Blood and Sand

by C. V. Wyk

  “Can you cook?” the man asked.

  Of course she could. Maedi had to eat, didn’t they? But she simply shrugged and let the cook lead her to the roasting pit in the middle of the kitchen.

  “All you have to do is turn this spit,” he said, “and make sure the meat doesn’t burn. The dominus hates burned pork.”

  So Attia turned the spit. The smell of the meat made her mouth water, and she fought the urge to pull just a small piece from the spit. Her arms were already tired from stirring the paddle in the washing vat, but she kept a steady pace over the fire pit.

  Only when the head cook looked away did Attia loosen her grip. She released her hold on the spit, and deliberately knocked it off its stand, sending a whole rack of pork straight onto the ash and coals below. She used the spit to push the meat off the fire, but only ended up burning and smothering it in more ash.

  “You imbecile!” the head cook screamed when he saw what had happened. He ran over and snatched the spit from her hands, but there was nothing to be done. The pork was ruined—not just burnt or overcooked, but completely and thoroughly inedible.

  “Apologies,” Attia said.

  It took Sabina more than an hour to convince the head cook not to run straight to Timeus, saying that it would only get them all punished in the end.

  “Never bring her back here!” the head cook shouted.

  And Attia was just fine with that, too.

  When they were alone, Sabina gripped Attia’s arm. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?” she demanded, clearly exasperated.

  “Would it help if I said I was sorry?” Attia asked with feigned innocence.

  Sabina narrowed her eyes before leading Attia to a tiny room down the hall from the kitchen. She pulled out a bucket, a handful of rags, and a stiff brush. “Since you’re so talented at making messes, maybe you can learn to clean them up as well.”

  This time, Sabina led Attia through the house to the great welcoming room of the villa. No doubt Sabina had seen it countless times, but Attia hadn’t yet, and as soon as she passed through the doorway, her step faltered.

  The room was beautiful and terrifying—a massive octagonal space that echoed with the work of dozens of slaves. The complex mosaics and murals, the marble and stone, the silk and satin drapes that hung from the row of pillars to the west, the jewels sparkling on the walls. It was more than Attia had ever seen, and the sight of so much concentrated wealth made her dizzy.

  “All this from training gladiators?” Attia asked. “He only has six.”

  Sabina frowned. “How do you know that?”

  “I saw them this morning in the training yard.”

  “Yes, well, the dominus needs no more. His gladiators are famous throughout the Republic, and his champion is beloved.”

  “Timeus must treat them all well, not just his champion,” Attia said. “Why else haven’t they tried to kill him?”

  Sabina’s eyes flicked toward Attia then away. With capable hands, she began plucking and pruning an ugly arrangement of sticks and flowers in a tall, painted vase. She trimmed away at the brown stems before adding a handful of rust-colored blooms. “Take care, Attia,” she said eventually. “He is our dominus, and you should show respect.”

  “Respect is earned.”

  “Not in Rome.”

  “No, you’re right. Here it is bought.”

  Sabina shot her a warning look. “Hush, now. Go scrub that far pillar; then I need you to clean a few of the rooms on the upper floor. Maybe if I keep you away from too many people, I can keep you out of trouble.”

  Attia shrugged again as she lifted her bucket. “Yes. Maybe.”

  * * *

  The autumn sunlight was blinding, reflecting off the pale sand as two of the gladiators paired off.

  When Ennius had first begun teaching them, they’d paused often for instruction or correction. Now, they sparred until someone fell to the ground, and sometimes even beyond that. Only the two men in the circle were allowed to speak. The others watched in silence and kept their comments to themselves. Not even the guards patrolling the walls and gates said a single word. On pain of death, they never interfered with the gladiators’ training—an order that had begun with Timeus’s father, Quintus.

  Xanthus glanced at Albinus, who stood to his left. The bright sunlight made Albinus’s scars more pronounced than ever, and Xanthus’s expression turned grim as he looked at his brother.

  Thin, deep hash marks covered Albinus’s entire body, even his face. Some were layered over others, most of them no more than a few inches long. The worst stretched in a jagged line from his temple to his chin. But they weren’t Timeus’s doing. Albinus had actually arrived like that, bought at the same auction as Xanthus when he too was only a boy. Only once did Albinus tell Xanthus how he’d gotten those scars. They’d never spoken of it again.

  The sunlight wasn’t doing Iduma’s appearance any favors either. The gladiator already looked like he was made of fire with his red hair, red face, and red skin. His whole body was drenched in the color, not to mention the stench of sweat. He pushed away from Lebuin, and the two began circling each other again while the others watched.

  Iduma turned his mischievous blue eyes to Lebuin and winked. Thirty seconds later, he was flat on his back, and Lebuin hovered over him with a blunt sword at his throat.

  “You almost had me,” Lebuin said with a smirk.

  “Who says I wasn’t aiming for exactly this position?” Iduma said, twisting his feet between Lebuin’s legs and pulling him to the ground. They wrestled in the dirt while the others laughed.

  Castor and Gallus paired up next, though the match ended quickly when Castor suddenly rammed his bald head forward and struck a solid blow into Gallus’s gut. Xanthus nearly groaned in sympathy, and even a few of the guards winced. It was a running joke that Castor’s head was probably made of iron.

  Gallus fell to his knees, his own head bent down to touch the dirt. He took a gasping breath, in and out, dust and all. No one offered to help him up, though. He had to stand on his own or not stand at all. It took a few minutes, but finally, he raised his head, planted one foot on the ground, then the other. Only when he was standing again did he shake Castor’s hand. “Good hit,” he said hoarsely. “But I’ll have your ass next time.”

  Castor grinned, silent as ever.

  Xanthus wanted to enjoy his brothers’ banter. Their familiar playfulness was typically a balm after a match in the arena. But his thoughts were dark and torn. He knew that Attia hadn’t slept much in his room the night before, even after he’d promised not to touch her. Could he blame her? A part of him had truly wanted her to simply slice his throat and be done with it. But then he thought of Decimus and the match at the Festival of Lupa. Ever since Timeus had told him about it, Xanthus had wondered whose death he wished for more—Decimus’s or his own.

  The gladiators quieted as they looked at him. They knew of Decimus, and they knew what the fight meant.

  “Come on, Xanthus,” Lebuin said, all trace of laughter gone from his voice. “Your turn.”

  But it was Albinus who joined Xanthus in the circle. The brothers touched swords before taking their stances. When Albinus raised his weapon and struck, he didn’t hold back a single inch. If Decimus was even half as ruthless as the rumors said, Xanthus could very well be facing his strongest opponent yet. He couldn’t afford to train lightly anymore.

  The other gladiators gave the two a wider and wider berth as the sparring continued. They traded blows, one right after the other, each one so strong that the quivering metal of the practice swords resonated with every impact. Albinus struck and stabbed, forcing Xanthus to slide away or be run through. Even though the training swords were blunted and bent from use, they could still cleave a limb with enough force. And Albinus was putting his body weight’s worth of force behind each hit.

  “You’re not trying,” Albinus growled as they circled each other. They’d been sparring for nearly half an hour, and their bod
ies glistened with sweat and dirt.

  “The hell I’m not,” Xanthus said.

  “Well, not hard enough,” Albinus shot back. He ran at Xanthus with his sword, and Xanthus deflected it with ease. “See? You’re just defending.”

  Xanthus spit into the sand. Sweat stung his eyes, but he was far from tired. He knew that he and Albinus could keep doing this for hours if they had to. “I’m taking my time.”

  Before he could finish his last word, Albinus attacked again. This time, he had a wild look in his eye, and his entire stance had changed. Xanthus adjusted his footing, swung his sword, and knocked Albinus’s weapon out of his hands. That should have been the end of it, but Albinus dove at him, his head and shoulders colliding with Xanthus’s torso.

  Pain radiated from Xanthus’s cracked rib, and he wondered for a moment if it was actually broken now, but he didn’t have time to keep thinking about it. Albinus tackled him to the ground and rained heavy blows down on Xanthus’s face and shoulders. Xanthus raised his arms in defense as he twisted his body around, knocking Albinus over onto the sand.

  Xanthus had the obvious advantage now. He was taller and a fraction stronger. He could grip Albinus’s neck with one hand and his dominant arm with the other. Enough force and energy surged through him that it would be easy to keep him down or even render him unconscious. But he simply released Albinus and leapt lightly to his feet.

  “Good match—”

  “What the hell are you doing?” Albinus interrupted with a shout, scrambling up from the ground. “Why did you stop?”

  Xanthus glanced at the others, who were watching with almost hurt expressions. He frowned in confusion. “What, would you have preferred I killed you?” he shot back.

  “I’d prefer it if you took this seriously, Xanthus. The Taurus didn’t hold back. None of your opponents have ever held back. Do you think Decimus will?”

  “You’re not Decimus.”

  “That’s not the point! This isn’t going to be like every other match, Xanthus, and you know that. You are so used to taking your time, waiting, letting those bastards in the arena practically kill themselves on your sword. But you know what Decimus is capable of. You know more than anyone.”

  A deadly silence descended on the gladiators.

  “And we know,” Albinus said. He’d lowered his voice, but Xanthus could still feel the frustration seething from him. “We know how much you hate this, Xanthus.” Albinus shook his head and smiled bitterly. “You wanted to let the Taurus kill you, but you stayed alive to save that sobbing heretic. But what now? What about your new Thracian? What do you think will happen to her if you’re not around anymore? And what about us? We’re your brothers, Xanthus. Do you plan to stay alive for us?”

  It was then that Xanthus understood the hurt he saw on the others’ faces. He’d seen his willingness to die in the arena as a reprieve, a chance to find some semblance of peace. But to his brothers, it must have seemed like betrayal, abandonment. Guilt swirled in the pit of his stomach.

  “You’ve played with death for a long time, brother,” Albinus said. “But that needs to end now. It’s about time you decide if you want to join the living, or if the next body that falls in the sand will be yours.”

  Albinus kicked his training sword aside before walking toward his quarters at the rear of the training yard.

  One by one, the others went back to their own rooms, leaving Xanthus standing alone in the dust.

  * * *

  It seemed that Sabina had finally managed to find a chore in the house with which Attia couldn’t be too destructive.

  Armed with rags and a bucket, Attia was sent alone to wander from room to room—dusting, scouring, sweeping, scrubbing. Not even this task was new to her. In her father’s camp, every warrior was responsible for his—or her—own gear and weapons. All her life, Attia had kept her own tent tidy and her own horses groomed. She might have been the crown princess, but she was far from pampered.

  Attia tried not to think about the fact that everything she was touching now belonged to Timeus. Of course, that fact also made it rather easy for her to be fairly lazy about her task. There were plenty of other cleaning slaves, she reasoned. If she forgot to wipe a table or sweep a room or do anything at all, someone else would do it. Probably.

  With that in mind, she left the first six rooms as she found them, wandering around just long enough to get a good look at what was inside each one. In one unfurnished room, she saw the dark-haired woman leaning against the balcony, her back to the half-open door. She was dressed differently, though, wearing a formless beige dress with a neckline up to her jaw and sleeves that reached her wrists.

  Not in a particularly social mood, Attia skipped that room and kept going until she reached a heavy, ornate door at the end of the hall. She opened it, and her immediate reaction was resentment tinged with curiosity.

  Timeus’s study.

  The room was circular, set into the southeastern corner of the villa, with a single wall that curled all the way around to meet either side of the doorway. Four windows, each covered with thin linen, let in a good deal of light, and Attia saw that the entire room was lined with shelves brimming with scrolls. In the center was a massive desk covered in maps and letters.

  She closed the door behind her, heading straight for the desk.

  The map grabbed her attention first. It was made of papyrus and composed of thirteen different sections, all fitted together by silk thread. Yet another measure of Timeus’s wealth. By the texture of the papyrus, she could tell it was fairly new—probably made no more than a year or two ago—and it was as detailed a picture as she would ever get of the capital city of Rome.

  Her eyes followed the blue meandering lines of the city’s aqueducts, which the Republic had been building and improving on for nearly two hundred years. Dark brown lines crisscrossed in every direction, denoting streets and alleyways. And marked by thick black lines were the infamous paved roads that led from the heart of Rome to the far corners of the Republic.

  For a long time, she studied the tiny script that covered the map, naming the roads and borders and major households. The estate belonging to the House of Timeus apparently sat on the coastline west of Palatine Hill. The writing was neat and straight, and used proper Latin rather than the Vulgate used by the common folk. It was still easy enough for Attia to read. Her father had spent years tutoring her in Latin and Greek writing, insisting that his heir should be educated in literacy before war.

  Using her finger, Attia traced the black line of the road that led most directly east—to the shores of the Adriatic and the borders of Thrace. My way home … if there were a home left to go back to. She let her hand fall heavily onto the corner of the map, hardly caring if her carelessness tore the delicate papyrus. How ironic to have such information and no way to use it. To want to fight but have a body that could barely run.

  Frustrated, Attia turned away from the map and started riffling through the letters and papers stacked along the edges of the desk. Most were short and formal—abundant praise for Timeus’s victory in the arena, invitations to dinners and political functions, requests for matches with the champion. Just like the map, the language of the correspondences was all in proper Latin rather than the Vulgate, though the language was embellished and stylized. Likely the work of employed scribes. Only when she’d cleared aside a particularly deep stack did she see a name that grabbed her interest: Flavius.

  She knew that name. Everyone did. It was the name of the royal house perched on Palatine Hill—the family name of Princeps Titus, ruler of the Republic of Rome. Attia pushed aside a few more open scrolls, trying to get a clearer view of the flat sheet of parchment. It was nearly the size of the map, but not as full. There were lines, too, connecting names, dates, ranks, and places. It was a detailed family history of what was currently the most powerful family in the Republic.

  Vespasian’s name was known well enough, written at the very top. He’d been a soldier and a senator who
eventually came to rule over Rome through a combination of cunning and treachery—namely, killing any man who tried to challenge him. After his death the previous winter, his son, Titus Flavius, had inherited the title of Princeps Civitatis, which literally translated to “first citizen.” Titus alone had ruled Rome for nearly a year, and if he’d taken a wife since, it wasn’t recorded on the parchment.

  Mirroring those were names less familiar to Attia. First, there was Vespasian’s brother, Crassus Flavius, who was actually a year older and still alive. Below that was the name of Crassus’s son, Tycho, who—at thirty-six years of age—was four years younger than Titus. Spread around them were the names of no more than half a dozen cousins, uncles, and other sons. The sparsity of names allowed room for other details to be recorded—years and places of birth, notable events, even military ranks. Apparently some distant cousin had recently been appointed to the Senate, though he was only fifteen years old.

  It didn’t surprise Attia that Timeus would keep such information or that he would be so meticulous about adding to it. His gladiators had given him absurd wealth and prominence. But Timeus was no senator, and his status as a patrician was bought, not inherited. He didn’t even have a military rank to his name, as far as Attia was aware. When it came down to it, he was nothing more than a lanista, a glorified merchant. And for a man as ambitious as Timeus, social class meant everything. If he ever hoped to improve his family’s standing within the Republic, he’d need to form strong ties with the only family in Rome who could raise him up.

  The one thing that did surprise Attia was that the House of Flavius seemed smaller than she’d expected. Including the brothers Vespasian and Crassus, there were barely more than two generations of offspring listed. Male offspring. She had to scan the papyrus several times to confirm that there were no women listed at all. No wives nor mothers nor daughters. A small house, indeed. Attia’s own family were direct descendants of the kings of ancient Sparta, and they had led the tribes of Thrace for over three hundred years. Twelve generations of swordlords had all dedicated their lives to protecting their people. Attia frowned down at the papyrus on the table. The size of it suggested the beginning of a dynasty, but really, the Flavians seemed little more than pretenders to a throne they didn’t deserve.