“Wait, Palus,” one said, sounding nervous.
“I don’t have a good feeling,” another said in the darkness. “He’s a head taller—”
“Shut up, Tomas! There are six of us and only one of him.”
“Maybe he has no money.”
“He has money. I heard the coins jingle. Heavy coins.” Palus stepped closer. The others followed his lead. “The pouch!” He snapped his fingers. “Toss it to me.”
“Come and take it.”
No one moved. Palus called him a foul name, his young voice shaking with enraged pride.
“I didn’t think you’d do it,” Atretes said, scraping his attacker’s pride again. The youth with the knife lunged at him.
It had been months since Atretes had fought, but it didn’t matter. All the training and finely honed instincts came back in an instant. He moved sharply, dodging the thrust of the dagger. Catching the boy’s wrist, he drew the arm down and around, snapping it from the shoulder socket. Palus went down screaming.
The others didn’t know whether to run or attack, until one fool did the latter, and the rest followed. One of them punched Atretes in the face, while another jumped on his back. Atretes slammed his full weight back against the wall and kicked the one in front low and hard.
Atretes took two punches in the side of the head as he brought his elbow up sharply and connected a blow to an attacker’s chest. The thief dropped, gasping for breath.
In the scuffle, Atretes’ mantle came loose and fell back off his head, leaving his hair to shine blonde in the moonlight.
“Zeus! It’s Atretes!” Those still able scattered like rats into the darkness.
“Help me!” Palus cried out, but his friends had deserted him. Moaning in pain and cradling his broken arm against his chest, Palus scooted backwards until he was against the wall. “Don’t kill me,” he sobbed. “Don’t kill me. Please! We didn’t know it was you.”
“Boy, the least in the arena had more courage than you.” He stepped past him and headed down the alleyway.
He heard voices ahead of him. “I swear! It was him! He was big and his hair was white in the moonlight. It was Atretes!”
“Where?”
“Down there! He’s probably killed Palus.”
Swearing under his breath, Atretes ran down a narrow street that took him in the opposite direction from where he wanted to go. Jogging along a street between insulae, he turned up another avenue and came around a corner that put him back on track. Ahead was a main thoroughfare not far from the Artemision. He slowed as he neared it, not wanting to attract attention by his haste. He drew the mantle up over his head to cover his hair again and lowered his chin as he entered the evening bazaar.
The street was lined with booths and street vendors hawking their wares. As Atretes wove his way among the crowd, he saw miniature temples and statuettes of Artemis, trays of amulets, and pouches of incense. He came to an idolmaker’s shop and glanced at the counter laden with marble statuettes. Someone bumped into him and he stepped closer, pretending interest in the wares on display. He needed to blend in with the crowd of evening shoppers. Visitors from every part of the Empire milled around, looking for bargains. Atretes froze as he looked at the detailed statuettes.
The merchant thought him interested. “Take a closer look, my lord! These are replicas of the new statue just erected in honor of Mars. You won’t find better workmanship anywhere.”
Atretes stepped closer and picked one up. He hadn’t imagined it. It was him! He glared at the offensive idol. “Mars?” he said in an accusing growl, wanting to crush the marble into dust.
“You must be new to the city. Are you making a pilgrimage to our goddess?” The vendor produced a small statue festooned with breasts and wearing a headdress punctuated with symbols, one of which was the rune of the god Tiwaz, whom Atretes had once worshiped.
“There he is! Over there by the idolmaker’s shop.”
Atretes glanced around sharply and saw a dozen young men pushing their way through the crowd toward him. “I told you it was Atretes!”
“Atretes! Where?”
People on the left and right of him turned to stare. The idolmaker stood, mouth agape, staring at him. “It is you. By the gods!”
Sweeping his arm across the table, Atretes grasped the edge and upended the table. Shoving several people aside, he tried to run. A man grasped his tunic. Uttering an enraged shout, Atretes hit him in the face. As the man went down, he took three others with him.
Excitement erupted up and down the street. “Atretes! Atretes is here!”
More hands fell upon him; voices cried his name out feverishly.