanista’s chin. He knew all the lanista’s tricks. Tharacus would try to sweep his feet. When he made the move, Atretes brought his knee up hard. Tharacus expelled a sharp breath, his eyes glazing with pain and his fingers loosening. Atretes brought his knee up again and then used the stick to knock the lanista back.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a guard move as Tharacus fell. He knew he had little time. Releasing the long pole, Atretes dropped onto Tharacus, gripped the helmet with his left hand and brought his right back. Tharacus’ eyes widened and he tried to dodge the blow he himself had taught as he cried out an order too late. Atretes drove the heel of his hand against the base of Tharacus’ nose, snapping the cartilage and driving it into his brain.

Two guards dragged him back from Tharacus’ convulsing body. Atretes threw back his head and screamed out his war cry in jubilation. Adrenaline still raced through his body, and he threw off one guard and drove his fist into the abdomen of the other, yanking the gladius from his scabbard as he fell. The third and fourth drew blades. “
Don’t kill him
!” Scorpus shouted from the box.

Swords sheathed, the guards used a net to bring him down. Tangled in it like a thrashing wild animal, he was pinned facedown in the sand, and the gladius was pried from his hand. Wrist and ankle manacles were locked on, and he was dragged to his feet, spitting out profanity in Greek. They stood him before the viewers’ box.

Chest heaving, he looked up at Scorpus and his guest and shouted the foulest names he had collected in his six months at the ludus. Scorpus glared down at him, face white and pinched. The black man grinned, said something to Scorpus, and left the box.

Within the hour, Atretes was chained in another wagon with a Gaul, a Turk, and two Britons from other Capuan ludi. The black man rode ahead in a shaded sedan chair carried by four slaves.

The African’s name was Bato. He was owned by the emperor Vespasian and held the prestigious position of head lanista at the ludus of Rome.

Atretes was bound for the heart of the Empire.

“Tell him I have a headache,” Julia said in dismissive tones, not even looking up at the slave who stood in the doorway with the polite request from Claudius that she join him in the bibliotheca. She didn’t even pause in the game she was playing, but dropped the knucklebones from the back of her fingers and watched them clatter on the marble floor. When she did not hear Hadassah speak or the door close, she glanced up crossly and saw Hadassah’s beseeching look. “Tell him,” she ordered imperiously, and Hadassah had no choice but to repeat her mistress’s message.

“I heard,” Persis said under his breath and turned away.

Hadassah closed the door quietly and looked at her young mistress. Was she so selfish and foolish as to deny her husband the smallest courtesy? What must Claudius Flaccus feel?

Seeing Hadassah’s look, Julia became defensive. “I’ve no desire to spend another boring evening in the bibliotheca while he talks dull philosophies. How do I know or care what Seneca thought?” She snatched up the bones again and clenched them in her fist. Her eyes smarted with tears. Why couldn’t everyone just leave her alone? She threw the bones and they bounced and rolled in wild array. She sat back on her heels.

Hadassah bent and gathered up the knucklebones one by one. “You just don’t understand,” Julia said. “No one understands.”

“He is your husband, my lady.”

Julia’s chin jerked up. “Does that mean I must answer his every summons like a slave?”

Hadassah could only wonder what Claudius Flaccus would do when told his young wife refused to come to him on the weak excuse of a headache. In the beginning, Julia had played the joyous bride, more to impress her friends than to please her husband. Once out of Rome, though, she became painfully polite. Settled in Capua, she became petulant.

Claudius Flaccus was a man of monumental patience, but Julia’s daring to bluntly refuse him might well shatter that virtue. Over the past six months, Claudius had overlooked Julia’s moodiness. However, outright disobedience and rudeness would surely gain his anger. Hadassah was afraid for her mistress. Did Roman husbands beat their wives?

She was also, quite honestly, annoyed. Was Julia so blind she couldn’t see that Claudius Flaccus was intelligent, kind, and gentle? He was a worthy husband for any young woman. Claudius did all he could to entertain Julia, introducing her to his friends, taking her on chariot rides through Campania, buying her presents. Yet, Julia gave nbt even meager consideration in return. Her gratitude was perfunctory, as though whatever he did was her due and his duty.

“He is kind to you, my lady,” Hadassah said, searching for a way to reason with her.

“Kind,” Julia said with a sniff. “Is it kind to press his attentions on me when I don’t want them? Is it kind to demand his rights when the mere thought of him repulses me? I don’t want to spend the evening with him.” She put her hands over her face. “I hate it when he touches me,” she said and shuddered. “His flesh is pale as death.”

Hadassah felt the heat pouring into her face.

“Just thinking about him makes me sick.” Julia rose and went to the window, gazing out at the courtyard.

Hadassah looked down at her clasped hands, unsure what to say to soothe her mistress. Such blunt talk embarrassed her. What did she know of the intimacies of married life? Perhaps it was unbearable for Julia and she shouldn’t be so quick to judge. “Perhaps your feelings will change when you have children,” Hadassah said.

“Children?” Julia said with a flash of her dark eyes. “I’m not ready to have children. I haven’t even lived yet.“ She ran her hand down a Babylonian tapestry. ”The gods must agree with me, for I am not with child yet, and not for lack of Claudius’ trying. Oh, he tries and tries. For all of Father’s grand hopes of a royal line, Claudius’ seed has probably gone bad.“

Her bitterness changed to amusement when she glanced back at Hadassah. She laughed. “Your face is all red.” Her smile dimmed quickly, however, and she reclined on a lounge. She gazed at a bright fresco on the wall of men and women gamboling in a forest glen. They were laughing and joyous. Why couldn’t her life be like that? Why did she have to have such an old and dull husband? Was she to be locked away in this Capua villa for the rest of her life? She longed for the excitement of Rome. She missed Marcus’ wit. She wanted adventure. Claudius wouldn’t even consent to take her to one of the gladiatorial ludi to see a training session.

“Do you remember that gladiator we saw?” Julia said dreamily. “He was beautiful, wasn’t he? Like Apollo. His skin was the color of bronze and his hair was like the sun.” She laid her hand delicately on her stomach. “He made me quiver inside. When he looked at me, I felt as though I was on fire.”

She turned, her face pale, her eyes bright with tears of bitter disappointment. “And then there is Claudius, who makes my blood run cold.”

Hadassah remembered the gladiator. Julia had insisted upon going through the orchard the next day and the next, but thankfully, the gladiator and his trainer hadn’t appeared again.

Julia stood restlessly and rubbed her temples. “I do have a headache,” she said. “Just thinking about Claudius gives me a headache.” It occurred to her belatedly that Claudius might be angry at her refusal. It wasn’t proper for a wife to refuse a husband anything. She thought of her mother and felt guilty. She could almost see her reproving look and hear her reprimand, gentle though stinging.

Julia bit her lip, vexed. She had never seen Claudius angry. Her heart began to beat heavily.

“He probably won’t believe it, but I’m
not
feeling well. Go and speak with him for me,” she said and waved her hand toward the door. “Give him my fond regards and explain that I’m going to take a long bath and then retire to my bed. Summon Catya for me.“ That foul Persis had probably told Claudius that she was playing knucklebones.

Hadassah summoned the Macedonian maid and then went along the inner corridor to the bibliotheca. The great house was quiet and still.

Claudius was sitting at his desk, a scroll spread out before him. The lamplight made the gray streaks in his hair shine white. Claudius glanced up. “Persis already brought word that the lady Julia has a headache.” His tone was dry, his expression indifferent rather than angry. “Has she changed her mind?”

“No, my lord. The lady Julia sends her fond regards and regrets she is not feeling well. She is going to take a bath and retire for the night.”

Claudius grimaced. Thus he was dismissed before the sun was even set. He was neither fooled nor upset by Julia’s excuses. In fact, he was relieved. He leaned back slightly and released his breath slowly. Trying to entertain Julia had become tedious. In six months of marriage, Claudius had learned a great deal about his young wife, little of which had endeared her to him. He smiled painfully. She was beautiful and made to be admired, but she was childish and self-centered.

And he was an old fool, flying high with eros.

The first time he had glimpsed Julia, he had been struck by her similarity to Helena, his beloved wife. He had thought, or rather dreamed, that she was perhaps even a reincarnation of her. He had been besotted, drunk on hope, clinging to a nonexistent possibility. The gods had merely been playing with him.

Thinking of Helena filled him with loneliness. He remembered her sweet presence with an aching longing. All the years he had spent with her hadn’t been enough. A lifetime would not have been enough.

Helena had been quiet, pensive, tender, satisfied to sit with him in this room by the hour. They talked of everything—the arts, the gods, philosophy, politics. Even the mundane, everyday matters of what he had said to their overseer had interested Helena. Julia was constant motion and scarcely-contained energy. He sensed unruly passions constantly at war within her, passions he could not tap with his possession. She was beautiful, more beautiful than Helena, with fine curves and a smoothness like pure marble. But she was disquieting.