by C. V. Wyk
The crowd jeered. They had gotten their spectacle. They had seen the Champion of Rome in action. But it had come at the price of Ardean lives.
“For their final feat, let them prove that they are truly immortal!” As he spoke, Lucius looked straight at Xanthus and nodded his encouragement.
A rusted gate opened just below the balcony, and wet snarls rippled out from the dark. Little clouds of dust rose into the air as furry paws stomped onto the sand. Flat heads, long snouts, elongated canines attached to gray, matted bodies.
Attia almost laughed as five wolves prowled into the arena. “You know, it’s fitting,” she said. “I’ve wanted to gut a true Roman for some time now.”
“You’re being unfair to the wolves.”
“Shall we make this interesting? One kill with one hit. Consider it a challenge.”
Xanthus laughed bitterly. “You mean something beyond the challenge to live?”
“Yes, and the prize is that you name what you kill.” Attia winked at him before running straight toward the center of the arena.
The crowd took one long, simultaneous gasp.
Attia jumped off the ball of her foot and twisted in the air, narrowly missing the snapping jaws of the first wolf. She landed on its head and stabbed it through before coming to rest with both feet on a narrow ledge protruding from the far wall. She raised her sword with a flourish to the roar of the crowd.
Xanthus couldn’t help but glare at her from across the arena, but Attia thought the expression warred with a slight smile.
The four remaining wolves stalked her from below, snarling in frustration. Xanthus gripped his swords and feigned an attack on the wolf nearest to him. When it lunged, he caught its neck between his swords and beheaded it in one smooth motion.
While the wolves were distracted, Attia leapt off her ledge and landed close to Xanthus. “I name the first one Timeus.”
“You’re mad, you know that?” Xanthus said.
“I’m tired, though at this point there’s not much of a difference.” She glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. “Well?”
“That one’s Sisera,” he said, nodding at the other fallen wolf.
Attia laughed and jabbed her sword at the forelegs of one of the animals. It growled ferociously and lunged, baring its belly to Attia’s blade. “Fido,” she said as it fell. “They actually smell quite similar.”
“Again, you’re being unfair to the wolves.”
They crouched back-to-back as the last two wolves circled them.
“You take that one, and I’ll take this one,” Attia said.
“How am I supposed to tell which is which?”
“Do I really need to explain the fundamentals of ‘right’ and ‘left’?”
Xanthus sighed and went for the wolf closest to him at the same moment that the second wolf launched itself at Attia’s throat.
The animal snapped at Xanthus’s legs as he circled, looking for a weak spot. Xanthus stabbed one of his swords at the wolf’s rear. It twisted away to defend itself, exposing its neck. Xanthus’s sword sliced clean through it. The animal was dead before it hit the ground.
Someone in the crowd shouted, pointing to the other side of the arena. Attia lay completely still with the last wolf stretched on top of her.
Xanthus ran to her side and slashed at the animal’s back. Its body shuddered for a moment before toppling over, Attia’s gladius protruding from its belly.
“Crassus,” she said breathlessly before pulling her sword free. Blood drenched the front of her clothes, lending a shine to the dark material. Attia got to her feet and clasped Xanthus’s hand.
And the Ardeans cheered.
“Xanthus!” Lucius called from the edge of the arena. Fido stood beside him.
Lucius shook Xanthus’s hand, dirty and bloody as it was. His face was carefully neutral. “Well done,” he said simply, with no small amount of relief in his voice.
Fido glowered. “The horses will be ready for your master on the road. I must admit that I have never seen such an exhibition. I didn’t believe you would live past dusk, let alone dawn. What are you? Some gods from legend? Spawns of Mars himself?”
Xanthus glanced down at Attia. Her face was still covered by cloth and grime and blood, her eyes red with exhaustion. “Not gods. Just … men.”
Behind Fido, Ennius smiled.
Lucius turned to Attia. “Spartacus, the Shadow of Death,” he said. “For whom do you fight?”
Attia glanced at Xanthus, then at Ennius, before finally shrugging.
“No one? No lanista or master?” Lucius asked. “What, are you just a freeman looking for thrills?”
Attia nodded.
“Are you mute?”
She nodded again.
“Were you born that way?” Lucius asked.
She shook her head and tried not to glare at Ennius’s amused smile.
“Well, anyway, consider yourself our honored guest,” Lucius said.
Attia shook her head again.
“I insist,” Lucius said. “You fought honorably beside our champion, after all. No doubt my uncle will convince you to make your oath with us before the day is through.” He motioned to Ennius. “Will you find him a place?”
“He can share my quarters,” Xanthus said.
“It’s settled then.” Lucius turned to Fido. “The House of Timeus will not soon forget the … hospitality you have shown us.”
“And Ardea will not forget the House of Timeus,” Fido said, turning his eyes to Attia.
The crowd parted to let them pass. Everyone bowed their heads in deference to Lucius and Fido. But the names on their lips did not belong to noblemen or even freemen, but to a slight figure in black and the gladiator behind her.
“Xanthus!” they cried. Then, a chant.
“Spartacus! Spartacus! Spartacus!”
CHAPTER 14
The room smelled like mold. The air was heavy and damp. A lantern flared to life, and Attia could see rock walls glistening with moisture. She wondered if the door to this room would be locked or if even in this strange place, Xanthus had his privileges.
Now that they were finally alone, Attia pulled away the linen that covered her face and took a deep breath. It had been a long, long night, and all she wanted was warm, dreamless sleep. A bath wouldn’t hurt either.
Xanthus crouched beside a bucket of water, washing his hands of some of the blood and grime. He hadn’t said a word since they’d left the arena.
“Are you injured?” Attia asked softly, breaking the silence.
Xanthus stood but couldn’t lift his eyes to meet hers. “You were incredible out there.”
Attia frowned. “We’re alive. That’s the important thing.”
“We’re alive, yes. But we killed men tonight, Attia.” His voice hardened. “Many, many men. They may have been good or they may have been bad, but they died for sport.”
“It’s not our sport,” Attia said. “And I’m not sorry for what I had to do to keep you safe.”
Xanthus closed his eyes, but not before Attia saw the deep pain there. “You shouldn’t have bothered. I’m damaged. Can’t you tell? I can’t be fixed. There is no forgiveness for what I’ve done.”
“What you’ve done,” she said. “Do you mean like when the camp was attacked? How many did you kill that night?”
Xanthus’s eyes snapped open. “That was different.”
“Was it? How? Tell me, Xanthus—tell me how you weigh each of those men against the other and determine their worth.”
“Those men in the camp attacked us first. I only wanted to protect you.”
Attia scoffed. “We both know that I can take care of myself. Try to protect me all you want, Xanthus, but you can’t change who I am. Fighting is what I know, and I will fight for what matters to me until the day the Romans hang me on their cross.”
“Stop!” Xanthus cried. The raw anguish in his voice was startling. “Don’t you understand? I can’t lose you!”
A su
dden wave of guilt washed over Attia. She realized she was looking at a man who had never really been a boy, a man who knew death and bondage and little else. His bright green eyes had turned dark with a remorse she couldn’t feel. And she had almost disappeared on him without a word. She wished she knew how to comfort him now. But she’d never been taught how to soften her voice or ease hurts with a touch. She knew iron. She knew strength.
“Well, I fought for you, gladiator. I killed because I couldn’t lose you.”
His shoulders fell, but his arms were around her in seconds. The embrace felt like an apology, and not just to her. She felt him shake his head. “I see their faces, Attia. I see them in the shadows. I see them when I close my eyes.”
Attia rested her forehead against his. “Then keep your eyes on me, champion. And we’ll face the shadows together.”
They held each other in the dark. Their clothes were stiff with blood, and Xanthus’s short hair was even matted down with it. But Attia kept her eyes on his face. His brows were clenched in a scowl that a stranger might call fearsome, his lips flattened in a hard line.
Attia touched the crease between his eyes with the tip of her finger. “If only the fierce gladiator could smile.”
Xanthus tilted her chin up and kissed the corner of her mouth with a caress that was more breath than touch. The bond between them was still so new and fragile, and yet Attia found that she survived on that breath. She wondered if she’d ever really lived before.
“What would the Maedi warrior know about smiling?” he said against her lips as he pulled her closer.
“Not enough,” she murmured.
Gray-blue light filtered in through the tiny crack that opened high in the rock wall, mocking them with the time they didn’t have.
“It’ll be daylight soon,” Xanthus said. “If they find Spartacus here, there will be more questions. And if they find Aurora’s nursemaid, there will be punishment.” His hold tightened, and he whispered her name against her hair, soft and earnest as a prayer.
Attia touched the silver crescent moon that hung at his throat. “They don’t have to find either of us. I can lead us out of the city. I know the way now. We’re right by the sea and there’s a great forest to the east. We can disappear.” She pulled away to look up at him. “No more matches or arenas. No more chains. We can be free.”
But Xanthus shook his head. “There is no freedom in Rome. Not for me. Timeus will hunt me all the way to the underworld.” His face settled into a calm, empty mask. Only his eyes betrayed the emotions boiling underneath.
Attia could sense a hurt, a deep anger that he was keeping from her. She knew he wanted freedom just as badly as she did, but he was holding back. She wanted to ask why. But more, she wanted him to tell her.
“You should go,” he said. “You can make it, and I told you before that I would never force you to stay with me. There’s nothing for you here. You have the chance at a real life again.” He gently touched the backs of his fingers to her cheek, staring into her eyes for a long minute before kissing her tenderly. “Run,” he whispered against her lips. “Just run.”
Attia gripped his tunic in her fists and shut her eyes. There was a terrible sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. The urge to run was so great she could barely contain it. Every fiber in her body was pulling her toward the door, urging her to make her escape. But there was Xanthus—warm and solid and good. Attia wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, feeling the desperation and hope swirling around them like smoke. Even before she opened her eyes again, she knew. They lived amidst ugliness, but between them there was light. This is real, she thought. The only real thing left. She kissed him again before pulling back just enough to look into his eyes.
“I can’t,” she said. “Not without you.”
Their arms tightened around each other once again, and so the princess of Thrace found herself bound to a gladiator.
Outside, a heavy mist hung over the city of Ardea. The sun had risen but had yet to break through the fog. When they opened the door, they saw two guards sleeping soundly across the road.
Attia pulled the linen over her mouth again and turned to look at Xanthus one more time. Her heart ached when he tried to smile at her.
“You look like a boy, Thracian,” he teased.
“You look like a savage, Briton.” Her voice was muffled by the fabric over her mouth.
She put a hand against his cheek, her gaze caressing every hard line and curve, the fantastic life in his green eyes, the way a day’s growth of stubble darkened his jaw, the soft streaks of gold in his brown hair.
Already, so many other faces had begun to fade from her memory. Her mother’s was like a dim reflection in her head, nothing but gray eyes and indistinct features, as though she looked into a rippling pool. How had she smiled? And her father—how had Sparro laughed? The sound of his voice slithered through Attia’s mind like smoke, translucent and just as brief.
This is our curse then, she thought. Xanthus is haunted by his ghosts. I forget them.
She pressed her mouth to his palm in silent promise before stepping out into the morning.
No torch-lit stadiums guided her this time, and the fog was thick. But once she climbed onto the roof of Xanthus’s rock-walled room, she looked out over the city and remembered her way. It wasn’t far after all. She could be back with Sabina and Rory before a single Roman—or Ardean—knew that she’d gone missing.
Before the day began, she would become a slave once more.
Attia snuck back into Rory’s room just as the sun finally broke through to light the sky.
Hands immediately grabbed her.
“You’re alive! Are you hurt? Did they recognize you?” It was Sabina with red, watery eyes. She ran her hands over Attia’s face and arms and stomach, looking for wounds that weren’t there.
“I’m fine,” Attia said as Sabina pulled her close, wrapping her strong arms around her.
“Don’t do that again,” Sabina said. “Promise me.”
Attia said nothing. She simply let Sabina hold her and let herself believe that it was for the older woman’s comfort rather than her own.
After she helped Attia undress, Sabina flung the dark, bloody clothes into the fire. Smoke bloomed out into the room before drifting up through the column that led to the roof. The copper water tub still sat in the center of the room, cold now. But Attia slipped into it and tried to scrub the arena from her skin.
She’d just pulled a clean tunic over her head when there was a knock at the door. She could hear a man muttering something, and the sound of heavy, departing footsteps.
Attia nearly didn’t recognize the broken woman who stood just inside the door. Her black hair was knotted and hung in uneven sections around her tear-streaked face. A cut still bled from her swollen lips. Dark bruises covered her arms, shoulders, and neck.
Bile rose in Attia’s throat. “Lucretia? What happened? Who did this to you?”
Lucretia didn’t answer. She let Sabina guide her through the room to a cushioned chair by the fire. She flinched only a little as she sat down. With pursed lips, Sabina sought out her basket of salves.
Attia approached slowly, trying not to startle the woman. “Lucretia?”
And still the woman didn’t speak. She lifted her chin and tried to pull the torn sleeve of her gown over her shoulder.
Attia knelt before Lucretia and waited until she met her eyes. “I am so sorry. You don’t deserve this. No one does.”
Lucretia managed to keep her composure for a few more seconds before her face crumpled and she started to weep. She fell forward, and Attia caught her in her arms. Lucretia’s nearly silent sobs racked her whole body as she shuddered and trembled. The shoulder of Attia’s dress dampened with her tears and blood.
At least Rory wasn’t awake to see the terrible, bloody thing her uncle had done. Because Attia knew it had to have been Timeus. Who else would touch the dominus’s concubine?
Sabina laid out her bandages
and salves with such stoicism that Attia knew she’d done it before. No wonder the woman had known how to help Attia heal. She’d been treating Lucretia’s injuries for far longer.
If Attia’s hate for Timeus had not yet known its reach, it did then. Disgust and loathing flared up like kindling, doused in the toxic fumes of every remembered hurt—the brand on her hip, the sword in her father’s chest, the despair in Xanthus’s eyes. And now Lucretia.
“Lucretia, drink this,” Sabina said. She handed over a small cup that Attia put to Lucretia’s sore lips.
“I’m sorry,” Attia said again. “No one deserves this.”
Eyes closed, Lucretia smiled bitterly. “You are still so young, Thracian.”
“I’ve grown a lot in recent days. And I know that not every man is like Timeus.”
Lucretia opened her eyes, and more tears spilled free. “For me, there is no other man.”
Attia shook her head. “He has no right to do this to you.”
Lucretia turned to Sabina. “Is she really this naïve?” Then to Attia, she said, “Haven’t you learned yet? He is our master. He has every right. This is my fate, and it is fixed.”
“Your fate is what you make it. My father taught me that.”
“I’m guessing that was before the Romans speared him through.” Lucretia pulled down the neck of her gown to expose the horrific bruises forming just above her breasts. “Look closely, Thracian. Look long and hard and learn. This is my lot until death, and if you’re not careful, it will be yours, too.”
Oh, and Attia looked. She saw what Timeus had done to Lucretia—the cuts and bruises and scars that maimed her skin. She couldn’t look away.
Lucretia got up from the chair, slowly, and walked to stand in front of the fire. The flames deepened the shadows and lines of her lovely face.
Attia didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know how to give comfort. She felt so terribly helpless.
“Come, Lucretia,” Sabina said softly. “Let me see to your injuries; then you can rest.”
“Yes. Rest,” Lucretia murmured, still staring into the fire. “So I can do it all over again.”