A Voice in the Wind

The Germanic tribal leader, Atretes, is the personification of the noble warrior. Raised to fight for his homeland and his honor, Atretes knows little beyond the glory of battle and the dignity of dying an honorable death. Though labeled as cowards for their guerilla tactics on the battlefield, the Germans value courage and loyalty above all else. The penalty for deserting comrades in battle is death, without equivocation. In many ways, Atretes presence in the narrative serves as a counterpoint to the bloated decadence of the Roman Empire with its luxurious villas, pampered elite, and reliance on slavery. Atretes’s people live in “rude longhouses” in the shadows of the forest; they wear animal skins; and they go into battle nearly naked. They are a primal race with a harsh code of ethics—the Romans refer to them as “barbarians,” the linguistic excuse for colonization for centuries—but they see Romans as cowards for hiding behind their legionnaires while enjoying the spilled blood of their captives.

Atretes is seen as physically barbaric by the Romans with his long hair, war cry, and fierceness in the arena, but he is also regarded as spiritually barbaric by Hadassah, who chides him for his faith in false gods and demeans the goat-headed war god, Tiwaz, as an animal that leads sheep to slaughter. The narrative tries to assimilate him into “civilized” Roman society—he cuts his hair, wears gold jewelry, and even wants to marry Julia, a Roman citizen. But in the end, he cannot escape his roots, returning to the mountains, living in a cave, and shedding all accoutrements of his Roman identity. For Atretes, there can be no greater betrayal of his people or his code than to become a Roman, and his moral lapse fills him with such shame that he destroys his own villa and renounces the woman he loves before retreating into the mountains and reclaiming his true identity.

Marcus is the voice of logic and materialism pitted against Hadassah’s blind faith. As part of the younger generation, he rebels against the formalism and traditions of his father, seeking only wealth and pleasure in the face of a corrupt empire. When Decimus bemoans his children’s blatant hedonism and lack of traditional values, it is the narrative’s plea for modern society to return its own moral code of honor, self-sacrifice, devotion to a higher cause beyond the self. While Decimus equates the younger generation with the social decay he sees every day, Marcus seems not to care. He sees his father as a hypocrite, making his fortune off the benefits of his citizenship but then begrudging his son the same opportunity. Marcus’s self-servitude is challenged by Hadassah, however, and while his love cannot erase his skepticism, he must acknowledge the power of her faith to lure him in and to make him at least question his beliefs. Marcus is eminently pragmatic, however, and he is utterly bewildered by Hadassah’s refusal to marry him. He is so rooted in his Roman identity with its materialism and wealth—not unlike the United States—that anything he cannot see or touch, like faith or God, is irrelevant. His refusal to open his mind to Hadassah’s belief system wins him the argument logically but leaves him bereft on a much deeper level.

It would be easy for readers to dismiss Julia as a spoiled brat, ordering her servants around and fussing over superficialities, and only concerned with her own immediate pleasure. There is, however, another perspective through which to view her. Much of Julia’s anger and rebellion comes from her resistance to the oppressive gender roles society has placed on her. She only wants the same rights as her brother: to go to the games at her leisure, to manage her own finances, and to choose her own husband. Despite Hadassah’s entreaties that she should not neglect her husbands, Claudius is old and dull, and Caius is physically abusive. By all rights, Julia should have a say in these arrangements, but she does not. It is little wonder that Calabah holds such sway over her young protégé. Julia’s ears are ripe for feminist rhetoric. Unfortunately, for all Calabah’s talk about Julia asserting her rights, bodily autonomy, and financial independence, her words are merely a means to an end, and Julia’s worst impulses take over in the end: Her jealousy and her narcissism result in the death of a woman who served her faithfully. The tragedy of Julia is her inability to move past her own interests, which ultimately sabotage any potential she may have to become the novel’s only honest advocate for women’s rights.

The patriarch of the Valerian family, Decimus is a traditionalist, romanticizing the past and decrying what he sees as a decadent, aimless younger generation. Not a native of Rome, Decimus buys his citizenship with wealth gained from his formidable shipping empire. He is, however, a man weighed down by regrets—regrets over the narcissism of his children, over his complicity in the slow destruction of the empire, and over having spent so much of his life accumulating riches. He wants to instill moral fiber in his children but fears it is too late. His constant battles with Marcus boil down to two distinct worldviews: traditionalism versus progressivism. Strict moral standards, Decimus believes, exist for a reason. The glory of the Republic was built on those standards, and he bemoans the hedonism of the current empire, personified by the late emperor Nero and culminating in the burning of Rome. Part of the tradition to which he stubbornly clings is the absolute dominance of the father over his children. When he marries Julia to Claudius, he does not see a miserable daughter or a recipe for an unhappy marriage. He sees only a father doing what fathers have done for centuries. Decimus, however, has just enough of an open mind to reconsider his priorities, and when he faces the darkness of imminent death, his heart opens to the ministrations of Hadassah. In this moment, Decimus becomes even more accepting than his son, welcoming an unfamiliar god into his life based solely on the convictions of a woman with no rights of her own.

Phoebe, the devoted wife and mother, values the traditions and rituals of old, although it is difficult to know if she truly sees the merits in them or if she is simply carrying forward their legacy because previous generations have done the same. She dutifully makes offerings to her household gods, she defers to her husband on most matters, and she conforms to the societal expectations of her gender. However, her selfless duty and conformity grate on her children—especially Julia who demeans her mother’s life choices as dull and subservient, desiring more for herself. Despite the scorn of her children, Phoebe is an astute judge of character. When everyone else wants to send Hadassah away, Phoebe insists that Decimus buy her, claiming she will be good for Julia. She sees something in the deep well of Hadassah’s eyes that Decimus, Julia, and especially Marcus only recognize much later. She is a kind soul—a rare quality in Rivers’s Rome—and always treats Hadassah with the utmost respect. After a long marriage, she still loves Decimus and grieves deeply at his death. She wants desperately to ease his suffering, trying everything from offerings to the gods to unconventional treatments. Amid a crumbling social order placated only by the blood of enslaved people, Phoebe is a rock of stability, patience, and kindness. Her virtues exist quietly in the background, but their power cannot be ignored.

When Julia first meets Calabah through her friend, Octavia, she is captivated by Calabah’s charisma and confident rhetoric. She speaks the words that Julia has longed to hear her entire life—words of liberation from the oppressive yoke of paternalism. There is, however, a dark side to her oratory. If Phoebe can see the positive potential in people, Calabah can see the vulnerabilities. Once she senses in Julia a wild spirit desperate to run free, she slowly and methodically exploits that longing, gradually enabling Julia’s worst impulses and leading her young protégé down her own predetermined path. Calabah’s significance lies in the paradoxical role of her politics. By any measure, she is an outspoken feminist railing against a male-dominated society. She urges Julia to take control of her finances, her sexuality, and her life. But Calabah’s social justice rhetoric is simply a façade masking her sinister intentions—which are never really clarified. She is not noble or brave, but rather she looks at Julia through “cold, soulless eyes” (467). Her “hypnotic voice” coaxes Julia into both an abortion and murder, grievous transgressions in the eyes of both Hadassah and, by extension, the narrative. She is the devil on Julia’s shoulder leading her astray without an angel on the other shoulder to offer any counterargument.

Julia’s second husband, Caius, is the snake with a charming exterior. Like Calabah, he manipulates Julia’s vulnerabilities, wooing her with his physical beauty and promises of love eternal. Julia falls for his act completely, marrying him without a second thought, but soon his abusive nature emerges. He gambles Julia’s money away and beats her when she questions him about it. In the Roman patriarchy, husbands have all the rights, including the power of life or death should their wives prove unfaithful. Caius is also a testament to the dual nature of love and hate, often two sides of the same coin. Julia hates Caius for his abuse, but she also professes to love him still. Even after his death when she is free from his physical and psychological torment, she mourns him. As a narrative device, Caius also serves to put Julia through as much conflict and pain as possible, potentially leaving her open—like a raw wound—to Hadassah’s ministrations. Unfortunately, her trials do not lead her to salvation but only steel her against any empathy whatsoever.

Atretes’s Ethiopian trainer, Bato, is a noble figure, both sympathetic to the plight of the gladiator and wise to the ways of survival. He tames Atretes’s wilder impulses—no easy feat—and molds him into the greatest fighter of his time. Unlike his predecessor, Tharacus, Bato does not rely on cruelty and punishment but on intelligence. In Atretes, he sees the raw material for an elite gladiator who may even win his freedom one day. Atretes comes to respect Bato’s advice and treasure his comradeship. While Bato’s counsel keeps Atretes alive and ultimately earns him his freedom, it does so at a cost. By the time Atretes is free and wealthy enough to afford his own villa, he is no longer the Germanic tribal warrior adored by the plebian mob. He is an assimilated Roman citizen. The transformation disgusts him, and he eventually throws off the shackles of his Roman identity and heads for the hills. Implicit in Bato’s character is the regret of compromised ideals. He has forsaken vengeance against an enemy and lives under the umbrella of your oppressor. He is undoubtedly aware of the cost of his protégé’s freedom, but in a world where Imperial Rome is everything, his guidance keeps Atretes alive and free from the humiliation of the cross or the lion’s jaws.