Blood and Sand

by C. V. Wyk

  They sat in silence as Attia finished wrapping his hands in the linen and tied it off with a neat knot.

  Lucius flexed his fingers. “Well, you managed to save my hands. Thank you.”

  “Not half bad for a woman, wouldn’t you say?”

  He sighed. “You’re irritated with me.”

  “What would you do if I said I was?”

  “Apologize again?”

  “Is that a question?”

  “This coming from the person who likes to answer all of my questions with more questions?”

  “Oh, so I’m a person now?”

  He raised his bandaged hands in front of him. “Truce, please, truce. This is exhausting.”

  “Well, now you’ve had your first real lesson on women—never argue with one.”

  “Perhaps I should practice sparring with you instead of the gladiators,” he said with a sudden grin. “Then again, I might lose more than my hands.”

  “Yes. You might.”

  * * *

  “I don’t know anything about children,” Attia said for the third time.

  “Then you’ll have to learn. Mistress Aurora’s nursemaid took sick in Naples and couldn’t return with the household. The child needs someone to watch over her during the day. And we both know you haven’t exactly been doing any of the other chores I’ve assigned you.”

  Attia frowned and looked away. “What am I supposed to do with a little girl?”

  “You were a little girl once, too, Attia,” Sabina said.

  Attia nearly snorted. She’d been a little girl in a Maedi camp. She couldn’t very well teach Timeus’s niece to wield a sword now, could she?

  “Just figure it out and take care of her. She’s not allowed outside anyway. How difficult can it possibly be?” Sabina said.

  Attia sighed. They both knew that Sabina couldn’t force her to do anything, but they also both knew that Attia would never willingly hurt a child. Oh, she’d ruin linens and burn pork and leave rooms dirtier than they were when she first went in. But a little girl? It seemed Sabina had finally found a responsibility that Attia couldn’t completely shrug off.

  Attia was still grumbling to herself about children and nursemaids as she climbed the steps to the upper floor. She paused when she reached the landing, her eyes looking to the east wing, where Timeus’s study was located. With a heavy sigh, she turned in the opposite direction and made her way down the hall. She’d passed through these rooms numerous times on her half-hearted rounds of cleaning. Now she ignored them and walked straight to a small door with a ringed handle. Attia glowered at the thing for a long moment before finally pushing the door open.

  The only light in the room came from a few candles on the window ledges. The shutters had been pulled closed, preventing sunlight from entering the room. A small bed with patterned blankets was nestled in one corner. And the young mistress Aurora Bassus sat alone in front of a low-burning fire, tracing symbols in the ash that coated the floor there.

  The child was small and very thin. She reminded Attia of a baby bird who hadn’t yet left the nest. In the dim light, Attia could see that the girl’s skin was incredibly pale, but deep auburn curls framed her heart-shaped face.

  Attia took another step into the room. “Mistress Aurora?”

  The child smiled up at her. “Please don’t call me that. Anyway, my proper name is very long. Do you want to hear it? It’s Aurora Morgana Alexandria Bassus. But my brother calls me Rory because when I was a baby, I couldn’t say my name, so he shortened it up for me. You’re Attia. I know because they told me. It’s a pretty name. What does it mean? Are you named after someone? Lucius is named after our father, but I’m not named after anyone. I never even knew Father. He died in battle somewhere a long, long, long time ago just before I was born, so I wouldn’t remember him anyway. I only remember Mother and Lucius. He sings for me, you know.”

  Attia stood staring at the girl, unsure what to say. For a sickly child, little Rory could certainly talk. Probably because she didn’t have many people to talk to. Attia glanced at the closed windows.

  “I can’t be in the sun,” Rory explained. “There’s something wrong with my skin. If the sunlight touches me, I’ll burn up and die.” She said it all quite matter-of-factly, as though she was reciting the words from a well-rehearsed lesson.

  “Oh,” Attia said.

  Rory smiled. “It’s all right. You don’t have to feel sorry for me. How old are you?”

  “Almost eighteen.”

  “That makes you…”—Rory counted quickly on her fingers—“almost twelve years older than me—just like Lucius! There are lots of years between us because Mother didn’t want another child. I was an accident. But Lucius says that he and father both wanted me, so that evens out, right? Lucius is my best friend.” She frowned and wrinkled her little nose. “Well, I don’t have any other friends, but he’s the best one. Maybe now, we can be friends!”

  Attia looked around uncomfortably. “I don’t think your family would find that … appropriate.”

  “Mother doesn’t like anything that other people do. Lucius calls her a hippo.” Rory bit her lip. “No, that’s not right. A hiccup?”

  “A hypocrite?”

  “That’s it! Lucius would like you. You’re pretty and smart and the girls he usually courts are only just pretty. I never get to talk to them either, but sometimes I sneak out of my room—just to see. You can’t tell anyone though,” she said. Her voice suddenly became so soft that Attia could barely hear her. “Lucius is my best friend, but he doesn’t know what it’s like.”

  “What what’s like?”

  “Being alone,” Rory said.

  Attia swallowed past a lump in her throat. “No, he wouldn’t know about that, would he?”

  Rory was quiet for a moment. “Would you like to draw with me?”

  So Attia sat beside the girl near the fire, drawing random symbols in the ash for what felt like hours. Rory kept glancing back at the closed windows with a hopeful look on her face, and when the sun finally set, she jumped to her feet, pushed the candles aside, and swung the shutters open.

  From the northern window, there was a clear view of the coastline and even a bit of the gladiators’ training yard. If Attia craned her neck just a bit, she could see the red “X” that marked the lintel over Xanthus’s door.

  “You have to go now, don’t you?” Rory asked.

  “Yes, but I’ll come back tomorrow.”

  “Promise?”

  Attia knelt beside the little girl and found herself smiling. “I promise.”

  * * *

  A light breeze rustled through the trees and plants that bordered the estate walls. The promise of winter lingered in the evening air, though she doubted the weather would be too harsh so far south. It wouldn’t be anything like a winter on the Aegean—gray and angry, with salty winds and waves strong enough to drown a ship.

  As Attia passed through the main courtyard on her way to Xanthus’s quarters, a beam of light caught her attention. It bounced along the ground, following the uneven line of the shrubbery and drawing random circles on the wall. If the guards at the gate noticed, they didn’t seem to care.

  Attia’s step didn’t falter, but she looked back to the upper window of the villa, where Rory held a small mirror in her hand. Her chin rested along one folded arm, and her head lolled from side to side in apparent boredom. As soon as she saw Attia watching, she ducked down to hide beneath the window. She wasn’t very good at it; her little fingers still clutched the windowsill.

  Attia turned away from the window, but after a few more steps, she glanced back with a grin and caught Rory peeking at her through her fingers. The child smiled, and Attia heard a faint giggle before the girl ducked down again to hide below the window. Attia looked back once more before she reached the training courtyard, and this time the girl didn’t hide. Attia could only make out a few of her features in the moonlight—namely the fierce auburn curls that surrounded the girl’s face li
ke a halo.

  Growing up in her father’s camp, Attia had only had boys to keep her company, and training had always taken precedence over child’s play. So she was surprised by how charming she found the strange little girl in the window. She’d never thought of herself as someone who cared much about children.

  Attia raised her hand in a little wave just as Xanthus’s door opened a few feet away. She smiled faintly and shook her head as she entered his quarters.

  “What’s so funny?” Xanthus asked, his face open and curious, ready to laugh along at whatever joke she might share.

  Again, he looked different to Attia. Not the stoic champion or the contrite killer or even the playful barbarian. No, he looked calm. Still. A bit tired. Attia wondered what version of Xanthus she was seeing now.

  “I’m to play nursemaid to Timeus’s niece,” Attia said in a mocking tone before her voice softened. “But she’s actually a sweet girl. I didn’t expect that.”

  “I’ve never really seen her. They say she’s quite ill—not allowed outside. Even when the household travels, she’s shielded in drapes and curtains.”

  “I know. The windows in her room were shut tight for most of the day. What kind of sickness doesn’t let you go outside?”

  Xanthus shrugged. “A very bad one?”

  Attia rolled her eyes. “Romans are strange.”

  “Not at all. They’re simple, really.”

  “Are they? Enlighten me, oh championed one,” Attia teased, bowing forward with a smile.

  But Xanthus’s face had gone cold. “They’re wolves torn between pack mentality and inflated ambition. They’ll kill and betray as it suits them with little regard for anyone else.”

  The smile faded from Attia’s face.

  “Don’t tell me you disagree, Thracian.”

  “I don’t,” Attia said softly.

  They stood in awkward silence until Xanthus grabbed a blanket and spread it out on the floor. His movements seemed more rigid, and his face looked strained as he blew out the candles.

  “I’ll sleep on the floor tonight,” Attia offered. “I’m more used to it, and you can’t keep giving me your bed.”

  Xanthus shook his head. “No, you take it.”

  “No, it’s your bed.” She tried to move past him to the blanket on the floor.

  “No, Attia. Take the bed,” he said, his voice hardening as he tried to usher her away.

  “No, you!”

  She pushed back against him as his hand brushed lightly against her breast. They both pulled away so quickly that they lost their balance and tumbled to the floor. Xanthus managed to break his fall with an outstretched arm and caught Attia as she literally fell into his lap.

  They froze. Two hardened, experienced fighters with countless kills and victories, and all either of them could do in that moment was stare stupidly at the other.

  A fierce blush began working its way from Attia’s neck to her scalp. The only time she’d ever been so close to a man was, well, to kill him. Or maim him. But she didn’t think those experiences were particularly relevant at the moment. She bit her lip.

  Xanthus’s hand rested against Attia’s waist, holding her to him. His eyes grazed over her face, and he slowly raised his hand to touch her cheek.

  Attia inhaled sharply. Somehow this touch felt a thousand times more intimate than her head on his shoulder or falling asleep in his bed. Still, she didn’t resist when his fingers moved to her jaw then down to her neck. The slow movement, the warmth, the solidness of him against her—it almost made her ignore the constant undercurrent of bitterness that hummed through her core. It almost made her forget where she was. What she was.

  Almost.

  Xanthus hadn’t hurt her. He’d never even said an unkind word to her. But he was a prize in Timeus’s house and a champion of the Republic she despised. To everyone around them, he rightfully owned her, and that was something she could never forget.

  He said nothing as she pulled away from him and crawled into his bed, turning her face to the wall. After a few moments, he lay down on his blanket and turned the opposite way.

  * * *

  Attia walked through the villa, trying not to think about the previous night. Every time she imagined the hurt look on Xanthus’s face when she pulled away, she wanted to cringe. It was better to focus on more important things, like getting back into Timeus’s study.

  She’d managed to memorize the Flavian family tree, and she had a clear idea of the route she could take through the city. But she needed more information: Where was Crassus? Was he on a campaign? If not, where did he live? Was his residence on Palatine Hill? Breaking into the Princeps’s palace would be difficult, but not necessarily impossible.

  Attia’s mind was whirling with plans when she turned a corner and walked right into a lithe figure dressed in black—the woman she’d seen only in glimpses throughout the villa. All she could do was stare.

  The woman’s thick dark hair was pulled back in the Roman style, all curls and elaborate twists. The neckline of her tight-fitting gown plunged low between her breasts, but Attia guessed that was the point. She was beautiful in an almost inhuman sort of way. Her body curved in all the right places, but her solemn expression made her face seem angular and harsh. She looked more like a statue than flesh and blood. Maybe because of that, Attia couldn’t quite determine the woman’s age. She was older than Attia, though not by much. Her light brown skin was still smooth and free of wrinkles, but her eyes—Attia could see the shadows lurking in their dark depths.

  The woman considered Attia for a moment. “You must be the Thracian,” she said. Her voice was deeper than Attia expected. “I’ve heard about you. You belong to the champion.”

  Attia huffed in irritation. I don’t belong to anyone. She nearly said as much when the woman spoke again.

  “I belong to the dominus,” she said, and something flashed in her eyes but was gone too quickly for Attia to interpret. “What are you doing up here?”

  “Cleaning.”

  The woman glanced at Attia’s empty bucket and dry rags. “I see,” she said. “Well, the domina has called for us both to attend her. Come with me.”

  Attia stayed where was. She’d be damned if she let Timeus’s concubine boss her around.

  The woman raised her eyebrow. “Unless, of course, you’d like to explain to the dominus why you didn’t come when called.”

  Attia narrowed her eyes. She had no choice. She’d just have to get back to the study later.

  The woman led Attia to Valeria’s quarters on the other side of the villa. Attia hadn’t explored that part of the house yet. In stark contrast to the grandiosity of Timeus’s formal rooms, a playful whimsy embellished the décor of Valeria’s quarters. Pale silk drapes hung everywhere, sweeping along the walls and pillars, covering open doorways and archways. There were statues as well—graceful nymphs lined the hallway, watching Attia with their enigmatic smiles frozen in marble.

  In an open, airy room, Valeria sat at an elaborate vanity by an arched window. Her blond hair was curled and piled up on her head with copper pins. A mirror perched atop the vanity—easily the largest Attia had ever seen—and reflected more of the furniture within the room, including a massive bed covered with tunics, shawls, ribbons, and gowns.

  “What do you think of this one, Lucretia?” Valeria asked, looking at her reflection but clearly addressing the concubine. She held an elaborate gold-and-emerald necklace against her pale throat, angling it one way, then another.

  “Quite bold, Domina,” Lucretia said as she walked up behind Valeria. “But perhaps the sapphires will best complement your coloring.”

  Valeria frowned but kept still as Lucretia picked up the sapphire necklace and clasped it around her neck.

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Valeria said. “I always did favor blue.”

  Attia’s gaze slowly shifted from the mirror down to the massive tray that held Valeria’s jewels. There were so many stones—so many pieces of gold, s
ilver, and bronze—that she couldn’t even distinguish them all. It was like Valeria’s personal version of Timeus’s jeweled mosaics: a dazzling, sickening display of wealth.

  “With that, perhaps the cream-colored stola with the sash,” Lucretia said.

  But Valeria ignored her, training her eyes on Attia. “So you are my daughter’s new nursemaid. I am told she is fond of you.” She looked Attia up and down, much the same way Lucretia had just a few minutes ago in the hallway. “I am told the champion is fond of you as well. You must be a girl of many talents.”

  Attia felt her face flush. She turned her eyes to the floor so Valeria wouldn’t see the anger beginning to simmer there.

  “Hmm,” Valeria said. “Lucretia, not the cream stola. Pick something else. The girl can start on my paints.”

  It took Attia a moment to realize that Valeria was referring to her, and when she did, she turned to stare wide-eyed at Lucretia. The woman didn’t even look at her. Instead, she turned and busied herself with the domina’s many gowns.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” Valeria demanded.

  Attia gingerly approached the vanity, looking helplessly at the dozens of assorted jars, tubes, cups, and bowls scattered among Valeria’s jewels. All of them were filled with contents that she couldn’t even identify, let alone know how to apply. The colors were just as varied, ranging from deep reds and bright oranges to light pinks and black pastes.

  Valeria shifted in her seat, turning her back to the mirror, closing her eyes, and raising her face to Attia. Behind them, Lucretia carefully collected the domina’s discarded gowns and began folding them up again.

  Attia hesitantly reached for the bowl of pale cream, cradling it in one hand as she dipped a single finger in. It was cool to the touch and thicker than she expected. Biting her lip, she started to spread it on Valeria’s cheeks and forehead. Valeria sighed with contentment.

  “I purchased this lavender cream in Naples, you know,” she said. “It’s the best I’ve ever found for filling wrinkles.”

  Attia released a small breath. At least she was using that one correctly.