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. Diocles 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.
Snatching up the Gaul’s weapon, Atretes raised it into the air and gave his war cry to Tiwaz. Lowering his arms, he strode back and forth before the tribunal.
“I killed ten of your legionnaires before I was captured!” he shouted up at the emperor and officials. “It took four to hold me down and put me in chains.” He raised his sword to the crowd. “The weakest German is worth a legion of yellow-bellied Romans!”
Amazingly, the crowd roared with approval. Clapping and laughing, they cheered his nerve. He spit in the dust.
“Give him Celerus!” shouted a tribune surrounded by members of his regiment.
Atretes pointed his gladius straight at him. “Coward! Come down yourself! Or is Roman blood water?” The tribune started to shove his way along the aisle, but hands pushed him back. Atretes laughed loudly. “Your men are afraid for you!” he taunted. Two others rose.
“Celerus! Celerus!” Hundreds took up the chant, but another young officer jumped down into the arena and demanded armor and a weapon. “For the honor of Rome and those who died on the German frontier!” he shouted, striding forward onto the sand to meet Atretes.
They were evenly matched physically and the crowd was silent at the clash of swords. Neither gave ground for several moments as they blocked blows and tried for advantage. Atretes ducked one swing and drove his shoulder into the Roman’s chest, flinging him back. Following quickly, he beat the young officer to his knees. The Roman managed to roll away
and scramble to his feet. Atretes leaped back as the gladius flashed, opening a six-inch gash on his chest. Slipping in a pool of blood where the Gaul had fallen, Atretes went down heavily.
The crowd rose en masse, screaming wildly as the officer drove forward and straddled him. Atretes saw the gladius rise for the death stroke and brought his fist up between the man’s legs, doubling him over in agony. Rolling away, he bounded to his feet and swung his sword with all his strength, cutting through the gorget that protected his opponent’s neck.
The headless body sagged forward in the dust and the crowd went silent.
Chest heaving, Atretes turned and raised his bloody sword in challenge to the officer’s regiment. The crowd screamed again in excitement, but two other legionnaires were prevented from leaping into the arena by the emperor’s soldiers. Vespasian made a signal and a retiarius came forward.
Atretes knew he was expected to play the part of the secutor, or “chaser,” and catch the net man. He also knew that the retiarius had the advantage. His net was edged with small metal weights so that it would open in a wide circle when thrown. If caught in it, Atretes would have little chance of defending himself. He was already tired from the first two contests, so he made no advance.
“I seek not you,” the retiarius said loudly, reciting the traditional chant, “I seek a fish!” He made a tentative cast of his net, snapping it back.
Atretes stood his ground, waiting for the retiarius to come to him. Cocky, the net man made sport of him, dancing around and calling him a barbarian coward. The crowd shouted at him to fight. The legionnaires called him “Chicken!” Atretes ignored them. He had no intention of exhausting himself by running after the net man. He would watch and wait for his chance.
The retiarius showed off with fancy casts. He flung the long net toward Atretes’ feet, intending to tangle him, but Atretes jumped back.
“Why do you flee?” the retiarius taunted, swinging the net back and forth as he advanced. When he pitched it, Atretes caught hold, blocking the thrust of the trident and bringing his knee up into the retiarius’ stomach. He looped the net around the man’s head, kicked him to his knees, and brought the butt of his gladius down on the back of his head, killing him.
The crowd was on its feet again, cheering wildly. Breathing heavily, Atretes stepped away from the fallen retiarius. His muscles were trembling from exhaustion and loss of blood. Dropping to one knee, he shook his head and tried to clear his vision.
Vespasian nodded, and Atretes saw a Thracian come out onto the sand. Celerus. Gripping his gladius tighter, Atretes rose to his feet and made ready to fight again, knowing this time he would die.
Thousands of spectators rose to their feet waving white handkerchiefs—an unexpected show of favor toward Atretes. Vespasian looked from the crowd to the German barbarian. Titus leaned toward his father and spoke. The roar of humanity rose until the stadium seemed to tremble with the sound. White swatches of cloth waved in every direction, giving the emperor a clear message: spare the barbarian, let him fight another day.
Atretes wanted no mercy from a Roman mob. Anger pumped through him, giving him added strength. He strode toward the Thracian shouting, “Fight me!”
“You are so eager to die, German!” Celerus shouted back, making no move toward him. He looked up at the emperor for some sign and received none. When Atretes continued to advance, Celerus turned to face him, sword ready. The sound of the mob turned menacing, white handkerchiefs moving in unison like a drum beat. Vespasian made a signal, and Celerus’ lanista ordered him at rest. Bato and four guards from the Great School came out onto the sand.
“I will die as I choose!” Gripping his sword in both hands, Atretes took a fighting stance.
Bato snapped his fingers and the guards spread out as they advanced. Two shook out whips. At Bato’s nod, one whip was snapped around Atretes’ sword and the other snaked around his ankle. Hands slick with blood, Atretes couldn’t hold the gladius. Releasing it, he brought his elbow up against the side of one guard’s head and kicked another back. The other pulled the whip taut, pitching him off-balance long enough for the other guards to get a firm hold of him. Thrashing, he tried to shake them off. When he couldn’t, he screamed his war cry. Bato forced the handle of the whip between his teeth to silence him and they took him fighting from the arena.
“Get him on the table!” Other hands helped Bato’s men, and Atretes was slammed onto a wood frame, his arms and legs shackled. He arched up against the restraints.
“Stanch the wound,” a man in a bloodstained tunic said, gesturing impatiently to another washing his hands in an earthen basin. “He’s lost a lot of blood,” he told Bato and then shouted at another. “Leave that one. He’s as good as dead. Tell Drusus he can have him for dissection if he hurries. Once he’s dead the law forbids it. Hurry up about it, and then get over here. I need help with this one!” He looked across Atretes at Bato. “Is he fighting again?”
“Not today,” Bato said grimly.
“Good. That makes it easier.” The doctor took up a pitcher and poured blood into a cup. He mixed opium and herbs into it. “This’ll give him strength and cool the bloodlust. Hold his head down. He’ll either drink it or drown in it.” The surgeon pulled Atretes’ cheek away from his gums and poured the brew into his mouth.
Atretes gagged, but the surgeon kept pouring. A man screamed behind them; neither the doctor nor Bato flinched. The lanista leaned down, but Atretes could barely see his face through tears of rage. Cup drained, the surgeon stepped away. Atretes gave a heaving sob and swore in German. His body shook violently. The doctor leaned over him again, looking into his eyes. “The opium is taking effect.”
“Sew him up,” Bato said.
The surgeon worked quickly and then moved on to another gladiator who had been carried in on his shield. Bato stood beside the table. His mouth curved in a mirthless smile. “Better death than Roman mercy. Isn’t that it, Atretes? You don’t want to owe your life to a Roman mob. That’s what drove you mad with rage.”
Grabbing his hair, Bato held Atretes’ head back. “You throw away your only chance for vengeance. It’s within your grasp,” he hissed through his teeth, dark eyes blazing. “Only in the arena can you get your revenge on Rome! You want to be a conqueror. Then be one! Take their women. Take their money. Let Rome grovel at your feet and worship you. Let them make you one of their gods!”
He released him and straightened. “Otherwise, you and the rest of your clansmen will have died for nothing.”
Chapter 14
“They all think it’s my fault,” Julia said, tears streaming down her cheeks as she lay pale on her bed. “I see the way they look at me. They blame me for Claudius’ death. I know they do. It’s not my fault, Hadassah. It isn’t, is it? I didn’t want him to come after me.” Her shoulders shook as she sobbed again.
“I know you didn’t,” Hadassah said gently, holding back her own tears as she tried to comfort her distraught mistress. Julia never intended harm. She simply never thought of anyone but herself, nor did she consider what the results of her actions might be.
The tragic morning of Claudius’ death began with Julia whining about how bored she was. She wanted to go to a private showing at a gladiatorial ludus and she needed Claudius to accompany her. Accustomed to her complaining, Claudius hardly bothered listening to her. He was deep in his studies. Julia pressed him and he refused, politely informing her he was finishing a thesis on Judaism. Julia left the study in a silent rage. She changed her clothes and ordered a chariot.
Persis, more worried about his master’s reputation than his mistress’s, informed Claudius that Julia had left the villa unescorted. Claudius was angry to be interrupted yet again because of Julia. A cup of wine calmed his nerves. He supposed in Rome it was permissible for a young married woman to go about the countryside unchaperoned, but in Campania it was not proper. Persis offered to send someone after her, but Claudius said no. It was time he and Julia spoke plainly. He ordered a mo
unt from the stables.
An hour later, his horse came home without him.
Alarmed, Persis gathered several others and went out to look for his master. They found Claudius two miles from the ludus, his neck broken from a fall.
Crying over Claudius’ death, Hadassah was frantic with worry for Julia. The house was in chaos, and no one would go after her. Persis said she could be damned.
Julia arrived just after sundown, dusty and disheveled. When no one came to assist her, Julia left the chariot untended and slammed into the house, shouting for Hadassah. Hadassah ran to her, relieved that she was all right and not knowing how she was going to tell her of Claudius’ accident.
“Have the bath filled with warm, scented water, and bring me something to eat,” Julia ordered tersely, striding toward her room. “I’m covered with road dust and I’m famished.”
Hadassah passed on the instructions quickly, almost certain they would not be fulfilled, then hastened after her mistress.
Julia paced about the room like an angry house cat. Her face was flushed and dirty, except for the white streaks left by tears. She noticed nothing amiss about Hadassah’s ashen face and nervous manner.
“I’ve been worried for you, my lady. Where have you been?”
Julia turned on her imperiously. “Don’t you dare question me!” she cried out in frustration. “I won’t answer to a slave about my behavior!” She sank down miserably on her couch. “I won’t answer to anyone, not even my husband.”
Hadassah poured her some wine and gave her the goblet.
“Your hand is shaking,” Julia said and glanced up at her. “You were so worried about me?” She set the cup aside and took Hadassah’s hand. “At least someone loves me,” she said.
Hadassah sat down beside her and took her hands. “Where have you been?”
“I was on my way home to Rome, and then knew it was no use. Father would just send me back. So, here I am, a prisoner again in this dreary place.”
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