As Sure as the Dawn (4 page)

“Zeus! It’s
Atretes!”
Those still able scattered like rats into the darkness.

“Help me!” Palus cried out, but his friends had deserted him. Moaning in pain and cradling his broken arm against his chest, Palus scooted backwards until he was against the wall. “Don’t kill me,” he sobbed. “Don’t kill me. Please! We didn’t know it was you.”

“Boy, the least in the arena had more courage than you.” He stepped past him and headed down the alleyway.

He heard voices ahead of him. “I swear! It was him! He was
big
and his hair was white in the moonlight. It was Atretes!”

“Where?”

“Down there! He’s probably killed Palus.”

Swearing under his breath, Atretes ran down a narrow street that took him in the opposite direction from where he wanted to go. Jogging along a street between insulae, he turned up another avenue and came around a corner that put him back on track. Ahead was a main thoroughfare not far from the Artemision. He slowed as he neared it, not wanting to attract attention by his haste. He drew the mantle up over his head to cover his hair again and lowered his chin as he entered the evening bazaar.

The street was lined with booths and street vendors hawking their wares. As Atretes wove his way among the crowd, he saw miniature temples and statuettes of Artemis, trays of amulets, and pouches of incense. He came to an idolmaker’s shop and glanced at the counter laden with marble statuettes. Someone bumped into him and he stepped closer, pretending interest in the wares on display. He needed to blend in with the crowd of evening shoppers. Visitors from every part of the Empire milled around, looking for bargains. Atretes froze as he looked at the detailed statuettes.

The merchant thought him interested. “Take a closer look, my lord! These are replicas of the new statue just erected in honor of Mars. You won’t find better workmanship anywhere.”

Atretes stepped closer and picked one up. He hadn’t imagined it. It was
him!
He glared at the offensive idol. “Mars?” he said in an accusing growl, wanting to crush the marble into dust.

“You must be new to the city. Are you making a pilgrimage to our goddess?” The vendor produced a small statue festooned with breasts and wearing a headdress punctuated with symbols, one of which was the rune of the god Tiwaz, whom Atretes had once worshiped.

“There he is! Over there by the idolmaker’s shop.”

Atretes glanced around sharply and saw a dozen young men pushing their way through the crowd toward him. “I told you it was Atretes!”

“Atretes! Where?”

People on the left and right of him turned to stare. The idolmaker stood, mouth agape, staring at him. “It
is
you. By the gods!”

Sweeping his arm across the table, Atretes grasped the edge and upended the table. Shoving several people aside, he tried to run. A man grasped his tunic. Uttering an enraged shout, Atretes hit him in the face. As the man went down, he took three others with him.

Excitement erupted up and down the street. “Atretes! Atretes is here!”

More hands fell upon him; voices cried his name out feverishly.

Atretes was unaccustomed to real fear, but knew it now as the furor in the marketplace grew. In another moment there would be a riot, with him at the center. He plowed through half a dozen clawing bodies, knowing he had to get away. Now.

“Atretes!”
A woman screamed, flinging herself upon him. As he shook her off, her nails scraped his neck. Someone else yanked out a hank of his hair. The mantle was torn from his shoulders. People were screaming.

Breaking free, he ran, knocking people aside as they got in his way. Amoratae shouted and followed him like a pack of wild dogs. Ducking into the narrow avenue of shops, he knocked over another table. Fruit and vegetables spilled across the walkway. He upended another counter of copperware, scattering more obstacles in the mob’s path. There were cries behind him as several went down. Leaping over a small cart, he turned sharply and ran down an alleyway between two insulae. When he saw it was a dead end, he came nearer to panic than he had in his life. He had once seen a pack of wild dogs chase down a man in the arena. When the dogs caught him, they’d torn him apart. These amoratae, in their frenzied passion, might well do the same to him if they caught him.

Turning frantically, Atretes sought escape. When he saw a door, he ran to it. It was locked. Ramming it with his shoulder, he broke it open and ran up a darkened passageway of steps. One floor, then two. Stopping on a landing, he waited. Catching his breath, he listened.

Muted sounds of voices came from outside on the street. “He must have gone in one of the insulae.”

“Look over there!”

“No, wait! This door’s been broken in.”

Hurried footsteps headed up the stairs. “He’s in here.”

Atretes ran along the corridor as quietly as he could. Even with tenement doors closed, the place reeked of humanity. A door opened behind him and someone peered out just as he ducked up a narrow, dank passageway. He reached the third floor and then the fourth. Still shouting, his pursuers were awakening everyone in the building. When he reached the roof, he was in the open with no place to hide.

Voices came up the stairs.

Seeing only one way to escape, he took it. Running full-out, Atretes took a flying leap across the yawning distance to another building. He hit hard and rolled. Coming to his feet, he scrambled across to another doorway, dove into it, and hid in the shadows of another stairwell just as a dozen people spilled out onto the rooftop from which he had just leapt.

Atretes drew back sharply, heaving for air, heart pounding.

The voices receded as one by one, they ran down the stairs again, searching for him in the dim environs of the insula. Atretes sank back against the wall and closed his eyes, trying to regain his breath.

How was he going to cross the city, find a widow with his son, and get the child and himself out of the city without losing both their lives in the process?

Cursing the idolmakers for making him a graven image to these idol-hungry people, he closed down his mind to anything else but getting out of the city in one piece. That accomplished, he would find another way to get his son.

He waited for an hour before venturing down the stairs and hallways into the insula. Every sound made him flinch. When he reached the street, he kept close to the walls, using the veil of dark shadows for protection. He got lost. Using up precious hours of darkness, he found his way like a rat in the maze of alleys and narrow streets.

He reached the city gates just as the sun was coming up.

Lagos heard the door slam and knew his master had returned. He’d only just returned a few hours ago himself, having spent the afternoon, evening, and better part of the night searching slave markets for a German wet nurse. He’d finally found one and was certain Atretes would be pleased with her. She was robust and ruddy and had hair the same color as his.

He came into the entry hall feeling somewhat confident and saw Atretes’ blackened eye and even blacker temper. Deep, bloody scratches still oozed on his neck, staining his ripped tunic with blood. The German looked ready to kill someone. Anyone.

“Did you find a wet nurse?”

Heart thundering, Lagos thanked the gods he had. “Yes, my lord,” he said quickly, perspiration beading on his forehead. “She’s in residence.” He was certain if he had failed, his life would have been forfeit. “Would you like to see her, my lord?”

“No!” Atretes strode into the inner courtyard. Bending, he put his whole head under the water in the fountain. Lagos wondered if the man meant to drown himself. After a long moment, Atretes straightened and shook his head, flinging water in all directions like a dog. Lagos had never before witnessed such uncivilized behavior from a master.

“Can you write?” Atretes demanded coldly, his expression no less fierce.

“Only in Greek, my lord.”

Atretes ran a hand down his face and shook the water off his hand. “Then write this,” he commanded bitterly. “‘I accede to your suggestion. Bring my son to me as soon as possible.’ Sign my name and take the message to the apostle John. Tell him how to get here!” He gave him directions to the small house near a stream on the outer fringe of the city. “If he’s not there, look for him by the river.” He strode out of the courtyard.

Lagos let out his breath and thanked the gods he was still alive.

The heavy stick in Silus’ hands splintered as Atretes brought his own down. The servant fell back sharply to avoid the blow and staggered, barely managing to keep his feet. Swearing, Atretes stepped back. Mouth grim, Silus regained his balance and tossed the useless weapon aside.

Atretes made an impatient gesture. “Again!”

Gallus took another pugil stick from a barrel against the wall and tossed it. Silus caught it and took a fighting stance once more. The man would not let up!

Standing near the archway to the baths, Gallus watched with hidden empathy. Silus was sweating profusely, his face red from exertion. Their master, on the other hand, was breathing as easily as when the sparring match had begun.

Crack!

“Take the offensive!” Atretes shouted.

Crack!

Silus managed to block again, but seemed to be losing his strength.

Crack!
“I would . . .”
Crack!
“. . . if I could,” Silus gasped. He swung his stick wide, but missed entirely. He felt an explosion of pain behind his knees. For an instant, nothing but air was beneath him, and then his back hit the marble floor. He grunted and lay helpless, trying to get his breath back as Atretes stood over him. He saw the pugil stick coming down at his throat and thought he was about to die. It stopped a fraction of an inch away.

Atretes made a sound of disgust. “How did you ever survive the arena?” He sent the stick clattering across the floor and bouncing off the wall.

Silus grimaced, embarrassed. He watched Atretes warily, wondering if he was fated to another round with him.

Swearing in German, Atretes kicked over the barrel, scattering pugil sticks across the marble. He gave a shout of spine-tingling frustration and let out a string of unintelligible German.

Having regained his breath, Silus rose slowly, wincing in pain. He prayed to Artemis that Atretes would wear himself out breaking sticks over his knee and not decide to break him instead. He saw Lagos peering nervously into the room and saw a way to avoid further humiliation. “Well, well. The warthog returns.”

Atretes swung around, expression fierce. “What took you so long?!”

Lagos entered the gymnasium as though he were entering a lion’s den. “It was—”

“Never mind the excuses. Did you find him?”

“Yes, my lord. Late last night.”

“And?”

“Your message is delivered, my lord.”

“What did he say?”

“He said it will be done, my lord.”

“The instant he arrives, notify me.” Atretes jerked his head in dismissal. Grabbing a towel from the shelf near the door, he wiped his face and neck. He tossed it on the floor and glanced balefully at Silus and Gallus. They awaited his command. “Enough for today,” he said tonelessly. “Go!”

Alone in the gymnasium, Atretes sat down on a bench. He pushed his hands back through his hair in frustration. He’d give John a few days to keep his word, and if he didn’t, he’d hunt the apostle down and break his neck!

Restless, Atretes rose and strode out of the gymnasium, through the baths, and entered a corridor leading to a heavy door at the back of the villa. He banged it open and strode across the smooth dirt to another door in the wall. It was open. A guard stepped through it and nodded. “Clear, my lord,” he said, having already checked for amoratae who, in hopes that Atretes would appear, might have stationed themselves outside the walls. People often came in hopes of a glimpse of him.

Atretes jogged in the hills until his body was slick with sweat. He slowed to a fast walk until he reached the crest of a hill facing west. In the distance was Ephesus, the great city, which spread like a disease along the northern, southern, and eastern hills. From where he stood, Atretes could see the Artemision, the complex of libraries near the harbor. Turning his head slightly, he could see the arena.

He frowned. Odd that he found himself always coming to this hill and looking back. As a gladiator, his life had had a purpose: to survive. Now his life was aimless. He filled his days with training, but to what purpose?

He remembered Pugnax, an ex-gladiator who owned an inn in Rome, saying to him, “You’ll never be as alive as when you face death every day.” Atretes had thought him a fool then. Now, he wondered. At odd times, he found himself craving the excitement of a fight to the death.
Survival.
Nothing short of the struggle for it had given him that rush, the sense of real meaning in life.
Survival.

Now, he merely
existed.
He ate, drank, exercised. He slept. Sometimes he enjoyed the pleasures of a woman. Yet, all in all, the days rolled one into another, each empty, insignificant.

His son was somewhere in that foul city and he was the lone reason Atretes remained in Ionia. Somewhere beyond the expanse of cerulean blue was Italy, and north was his homeland. The longing to return to Germania was so strong his throat closed. He had his freedom. He had money. Once he’d taken possession of his son, there’d be nothing to keep him here. The villa would be sold, and he would buy passage on the first ship that set sail west.