Blood and Sand

by C. V. Wyk

  “I don’t need your help, Sabina. You know that.”

  “Attia, please,” she begged. But she saw the steely resolve in Atta’s eyes.

  Attia grasped her hands. “I would do it for you.”

  With a sigh of resignation, Sabina helped Attia secure her hair under a tight black wrap that covered her head, neck, and most of her face. Attia used ash and soot to smudge rings around her eyes and across the bridge of her nose. Rory’s darkest linens were employed to fashion wrappings around her hands and wrists, while Lucius’s trousers, tunic, and boots clothed the rest of her in layers of black.

  By the time they were done, Attia looked a bit bigger, a bit broader, and nothing like a young woman. Funny. This was how Attia had thought to make her escape. Now she was ready to run straight into the wolves’ lair.

  “How do I look?” she asked.

  “If someone stares at you too long, you might still be recognized,” Sabina said.

  “I won’t be.”

  Outside, the moon had disappeared behind heavy clouds. Xanthus must be growing tired, and dawn was still far away.

  “Please,” Sabina begged, one last time. “Don’t go.”

  Attia leaned forward to kiss the older woman’s cheek through the scarf that covered her face. Then she slid out into the night, gripping the lintel of the door and hauling herself up, using the deep pockmarks in the wall face to climb to the roof. She might as well have been a shadow, silent as she was.

  She raced along the roofs of insulas and shacks toward the brightly lit arena in the distance. She could see them easily in the darkness—the hundreds of torches glowing from the depression of the stadium. And she could hear them—the excited shouts of men as they watched their brothers fight to the death.

  When Attia reached the arena, she climbed to the top of the outer wall just below the balcony where Timeus sat with Fido, crouched down, and listened.

  “It’s not possible,” Fido grumbled. “Seven men in a row? No one is that good.”

  Timeus spoke through gritted teeth, but his words sounded slurred. “He is Xanthus Maximus Colossus. Of course he’s that good.”

  Attia couldn’t disagree, but she still frowned with worry as she looked down onto the arena floor. To any other observer—like Timeus or Lucius or Fido—Xanthus looked resilient as ever. His breathing was slow and even. His green eyes were bright and alert. He fought with a ferocity that left the Ardeans gasping in fear and delight.

  But Attia saw how he kept flexing his shoulders and hands. That slow breathing of his was intentionally deep and carefully measured. Only a truly experienced fighter would notice the signs, and Attia saw them all—the fatigue, the exhaustion. She knew he wouldn’t last till dawn.

  Above her, Timeus stood, sending his chair toppling backward. “I’m tired,” he declared.

  “The night has just begun,” Fido said. “Sit, Timeus. Drink!”

  “Ennius, stay with my nephew,” Timeus said. “He may need some … advice as acting lanista.” Then he turned away, surrounded by his guards, and left the arena to the jeers of the crowd and the drunken supplications of Fido.

  Ennius and Lucius said nothing, but Attia had a good idea why Timeus refused to stay till the end: He honestly didn’t know if Xanthus would survive this, and he couldn’t sit there and watch his champion fall.

  Coward.

  Attia looked out over the grimy, bloodthirsty faces of hundreds of Ardeans before slipping from her perch and working her way through them like a wraith. Between the wine and the excitement, no one paid her much attention. And when the next fight started, she found herself watching as spellbound as anyone else. But she kept silent amidst the cheers and taunts. She felt like she was holding a vigil rather than witnessing a death match.

  The skin on the back of her neck prickled, giving her the unnerving sensation that she was being watched. Her eyes drifted back up to the balcony only to look straight into Ennius’s curious, penetrating stare. She wasn’t sure what had made him look down at her. Perhaps it was her stillness in the midst of the stadium’s discord. Perhaps it was the fact that her appearance was almost entirely obscured, though no one else had seemed to notice yet. Whatever the reason, Ennius narrowed his eyes before turning and making his way toward the stairs.

  Attia hurried through the crowd to wait for him on the second-floor landing, wondering just how she would explain herself to him and hoping that he would somehow understand.

  Ennius paused several steps above her. “Who are you?” His eyes narrowed with suspicion.

  Attia didn’t answer, only took a step toward him.

  “What’s your name? Your house?”

  Still, she didn’t answer, but took another step closer.

  Ennius’s eyes widened, and she knew she didn’t have to say anything at all. He hobbled down the last few steps until he was only inches away from her face. She could tell he was fighting the urge to grab her—probably shake her—but guards patrolled nearby, so he struggled instead to keep his voice even and his composure calm. “Are you insane? If you’re caught—”

  “Sabina has given me this lecture,” Attia said quietly. “You can either waste time repeating it or help me.”

  “Help you? Help you with what?”

  “He’s been fighting for hours, Ennius, and he’s getting tired. You see it, don’t you?”

  “You came to help Xanthus?” He couldn’t keep the astonishment out of his voice.

  “Yes. Will you help me?”

  He shook his head. “You are not a gladiator. You would get killed in the arena. Besides, even if you could help him, it’s not part of the deal. There can only be one gladiator for the House of Timeus, and he has to fight until dawn.”

  “It’s my lucky day, then. I think you should be able to see the obvious loophole in that. You said it yourself, Ennius: I am no gladiator.”

  “No, Attia,” Ennius said, shaking his head. “I can’t believe that you made it here unseen, but you have to go back. Leave before the guards catch you!”

  “He needs me. I can’t leave.”

  “I know you’re quick and apparently talented at moving in darkness, but this is no game,” Ennius said.

  “You’re right. It’s not.”

  “I could have you dragged back to your quarters.”

  “You could.”

  “You could be flogged or even crucified for this.”

  “And Xanthus could die in that arena. Death is inevitable, Ennius. That doesn’t mean we should stop fighting.”

  Ennius stared at her. “You would risk your life for him?”

  “I suppose it was only a matter of time before I started to see him the way the rest of you do,” Attia said. “If you love him at all, you’ll help me.”

  “Ennius?”

  They both looked up to see Lucius and Fido leaning over the third-floor railing.

  “What’s going on? Who is that?” Lucius asked.

  Ennius sighed before turning back to Attia. “A contender.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Xanthus would say this much for the Ardeans—they knew how to handle themselves. After ten years in the arena, he could take one look at a man and determine how well he was going to fight. New slaves panicked. Their motions were erratic, and they often died quickly. Former soldiers tried to jab and cut, following too many rules that no longer applied. The best gladiators had a mix of formal training and good instincts. Their eyes took in everything—arm movements, leg movements, the twitch of a brow or quirk of the mouth.

  The Ardeans didn’t seem to have any training to speak of, but their instincts and ferocity almost made up for it. It was clear to Xanthus from the very first contender that these were men who had fought often and for much of their lives.

  His eighth opponent strutted into the arena like a peacock, but he was light on his feet, for all that he looked slightly drunk. Back and forth, they circled each other. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry. Xanthus wondered if he could keep this up until dawn.


  During one particularly long circuit around the arena, Xanthus’s attention drifted, and the peacock chose that moment to take a jab and nick Xanthus’s side. Blood spilled from the narrow cut, and the crowd began to scream in earnest. Xanthus reacted instinctually, spinning around and restraining the man’s arm. The peacock kicked backward and broke free. With a shout, he raised his sword high and brought it crashing down. It was almost too easy for Xanthus to block the hit and drive his own sword into the man’s chest.

  The words that followed felt like they’d worn themselves into his soul. “Forgive me,” he whispered as the body was dragged away.

  Gods, he was tired. It had been days since he’d had a proper night’s sleep. He just needed to close his eyes for a moment. He could feel his lids starting to drift shut when the sound of shouting caught his attention.

  “He is not a gladiator!”

  Xanthus looked up in confusion.

  “He is barely a man!” Lucius was shouting. “Yet his one true wish is to fight beside his hero, the Champion of Rome! Are you not bored with these cheap wins? What do you have to be frightened of? Look at him!” He swung his arm around to point at the figure standing at the edge of the balcony.

  Xanthus had no idea what was going on, but Lucius was right about the stranger—he was barely a man. His short legs were strapped with leather manicas meant for a soldier’s arms, and he wore a light, useless piece of leather across his chest. Black clothing covered the rest of his body and most of his face. He was laughably small.

  Amusement and curiosity bloomed on the Ardeans’ faces.

  Xanthus gritted his teeth in exasperation. Lucius wanted to send that boy into the arena with him? Was he trying to get them both killed?

  “And when he dies,” Lucius continued with a broad, fake smile, “wine for everyone!” He raised his hands, and the crowd conceded with deafening cheers.

  Xanthus groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  This is going to be a long night.

  * * *

  There was no other way to put it—Fido smelled like literal shit. It was as though a fat hog had eaten a dinner of moldy boots, sour wine, and month-old cheese, and then proceeded to defecate all over the tunic that Fido wore. Standing a few feet away from him made Attia gag as she tried to focus her watering eyes on Xanthus.

  She listened as Lucius convinced the crowd to let her join, and smiled when she saw Xanthus pinch the bridge of his nose in exasperation. It was a motion she’d seen a few times already.

  Ennius led her to a table that held all manner of macabre toys for her to choose from—curved swords, knives as thin and sharp as razors, double-headed axes, blunt machetes, star-shaped pieces of iron with pointed tips. But she chose the gladius, simple and short. The grip of the sword fit perfectly in her hand. The weight was well balanced.

  The weapon was an easy choice. The name was a different matter entirely.

  Ennius escorted her to the gate of the arena. “What are we supposed to call you?” he asked.

  Attia thought she wouldn’t care what they called her now that they’d called her a slave. But she found that she still did care, and the one name that meant the most to her was the one that would most probably end her. She looked into Ennius’s night-dark eyes. “They say Spartan blood flows in Thracian veins. And I am a daughter of the Maedi. Call me Sparro.”

  Ennius showed no outward reaction, though he did stare at her for what felt like a long time. Finally, he said, “I hope you know what you’re doing, Thracian.”

  So Attia waited impatiently at the gate to the arena while Lucius introduced her from the third-floor balcony, sounding so much like his uncle that chills rose along her skin.

  “He has appeared like a shade from the underworld. Light as smoke, small as a demon,” Lucius said.

  Attia rolled her eyes.

  “Not quite a man—but not a boy either,” he said.

  If only he knew how right he is.

  “And he has come for one reason—to fight beside a favored son of Rome, like the shadow of death itself! I give you … Spartacus!”

  Attia looked up at Ennius. She’d given him her father’s name, but apparently, he wasn’t quite willing to let her be as reckless as she wanted. He shrugged one shoulder in non-apology as Attia was pushed forward into the arena.

  No one made a sound.

  The silence was uncomfortable, to say the least. A part of Attia had expected at least a few cheers. Maybe the idea of her had seemed more appealing from a distance. But now that the crowd was actually looking at her, their expressions were a mixture of disinterest, disappointment, and boredom. Someone dropped a cup of wine, and Attia actually heard it clatter down the steps.

  Attia scowled. Really? Not a single shout of welcome? Not even a little bit of polite applause? She knew it shouldn’t bother her, but it did. Her irritation only grew when the next Ardean contender approached, and the stadium practically vibrated with screams for the man. She crossed her arms over her chest as the man stepped forward.

  He was easily twice her width and at least a head taller. If she stood close, she’d probably have to crane her neck to look him in the eye. None of that was particularly important. She focused instead on his body language as he chose a long weapon with three sharp points. Like Xanthus’s last opponent, this man was cocky. He sauntered into the arena, kicking out his legs with each step, jutting his chest forward, and throwing his shoulders back.

  Attia lowered her arms and flexed her hand around the hilt of her sword, letting her body adjust to the weight of the weapon.

  For his part, Xanthus seemed totally unimpressed with both of them. “Just stay out of my way,” he said to Attia without even looking at her. “I have plenty to feel guilty about without adding your death to the scales.”

  Then he moved away, leaving her cross and alone as he and the new fighter started to circle each other.

  Attia had the incredible urge to throw her sword at someone. Ennius was probably pleased. Maybe he thought if she didn’t have the chance to take part—if she saw that she wasn’t needed—then she’d just go back to her little rock-walled cell and stay quiet.

  We’ll see about that.

  The Ardean’s trident met the angle between Xanthus’s crossed swords, sending sparks raining down onto the sand. The man pulled free before striking again. Xanthus blocked with ease. They continued their striking and dodging while Attia stood uselessly off to the side. She needed to find a way to join the fight without interfering with Xanthus’s concentration, but she couldn’t see an opening.

  Maybe she had made a mistake. Maybe her presence would only put Xanthus at even greater risk. For now, she couldn’t do anything but wait and watch.

  The Ardean contender swung his trident at Xanthus’s legs. Xanthus jumped to dodge it, but he wasn’t quite fast enough. The heel of his right boot caught on one of the prongs, and he tumbled to the sand, rolling to a stop just a few feet away from Attia.

  The Ardean charged.

  No.

  Attia took a running step and used Xanthus’s shoulder as leverage to launch herself into the air, twisting her body so that she landed on her feet just behind the Ardean. She drove her sword into his back, and the tip emerged through the front of his chest. When she pulled the gladius free, the Ardean fell to the ground with a thud.

  The entire arena went deadly silent again, but this time it was with shock. They all stared at Attia as though she’d spontaneously grown a new limb. Then someone in the crowd started to cheer—finally—and soon everyone joined in.

  Attia’s satisfaction faded when Xanthus stood, sheathed his swords, and grabbed her arm. He peered into her eyes, and the same expression that Attia had seen on Ennius’s face dawned on Xanthus’s—shocked, terrified recognition.

  “Attia?” The exhaustion vanished as his face contorted. “What are you doing here?”

  Attia grasped his tunic, belatedly realizing that he wore no armor. “I couldn’t let you do
this alone.”

  “You need to leave—”

  “No, I can help,” Attia said. “I … I don’t want to lose you.”

  “And how do you think I’ll feel if you die here? You have to leave.”

  “I won’t.”

  Xanthus’s fierce green eyes bore into hers.

  “You’re stuck with me,” Attia said. “And if we die, we die together.”

  Xanthus released a heavy breath, his eyes never leaving her face. “Together,” he said, and raised their clasped hands into the air.

  They released two contenders at a time after that, but Attia’s presence had sparked a fire in Xanthus. He’d looked close to submitting from sheer exhaustion, but with her at his side, he seemed to find renewed energy to keep fighting, not for himself or for the crowd, but for her.

  And, yet again, she had little need of his protection.

  Lucius’s introduction proved chillingly prophetic. Attia moved like a demon of myth—quick, light, so fast that it looked like she could walk on walls and appear like a phantom behind her target. Her style was a complete contrast to Xanthus, who moved as purposefully as the sun.

  They were shadow and light. Death in two forms. Together, they killed ten, twenty, forty men before the sun rose.

  At last, when predawn turned the sky a deep gray that mirrored Attia’s eyes, they panted beside each other, almost completely spent. They had a short reprieve while Fido and Lucius argued over who the last contestants would be.

  “One more,” Attia said, breathing hard.

  “You mean two.”

  “So what usually happens when you win?”

  “What you’d expect,” Xanthus said with a shrug. “Food, gold, jewels, horses. Sometimes new slaves, but not always. In this case, we’ll get another night in the city, supplies for the journey, and Timeus will be gifted twelve Iberian stallions.”

  “Lovely. And the ass isn’t even here.”

  Up on the balcony, Fido grumbled and rubbed his rolling gut.

  Lucius raised his hands. “Ardeans!” he cried. “We have witnessed a true spectacle tonight! Xanthus, the Champion of Rome, and Spartacus, the Shadow of Death, have shown us something that we have never seen before—invincibility!”