As Sure as the Dawn(172)

“Where we go, other tribes will follow, right over the Alps to rip the heart from Rome. Ah, but if we listen to them and accept this new god as a weak few are doing, Rome will have conquered us without raising a finger. And then we will be low and weak and unworthy, just as they already think we are.”

“We should kill them.”

“No,” she said, seeing her words take root and spread like nightshade and belladonna. “No, we won’t kill them. Not yet. We must be as cunning as they in order to win Atretes back,” she told them. “The time will come when both will be destroyed, but we must wait for now and be wise.

“When you speak with Atretes, pretend to listen while closing your ears and hearts to what he says. Use the opportunity to remind him of the acts of atrocity that Rome has perpetuated upon us. Remind him of his father’s death. Remind him of the countless others who have died or been taken as slaves. Ask him about his life in Rome. He was used as entertainment. Let him remember what it was like to be treated as an animal. Remembering will turn him back to himself. We need him. Go cautiously.”

She smiled. “We will prevail.” She instilled her arrogant confidence into them. “Remember, we are many, they but a few. Now go and do the will of Tiwaz.”





44


Anomia’s words had a devastating effect. The men followed her instructions skillfully, seeming to listen to the truth while asking questions that stirred up memories Atretes had fought so hard to bury.

Rizpah saw how the questions plagued Atretes. He never talked about his life in the ludus or what it was like to fight in the arena. She had never asked. The men, sensitive to pride, had avoided asking him before. Yet now they seemed unduly curious, intent on knowing.

They weren’t satisfied with or sensitive to the brevity of Atretes’ answers. They wanted more. “I’ve heard that . . . ,” one would say, prefacing a question that sent Atretes back into slavery.

“What was it like to fight in the arenas of Rome?” a young warrior asked.

“Is it true they dress you up in shiny armor and fancy, colored plumes and make you parade around so the Roman mob can look at you?”

Rizpah would see that look come into Atretes’ eyes. “Sometimes less.”

“How much less?” Rolf said with a frown.

Atretes turned his head slowly and looked at the younger man. Rolf said nothing more.

But others did.

“I’ve heard the lanista gives you a woman if you perform well enough.”

Atretes’ eyes flickered to Rizpah and away.

“Like a bone for an obedient dog,” another said softly from the opposite side.

Atretes’ face whitened in anger.

The remarks surrounded him like a pack of wolves. They snapped and growled and tore away chunks of his peace of mind. Doubts, like hot coals beneath a camouflage of gray ash, began to surface, their hot breath blowing away the thin blanket and fueling the dark memories underneath.

He tolerated their questions with uncharacteristic control, but the next morning, in Theophilus’ grubenhaus, he let his anger show.

“They ask questions about God I can’t answer.” Closed in the warmth of Theophilus’ home, he felt free to give in to his frustration. “Answer this! If God’s so merciful and loving, why does he let evil exist? Why didn’t he destroy Satan instead of allowing him free reign on the earth?”

Rizpah held Caleb in her lap and watched Atretes. He acted like a caged animal. Last night, he had lain awake for hours, and when he did sleep, he was restless with nightmares. He had cried out once and sat up, but when she tried to talk to him, he told her to leave him alone.

“Sit down, Atretes,” Theophilus said calmly.

“‘Sit down,’” Atretes growled. “I’ve been sitting for weeks! I forgot how much I hated winter.” He glowered at his friend. “Just answer the questions, if you can.”

“God permits evil so that he can demonstrate his mercy and grace through the redemption of sinners. All things work to good purpose—”

“Don’t talk to me of good purpose! What good purpose is there in being branded? What good purpose in beatings and constant training? Tell me!”

Theophilus saw what was happening. “It wasn’t God who made you a slave, Atretes. It was men. It wasn’t God who did those things to you. The heart of man is wickedness.”

Rizpah watched the old anger stirring in her husband. Too often, lately, his temper erupted over the smallest incident, the most innocent remark. He would lash out at her over trivial matters after the men had had their long evening together. Even a soft answer brought his temper to the surface.