Blood and Sand

by C. V. Wyk

  The people screamed with delight.

  The man with the ruby raised his fist, trumpets blared across the Coliseum, and the battle began.

  Galena turned her face away and closed her eyes. She couldn’t watch.

  Attia couldn’t look away. She stared as Sisera’s men charged forward on horseback. Xanthus and his companions stood side by side in a straight line that never faltered, not even as clouds of dust kicked up behind the horses and distorted the sunlight.

  The horsemen, on the other hand, had already broken ranks. Hector fell behind while another gladiator charged straight for Xanthus, intent on cutting the champion down. But Xanthus leaned away, just barely avoiding the edge of the horseman’s blade. The miss was so close that the crowd gasped in unison.

  Iduma used the distraction to launch himself off another’s back and mount the horse. He didn’t waste any time in burying a dagger into the horseman’s chest before letting him fall to the ground. Attia imagined his neck breaking with a jarring crack.

  Instead of keeping the horse, Iduma jumped down, landing agilely on two feet before joining his companions with an easy smile.

  One down. Five more to go.

  The remaining Trojans turned back in a line and charged again.

  Attia shook her head in disapproval. That kind of brutal, forward attack was primitive at best. It required no strategy, no planning, no real thought beyond the will to move. She’d heard some call it a brave way of fighting. She called it stupid, and Xanthus and his men seemed to agree.

  Albinus scoffed and swung his sword as soon as the first horse reached them. The poorly trained animal reared up, dropping its rider to the ground before running away. A second horse tried to leap to the left, lost its footing, and fell, crushing the legs of the gladiator on its back. Xanthus’s men wasted no time dealing the final blows to the fallen.

  Timeus smiled at Sisera. “Three of your men gone already, Sisera. Good Trojans, the lot of them.”

  Sisera grumbled under his breath.

  Xanthus and his men now took the offensive and began to advance on the last two gladiators. They walked slowly, each man perfectly spaced from the next. Their heads tilted down, and the sun on their helmets cast blinding reflections onto the crowd. Xanthus led them like a spear point.

  One of Sisera’s gladiators lost his wits then and threw his sword at Xanthus with a wild scream. Xanthus dodged it with a casual twist of his torso, his muscles flexing. But his arm—and even Attia barely saw this—swung out and caught the sword by the tip before flinging it back with impossible speed. It found its mark in the armored chest of the opposing gladiator who fell to the ground, his eyes wide with shock.

  The crowd was silent for a brief moment before stomps, screams, and sworn oaths drowned the arena in sound.

  Chills spilled across Attia’s skin, and she finally saw what the people saw—not gladiators, not even men, but immortal warriors from legend, perfect and invincible. The whole thing suddenly seemed incredibly unbalanced. Who could ever defeat such a force? Who could ever face Xanthus, the Champion of Rome, in combat and live?

  It looked like the fight would be over all too quickly. Only one of Sisera’s men remained.

  Attia could see the lone gladiator clearly from where she stood on the veranda. The blue sash across his chest billowed in the wind, and the plumes on his helmet trembled. He and Xanthus looked straight at each other for a long moment. Then the other gladiators began taking slow, deliberate steps back, sheathing their weapons as they went. It became clear that they wouldn’t take part in this last fight. It was, after all, a duel between Achilles and Hector.

  When the lone gladiator realized that, he looked down at his hands. His chest rose and fell as he took a deep breath before dismounting and removing his helmet. Black hair curled tightly against his scalp. He was younger than Attia expected. Perhaps no older than fourteen, a boy who was more Paris than Hector. And Xanthus was about to kill him.

  Her stomach turned. She’d never shied away from combat, but this was no fight. It was a slaughter. Against her will, she remembered Xanthus’s unguarded laughter, the steadiness of his voice, the soft touch of his hand on her face. She’d seen a gentler man, but the one who stood in the arena now—his name ringing out through the city—was little more than a murderer.

  She closed her eyes just as iron clashed against iron.

  Suddenly, the entire arena was silent.

  Looking down, Attia prepared herself for the worst.

  Xanthus and the young gladiator were locked against each other, swords crossed. With a lurch, Hector pushed away, and for a single breath, their weapons lowered. Then a few moments later, he raised his sword to strike.

  The pattern went on for several minutes. One attacked, the other deflected. Then one lunged forward and the other dodged neatly aside. Thrust, parry, dodge, attack. Xanthus aimed to punch the young man in the gut with his left hand, but managed to miss even that as Hector twisted himself out of the way.

  It dawned on Attia that Xanthus was holding himself back. It was the only explanation for why the boy wasn’t dead yet.

  Xanthus looked completely unaffected, as though he’d been lounging up on the veranda rather than fighting to the death. The young gladiator was panting and heaving with exhaustion. His sword hand lowered more with every passing minute, and he struggled to his feet after each fall. But still, he stood. He rushed forward over and over. He had courage, at least.

  Then Xanthus thrust again, and this time, Hector didn’t react quite fast enough. The blade sliced a deep wound in his arm, and he fell to his knees, his hand losing its grip on his sword.

  Xanthus rested one sword on the boy’s shoulder, and his lips formed whispered words that seemed to make Hector straighten up and lift his chin.

  Up on the veranda, the man with the ruby and the circlet stood and approached the stone railing. He extended his right fist outward, and Attia felt the entire arena hold its breath. He made a motion that she couldn’t see, though the rabid cheers of the crowd told her exactly what it meant: permission—or an order—to kill.

  But Xanthus didn’t move for a minute, then two. The seconds trickled by as everyone waited. Confused murmurs began to rush through the crowd, heavy with speculation and wariness, until Timeus stood and leaned over the railing.

  He didn’t say a word. He hardly made a sound. But Xanthus’s gaze sharpened on him, then drifted to where Attia stood. A look of terrible resignation settled on his face. He took a deep breath and looked down at the young gladiator.

  “You fought with courage,” he said, his deep voice carrying through the now silent arena. “You might almost be a prince of Troy, our … Hector reborn.”

  Attia wondered if she was the only one to hear the hesitation in his voice.

  Xanthus lowered his sword and turned his face away. For a moment, the whole crowd believed he would defy orders and let the boy live. Then he plunged his blade into the boy’s heart, killing him instantly.

  Galena smiled through teary eyes. “Mercy,” she whispered.

  Attia swallowed against the tightness in her throat. Yes. It was merciful. As merciful as any death could be.

  “I don’t think he’s ever let a losing gladiator live,” Galena said.

  “Xanthus?”

  Galena shook her head and nodded toward the railing, at the man with the ruby. “Princeps Titus.”

  An escort of Praetorians suddenly filled the veranda and surrounded the man. Together, they left in a frenzy of black cloaks and heavy steps.

  Galena looked at Attia’s shocked face as they passed. “Didn’t you know?”

  Attia gaped. The Princeps of Rome—a kinsman to that bastard Crassus—had been sitting just a few feet away from her the entire time, and she’d had no idea.

  “Oh, wasn’t that delightful!” Valeria said, though her voice shook just a little. “A bit short maybe, but vastly entertaining.”

  “Length is not always the determining factor in such vigoro
us exercises,” Timeus said before turning away from the railing.

  Despite his loss, Sisera burst out laughing.

  * * *

  Xanthus let his brothers carry the boy’s body away. There was one more thing he had to do.

  Raising his swords, he opened his arms in victory. Bile rose in his throat, but the people—and Timeus—expected him to play his part. The crowd was still cheering maniacally when Xanthus finally sheathed his swords and passed back through the gates.

  Respect and fear—that was what made the other gladiators and even the guards lower their heads as he passed. They knew better than to talk to him after a kill. They thought he was still hungry, that he was still consumed with bloodlust.

  Only a handful knew the truth, and they waited for him deep in the hypogeum.

  Castor and Lebuin had cleared off a stone table and gently laid the boy’s body down on it. Iduma had found a cloth to cover him, but there was already a red stain seeping through. Sisera’s Hector was younger than any of them had expected, and they watched Xanthus warily as he entered the small room.

  No one said anything. Xanthus’s last words to the boy screamed in his head.

  Be brave.

  And he had been, in the end. The boy had lifted his chin, straightened his back, and met his death with what courage he could.

  Xanthus’s mouth tasted like blood, a thousand times worse than the dust of the arena. He realized he’d bitten his tongue when he plunged his sword into the boy’s chest.

  The others left him without a word.

  Alone, Xanthus braced his arms against the stone table, trying not to shake or move or breathe. But his hands curled themselves around the closest thing at hand—a helmet that Castor had left behind. He grabbed it and hurled it at the wall with a feral scream.

  The swords on his back followed, iron chipping and sparking as it glanced off the stone.

  Then an ancient urn filled with sand.

  A heavy, jagged rock on the ground.

  Anything he could grab. Anything he could throw. Anything he could break.

  And when there was nothing left but his own bloody hands, he fell to his knees before the table. Familiar, painful words crawled past his lips as he tried to make his penance.

  Just like before.

  Just like always.

  “Forgive me. Oh gods, please forgive me.”

  A few minutes later, he heard the sound of shuffling feet. Timeus had come. Xanthus knew he would. He hardened his features but kept his back turned.

  “A fine match,” Timeus said, his voice low.

  “He was just a boy.”

  “You were just a boy when you became a champion.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “What do you want me to say? I didn’t tell Sisera to use someone so young. The man is a fool. You know that.”

  “I know that he is a man easily fooled.” Xanthus practically spit the words over his shoulder.

  Timeus bristled. “You are a gladiator,” he said, stepping closer. “You are my gladiator, and when the Princeps of Rome tells you to kill, you do not hesitate.”

  Xanthus rose to his feet. “I thought it would make for a better show—”

  “Don’t!” Timeus shouted, a thick purple vein pulsing on his forehead. “Don’t treat me like an idiot, Xanthus. What did you think would happen if you disobeyed? If you let the boy live? Do you think Titus Flavius is so willingly offended? I know you, Xanthus. Much better than you think. Even if you don’t care about yourself, you’ll die—you’ll kill—for the others. If you had spared that boy, many more would have suffered, and your new pet would probably have borne most of it. Why do you think I allowed her to come? Why do you think I bought her? To keep you in line!”

  Gods, Xanthus wanted to kill him in that moment. He’d known since childhood that Timeus was as coldhearted and cruel as they come, whatever indulgences he granted him. But he knew the man was right. If he’d spared the boy, then Attia would have been punished. And Albinus. And Gallus. And Iduma and Castor and Lebuin.

  All of them. Anyone he’d ever cared for. Just as Timeus said.

  Xanthus closed his eyes, and Timeus put a hand on his shoulder.

  “You are a gladiator,” he said again. But softly this time. Almost a whisper. “Remember that, and remember who depends on you now.”

  Xanthus nodded his head slowly, because really—how could he ever forget?

  CHAPTER 10

  Xanthus looked down at the cold, muddy water filling the courtyard and tickling his calves. The clouds were wringing themselves out, and rain had been pouring for more than seven days. The waterline climbed steadily while slaves hammered at the outer wall to make an opening. Gaping, uneven chunks of stone fell with heavy splashes.

  Some months earlier, when Timeus began his renovations to the estate, the architect had warned him to include a drainage system. The stone walls were too tight, he said. When the rainy season came, they would end up with their own private lake right in the middle of the estate, he said. And of course Timeus, brilliant ass that he was, disagreed. He hadn’t wanted to jeopardize the perfect design of his wall.

  “Damn bloody shit!” Timeus shouted from the protective arch of the house.

  Behind him, Ennius sighed heavily and gave Xanthus an exasperated look. Xanthus shrugged.

  “Don’t say it! Don’t either of you say it!” Timeus warned with an outstretched finger wagging at each of them in turn.

  Xanthus chewed on the inner part of his cheek to hold back a comment that was sure to make Timeus even angrier.

  “It’ll take weeks, months to fix the damages!” Timeus fumed.

  “Yes, Dominus,” Xanthus said.

  “All that damned money! Wasted!”

  “Yes, Dominus,” Xanthus said again.

  “Oh, I can just see Tycho Flavius rolling with amusement at the news of this!”

  Xanthus scratched the light stubble on his chin. It was probably time for him to shave again. He wondered idly if the Thracian preferred clean-shaven or bearded men. Did the Maedi grow beards? He’d have to ask her.

  Timeus gritted his teeth and ran a hand through his hair. “Don’t either of you have anything to say?”

  Ennius glanced calmly up at the sky. “It’s raining,” he said.

  Timeus glared at him. “Prepare the household,” he said. “We leave for Pompeii.”

  Xanthus smiled. He looked forward to leaving the city for the duration of the rainy season. But the weather also reminded him of Britannia and its damp, green valleys. Coming on the heels of the dark night of Samhain, the heavy rains almost managed to wash away the shadow and the dust and the blood that always seemed to stain his hands.

  Xanthus closed his eyes and turned his face to the sky.

  He always did love the rain.

  * * *

  Attia carefully pulled the cap onto Rory’s head, stuffing the girl’s unruly curls beneath the fabric.

  “Is that too tight?” Attia asked.

  Rory, standing with her little arms outstretched, shook her head. “No, but it itches.” She fidgeted and squirmed as Attia began to wrap layers and layers of fabric around her body. Eventually, only Rory’s pale, heart-shaped face was left exposed.

  Valeria stood at the window, arms folded across her chest while her eyes focused on some spot outside. Lucius hovered just behind Rory and winked when she looked back at him.

  “Do I still need to cover my face if it’s raining?” Rory asked. “There’s hardly any sun, and I can’t breathe with the mask on.”

  “Don’t argue, Aurora. You will do as you are told,” Valeria said without turning.

  Lucius knelt in front of his sister. “I know it’s difficult, Rory, but it won’t be for very long. Once you’re in the cart, you can take it off.”

  Attia watched as Lucius lifted a mask to Rory’s face and carefully fit it on. It was a single piece of thin white ceramic with gold edging. Precious stones bordered the eye holes, and blue, green, a
nd purple paint swirled together in whimsical patterns around the temples and forehead. Lucius drew the bright gold ribbons around Rory’s head and tied it in a simple bow. Sitting back on his heels, he took his sister’s hands. “It will be another grand adventure.”

  She blinked owlishly at him with her wide blue eyes. “Will you stay with me?” she asked, her small voice muffled by the mask.

  Lucius shook his head. “I can’t. You know I have to ride with Uncle. But Attia will stay with you.”

  Attia met Rory’s eyes and tried to smile, but it was a painful effort.

  When Sabina had told her that the household would be leaving Rome, Attia had nearly gone mad with desperation. She couldn’t afford to leave the city, not now. Her body was almost completely healed, and she’d only been waiting for the right moment to kill Timeus and escape the estate. She still needed information to find Crassus, but now all of her plans were drowning in Timeus’s damn courtyard. A part of her hoped that maybe, just maybe, she would be left behind. But as Rory’s nursemaid and the champion’s nighttime companion, there was no chance of that.

  It had taken the household three days and three nights to make the preparations to leave, and Attia had needed every second to rein in her frustration. I’ll kill Timeus and find Crassus, she promised herself. No matter what it takes. She’d snuck into Timeus’s study one last time and taken one of the maps, which she’d smuggled away among Rory’s things.

  In the child’s small room, Attia watched as Lucius swept Rory up into his arms with a big smile, cradling her against him like a glass doll.

  The rain had eased a bit, becoming more a curtain of heavy mist than an actual downpour. But the slaves had still been forced to erect a makeshift bridge to bypass the flooded courtyard. The rest of the household waited by the main gate. Timeus sat astride a reddish brown Iberian stallion, the rain creating rounded droplets in his white hair. Valeria retired to her own closed cart.

  Nearly the entire household was journeying to Pompeii—the house slaves, the garden slaves, Timeus’s private guard, and of course, his gladiators. Altogether, there were close to a hundred people scattered through the column of wagons and horses that made up the caravan.