by C. V. Wyk
Attia’s eyes drifted back up to Crassus’s name, and she noticed a title beside it. Written in tiny brown letters was a word that had come to haunt her days and nights: legatus. So Vespasian’s big brother was a general in the Roman army, and of all the people documented, he appeared to be the most accomplished. Just below his name was a long list of places and dates. Jerusalem, Britannia, Germanica. All military campaigns going back more than twenty years.
Attia scrolled down the list with mild curiosity until she reached the bottom. Then it felt as though her stomach had lurched into her chest.
At the very end, written in new, glistening ink, was Thrace.
And suddenly, the face that had burned itself into her nightmares and her memory had a name.
Legatus Crassus Flavius.
The Roman who had killed her father.
CHAPTER 7
Crassus.
A shiver of cold rage trickled down Attia’s spine as she sat on a window ledge on the upper floor, watching the soft purple hues of dusk settle on the edge of the horizon. Soon, she’d have to get up and go to Xanthus’s quarters for the night. He hadn’t hurt her last time, and he’d promised not to touch her. But what was a Roman’s promise worth? How patient could any man be about this sort of thing? She wondered if this would be the night she’d have to kill him. In her current mood, she thought she might just want to kill the first person she saw.
With a sigh, she stood and prepared herself for the inevitable. But she didn’t expect the man who waited for her at the foot of the stairs. When she recognized his face, her body froze with suspicion and distrust. It was Timeus’s muscled bodyguard from the auction. His right leg—the one she’d broken—was wrapped in a stiff leather brace, and he stood with one hand firmly clasped around a thick staff. The whites of his eyes stared out from his night-dark face. Even injured, he looked stoic and forbidding.
Shit.
Attia stared at him with her jaw clamped shut and her nails digging into her palms. He’d probably come specifically to get her alone, to exact some sort of revenge for what she’d done to him. But then he just nodded his head, turned, and began walking in the direction of the training yard.
Well, limping.
Attia had no choice but to follow. She squirmed as she walked in his wake, watching as he practically dragged his leg across the floor with each step. She was amazed he could even walk at all. She’d used that move countless times, but she’d never stuck around to see what happened to the man afterward. The evidence of it was now right before her eyes, and she had no idea what to think.
He couldn’t be here as a guard; what use would he be with his injury? So what did he want? An apology? Like hell. He didn’t know her, but he should know better. Attia was surprised that he was even willing to turn his back on her. Wasn’t he afraid that she’d just attack him again and try to escape a second time? She would only have to—
“Clever trick.”
The sudden deepness of his voice disturbed Attia’s thoughts. She measured her pace to maintain a short distance between them. “Trick?” she asked warily.
He glanced back and tapped his finger against the leather cast. “Where did you learn how to do that?”
Attia couldn’t quite place his accent, but she knew that the Latin he spoke wasn’t his native language. There was a surprisingly pleasant lilt to his voice, a musical quality that made it sound like he was humming the words rather than speaking them.
“My father,” she said.
“A skilled man. My father was also quite skilled. He taught me everything he knew.”
What was she supposed to say to that? Why was the man even talking to her?
“His true love was the sea,” he was saying. “The waves, the salt, the depth of it. He would have lived and died on the sea if he was able.”
“But he wasn’t?”
“No,” he said in a quiet voice. “He wasn’t.”
Attia couldn’t help herself any longer. “Aren’t you angry after what I did to you?” she said, her voice loud in the dark hall.
He looked at her with a wry smile, and Attia realized that she’d closed the distance between them. They were walking shoulder to shoulder as she matched his painful limp with small steps. “No,” he said.
“Why not?”
“A man learns to respect others’ abilities, or he falls.”
Attia snorted. Oh, you fell, all right.
“And I’ve been injured much worse. I was a gladiator for nearly fifteen years.”
“I’m surprised that Timeus trusts a slave to protect him.”
“I am a freeman.” He laughed lightly at the shocked look on Attia’s face. “Years ago, when I became champion of the house, I was given a rudis and set free. Now I serve the dominus outside of the arena.” He said it so simply, as though it was a matter of course to be given one’s freedom.
Attia sputtered. “But … but if you’re free, why have you stayed here?”
Ennius came to a stop. “Xanthus,” he said with a nod of his head.
“What?”
Ennius cleared his throat. Attia turned to see the red “X” marking the doorway to the champion’s quarters. They’d reached the training yard without her realizing it, and Xanthus was leaning against the lintel as though he’d been waiting for them.
“A pleasant evening, Ennius, isn’t it?” the gladiator said.
“Quite,” Ennius, the freeman, replied.
They both looked at Attia, and still bewildered, she shuffled past Xanthus and into his small room.
Ennius lowered his voice, thinking Attia wouldn’t hear. “She’s very young.”
“Goodnight, Ennius,” was the strained reply.
“Goodnight, Xanthus.”
Attia could hardly think straight. Ennius with his broken leg and musical voice, an old gladiator and former slave—he’d been freed when he became champion. He’s free and he stays. Serving that old pig. And if he’d been freed as a champion, then that probably meant …
She swung around to look at Xanthus. “You’re the champion of this house. Of Rome.” It wasn’t a question.
He considered her for a moment before answering. “Yes…”
“And that man was champion before you,” she said, pointing in the direction of the villa.
His brow wrinkled in confusion. “Ennius, yes.”
“And he is free.”
Xanthus’s expression went blank as understanding began to dawn.
“Are you?”
He looked away, but Attia took a step forward and persisted.
“Answer me. Are you a freeman?” It hurt to get the words out. She’d almost let herself think that they were in a similar situation, but if the champion was free, it changed everything.
Xanthus’s eyes were a dark shade of green when he met her gaze, as though a shadow looked out from deep inside him. He walked slowly toward her and lifted his sleeve. Timeus’s brand was seared into the flesh of his muscled arm, just below the shoulder. “No,” he said finally. “I am a slave, like you. We are equals.”
Attia released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “We may both be slaves, but we’re hardly equals. In case you don’t remember, I was given to you. The guards don’t even lock your door.”
“Yes, my door is unbarred. But just how far do you think I’d get if I tried to walk away from this house right now?”
“You could try.”
Xanthus turned away to pick up a small basket that sat beside the door. “I did try. A long time ago. And someone else paid for my transgression.” His face darkened. “I won’t take that risk again.”
The finality in his voice told Attia that that particular subject was best left for another time. “Why did Timeus free Ennius?” she asked instead.
“He didn’t. Ennius was freed by Timeus’s father, Quintus, who was a very different sort of man.” Xanthus set the basket on the table and started unpacking it.
“Did you know him?” Attia asked.
Fruit, fresh bread, a wedge of cheese, a hunk of seasoned pork, and a small jug of wine emerged, one by one. “No. By the time I was brought here, Quintus had already passed. But Ennius talked about him often while he was training us.”
“And now you’re the Champion of Rome. Are you as good as they say?”
The corner of Xanthus’s mouth quirked upward. “I’m no Thracian.”
No, Attia thought. You’re not.
A heavy silence followed. Part of Attia liked how the gladiator spoke of her home with such obvious reverence. But thinking of Thrace awakened too many memories, too many regrets. Too many plans and intentions that had died with her enslavement. Just a few months before the invasion, her father had hesitantly brought up the prospect of marriage. A queen needed heirs, after all.
But her father was dead, and Attia would never marry, by choice or by force. She realized that this sordid association with the gladiator might be the closest she would ever be to a man. She knew nothing about him—where he came from or who his people were or what he saw when he closed his eyes—but he was considerate and bright, with a quiet voice and hands that hadn’t hurt her. At least, not yet.
All marriages were things of convenience, in one way or another, and Attia had no intention of making any vows to Xanthus. She only had to give him her nights, and if Timeus had his way, her body. Not her self. Not her soul. A body was a cheap, temporary thing anyway. She didn’t realize Xanthus had been watching her—staring intently at the emotions playing out over her face.
“You still don’t trust me, do you?” he asked.
“You shouldn’t trust me either. We’re strangers.”
“That’s true,” Xanthus conceded. He put down his cup and sat down at the foot of his bed, leaning back to rest against the wall. “So ask me something. What do you want to know?”
Attia wasn’t sure she had heard him correctly. “What?”
“I’ll tell you anything you want to know about me. But the information isn’t free.”
Of course not.
Attia clenched her hands around her cup, trying to keep from shaking or striking or both. Hopefully, in the dimness of the candlelight, he didn’t notice. She didn’t want him to know what her control was costing her. She waited to hear his proposal.
“You have to tell me about yourself, too,” he said.
Now she was sure she hadn’t heard him properly. “Why?” she said, her voice harsh with suspicion.
“Because I’m curious. And because I’d rather be friends if we’re going to have to share this little room from now on.” He smiled gently as Attia narrowed her eyes at him. “Look, I’m offering you a deal: a question for a question. The Romans call it quid pro quo. You can go first.” He gestured to the half-empty bed. “And you don’t have to stand all night.”
Attia considered the space between them, a mere four feet of separation. She’d known warriors all her life. Men who were meaner, colder, more bloodthirsty than this gladiator could ever hope to be. The Romans called him a god, but Attia could see in his face a sort of regret, as though it was a curse rather than a gift for him to be so good at what he did. In that moment, she realized something that surprised her: She couldn’t quite trust the man, but she didn’t want to kill him.
She approached the bed slowly and sat down on the opposite end.
Xanthus didn’t give any indication that he minded the distance. In fact, he looked rather pleased that she’d sat down at all. He smiled at her—a bright smile that reminded Attia of spring—and folded his hands on his stomach.
Attia cocked her head, staring at the gladiator with blatant curiosity. “Who are you? That is, you’re obviously not a Roman.”
“Obviously?”
“Your accent—you sound like a northerner, though you speak the Vulgate well enough. And you don’t have that look.… That … hunger.”
Xanthus frowned thoughtfully. “Well, you’re right. I’m not a Roman. I’m from Britannia.”
Now that was surprising. More than a decade ago, when the Romans first ventured onto that lonely northern island, Attia’s father had shaken his head, closed his eyes, and said, “The world is falling.” She’d only been a child so she hadn’t understood what he meant at the time. She understood now.
“Nearly everything is green in Britannia,” Xanthus continued with a wistful smile. “Mist hugs the land, the trees, and the hills. And when the sun rises in the morning, the light pierces through the fog and paints the grass a thousand colors.” The smile started to fade when he turned to Attia. “My turn. Who taught you to fight? I saw what you did to Ennius, but I didn’t realize the Maedi trained their daughters as well.”
Attia chose her words carefully. “Mine was a … unique circumstance.”
“Was your father a warrior?”
“That’s two questions.”
“But you didn’t really answer my first one. Come on, Attia. Play fair. Tell me something about him.”
“He lived with courage,” she said. “And he died the same way.”
Xanthus’s face softened with sympathy. “How?” he asked.
Attia tried to push it away—tried to reject the familiar nightmare, but it found her anyway, as it always did. And again, the memory was just as clear, just as brutal. But she didn’t describe any of it for the gladiator. She didn’t even want to see it herself. “A Roman named Crassus Flavius murdered him and then took me out of spite,” she said. “After the invasion, everyone else was crucified. I am the last of them.”
Xanthus’s face contorted.
“I don’t want your pity,” she said quickly.
But he shook his head. “It’s not pity.”
Understanding dawned. “The same thing happened to your people,” Attia said.
Xanthus looked away. “Crassus came. My village burned. And my mother…” He swallowed hard. “I lost everything, too.”
There was more to his story, she could tell. More that he was holding back, just as she had. But she could see his mind working and saw the instant that his face lit up with a sudden realization.
He sat up quickly. “By the goddess,” he whispered. “Sparro? Your father was Sparro, the war-king of Thrace?”
Attia was a little shocked that he’d figured it out so quickly. A tiny crack was forming in the wall she’d so diligently built around her, but she met Xanthus’s eyes straight on. She tried to suppress her sudden wariness, her need to strike at something. She waited to see what he would do next.
“I never even knew he had a daughter,” he said. “Everyone assumed the swordlord’s heir was a son.”
Attia couldn’t help snorting at that. Of course they thought so. It was an ignorant assumption that had undoubtedly saved her life. That day on the hillside, the Romans had only seen one young girl who valiantly tried and failed to protect an old king.
More of her people might have been spared if they had simply surrendered, but that word was nearly unknown to Thracians. There wasn’t even a true equivalent in their language. The Romans killed so many because they had to, because Thracians would never stop fighting and the only way to defeat them was through annihilation. Still, even if Thrace had surrendered, Attia doubted that any of the men would have been allowed to live. As the champion said, they thought the swordlord’s heir was a boy.
Xanthus was still looking at her, this time with sad wonder in his eyes. “No wonder you wanted to kill me. No wonder you could have. Gods, we’re not equals at all. You’re royalty.” Coming from him, the word sent chills across her skin. “You’re a Maedi princess.”
Was, she corrected silently. She was one of the Maedi. She was a princess.
Xanthus relaxed back against the wall and actually chuckled. “A princess.”
Attia pulled her legs up underneath her and rested her head against the wall. “And you, a northern barbarian.” There was a light, teasing note in her voice that Xanthus immediately responded to.
“Well, you know what they say about barbaria
ns…,” he said with a grin.
Attia couldn’t help it. She laughed. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, she laughed—unrestrained and genuine, as though the tragedy of her existence had been erased, just for that one moment.
When she finally got her breath back, she and Xanthus were leaning together against the wall, their shoulders nearly touching. “Your turn again,” he said.
Wanting to push away the memories of war and loss, Attia asked an entirely different question. “What kind of animals do you have in Britannia?”
* * *
Xanthus watched her sleep as pale gray light filled the room. It was nearly dawn, but he didn’t want to wake her. Not yet.
She looked different in sleep. Younger. Softer. Her lips were slightly parted. Her hand rested by her temple. Her neat braid had come partially undone in the night, and strands of dark hair curled around her face. Every now and then, her eyelashes fluttered. What—or who—was she dreaming about?
They’d talked long into the night, until their voices became hoarse. Until their memories hung like bright lights all around them. Xanthus saw sparks of silver in her dark gray eyes every time she laughed, and he found he couldn’t look away from her. And when she fell asleep, her head drifted down to his pillow, and her hand—her hand fell perfectly into his. It was so unlike that first night when she couldn’t kill him and he couldn’t watch her grieve. He didn’t want to move an inch, not even when his arm tingled with numbness and his lids became heavy. After a while, she turned over with a sigh. But he still felt the warmth of her skin against his for hours after.
Xanthus had known strong women in his life, but not like her. Even if she hadn’t been one of the legendary Maedi, there was a brightness inside her, a core of fire that burned steadily beneath her scarred bronze skin.
Now, there she was. In his bed. Because of Timeus.
Seeing her nearly break the first night had been almost painful, and the memory of it made him shrug his shoulders as though he could throw off that heavy mantle of guilt he’d worn for so long. Attia grieved for her people, as he did. Now who was to blame for her condition? The Romans, yes. Crassus and Timeus, certainly. But what about Xanthus? What did you call a slave who agreed to enslave another?