by C. V. Wyk
The makeshift tunnel was so tight and jagged that she had to wriggle through on her belly, and for a moment, she wondered if she’d been too hasty. But she could still move—just barely—and it was better than capture. She could hear someone pounding on the door of the apartment she’d just left. She crawled forward, trying to keep her breath even as she made her way through the passage, not knowing what waited on the other side. Her hands left bloody prints in the dirt. She crawled for another thirty yards before she finally saw another shifting light ahead. At last, the little tunnel curved upward, and she emerged onto a rooftop. The setting sun had already cast the road below in shadow. This sunset marked nearly four days without proper sleep, two without food. But she couldn’t afford to stop.
Attia climbed down to the darkened road, turned north, and forced herself to start running again. For a few minutes, she began to think she might actually escape. But her luck ran out. Three vigiles rounded the corner with swords drawn.
“There she is!” one of them shouted.
Attia slowed her pace and considered her opponents. Perhaps, in years past, the old vigil leading the group had been a vigorous young soldier, fighting for the glory of Rome. But time had turned him gray and made him very, very slow.
Still holding the rope in her hand, Attia made two wide loops at each end of its dirty length. Darting forward, she threw one looped end around the neck of the closest vigil. The knot tightened and she dragged him to the ground, rolling out of the way as the other two tried to attack her. She caught the second one with the other loop of rope, then used her captives to knock over the old vigil. Within moments, all three were sprawled on the ground. Dazed, humiliated, and sore, but alive.
Footsteps. Marching. More vigiles.
Attia picked up one of the watchmen’s swords from the dust and, with a quick glance around her, ran and cut into an alley.
Left. Right. Left again. Backtrack to avoid two more vigiles who’d joined the chase. Then up a rough-hewn wall onto a flat rooftop.
To the east, she saw darkening clouds. A sharp rock formation on the side of a hill reached up like a fingertip to brush against the evening sky. Attia knew that beyond that hill was a valley, and beyond that valley was a mountain pass, and beyond that was the Adriatic. Then, across the salty sea—the border of Thrace. Home.
The streets below her began to fill with an unexpected audience. The spectacle of a female slave escaping with sword in hand was met with both heckling and cheers.
“Someone catch her! She’s getting away!”
“Keep running! Don’t stop!”
Some even looked as though they were trying their damnedest to hinder the vigiles who gave chase. All Attia knew was that she had to keep moving. Fighting through waves of nausea and dizziness, she took off across the rooftops, using them like stepping stones as she leapt across alleys and narrow streets, always going east.
She didn’t stop until she’d come to the outskirts of the city. Behind her, the crowded clay insulas of the poor loomed in growing shadow, while up ahead were the open farmlands, grazing pastures, and sleek estates of the patricians. The dirt beneath her bare feet changed from dust and rock to soil and grass. Her breathing was even, and her muscles sang with the thrill of a chase. Attia paused to watch the sun set over the lip of the horizon, staining the sky red as the moon rose. There wouldn’t be any darkness. She’d have to move fast. The long finger of the hill was still to the northeast, but shrouded in clouds.
Then she heard it—boots thundering against the earth. They moved in formation between a march and a run. And there were more of them. Dozens more. All this for a single runaway slave?
Attia was certain they didn’t know who she was. If they did, she would surely have been executed long before reaching Rome. But there was no time to think about it. She adjusted her grip on her stolen sword—ready for whatever might come—and started to run again.
The estates gave way to wide, empty fields. The nearly barren land was like a memorial to the thousands of trees and roots and animals destroyed in the making of the city. There was nowhere to hide, no sanctuary or haven. The boots of the vigiles were nearly upon her.
Attia wanted to go home. She wanted to see her father’s warrior frame bent in concentration over his beloved letters and scrolls. She wanted to see the familiar bloodred wool of the Maedi cloaks. She wanted to run and run until her breath was spent, until the ashes of her bones mingled with those of her people.
But they’re dead.
Above her, the moon rose, the sky blazed, the mountains themselves seemed to sink into the deep, and her people—every single person she had ever known—were dead.
I am dead.
And suddenly, she realized there was nothing left to run to.
She stopped running in the middle of a flat field, and within moments, the vigiles surrounded her in a wide circle of black and iron.
I am nothing. Attia is nothing. Not a name or a sound. There is no me. There is only a ghost of Thrace.
She felt herself going numb as one of the vigiles approached with chains in his extended hands. Moonlight glinted off a silver ring on his middle finger—a tiny, snarling wolf’s head. His hand and that ring seemed to move in slow motion. Closer and closer.
It was instinct more than a conscious choice. Attia was just as surprised as the vigil when she deftly grabbed the man’s wrist and pulled him toward her, right onto her stolen blade. She looked coldly into his eyes as his expression changed from one of shock to agony. Blood oozed from his belly and his mouth, staining the front of his uniform. Attia pushed him off her sword and let him fall to the ground with a dull thud.
Dead. Dead. Dead.
A startled laugh burst from her throat, and she didn’t try to hold it back.
The vigiles shuffled uneasily around her like a pack of anxious wolves, wary now, confused, perhaps even frightened.
Attia’s maniacal laughter warped into a scream, and then the scream became a keening that echoed against the bare trees, up to the swollen moon above. It was wordless, sharp, and high, a bone-deep lament that silenced the Roman beasts that surrounded her.
Perhaps it was almost over. Perhaps now, the darkness would bring some kind of peace.
“Stop!” The word shattered the tension in the field.
Out of the corner of her eye, Attia saw a mounted centurion, the plumes of his helmet rustling in the wind. His presence only made the vigiles more confused, and Attia understood. A centurion was a Roman officer, not one to involve himself in the simple business of city watchmen.
“She has been bought and paid for by the House of Timeus,” the centurion said. “Seize and disarm her, but do not kill her.”
The order finally brought the vigiles to their senses. They raised their swords, and more out of habit than anything else, Attia raised hers, too. Relying on reflex and muscle memory, she managed to strike down more than a few before their numbers and her exhaustion got the better of her.
They descended like a swarm.
CHAPTER 2
At first, Attia wasn’t sure where she was. The hard pallet beneath her was so unlike the mound of blankets and furs she’d used in her tent. When she reached out, she felt only cool stone, not the hard-packed earth of the Maedi camps. The smell of roses rather than horses filled the air. She realized she was in a small, rectangular room with marble walls and floors—a typical Roman bath. Attia turned her gaze to the freshwater pool built into the middle of the floor. All she wanted to do was close her eyes and melt into that water. But then she realized she wasn’t alone. A middle-aged woman hovered over her.
Attia recoiled. Through a fog of sleep and pain, she barely managed to whisper three words. “Who are you?”
“My name is Sabina,” the woman said, taking Attia’s hand gently in hers. “You’ve been unconscious for two days.” Her gray-streaked brown hair was pulled back in a tight knot. She evaluated Attia’s injuries with a penetrating gaze, her dark gray eyes slowly moving over the
gash at Attia’s temple, her swollen eye, her bruised cheeks. She gently turned Attia’s head to examine the most serious injury—the hard, throbbing spot where the hilt of a sword had collided with the base of Attia’s skull.
With every breath, Attia’s chest ached, likely from several cracked ribs. She was certain that her left wrist was sprained, and at least two of her fingers were broken. She glanced down to see her olive-gold skin splattered with dried blood and grime. But she’d suffered worse in training and on the battlefield. Her body was a proud patchwork of scars, and she knew she would heal in time.
“What is your name?” Sabina asked.
“A—” The coarseness in Attia’s throat made her sputter. “Attia.”
Sabina tried to give her some water, but Attia choked and coughed, and only a few drops made it down her sore throat. “Try again, Attia. Drink.” Sabina held the cup to Attia’s lips and made her drink it all. With swift, confident movements, Sabina began to change the bandages on Attia’s wounds. She looked grim but determined as she applied pressure to the places that still bled, cleaned the gashes and cuts, and examined the line of stitches she’d sewn along Attia’s side. Attia didn’t make a sound.
“You’re strong,” Sabina said, her voice soft with approval. “That’s good. You’ll need to be.”
A man walked into the room, drawn by the sound of their voices. His leather breastplate and greaves meant he was a guard of some sort. The black cape he wore over his tunic nearly concealed the long dagger in his belt. “Is she awake?” he asked brusquely.
Sabina pursed her lips. “Barely,” she said over her shoulder.
“Good enough. Bring her. I’ll inform the dominus.” He left the room, his black cape fluttering in his wake.
“Dominus?” Attia repeated.
“It is the Romans’ word for master, and our master’s name is Josias Neleus Timeus. He—”
“He isn’t my master,” Attia said.
Sabina put a sturdy hand against Attia’s cheek and looked her in the eye. “Never say that again.”
Attia was too fatigued to argue. It took all of her strength just to get to her feet, and even then, she leaned heavily against Sabina. Standing upright sent a wave of dizziness washing over her, and pale light blinked in her eyes.
Master. A Thracian would never abide the word. It filled her with white-hot anger, a raw hatred that was enough to make her take her first step. Injured as she was, her legs still worked.
“It’s not far,” Sabina said.
They turned down a long hallway, and Sabina guided Attia into the tablinum—a square, windowless room just beyond the atrium. Two guards flanked the entrance, and a curtain fell behind them as Sabina and Attia entered. The stone walls of the tablinum were almost entirely covered with tapestries that stretched from the floor to the ceiling. The heavy fabric, dark with age, seemed to swallow light and sound, disorienting Attia even further.
Five more guards stood at intervals around the room. Near the back, Timeus sat in a curved cushioned seat. To Attia, it looked more like a Thracian cradle than a proper chair. In the dim light, she could see green-edged bruises spread from the bridge of Timeus’s nose to his eyes and even down toward his mouth. The sickly color made the whites of his eyes look whiter and the blue of his irises look menacing.
A fire pit burned in the center of the room. It was barely autumn and a warm, clear night at that. Were the Romans so soft and self-indulgent that they needed the warmth of a fire right now?
“Good evening,” Timeus said in an unnervingly gracious tone.
Hearing his voice again—that intonation and cadence that implied wealth if not nobility—made Attia’s eyes blaze with contempt. Timeus leaned forward in his chair and cocked his head. Silence descended on the room. Perhaps he expected Attia to say something. Perhaps he expected her to genuflect or apologize or beg for mercy. Perhaps he could jump face-first into the Aegean.
“You do look a bit worse for wear, but whose fault is that now? I paid good money for you to be here, and now look at you—bloody and bruised and covered in filth. If he doesn’t want to keep you, it will be no one’s fault but your own. It was foolish of you to run.”
Attia lifted her chin, but couldn’t keep a look of suspicion from her face. Keep me?
Timeus almost smiled. “Haven’t you accepted it yet? You are a spoil of war, Thracian. You are property. And now, you will be a gift to my champion. I’m sure you’ll bring him immense pleasure.” He looked her over and sneered. “Once you’re clean.”
Like hell I will. Digging for her last reserves of strength, Attia straightened her back and pulled away from Sabina to stand on her own. Timeus’s eyes bore into hers, and she met his gaze full-on, defiance written all over her.
Timeus’s smile faded into a dark, threatening glare. “Understand me, Thracian. There are two ways of doing things in my house: There is the easy way, and there is the hard way.”
Oh, how original, Attia scoffed.
“Which way would you prefer?”
Attia would die before she obeyed him, before she was given to anyone. And if she was lucky, she’d get the chance to die fighting. She spat on the smooth marble floor—an answer that made her lips crack in new places. The mixture of blood and saliva glistened in the firelight.
“Very well,” Timeus said.
The guards arranged themselves around her in a loose circle. They appeared relaxed, but Attia could see how they held themselves ready. Her own heartbeat quickened with anticipation. At some unseen command, the leader reached forward to grab her. She raised her arms instinctively, ready to fight back, when Sabina grasped her from behind.
“Don’t,” she whispered desperately into Attia’s ear. “If you fight again, they’ll kill you.”
Attia’s brief moment of hesitation was her undoing. The guards took hold of her and dragged her to the fire. And Sabina—treacherous Sabina—kept her hand on Attia’s shoulder until the last second.
It was only as the guards held her prone beside the fire that Attia suddenly knew. Through the confusion and pain, she knew what the fire was for. Why had it taken her so long?
Timeus walked toward Attia, wrapping a thick length of canvas around his right hand. “I bought and paid for you, girl. If you try to run again, I will hunt you down, and next time, there will be no mercy.”
Attia struggled, but the guards held her fast in their firm grip, and she was still broken in so many places.
“Whatever you were before, you belong to me now. I own you.” He lifted a branding iron from the fire.
Attia’s fingers clenched, desperate to reach one of the gleaming daggers in the guards’ belts. She could see the handle of one just a few inches away. But all she could reach was the fabric of their black cloaks.
“And if you ever attack me again,” Timeus said in a deadly quiet voice, “I will crucify you.”
At that, Attia’s heart clenched, not from fear, but from memory. All at once, she saw thousands of dying Thracians, all nailed to crosses blanketing the hillsides. She heard the Roman legatus who promised her dying father that all of his people would follow him to the underworld.
A guard ripped a hole in the side of her bloody, tattered war tunic, and Attia turned her head. Her scream seemed to tear through her whole body as Timeus seared his brand onto her hip. Then she saw black.
* * *
The brand blistered and burned, the pain insinuating itself into a familiar, relentless nightmare. As she had every night since her capture, Attia dreamed of the Romans invading with the dawn, their legions spilling over the rain-soaked hills like ants. She dreamed of every able-bodied Thracian—men and women—taking up arms to join the Maedi, to defend their families and their freedom. She dreamed of following her father into battle, and the bone-chilling cry he made as he died. The memory of that sound drew her into consciousness.
Attia found herself in a dark room, lying on a pallet on the floor. A tiny window was cut high in the wall. She tried to sit u
p, but the movement tugged at the tender flesh of her hip. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, swearing she would never again let the Romans hear the sound of her pain. Attia rolled over, trying her best to avoid the new wound, and began to claw her way up the wall. Her movements were painfully slow. She had to fight for every last inch. But finally she managed to prop herself up in a sitting position. Only then did she realize that someone had taken her shredded tunic—the last remnant of her life as a Maedi warrior—and dressed her in what was essentially a shapeless wool sack that fell below her knees. Three holes were cut out for her arms and head. Attia clenched her jaw, bracing herself for what she needed to do next, and pulled up the hem of her pathetic garb.
She saw the brand immediately—a sharp-tipped letter “T,” the bottom tail of which tapered down like a knife point. The wound was angry and red, and a shiny blister covered the upper bar of the letter. A simple mark, and yet it cut her in a way the Romans’ swords never could.
It was true now. Undeniable.
She was a slave.
CHAPTER 3
A man can get used to any name.
Dog. Barbarian. Savage.
Bastard son of Mars.
Pagan seed.
In the long decade since he’d been taken, the Romans had called him by many names. Now they favored one in particular: Xanthus Maximus Colossus, the Champion of Rome.
The dominus had once told him that the crowd cheered for him more than any other, that in their own twisted, morbid way, they loved him. Funny. And here all Xanthus wanted to do was burn down the Coliseum and every damn Roman in it.
Even though he was a gladiator.
Even though he was very, very good at what he did.