Read A Voice in the Wind Online
Authors: Francine Rivers
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.
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.
Atretes was ordered into a chariot with Caleb. “May God be with us both,” the Jew said.
“Which one?” Atretes said through his teeth as he braced himself for the ride. The crowd screamed wildly as they appeared along with a dozen other chariots carrying gladiators from other schools. The sight and sound of so many thousands filling the Circus Maximus made Atretes’ hands sweat and his heart pound. Trumpets blared, whistles trilled, and thousands of voices rose until the earth itself seemed to shake.
The track was over two hundred feet wide on one side, and stretched out before him more than eighteen hundred feet in length. Down the center of the track rose a huge platform, the
spina
. Made of marble, it measured at least 233 feet in length and 20 feet in width. The spina served as a platform for marble statues and columns, fountains that gushed perfumed water, and altars to a dozen Roman gods. Atretes rode past a small temple of Venus where priests were burning incense paid for by charioteers. At the center of the spina, Atretes stared up at the towering obelisk brought from Egypt. Squinting against the brilliant glare, he looked up at the golden ball mounted on top, which shone like a sun.
Near the end of the spina rose two columns, on top of which were mounted marble crossbars. Situated atop the crossbars were seven bronze eggs—the sacred symbols of Castor and Pollux, heavenly twins and patron saints of Rome—and seven dolphins, sacred to the god Neptune.
The driver brought the chariot around sharply, narrowly missing the
metae
, turning posts with cones that rose like cypress trees to protect the spina from being damaged during the races. The cones were twenty feet high and carved in reliefs of Roman battle scenes. Atretes took all of this in as his chariot headed down the other side of the track, in line with two other chariots.
They came round one more time and stopped before the tribunal where the emperor sat with the other officials of the games. Caleb stepped down. Atretes did as well, feeling the heat rising from the sand. The sun beat down and Atretes longed to throw off the bearskin. Brightly colored awnings were being unrolled along rope cables, shading the top rows of spectators. His mouth was dry. He wished for one of the thin wool tunics of the ludus.
Caleb strode along the rim of the arena, arms outstretched to accept the cries of his admirers. The other gladiators did the same, showing off breastplates inlaid with silver and gold. Some wore swords set with precious jewels. Glistening helmets were topped with ostrich and peacock feathers. Brassards and cuisses were engraved with battle scenes. Bedazzled, the spectators shouted their delight, calling out to their favorites and mocking the others, especially Atretes in his barbarian furs, standing silent, legs splayed, feet planted. Some spectators were calling out to him and laughing.
The mob was awash in red, white, green, and blue as spectators wore the colors of the factions, denoting which chariot team they backed. Those with the emperor wore predominately red. The editor, as the organizer and master of ceremonies for the games was called, came back before the emperor’s tribunal. As the editor stepped down off the chariot, spectators jumped up and waved placards. Diodes Proctor Fadus: A Friend of the People! Smiling and bowing, the man in the purple toga waved to the people and made a brief speech before the emperor.
The gladiators presented themselves before the emperor, Atretes among them. He raised his hand in stiff salute with the others and called out, “Hail, Caesar! Those about to die salute you.” The loathsome words stuck in Atretes’ throat and his hand closed into a fist, which he held a little longer in the air than the others.
Climbing back onto the chariot with Caleb, Atretes braced himself again for the last circle of the track before the chariot shot through the gates. “The waiting begins,” Caleb said as he stepped down.
“How long?” Atretes asked, walking beside him toward the quarters where they were to be held until they were called for their matches. Groups of women pushed against the guards surrounding them, crying out for Celerus, Orestes, and Promethius.
“There’s no way to know. An hour. A day. The real spectacle isn’t the games at all. It’s the spectators. When a race is going, they tear at their clothes and themselves, faint from excitement, dance about like madmen, and bet every sesterce they have on a team. I’ve seen losers sell themselves to a slave dealer just for a few more coins to bet. Hippomania, they call it. Romans are horse-mad.”
Atretes gave a bitter laugh. “So, we’re just the entertainment between races.”
“Be angry. It’ll give you extra strength. But don’t let anger overpower your thinking. Not unless it’s your will to die.” He glanced at Atretes as they walked. “I have seen men deliberately drop their guard so a killing blow could be struck.”
“I won’t drop my guard.”
Caleb smiled without humor. “I have seen you fight. You are full of rage, blinded by it. Look around you at the mob, young Atretes. These conquerors of the world are slaves to their passions, and someday their passions will bring them down.” The guard opened one of the cells in the torchlit corridor and Caleb stepped inside. Turning, he stared straight into Atretes’ eyes. “You have much in common with Rome.” The door closed, blocking him from view, and the lock was set.
Atretes was not summoned until early afternoon. When he stepped out of his cell, he was given a two-handed broadsword and no armor. Slaves were clearing away the remains of two mangled chariots and raking the sand. Roasted partridges were being catapulted to the crowd. Most of those watching were drugged by sunlight and wine and lounged back eating bread they had brought for the day.
Shrugging off the heavy bearskin, Atretes strode out onto the sand to meet his opponent, a mirmillo, equipped as a Gaul, a fish insignia on his helmet. Boos and catcalls from the crowd greeted Atretes as he walked forward, and partridge bones were flung at him. Ignoring them, Atretes stood beside the Gaul and faced the emperor, raising his weapon in salute. Then he turned to face his opponent.
They moved around one another, looking for an opening. The Gaul was heavyset and made the first rush. He favored his right arm and used his bulk to ram Atretes when the German barbarian blocked his sword thrust. Atretes ducked the Gaul’s move and brought his fist up, knocking his opponent’s helmet askew. He took the split second of advantage to drive his sword through the Gaul’s side. He let go of the weapon and the man dropped to his knees. Raising his head sluggishly, the wounded man fell backward. He braced himself up on one elbow for a few seconds before he died. Atretes stepped away as the crowd burst into shouts of derision; they felt cheated by the brevity of the fight.