“You miss the thrill of battle,” Theophilus said, seeing his restlessness, recognizing it.
Thrill was too feeble a word to describe what he had felt. “Sometimes,” Atretes said grimly, “but it’s far more than that.” As mad as it sounded, he missed the feeling he had had in the arena, staring death in the face and overcoming it by the sheer instinct to survive. His blood had hummed, hot and fast. Sometimes, in a rage, he had a feeling close to it. Exhilaration, a wildness that made him feel alive. It was only afterward that the deception was revealed and the cost made known.
Theophilus understood all too well. “You’re in battle now, Atretes. We both are, and we’re standing against a foe more dangerous and cunning than any we’ve ever faced before.” He could feel the forces of darkness at work around them, closing in.
When the Chatti warriors returned with plunder and good cheer, Atretes’ mood grew even more grim. He drank with his friends and listened hungrily to every detail of the battle, part of him coveting their memories of personal exploits during the valorous enterprise.
Theophilus reminded him that what had been done was anything but valorous.
“And Rome’s thievery is right?” Atretes snarled, defensive.
“Sin is sin, Atretes. Where’s the difference between what Rome did to the Chatti and what the Chatti now do to the Bructeri?”
It was a mark of how much Atretes’ heart had changed that he even listened. Theophilus’ words made sense to him. But no one else was listening.
Drunk on beer and triumphant, Holt, Rud, and the others were intoxicated with bloodlust and eager for another battle. Peace had no appeal to them, not with victory still racing in their veins and plunder piled up around them. This time, they attacked the Cherusci. Six warriors returned on their shields.
The funeral fires that burned long into the night had a sobering effect on those watching, more so for the mothers who bore those who had died than the fathers who brought them home. Death made the men crave blood even more.
Rizpah prayed for winter snows to cool Chatti tempers and silence the talk of war. And the storms came, one upon the other, until the Chatti had no choice but to remain within the confines of their own borders. Rizpah thanked God, but learned another kind of hardship.
Feeding the cattle was more difficult during the winter months, and, despite Atretes’ help, Varus invariably returned exhausted, his bad leg aching past quiet endurance, and in a foul temper. Only Anomia could soothe him. She came to visit often, bringing with her a salve made of arnica, which she massaged into Varus’ leg.
Rizpah wondered at her acts of kindness, for when Anomia finished her ministrations, Varus was less in pain, but more restless and short-tempered than before.
“He needs a wife,” Atretes said, having watched Anomia. She had looked at him while working her magic on Varus’ scarred thigh, and he had felt as though she was stroking his flesh instead of that of his brother with those bold, skillful fingers of hers. The knowledge had sunk deep and hot, rousing him in a way he hadn’t felt since Julia.
He unleashed the beast upon his wife, shocking and frightening her with his passion. It wasn’t until she uttered a soft cry that he even realized what was happening to him and broke off his mindless race to his own satisfaction.
Atretes was appalled and awash with shame. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, burying his face in her hair. He had never hurt her before, and the feel of her body trembling scared him as much as her. God, forgive me, his mind cried out. “I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely and caressed Rizpah tenderly, afraid of the dark forces that had so easily gripped him again.
While lying with his wife, his mind had conjured the image of another. Even now, while comforting Rizpah, memories of lustful encounters came back. They rose like rotting corpses from unclean graves. In an instant, unbidden, those other women were with him, polluting his marriage bed.
Once, long ago in Ephesus, he had seen a man stumbling along the road outside the gates of his villa, the body of a dead man tied to his back. The rotting corpse was strapped to him in a way that he could never be free of it, not until the decay began eating into his own flesh as well. “Why’s he doing it?” he had said, and Gallus had answered. “It’s the law. He carries the body of the man he murdered.”
Put aside the old self.
Atretes had taken him up again. He could feel the weight of sin on his back, the filth of it soaking into him through his pores.
Rizpah uttered a startled gasp as Atretes released her abruptly and sat up. “What is it?” she said with a rush of frightened concern. “What’s wrong?”