As Sure as the Dawn (26 page)

Theophilus saw what happened from the deck of the Alexandrian. Stripping off his helmet and breastplate, he shouted an order and dove in. Quick, strong strokes brought him to Atretes as he sank, and grabbing the German’s long hair, he dragged him to the surface and caught hold of the rope that was dropped. Atretes was unconscious, blood streaming from a gash in his forehead. Struggling to keep himself afloat and Atretes from sinking, Theophilus tied the rope securely. “Haul him up!”

“Watch the line!” A second rope was dropped to him and he grasped hold. Planting his feet against the side of the ship, he walked up as his men pulled from above.

Atretes lay facedown on the deck, the arrow protruding from his left shoulder. “Hold him down in case he comes round,” Theophilus said, going down on one knee and grasping the shaft. He pulled the arrow out with one firm yank. Atretes groaned and raised his head slightly, then relaxed again.

“The wound needs to be cauterized,” he said and sent one of his men to see if a brazier was burning and, if not, to have one lit.

A searing pain ripped across Atretes’ left shoulder, snapping him out the the darkness that surrounded him. He tried to rise and escape the burning, but a strong hand pushed him down again. “We’ve seared your shoulder wound to stop the bleeding and prevent infection.”

Recognizing Theophilus’ voice, Atretes struggled to rise. “Get your hands off me!” He regained his feet and swayed slightly from loss of blood. A soldier took hold of his arm to steady him, and Atretes knocked him aside. “Touch me, Roman, and I’ll kill you.” The soldier put his hands out in acquiescence and shrugged at Theophilus before turning away.

Atretes turned and looked across the deck. “Where’s Rizpah?”

“She’s all right,” Theophilus said. “She’s in the cabin with your son.”

A resounding crack suddenly echoed across the waters as a Roman galley rammed the hemiolia, snapping oars and splintering a wide hole into the side of the pirate ship. Turning to watch, Atretes shouted German curses down on the Illyrians’ heads as the screams of slaves tied to their oars could be heard across the water. The sea poured into the hull as Roman ravens dropped aboard the hemiolia and soldiers went to put the pirates to the sword.

Theophilus stood silent, staring grimly at the scene. Another Roman galley was closing in on the leeward side of the hemiolia, ready to give assistance to their comrades should it be needed. It wasn’t.

Turning away, the centurion faced the carnage on the deck around him. Closing his eyes, he knelt and bowed his head. “God, to you be the glory for our deliverance,” he said, his deep voice breaking in grief at the cost of carrying out his responsibilities as a soldier. What price the greed of men?

Atretes stepped over the fallen as he headed for the owner’s cabin. When he entered, Rizpah was inside, sitting on the berth, comforting Caleb. When she glanced up, he saw the swelling bruise on her jaw where the Illyrian had struck her. His blood went hot again, his heart pumping hard and fast.

“Atretes,” she said softly, her face showing her relief and concern. Blood seeped from an open wound in his forehead. She quickly rose, replacing Caleb in the trunk before coming to him. “You’re bleeding. Sit down.”

Turbulent emotions poured through him making war with one another. He laughed grimly and caught hold of her. “I’ve been wounded before.”

“Sit down!”

Surprised, he did as she commanded. Bemused, he watched her rush about the small cabin, raking through garments. Finding one that suited her, she ripped it down the middle. “I wonder what the owner will have to say about you tearing up such a fine tunic.”

“I don’t care what he says.” She opened the owner’s amphora of wine and sloshed it onto another expensive garment.

He smiled wryly. “Stop crying, Rizpah. I’ll live.”

“Another word and I’ll wrap this around your throat instead of your head!”

He winced as she dabbed the blood from his forehead with the wine-soaked cloth. Her whole body was trembling violently. So was his, as it always had in the aftermath of battle. His blood still hummed. He had forgotten what it felt like to feel
alive.

Rizpah’s closeness roused other instincts long-conditioned by careful training under the system of punishment and reward. He grasped her hips and drew her firmly against him. “Whenever I did well in the arena, I always knew there’d be a beautiful woman waiting in my cell when I was returned to the ludus.”

“Let go of me, Atretes.”

“I don’t want to let go of you. I want to
—ouch!”
He released her abruptly when she slapped the wine-soaked bandage on his wound. He swore vilely in German, barely containing himself from striking her.

“Just because they treated you like an animal doesn’t mean you’ve become one.”

Grimacing, he glared at her. “I should’ve let the Illyrians have you!”

Face white, she finished tying the bandage in place despite his protests. She rested her hands lightly on his shoulders and smiled sadly. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

Setting her aside, Atretes rose. As he bent over the trunk to lift his son out, Rizpah saw the other wound. “Your shoulder!”

“Don’t even think about it! I’ll find a gentler hand than yours to tend to it.” Ignoring her, he placed Caleb on the bunk. Stripping off the baby’s garments, he ran his hands over his son’s body. “He appears unharmed.”

“He was well-hidden in the trunk. They didn’t touch him.”

Atretes bent down, resting his forearms on either side of his son, and he rubbed his face against him, breathing in the scent of life and innocence. As he drew back, he saw he had unwittingly smeared Caleb with blood. The sight of it opened long-hidden, but momentarily forgotten wounds. “Wash him,” he said hoarsely and left the cabin.

Rizpah did as Atretes commanded. Then, hearing the cries of the wounded outside the door, she tied Caleb into her shawl-sling. Her help was needed on the main deck. She couldn’t remain cocooned in the owner’s cabin and leave the others to aid the injured. She stepped outside the cabin door, wholly unprepared for the horrifying scene before her.

Wounded and dying lay tangled among the already dead while able-bodied crew members and passengers lifted bodies and dumped them overboard without care or ceremony. Not far away, the Roman galley was withdrawing from its conquered foe. The Illyrian ship was sinking, flames licking up the mast to the broad sail. Men jumped over the side and were left to drown.

A woman’s piercing cry of grief brought Rizpah sharply around. Rhoda was on her knees, holding Prochorus in her arms. She rocked his lifeless body back and forth, her face etched in anguish. Camella stood helplessly by, holding Lysia and weeping.

A man lying near the doorway was crying softly for his mother. Weeping, Rizpah knelt beside him and took his hand. He held on so tightly she thought he would crush her bones. The gaping wound in his abdomen was mortal, and the few words of comfort she was able to say before his hand loosened upon hers fell upon unhearing ears.

Atretes picked his way over the dead, looking into their still faces. He found Agabus among them. Kneeling down, he stared at the young man in death. He lay with his eyes wide open as though gazing up at the sky. His face was tranquil; unlike many of the others, there was no sign of struggle, of pain or fear. If not for the mortal wound in his chest, one might have thought he was alive.

Perplexed, Atretes studied him. He remembered only one other face that had looked so at peace after meeting a violent death—Caleb, the Jew he had killed in the arena.

Stirred in a way he did not understand, Atretes murmured, “Perhaps there is something in what you said.” He reached out a gentle hand to close the young man’s eyes. He lifted the young Christian and carried him to the starboard side, away from the hasty and heedless discarding of dead Illyrians. “Your Christ have you,” he said with respect and let Agabus’ body drop with a quiet splash into the sea. The young man’s body floated briefly, arms flung wide, rising and falling gently on the waves, and then it sank slowly into the blue depths.

“A good thing the centurion saved you from drowning, or you’d be food for the fish with the rest,” a sailor said, grunting as he carried another body to the side.

Atretes faced him sharply. “What did you say?”

“When you fell from the raven,” he said with another grunt as he released his burden into the sea, “an oar struck you. He stripped off his armor and dove in after you.”

Turning, Atretes saw Theophilus standing amid the slain. Helmet beneath his arm, the centurion appeared to be praying.

It sat ill with Atretes that he owed his life to that accursed Roman. Not once, but
twice!
Had the centurion not kicked him a weapon, he would have been cut down well before the battle reached its height. Now he knew he would never have regained consciousness in the water. Resentment filled him, yet reason prevailed.

Had he died, what would have become of his son and the woman? Thank whatever gods there were, it wasn’t his fate to survive ten years in the arena only to die at the hands of Illyrian pirates while on board an Alexandrian ship carrying precious cargo to Rome! What cruel irony that would have proved to be. His death would come, but when it did, he intended it to have meaning and purpose. There was great honor in dying in battle, but let it be in a battle against Rome! Had he been killed today, he would have died
defending
a merchant ship in the service of the emperor. By the fates, what a grotesque joke. It hadn’t even occurred to him until now.

As though sensing his stare, Theophilus looked his way. Their gazes met and held. Atretes clenched his teeth, pride stiffening his neck. The centurion had saved his life, and honor-bound, Atretes knew he had to acknowledge the fact and give him his due. Theophilus stood motionless, enigmatic, undoubtedly awaiting the opportunity to gloat. Swallowing his pride, Atretes gave him a slow nod.

Theophilus’ mouth curved, but his smile held neither mockery nor triumph, only a grievous understanding.

The Alexandrian freighter sailed under the guard of the two Roman galleys until they reached the straits at the boot of Italy. The escort then headed east as the Alexandrian proceeded past Sicily into the Tyrrhenian Sea.

Sailing north, Atretes noticed the devastation along the shoreline. “Mount Vesuvius erupted a year ago,” one of the crew told him. “Covered the cities of Heraclea and Pompeii. You can’t even tell they existed. The Jews believe it’s their god’s judgment on Titus for what he did to Jerusalem.”

Atretes was beginning to like this god.

The farther up the coast they sailed, the more ships were sighted. Under oar and sail, they came from every part of the Empire, carrying cargo to the gluttonous markets of the Eternal City.

Atretes stood near the prow, dreading his return to Rome. Dark memories tormented him. He slept little, plagued by a premonition that he would be captured and forced to fight for the Roman mob again.

“What’s that you’re holding, Atretes?” Peter said, sitting on a barrel nearby.

He opened his clenched fist and stared at the ivory chip in his palm. “My proof of freedom,” he said grimly. His only proof.