Something in his tone warned Atretes that all wasn’t well.
“What did you find out that you’re not telling me, Roman?”
Theophilus looked at him grimly. “Pugnax is dead.”
“Dead? How?”
“He was sent to the arena on charges of harboring an enemy of the emperor.”
Atretes swore under his breath and moved away. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, Pugnax got what he wanted, a chance for more days of glory.”
“I’m afraid not.”
Atretes turned and looked at him.
“Domitian fed him to a pack of wild dogs.”
“Dogs?” he said, sickened. There was no worse shame than for a man to be fed to wild animals. It was a death of humiliation. He looked at Theophilus and frowned. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
“Domitian ordered the lanista at the Great School questioned.”
“Bato,” Atretes said dully. His heart sank.
“Domitian imprisoned and tortured him. When that didn’t avail him the information he sought, he pitted the lanista against another African. Bato wounded him, and the crowd gave the pollice verso. Your friend turned the dagger on himself instead.”
A heaviness gripped Atretes. His spirit sank into black despair. Groaning, he turned away, not wanting the Roman to see his feelings. Two more deaths could be accounted to him.
Theophilus knew he was stricken. “Domitian will answer for what he’s done,” he said quietly, putting his hand on Atretes’ shoulder.
Atretes shook his hand off. “Answer to whom? His brother, the emperor?” he sneered, his pale blue eyes glittering with angry tears. “To Rome, who craves human sacrifice for its altars of entertainment?”
“To God,” Rizpah said, standing on the other side of the cryptoporticus, Caleb in her arms.
“My apologies, Rizpah,” Theophilus said. “I didn’t want to awaken you.”
“It’ll be dawn soon,” she said, looking up at the openings in the vaulted ceiling. “I’ll make myself and Caleb ready.”
Theophilus looked from her to Atretes, sensing tension between them.
“What are you looking at?”
Theophilus gave him a level look. “Gather whatever you intend to take. We’ll leave within the hour,” he said and went to do likewise.
* * *
As the sun came up, Theophilus, Atretes, and Rizpah, Caleb bundled and tied on her back, melted into the throng leaving Rome. The sky was smoke gray, and the air smelled heavily of soot and ash. They walked to the side of the road among the peasant sojourners while wealthier citizenry in their chariots took possession of the road, making haste for the safety of their country estates.
Rizpah shifted Caleb’s weight. Though she had settled him with ease at dawn, each milestone they passed seemed to add pounds to his small frame. When he began to wriggle and cry from the lengthy confinement, she untied the shawl and removed it, riding him more easily on her hip. After another mile, he was petulant; she, exhausted.
Theophilus noticed her weariness. “We’ll rest by that stream.”
Atretes said nothing, keeping the same distance between them that he had set at dawn. Theophilus glanced at him as he dumped his pack. Whatever had happened between them the night before still preyed as heavily on Atretes’ mind as on hers. They made a study of not looking at one another.
Rizpah winced as she set Caleb down. She sat beside him near the stream. With a squeal of delight, the babe took off crawling straight for the burbling water. “Oh, Caleb,” she said, exhausted and vexed. She longed to sit down and soak her aching feet in the cool water, but knew Caleb couldn’t be caged any longer.
“Sit down and rest,” Atretes said in a tone of equal frustration. She paid him no heed and rose. Muttering something in German, Atretes planted a hard hand on her shoulder and pushed her down again. “I said sit!” Scooping Caleb up off the grass, he strode down the bank, the infant dangling under his arm like a sack of meal.
Face flushed, Rizpah rose, annoyance and alarm momentarily overcoming her weariness. “Don’t carry him like that, Atretes. He’s a child, not a sack of grain.”
Theophilus suppressed a smile as he watched Caleb’s legs bob. “Let him go. Caleb will come to no harm in the arms of his father.”
She glared after Atretes, fighting back tears. “I wish I shared your confidence,” she said dismally. She bit her lip and looked away.
Theophilus leaned back on his pack. “Go ahead and cry for him, Rizpah. It’ll give you some ease.”
“I wouldn’t be crying for him. I’d be crying for myself.” She swallowed the painful lump in her throat. “He’s the most frustrating, bullheaded, thick-skinned . . .” Struggling with her tumultuous emotions, she sat down and lowered her head to hide her face from Theophilus’ scrutiny.