“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?