He heard the baby crying again.
Turning away from the balcony, he went back inside his bedroom. Silence.
Stretching out on his bed, he lay wide awake. Still, he heard nothing.
Tension filled him until he lunged off the bed and strode to the door. Banging it back against a wall, he went along the corridor and stopped above the inner courtyard. Head cocked, he listened intently, trying to hear anything amiss. The fountain in the atrium was running. Other than that, no other sound was discernible in the large villa.
It was the middle of the night. Babies in his village had often awakened hungry and needed to be suckled. Perhaps that was all it was.
Yet the uneasy feeling persisted. Something was wrong. He didn’t know what it was, but sensed it. He’d learned to trust his instincts while fighting in the arena and he couldn’t ignore them now.
Muttering a curse, he went along the upper corridor and down the steps. He would see his son and set his mind at rest. Where had Lagos put the wet nurse?
He opened doors and peered into empty rooms, heading toward the back of the villa. Hearing footsteps, he turned a corner and saw Lagos with a small clay lamp in his hand. The servant jumped in surprise, then came quickly toward him. “My lord, I was just coming—”
“Where’s my son?”
“In the kitchen. I was just coming to see if you were awake.”
“Where’s the kitchen?”
“This way, my lord,” Lagos said, going ahead of him with the lamp.
“What’s wrong?” Atretes demanded, wanting to push the man into a faster pace.
“He won’t nurse. He’s been crying since . . . since this morning.”
Atretes said nothing. He could hear the child now, and the sound pierced his heart. He followed Lagos into the kitchen and was immediately struck by the stench of a latrine. The baby was in a box-bed near it. As it was near dawn, the cook was working bread dough.
He walked over to the baby and peered down at him. “Is he sick?”
“I don’t think so, my lord,” the wet nurse said nervously, standing nearby wringing her hands.
“What do you think?” he demanded angrily.
She was trembling with fear. Her master looked even more fierce than his reputation had painted him. She remembered Lagos’ warning to her and was afraid he’d lay the blame for the child’s decline solely upon her. She didn’t dare tell him that the child might die because he’d taken him from his foster mother.
“Babies are very fragile, my lord. Sometimes they sicken and die for no reason.”
“He was well this morning.”
When he turned toward her, she drew back in fear. “He hasn’t stopped crying since Lagos put him in my arms, my lord. I’ve done everything I can, and still he won’t suckle.”
He frowned and looked down at his son again. Bending, he picked him up. The soft, pathetic cries turned to wails that cut him worse than any sword ever had.
Lagos had never seen his master look more vulnerable.
“What do we do?” Atretes said, holding the babe in the crook of his arm as he began to pace. “I won’t let him die.”
“We could send for his mother,” Lagos said and immediately regretted the words at the look Atretes gave him. “I mean the woman who brought him to you, my lord,” he amended quickly.
Atretes continued to pace. He brushed his son’s cheek, and the baby’s head turned sharply, mouth open. “Here,” he said harshly. “He’s hungry now. Feed him.”
The wet nurse saw there was no other way to convince him. She took the child, sat down, and bared her ample breast. The baby grasped the nipple and then drew back sharply, crying louder, milk running unwanted from his mouth. She looked up at Atretes. “You see, my lord?”
Atretes ran a hand back through his hair. He was responsible for the deaths of over a hundred and fifty men. Would he be responsible for the death of his infant son as well? He shut his eyes and turned away, rubbing the back of his neck. There was only one thing he could think to do. “Awaken Silus,” he commanded grimly.
The wet nurse covered herself and put the baby back to bed. “Give him to me,” Atretes said angrily, seeing how quick she was to dispense with her duties. “Perhaps you’ve bound him too tightly.” He sat down and laid the baby on his thighs, untying the swaddling clothes that were wound around him, making him look like a mummy. The baby’s skin was pale and blotchy. The cool air brought a stream of urine that splattered against Atretes’ chest. Drawing back in surprise, he cursed.
“It happens all the time, my lord,” the wet nurse said quickly. “Do you wish me to take him?”