Instead, she had married someone else.
He could still hear her crying out her lies and paltry excuses when he came to claim her a few months after he had gained his freedom. She said her husband was a homosexual with a catamite and had no interest in her. She said she had married him to protect her financial independence, her freedom.
Lying witch!
He should have known what she was from the beginning. Hadn’t she, with a heart of pure cunning, gone to the Artemision dressed as a temple prostitute in order to capture his interest? Hadn’t she bribed Sertes in order to summon him from the ludus any time she wanted? As long as it didn’t interfere with Sertes’ training schedule for him, the time had been granted. Ah, but like a fool, he had gone to her at the mere crook of her bejeweled finger. Besotted by her beauty, craving her wanton passion, he had gone—and she’d slaughtered him.
What a fool!
When he’d taken Julia Valerian into his arms, he’d thrown pride to the wind and self-respect into the dust. He had embraced shame. All during the months of their clandestine affair, he’d return to his cell in the ludus, depressed and discomforted, not wanting to face the truth. He’d known her for what she was, even then. Yet he had allowed her to use him, like everyone else had used him since he’d been taken prisoner, torn from his beloved Germania. Julia’s soft, silken arms had been stronger around his body than any chains that had ever held him.
The last time he’d seen her, she’d cried out that she loved him. Love! She’d known so little about love—and about him—that she had actually thought her marriage to someone else would make no difference. She’d thought he would gladly continue to come to her whenever the mood suited her.
By the gods, he knew he could wash for years and never get the taint of her off of him! Now, looking at the barren, devastated room before him, he swore no woman would ever have that kind of hold on him again!
As the sun set, Atretes donned a woolen cloak, tucked a dagger into his belt, and left for Ephesus. He headed northwest along the hills, using a path he knew well before seeking the road. Small houses dotted the countryside, but grew more numerous and closer together as he came nearer the city. Wagons laden with goods traveled the main road toward the gates. He walked unnoticed in the dark shadows of one, seeking cover from the growing throng.
The driver noticed him. “You there! Get away from the wagon!”
Atretes made a rude hand gesture.
“You want a fight?!” the driver shouted, rising from the seat. Atretes laughed derisively, but said nothing. His accent would be noted—Germans weren’t common in this part of the Empire. He left the darkness and strode by the torches and Roman sentries. One soldier glanced at him and their eyes met for the briefest second. Atretes saw a quickening of interest in the Roman’s eyes and lowered his head so his face wouldn’t be seen clearly. The guard spoke to a comrade, and Atretes moved in among a group of travelers, then ducked down the first available street. He waited in the darkness, but the sentry didn’t send anyone to follow.
Atretes started off again, thankful the moon was full enough to reflect off the white stones inset on the granite slab road.
John had explained that the woman who had his son lived on the second level of a rundown insula in the poor district, southeast of the complex of libraries near the Artemision. Atretes knew he could find the right building if he went through the heart of the city.
As he neared the temple, the crowds increased. Following a maze of alleyways in an effort to avoid them, he stumbled over a man sleeping against a wall. The man groaned, cursed, pulled his cloak over his head, and curled onto his side.
Hearing voices behind him, Atretes hastened his steps. As he rounded a corner, someone from a third floor window poured night soil down into the street. He jumped back in disgust and shouted up at the open window.
The voices fell silent, but he heard movement in the darkness of the alleyway behind him. Turning, he narrowed his eyes. Six shapes came toward him, moving stealthily. He turned fully, ready. Realizing they had been seen, the stalkers’ manner changed to boldness. Several made mocking sounds meant to frighten him. Spreading out, they came on, circling the front of him. One was clearly the leader, for he motioned and the other five moved into carefully plotted positions intended to block a victim’s escape.
Seeing the glint of a blade, Atretes smiled coldly. “You will not find me easy.”
“Your money pouch,” the leader said. From the voice, Atretes knew he was young.
“Go home to your bed, boy, and you might live through the night.”
The youth gave a derisive laugh, still advancing on him.