Theophilus looked at his friend’s face. It was clear to anyone looking that Atretes felt the potency of Anomia’s seductive charms.
Heart sinking, Rizpah prayed fervently that God would give her husband discernment and wisdom—as well as the strength to avoid temptation.
Anomia laughed softly, basking in her power. “Welcome home, Atretes.” At last, at long last . . . the way to what she had always wanted was standing before her.
33
“We will talk,” Varus said and dismissed the villagers with promises that Atretes would speak with them on the morrow. He gestured toward the great longhouse built of rough-hewn timber and smeared over with clay so that it looked as though it had been painted with colorful designs.
Almost as an afterthought, Atretes turned to Rizpah and put a protective arm around her. He nodded to Theophilus to go ahead of him. Freyja and Anomia entered the dwelling first, followed by Varus. Marta and her husband, Usipi, entered last with their four children.
Rizpah was surprised at the immensity of the house and even more surprised to hear cattle lowing within. The long rectangular building stretched out before her. The front portion, where the family lived, was simply furnished with benches, beds, and chairs covered with otterskin. The greater part toward the back was divided into stalls for the cattle, horses, and pigs. The ceiling was high and beamed with rough-hewn timbers. It was warm and permeated with the strong odor of manure.
Varus poured a sparkling gold fluid into a horn. “Beer!” Atretes said, laughing and removing his arm from Rizpah as his brother offered him the horn. He drained it. Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, he let out a gusty sigh of contentment.
Anomia sat in an otterskin chair, her elegant hands resting gracefully on the carved arms. She looked like a queen reigning over her subjects as she watched Atretes with a catlike smile.
Atretes glanced at Theophilus and saw he was empty-handed. He looked at Varus coolly. “Is it no longer a Chatti custom to show a guest hospitality?”
“He looks like a Roman pig to me.”
Rizpah’s heart stopped at the insulting words. Atretes went rigid beside her, his face flushing with anger.
“Theophilus is my friend.”
Varus frowned.
“You don’t deny he’s Roman?” Anomia said smoothly, stirring the currents of animosity. “Have you forgotten so easily what Rome has done to your people? To you?”
Atretes glanced at her and then returned his hard gaze to his brother. “Three times this man saved my life. Without him, I wouldn’t be here.”
Rizpah put her hand on Atretes’ thigh, thanking God that he hadn’t forgotten everything in his joy of being among his people again. Atretes put his hand over hers as though to reassure her and make a proclamation. Anomia’s eyes narrowed at the gesture.
“Then we are all thankful to him,” Freyja said, instilling more warmth into her voice than she felt. She came close and crouched down before Rizpah. Holding her hands out to Caleb, she smiled. “May I hold my grandson?”
“Of course,” Rizpah said, drawn to her. She released her son, but Caleb turned in her arms and clung to her, hiding his face between her breasts. Embarrassed, she spoke softly to him in Greek, trying to ease his fears.
“He doesn’t speak German?” Anomia said in disdain.
“No,” Atretes said. “I was the only one who spoke German until this night.”
“How very odd,” she said with the faintest inflection of skepticism.
Rizpah stroked Caleb’s hair and felt him relax. She turned him around in her lap so that he faced his grandmother. When Freyja spoke to him again, Caleb pressed back.
“Give him to her,” Atretes said impatiently, and when Rizpah started to comply, Caleb began to cry. Freyja shook her head and rose.
“No, Atretes. I’m no more than a stranger to him now,” she said, her eyes moist with tears. “Let him come to me of his own accord and in his own time.”
Rizpah ached for her.
Eyes cold, Varus waved his hand and watched as a horn was filled and handed to Theophilus. A slave girl served Rizpah a small goblet of wine sweetened with honey and herbs. Varus limped to a large otterskin chair and sat down. Glaring at Theophilus, he rubbed his crippled leg. “How is it you owe a Roman your life, Atretes?”
“Once, aboard ship, he blocked a sword blow that would have killed me. The second time, he pulled me from the sea when I was unconscious. The final time, he got me out of Rome before Domitian could send me back into the arena.”
“We saw you taken and thought they would sacrifice you in a Roman triumph,” Usipi said.
“The Roman commander sold me to a slaver who dealt in gladiators,” Atretes said grimly. “They chained me into a wagon and took me to Capua.” He could almost feel the brand they had burned into his heel in that foul place. The beer turned sour in his mouth. Grimacing, he rolled the empty horn between his hands. “I fought in Rome and then in Ephesus. I earned my freedom there.”