As Sure as the Dawn(72)

“Watch the line!” A second rope was dropped to him and he grasped hold. Planting his feet against the side of the ship, he walked up as his men pulled from above.

Atretes lay facedown on the deck, the arrow protruding from his left shoulder. “Hold him down in case he comes round,” Theophilus said, going down on one knee and grasping the shaft. He pulled the arrow out with one firm yank. Atretes groaned and raised his head slightly, then relaxed again.

“The wound needs to be cauterized,” he said and sent one of his men to see if a brazier was burning and, if not, to have one lit.

* * *

A searing pain ripped across Atretes’ left shoulder, snapping him out the the darkness that surrounded him. He tried to rise and escape the burning, but a strong hand pushed him down again. “We’ve seared your shoulder wound to stop the bleeding and prevent infection.”

Recognizing Theophilus’ voice, Atretes struggled to rise. “Get your hands off me!” He regained his feet and swayed slightly from loss of blood. A soldier took hold of his arm to steady him, and Atretes knocked him aside. “Touch me, Roman, and I’ll kill you.” The soldier put his hands out in acquiescence and shrugged at Theophilus before turning away.

Atretes turned and looked across the deck. “Where’s Rizpah?”

“She’s all right,” Theophilus said. “She’s in the cabin with your son.”

A resounding crack suddenly echoed across the waters as a Roman galley rammed the hemiolia, snapping oars and splintering a wide hole into the side of the pirate ship. Turning to watch, Atretes shouted German curses down on the Illyrians’ heads as the screams of slaves tied to their oars could be heard across the water. The sea poured into the hull as Roman ravens dropped aboard the hemiolia and soldiers went to put the pirates to the sword.

Theophilus stood silent, staring grimly at the scene. Another Roman galley was closing in on the leeward side of the hemiolia, ready to give assistance to their comrades should it be needed. It wasn’t.

Turning away, the centurion faced the carnage on the deck around him. Closing his eyes, he knelt and bowed his head. “God, to you be the glory for our deliverance,” he said, his deep voice breaking in grief at the cost of carrying out his responsibilities as a soldier. What price the greed of men?

Atretes stepped over the fallen as he headed for the owner’s cabin. When he entered, Rizpah was inside, sitting on the berth, comforting Caleb. When she glanced up, he saw the swelling bruise on her jaw where the Illyrian had struck her. His blood went hot again, his heart pumping hard and fast.

“Atretes,” she said softly, her face showing her relief and concern. Blood seeped from an open wound in his forehead. She quickly rose, replacing Caleb in the trunk before coming to him. “You’re bleeding. Sit down.”

Turbulent emotions poured through him making war with one another. He laughed grimly and caught hold of her. “I’ve been wounded before.”

“Sit down!”

Surprised, he did as she commanded. Bemused, he watched her rush about the small cabin, raking through garments. Finding one that suited her, she ripped it down the middle. “I wonder what the owner will have to say about you tearing up such a fine tunic.”

“I don’t care what he says.” She opened the owner’s amphora of wine and sloshed it onto another expensive garment.

He smiled wryly. “Stop crying, Rizpah. I’ll live.”

“Another word and I’ll wrap this around your throat instead of your head!”

He winced as she dabbed the blood from his forehead with the wine-soaked cloth. Her whole body was trembling violently. So was his, as it always had in the aftermath of battle. His blood still hummed. He had forgotten what it felt like to feel alive.

Rizpah’s closeness roused other instincts long-conditioned by careful training under the system of punishment and reward. He grasped her hips and drew her firmly against him. “Whenever I did well in the arena, I always knew there’d be a beautiful woman waiting in my cell when I was returned to the ludus.”

“Let go of me, Atretes.”

“I don’t want to let go of you. I want to—ouch!” He released her abruptly when she slapped the wine-soaked bandage on his wound. He swore vilely in German, barely containing himself from striking her.

“Just because they treated you like an animal doesn’t mean you’ve become one.”

Grimacing, he glared at her. “I should’ve let the Illyrians have you!”

Face white, she finished tying the bandage in place despite his protests. She rested her hands lightly on his shoulders and smiled sadly. “I’m glad you didn’t.”