Hadassah was deathly pale. “Jesus said render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s, and to God, that which is God’s.”
“And by your own words, everything you are, everything you do is in service to this god of yours! Isn’t that so? He owns you!”
“Marcus,” Phoebe said, disturbed by her son’s intensity. “Why do you attack her so? She didn’t come to us to speak of her god. We summoned her here to ask her for ourselves.”
“Then leave well enough alone, Mother. Leave her god unseen and forgotten,” he said. “Her faith is based on a god who doesn’t exist and on an event that never happened.”
Silence fell over them. Hadassah spoke into it, like an echo in the canyons of their minds, a flicker of light in the darkness. “Jesus raised my father from the dead.”
“What did you say?” Phoebe whispered.
Hadassah raised her eyes. “Jesus raised my father from the dead,” she said again, no waver in her voice this time.
“But how?”
“I don’t know, my lady.”
Decimus sat forward slightly. “You saw this happen with your own eyes?”
“It happened before I was born. In Jerusalem.”
“Hadassah,” Marcus said, trying to curb his exasperation, “you only have it on the word of others that he did such a deed.”
Hadassah looked up, all the love she had for him revealed. “Nothing I can say will ever convince you, Marcus. Only the Holy Spirit can do that. But I know Jesus arose. I feel his presence now, here, with me. I see the evidence of his Word every day. From creation forth, the whole world is witness to God’s plan revealed through his Son. From the beginning, he prepared us. In the passing of the seasons; in the way flowers spring forth, die, and drop seeds for life to begin again; in the sunset and sunrise. Jesus’ sacrifice is reenacted every day of our lives if we but have the eyes to see.”
“But can’t you see? That’s simply the natural order of things.”
“No, Marcus. That’s God speaking to all mankind. And he will return.”
“Your faith is blind!”
Hadassah looked at Decimus. “If you stare into the sun and look away, you see the sun, my lord. If you stare at death, you see death. Where does hope lie?”
His eyes flickered. He leaned back slowly. “I have no hope.”
Marcus turned. He saw the dullness in his father’s eyes, the pain etched into his face. Marcus was suddenly filled with deep shame. Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe it was better to have false hope than no hope at all.
“You may go, Hadassah,” Phoebe said, stroking Decimus’ shoulder in futile comfort.
For the first time, Hadassah did not obey a command. She knelt beside the couch and broke every unspoken law by taking her master’s hand in both of hers. Then she did the unforgivable by looking straight into Decimus’ eyes and speaking to him as an equal.
“My lord, to accept God’s grace is to live with hope. If you but confess your sins and believe, the Lord will forgive you. Ask and he will come to dwell in your heart, and you will have the peace you crave. You only have to believe.”
Decimus saw love in her eyes, the kind of love he had always longed to have from his own daughter. Her plain features and brown eyes were alight with a warmth that came from within, and for a moment he saw the beauty his son wanted to possess. She believed the incredible. She believed the impossible. Not with stubbornness and pride, but with a pure, childlike innocence the world had been unable to mar. And without thought of the risk to herself, she offered her own hope to him if he could accept it.
He might not believe anything of what she said—he might not be able to believe in this unseen god of hers—but he believed in her.
Smiling sadly, he laid his other hand against her cheek. “But for Julia, I would set you free.”
She squeezed his hand tenderly. “I am free, my lord,” she whispered. “You can be free, too.” She rose gracefully and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
Atretes stepped up into the chariot and braced himself for the pompa, or opening ceremonies, to begin. His gold and silver chest armor and helmet were heavy and hot, even though it was early morning. He flipped the red cape back over his shoulders and shifted so he could see the other gladiators making ready for the presentation. There were twenty-four in all; he’d have to kill five to earn his freedom.
Sertes had arranged for a broad mix this time. The chariots lined up carrying dimachaeri, men armed with daggers; Samnites with gladii and shields; velites, gladiators who fought with javelins; and sagittarii, those armed with bows and arrows. There were four essedarii, combatants who rode in their own decorated two-horse chariots, followed by another three andabatae, who were astride powerful, trained war horses, and who wore helmets with closed visors—which meant they basically fought blindfolded. In the chariot just behind Atretes was an African retiarius, his trident and net displayed. The mob would be pleased by the menagerie.
“The priests are coming out,” Atretes’ driver said, looping the reins expertly between his fingers. Atretes had seen the priests, dressed in white tunics and red scarves, leading in a white bull and two rams with golden headdresses for the sacrifice. They read the entrails to be sure this was a good day for the games. Atretes’ mouth curved cynically, knowing that any day was a good day for the games. No priest would dare call them off, no matter what bad omen he saw in the bloody viscera.
Trumpets blared and doors opened. “Here we go,” the driver said as he drew into line behind the Roman officials and promoters, who financed the games. Sertes was just ahead of Atretes.
The mob screamed wildly. Atretes heard his own name cried out over and over, as well as the names of half a dozen others. His fame was not as great in Ephesus as it had been in Rome, but he didn’t care. He focused all thought on what lay ahead, counting the other gladiators and assessing their merit as he was driven around the arena for the spectators to see. Only once did his attention wander. As he passed by the box where the proconsul sat, he glanced up and scanned the guests with the politician. Julia was among them. She was wearing the red palus she had worn to the temple of Artemis. His heart quickened at the sight of her and then he looked away. He would not look at her again until the games were over.
The chariots made several more circles about the arena and then drew up in a line before the proconsul. The gladiators stepped down and paraded, some removing their capes, and others, to the delight of the crowd, removing everything. Atretes did neither. He stood, feet planted slightly apart, his hand on his sword, and waited. When the others finished their preening for the mob and joined the formation, Atretes drew his gladius and held it up with the others.
“Hail, Caesar! Those who are about to die salute you!”
The proconsul began a brief speech. Atretes kept his eyes from Julia, looking instead for the strange little slave. She was in attendance. The crowd roared in approval as the proconsul officially opened the games. Atretes and the others stepped up into the chariots again, and the drivers laid on the whips until the chariots raced one last time around the arena and then sped out the gate to the wild shouting of the mob.
In the holding room, it was cool and deeply shadowed, and the smell of lamp oil was strong. Iron-grated windows were high in the stone walls. No one spoke. Atretes removed his fancy armor and donned a simple brown tunic. It would be hours before any of them fought.
At the feast the night before, Sertes had read to them the libellus, the program listing the coming events. The pompa would be concluded by the proconsul dedicating the games to the emperor. Following would be a grand parade opening and speeches; then acrobats and trick riders would perform; followed by the dog races. Next, two robbers would be crucified, and Molossian hounds would tear them down from the crosses. Then hunters, or beastiarii, would hunt Nandhi bears from the Aberdare Mountains of Kenya, followed by prisoners being fed to a pride of European lions.
Sometime near the middle of the day, a brief hour-long respi
te from the carnage would occur, during which the arena would be cleared and fresh sand brought in. Food would be distributed, lottery tickets sold, and bedroom farces performed. However, these entertainments always palled swiftly on a mob hungry for the narcotic of violence and blood.
The big match was planned for late afternoon.
Fear coiled in Atretes’ belly. Twelve pairs of gladiators . . . the most men he had faced in a single day had been three. Today he would have to kill five, one right after the other, if he were to survive.
However, none of the men he would face worried him so much as the long wait. That was his worst enemy, for it was during the hours before the fighting that every hope and every fear rippled through his mind, until he thought he would go mad.
Julia’s palms perspired, and she had trouble concentrating on what the proconsul was saying. She wasn’t interested in politics or economics; all she could think about was Atretes and the fact that he might die today. She hadn’t seen him since their argument a week before. She had wanted to send Hadassah to bring him to her, but was afraid he would still be angry and refuse. So she had waited, hoping he would send word to her. When he hadn’t, she had swallowed her pride and gone to the temple, hoping for a glimpse of him. He hadn’t come.
When he had entered the arena for the pompa, her heart had raced at the sight of him. As the gladiators had drawn up before the proconsul and he stepped down, she’d waited for him to look at her. She had spent hours preparing herself and knew she looked more beautiful than ever before. But not once had she seen his head turn in her direction. He had stood still, head high, while the others strutted like peacocks before the crowd.
“See how he ignores you,” Calabah had said disdainfully. “With all these others screaming for him, why should he care that he’s broken your heart?”
“Atretes! Atretes!” Men and women cried out, tossing flowers and coins down to him.
The memory refueled her hurt and jealousy, and Julia pressed her lips together, her thoughts poisoned by Calabah’s taunt. Primus lounged nearby, evaluating the gladiators they had seen with the skill of a connoisseur. “I’ll wager on the German,” he said and popped a round purple grape into his mouth.
“Five hundred sesterces on the African,” another man said, indicating a tall, powerful-looking veles.
“Ha! Neither will have a chance against an essedarius. What good is a sword against a chariot?” someone else retorted.
“Surely they won’t pit an essedarius against a Samnite,” Julia said in alarm.
“Not to begin with, but don’t forget this is an elimination match,” Primus said. “They’ll pair what’s left. Laquearius against Samnite, andabata against retiarius, Thracian against mirmillo. You saw that they have some of each type here for the games. The best in each class. That’s what makes it exciting. Those trained to face the sword may be forced to face a javelin instead. The victor is less predictable that way.”
Heart pounding, Julia felt sudden fear for Atretes. In silence she beseeched the gods to let him survive. She willed herself to relax and enjoy the refreshments and conversation. Primus was quite amusing and seemed intent upon entertaining her.
She grew annoyed watching the robbers hang on their crosses. “Why don’t they set the Molossians loose on them and have done with this? It’s taking too long.”
“Such a thirst for blood,” Primus said, amused. “Come, Julia. I’ll take you down to the booths and we’ll see what catches your fancy.”
Restless and tense with waiting, Julia swiftly agreed. She went up the steps, her hand on Primus’ arm. Hawkers shifted by them, carrying boxes laden with fruit, sausages, bread, and skins of wine. “Persian peaches, succulent and ripe!” Their staccato shouting mingled with the rolling thunder of the mob. “Spicy sausages. Three for a sesterce!”
Other spectators, bored with watching men hanging from crosses, milled around under the stands, looking for excitement. With Primus beside her, Julia wandered by the booths of astrologers, fortune-tellers, souvenir and food vendors. Soon they came to stalls where more lewd and unusual entertainments were taking place. Small painted boys with tunics hitched up above their buttocks moved among the milling customers. Primus watched them grimly. “Prometheus was such as these until I rescued him.”
Uncomfortable at the mention of Primus’ catamite, Julia remained silent. She stopped to watch Moorish dancers undulating to the primitive beat of drums and cymbals.
“Calabah has spoken with you about my offer,” Primus said, half questioning.
“Yes,” Julia said bleakly. “I’ve given it much thought.”
“Have you made a decision?”
“I’ll tell you when the games are over.”
“It’s time,” Sertes said, and a hot rush swept through Atretes’ blood, accelerating his heartbeat and heating his skin. He pulled the manica, a leather- and metal-scaled glove, over his right arm. “I’d have preferred owning you a few more years to having you wasted like this,” Sertes said grimly.
“Perhaps the goddess will smile on me today and I will gain my freedom,” Atretes said, pulling the ocrea, another protective covering, over his left leg.
“For a gladiator, freedom is another word for obscurity.” Sertes handed him his scutum, a simple shield.
Atretes slipped his left arm into the metal braces at the back of the scutum and stood with his arms extended outward and his legs splayed. A slave rubbed his exposed body with olive oil. “Obscurity is preferable to bondage,” Atretes said, staring coldly into Sertes’ eyes.
“Ah,” Sertes said, “but not to death.” He held out the gladius.
Atretes took it and held it up before his face in a salute of respect. “Either way, Sertes, today I leave the arena victorious.”
A laquearius, on foot and armed with his rope, was matched against an essedarius in his chariot. The essedarius sent the chariot careening past the laquearius several times. Though he failed to run his opponent down, he did manage to dodge the lasso. On the eighth pass, however, the laquearius looped his rope over the essedarius, then set his feet and catapulted the man straight off the back of the speeding chariot. The essedarius hit the ground and his neck snapped, drawing a groan of disappointment from the crowd. Without the chariot driver, the animals kept running and the chariot went round and round the arena.
Several slaves were sent out to capture and calm the stallions, while a man dressed in a close-fitting tunic and high leather boots danced out onto the sand. He was representative of Charon, the boatman who ferried the souls of the dead across the Styx to Hades. As he approached the victim, he spun and leapt across the sand, holding a mallet high in one hand. The beaked mask he wore resembled a bird of prey. Another man dressed as Hermes, another guide for the souls of the dead, brandished a red-hot caduceus with which he prodded the fallen essedarius. When the body twitched, Charon leaped in and brought the war hammer down on the man’s head, spraying a crimson stain across the sand and assuring Hades of its prey. The libitinarii, as the two guides were called, quickly bore the corpse through the Gate of the Dead.
A dark sound moved like a wave through the thousands of spectators. They grumbled that the match had ended too quickly. They felt cheated. Some booed the victor. Others threw fruit at him as he held his hand up to the proconsul in salute. He received the signal to withdraw, but didn’t depart quickly enough, for spectators began shouting for him to be matched with the tall African veles.
“Let’s see what a laquearius could do against a man with a javelin!”
Sensitive to the whim of the mob, the proconsul raised his hand slightly to the editor of the games, and the African entered the arena before the laquearius could leave. They circled one another for several minutes, during which the laquearius tossed his rope several times and missed. The veles jabbed at him with the javelin, but kept a cautious distance. The crowd yelled in anger; things were going too slowly. Hearing the spectators’ discontent and recognizing it as a threat, the laquearius thre
w his rope again and hit the veles across the chest. Swiftly, the African caught hold of the rope, looped it around his arm, then threw his javelin, sending it straight through his opponent’s abdomen. The laquearius dropped to his knees, hunching over the spear. Tossing the rope aside, the African strode toward him to finish him off when given the pollice verso, thumbs down.
The proconsul glanced around and saw thumbs turning down everywhere he looked. He put his hand out and turned his thumb down as well. The veles yanked the javelin from the laquearius’ abdomen and rammed it through his heart.
“They aren’t getting what they want,” Sertes said to Atretes from where he watched. “Listen to them. If it continues like this, they’ll want the proconsul thrown to the dogs!”
The veles triumphed over the fish man, or mirmillo, but fell to the sagittarius’ bow and arrows. The sagittarius fought well against an andabata, who was on horseback, but lost his footing when he wounded the rider, and fell beneath the pounding hooves of the war horse. Charon dispatched both of them, and the mob roared its approval.
“Bring them all in at once!” someone shouted at the proconsul, and the cry was taken up by others until it became a chant. “All at once! All at once!”
Responding to the whim, the remaining eighteen gladiators were paired off and sent into the arena. They spread out and raised their weapons to the proconsul. The spectators went wild, shouting the names of their favorites.
Atretes was matched against a swarthy, black-eyed Thracian, who was armed with a scimitar. Grinning arrogantly, the Thracian swung his weapon around in a theatrical sword play. He twirled his sword from one side of his body to the other and over his head, and then stopped, feet spread.
Standing in a deceptively relaxed pose, Atretes spit on the sand.
The crowd laughed. Enraged, the Thracian charged. Atretes ducked the deadly swing of the scimitar, rammed his scutum into his opponent, brought the hilt of his gladius down across the side of the man’s head, then plunged it into the Thracian’s breastplate. Yanking the gladius free, he let the already dead man fall back.
A Voice in the Wind Page 51
