“Don’t do this, Theophilus,” Rizpah said, heart sinking at the sight of a loosened whip in the hand of one soldier and manacles and chains in the other.
“I have to,” Theophilus said grimly. “He’s left me with no choice.”
“What’d I tell you about trusting a Roman?” Atretes said. He spit on the floor at Theophilus’ feet and took a fighting stance.
“Move back, Rizpah,” Theophilus said.
“This isn’t right,” she said weakly, stepping forward so that she was almost between them.
“Make it easy, Atretes, or Rizpah might get hurt.”
“Don’t do this,” she said. “Please.”
“Don’t beg!” Atretes said, furious to hear her pleading for him. Grasping her arm, he propelled her to one side. As he did so, his attention shifted just enough for the opening Theophilus needed.
“Now!” The two soldiers in the room moved fast as two others entered.
“No!” Rizpah cried out.
Atretes felt the sting of the whip as it snaked around his sword arm. Conditioning overcame instinct, and he retained hold of his weapon. He turned the blade and cut the bond, but not in time to avoid Theophilus’ fist.
Atretes fell back from the stunning blow and felt the sting of another whip snaking around his ankles. Chains looped his wrist, staying his sword arm from making an accurate swing at Theophilus’ head. Theophilus hit him again, harder this time. Jolted back, Atretes felt his feet yanked from under him. He hit the floor hard. When he tried to rise, someone kicked him back and a heavy foot came down on his sword hand, but he held on.
Uttering a cry of rage, Atretes fought against the four soldiers who held him down until the hilt of Theophilus’ gladius cracked into the side of his head. He felt a sharp explosion of pain and then enveloping blackness as Rizpah cried out.
Theophilus sheathed his sword and looked across the room to where she stood, the screaming baby held close in her arms, tears running down her pale cheeks. She tried to go to Atretes, but one of the centurion’s men blocked her way. She looked at Theophilus then in hurt accusation and disbelief.
He smiled grimly. “He’s got a hard head, Rizpah.” His men put shackles on Atretes. “He’ll live.”
20
Atretes awakened on the wooden planks of a bouncing wagon, sunlight on his face. “Thank God,” he heard Rizpah murmur and felt her hand, cool and soft against his forehead. Disoriented, he realized his head was in her lap. When he tried to sit up, heavy fettering chains around his wrists and ankles prevented him from doing so.
“Don’t try to move. You’ll only hurt yourself more.”
He uttered a black oath in German and tried to rise again, yanking hard at his bonds. Pain exploded in his head, and her face doubled above him. A wave of nausea dissolved his strength, and groaning, he lay back.
“Rest,” she said, gently smoothing the cold sweat from his forehead. “Try to relax.”
Rest? He clenched his teeth, fighting down the nausea. Relax? He remembered Theophilus and his soldiers taking him down and knew every foot this wagon traveled brought him closer to death and her with it. She didn’t understand what was ahead or she wouldn’t sit so calmly stroking his forehead.
He should have left the banquet room the moment he recognized Callistus instead of giving in to his cursed pride and rage. Hadn’t the lanista in Capua told him his temper would be the death of him? Hadn’t Bato repeated the same warning at the Great School? Anger had given him an edge in the arena; it had given him strength and kept him alive. Not once had he thought what his anger might do to the innocent.
Each bounce of the heavy wagon sent stabs of pain through his skull. He needed to find a way for them to escape. Instead, grim images filled his mind. He felt fear for the first time in years, a fear that gnawed on his insides. He didn’t want to contemplate what Domitian and Callistus might do to Rizpah and his son, yet ugly recollections filled his mind. Better if he took her life now than let her suffer the torture and degradation of the arena.
And what of his son? If he wasn’t killed, he would be made into a slave.
Better he died now, too.
He closed his eyes tightly. “Where’s the baby?”
“Caleb’s with us. He’s asleep in a basket.”
He tested his bonds again, gritting his teeth against the pain.
“Don’t move, Atretes.”
“I have to get free!” He jerked hard and tried to sit up again. Blackness closed in like a tightening tunnel, bringing with it nausea. He fought both.
“You can’t.” She put her arm across his chest. “Lie back. Please.”