As Sure as the Dawn(73)

Setting her aside, Atretes rose. As he bent over the trunk to lift his son out, Rizpah saw the other wound. “Your shoulder!”

“Don’t even think about it! I’ll find a gentler hand than yours to tend to it.” Ignoring her, he placed Caleb on the bunk. Stripping off the baby’s garments, he ran his hands over his son’s body. “He appears unharmed.”

“He was well-hidden in the trunk. They didn’t touch him.”

Atretes bent down, resting his forearms on either side of his son, and he rubbed his face against him, breathing in the scent of life and innocence. As he drew back, he saw he had unwittingly smeared Caleb with blood. The sight of it opened long-hidden, but momentarily forgotten wounds. “Wash him,” he said hoarsely and left the cabin.

Rizpah did as Atretes commanded. Then, hearing the cries of the wounded outside the door, she tied Caleb into her shawl-sling. Her help was needed on the main deck. She couldn’t remain cocooned in the owner’s cabin and leave the others to aid the injured. She stepped outside the cabin door, wholly unprepared for the horrifying scene before her.

Wounded and dying lay tangled among the already dead while able-bodied crew members and passengers lifted bodies and dumped them overboard without care or ceremony. Not far away, the Roman galley was withdrawing from its conquered foe. The Illyrian ship was sinking, flames licking up the mast to the broad sail. Men jumped over the side and were left to drown.

A woman’s piercing cry of grief brought Rizpah sharply around. Rhoda was on her knees, holding Prochorus in her arms. She rocked his lifeless body back and forth, her face etched in anguish. Camella stood helplessly by, holding Lysia and weeping.

A man lying near the doorway was crying softly for his mother. Weeping, Rizpah knelt beside him and took his hand. He held on so tightly she thought he would crush her bones. The gaping wound in his abdomen was mortal, and the few words of comfort she was able to say before his hand loosened upon hers fell upon unhearing ears.

* * *

Atretes picked his way over the dead, looking into their still faces. He found Agabus among them. Kneeling down, he stared at the young man in death. He lay with his eyes wide open as though gazing up at the sky. His face was tranquil; unlike many of the others, there was no sign of struggle, of pain or fear. If not for the mortal wound in his chest, one might have thought he was alive.

Perplexed, Atretes studied him. He remembered only one other face that had looked so at peace after meeting a violent death—Caleb, the Jew he had killed in the arena.

Stirred in a way he did not understand, Atretes murmured, “Perhaps there is something in what you said.” He reached out a gentle hand to close the young man’s eyes. He lifted the young Christian and carried him to the starboard side, away from the hasty and heedless discarding of dead Illyrians. “Your Christ have you,” he said with respect and let Agabus’ body drop with a quiet splash into the sea. The young man’s body floated briefly, arms flung wide, rising and falling gently on the waves, and then it sank slowly into the blue depths.

“A good thing the centurion saved you from drowning, or you’d be food for the fish with the rest,” a sailor said, grunting as he carried another body to the side.

Atretes faced him sharply. “What did you say?”

“When you fell from the raven,” he said with another grunt as he released his burden into the sea, “an oar struck you. He stripped off his armor and dove in after you.”

Turning, Atretes saw Theophilus standing amid the slain. Helmet beneath his arm, the centurion appeared to be praying.

It sat ill with Atretes that he owed his life to that accursed Roman. Not once, but twice! Had the centurion not kicked him a weapon, he would have been cut down well before the battle reached its height. Now he knew he would never have regained consciousness in the water. Resentment filled him, yet reason prevailed.

Had he died, what would have become of his son and the woman? Thank whatever gods there were, it wasn’t his fate to survive ten years in the arena only to die at the hands of Illyrian pirates while on board an Alexandrian ship carrying precious cargo to Rome! What cruel irony that would have proved to be. His death would come, but when it did, he intended it to have meaning and purpose. There was great honor in dying in battle, but let it be in a battle against Rome! Had he been killed today, he would have died defending a merchant ship in the service of the emperor. By the fates, what a grotesque joke. It hadn’t even occurred to him until now.

As though sensing his stare, Theophilus looked his way. Their gazes met and held. Atretes clenched his teeth, pride stiffening his neck. The centurion had saved his life, and honor-bound, Atretes knew he had to acknowledge the fact and give him his due. Theophilus stood motionless, enigmatic, undoubtedly awaiting the opportunity to gloat. Swallowing his pride, Atretes gave him a slow nod.