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throat and thought he was about to die. It stopped a fraction of an inch away.
    Atretes made a sound of disgust. “How did you ever survive the arena?” He sent the stick clattering across the floor and bouncing off the wall.
    Silus grimaced, embarrassed. He watched Atretes warily, wondering if he was fated to another round with him.
    Swearing in German, Atretes kicked over the barrel, scattering pugil sticks across the marble. He gave a shout of spine-tingling frustration and let out a string of unintelligible German.
    Having regained his breath, Silus rose slowly, wincing in pain. He prayed to Artemis that Atretes would wear himself out breaking sticks over his knee and not decide to break him instead. He saw Lagos peering nervously into the room and saw a way to avoid further humiliation. “Well, well. The warthog returns.”
    Atretes swung around, expression fierce. “What took you so long?!”
    Lagos entered the gymnasium as though he were entering a lion’s den. “It was—”
    “Never mind the excuses. Did you find him?”
    “Yes, my lord. Late last night.”
    “And?”
    “Your message is delivered, my lord.”
    “What did he say?”
    “He said it will be done, my lord.”
    “The instant he arrives, notify me.” Atretes jerked his head in dismissal. Grabbing a towel from the shelf near the door, he wiped his face and neck. He tossed it on the floor and glanced balefully at Silus and Gallus. They awaited his command. “Enough for today,” he said tonelessly. “Go!”
    Alone in the gymnasium, Atretes sat down on a bench. He pushed his hands back through his hair in frustration. He’d give John a few days to keep his word, and if he didn’t, he’d hunt the apostle down and break his neck!
    Restless, Atretes rose and strode out of the gymnasium, through the baths, and entered a corridor leading to a heavy door at the back of the villa. He banged it open and strode across the smooth dirt to another door in the wall. It was open. A guard stepped through it and nodded. “Clear, my lord,” he said, having already checked for amoratae who, in hopes that Atretes would appear, might have stationed themselves outside the walls. People often came in hopes of a glimpse of him.
    Atretes jogged in the hills until his body was slick with sweat. He slowed to a fast walk until he reached the crest of a hill facing west. In the distance was Ephesus, the great city, which spread like a disease along the northern, southern, and eastern hills. From where he stood, Atretes could see the Artemision, the complex of libraries near the harbor. Turning his head slightly, he could see the arena.
    He frowned. Odd that he found himself always coming to this hill and looking back. As a gladiator, his life had had a purpose: to survive. Now his life was aimless. He filled his days with training, but to what purpose?
    He remembered Pugnax, an ex-gladiator who owned an inn in Rome, saying to him, “You’ll never be as alive as when you face death every day.” Atretes had thought him a fool then. Now, he wondered. At odd times, he found himself craving the excitement of a fight to the death. Survival. Nothing short of the struggle for it had given him that rush, the sense of real meaning in life. Survival.
    Now, he merely existed. He ate, drank, exercised. He slept. Sometimes he enjoyed the pleasures of a woman. Yet, all in all, the days rolled one into another, each empty, insignificant.
    His son was somewhere in that foul city and he was the lone reason Atretes remained in Ionia. Somewhere beyond the expanse of cerulean blue was Italy, and north was his homeland. The longing to return to Germania was so strong his throat closed. He had his freedom. He had money. Once he’d taken possession of his son, there’d be nothing to keep him here. The villa would be sold, and he would buy passage on the first ship that set sail west.
    And when he reached his homeland, he would teach his people better ways of fighting the Roman war