by C. V. Wyk
“Spartacus disappeared under your watch, Lucius. Does that mean I can’t trust you?”
Lucius flushed and said nothing more.
Someone knocked on the door to the study, and two guards escorted the mercenary inside.
Xanthus knew immediately that the man was no Roman. His dark hair was pulled into a tight knot at the nape of his neck, smoothed back from a tanned face and heavy beard. The wrinkles around his eyes and mouth gave away his age—he was old enough to be Xanthus’s father, though his wide shoulders and barreled chest still exuded strength. The way he shifted his weight told Xanthus that the man was a trained fighter, even if he looked more like a random plebeian from the street. He wore no cloak or armor. No insignia or family crest. His plain clothing was the color of sand. Really, he could be anyone. Or no one. A mercenary indeed.
For his part, the man looked at each of them in turn. His dark eyes appraised them in moments and dismissed them just as quickly. He smiled to himself as he stepped more fully into the study. With a flick of his wrist, he produced a small sharp dagger and started cleaning his fingernails.
The guards nearly jumped forward before Timeus called them off.
“I thought you searched him,” he said with a glare in the guards’ direction.
“We did, Dominus.”
The mercenary grinned. “Don’t blame your men. They did their best.” He turned his gaze to Xanthus. “So, you are the Champion of Rome.” He had to crane his neck back to meet Xanthus’s eyes. “You know, I thought you’d be bigger.”
Lucius, standing by Timeus’s desk, raised an eyebrow. “You’re the man my uncle hired?”
“The name is Kanut, and I am here to find Spartacus.”
“He’s come all the way from Sicily,” Timeus said.
Kanut chuckled. “Farther.”
Now that he was standing so close, Xanthus could see fairly new burns layered around Kanut’s wrist. Unlike the razor-sharp lines of Albinus’s scars, these were blotchy, uneven, and lumpy. A patch near the man’s palm was still red. The burns couldn’t have been more than four or five months old.
Kanut noticed him staring, sheathed his dagger, and held his hands up to Xanthus’s face. “Beauty marks,” he said with a grin.
Lucius turned his face away with a disgusted sigh.
“When can you be ready?” Timeus asked.
“Everything is already prepared,” Kanut said. “My men wait for me at the borders of the city. We can leave right now, if you wish.”
“What, today?” Lucius said, frowning with skepticism.
“Why not? We’ll need to move quickly. If the rumors are true, Spartacus could be halfway to the underworld by now.” Kanut palmed the air in front of his face as though he saw a mirage. “Spartacus, the Shadow of Death!” he said dramatically. He chuckled. “Your man sounds like a demon, Timeus. But if anyone can find him, I can.”
We’ll see about that, Xanthus thought.
“If you’re as good as you say you are, one more evening can’t hurt. You’ll leave tomorrow morning,” Timeus said. “And of course, to keep you honest, you’ll also take some of my men with you. Men I can trust.”
Kanut laughed again. “I work for money, Timeus, and per our deal, I don’t get most of it until I return with your prize. That should be all the trust you need.”
“It’s not,” Timeus said.
“I’ll go,” Lucius said. Skeptical as he was, he sounded eager. Too eager, maybe. Xanthus wondered when Lucius had taken such a keen interest in his uncle’s business.
Timeus seemed to be wondering the same thing. He cocked his head. “Really?”
“I saw Spartacus. I asked him questions. I can help identify him,” Lucius said.
“There cannot be any … mistakes this time,” Timeus said, the warning in his voice clear.
“I can do it, Uncle.”
“How old are you, boy?” Kanut asked.
Lucius crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Eighteen.”
“And do you have experience with a sword?”
“Of course.”
“Ever been in a fight?”
“Of course.”
“Have you ever had your life threatened? Believed you might not see the next day?”
Lucius narrowed his eyes. “Yes.”
“Have you ever killed a man?”
A muscle in Lucius’s jaw twitched, but he answered clearly. “Yes.”
Kanut stepped right up to Lucius, their faces just inches away from each other. An unsettling smile crossed the mercenary’s lips. “Have you ever wanted to die?”
Lucius took an involuntary step back. His arms dropped to his sides. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“It has to do with everything,” Kanut said. “The best fighters don’t just have courage. They have skill, confidence, aggression, pride. And they fight for a reason, be it money or fame or loyalty. Or survival. But from what you say, this Spartacus had something more than that. He appeared out of nowhere, jumped into that arena, and killed more men in one night than you’ve probably fought in your entire life. Do you understand what it takes to do that, boy—to throw yourself willingly into the pit? To look death in the face and smile?”
Lucius had gone pale.
“It takes someone who doesn’t care if he lives or if he dies. And if you’ve never felt that,” Kanut said, almost gently, “how do you think you could ever recognize it in another?”
Lucius’s expression lost its tough edge. His eyes were shiny and uncertain.
“I’ll take one of your men, Timeus. For your peace of mind. But only one,” Kanut said.
Xanthus lowered his head. He felt as though the weight of the world had just settled on his shoulders, because he knew what was coming next.
“Xanthus will go with you,” Timeus said.
Kanut nodded. “I know.”
* * *
Xanthus stood at the gate and watched the mercenary ride away.
“What are you going to tell her?” Ennius asked.
“The truth.”
“Are you sure about that? If she finds out that Timeus is sending you away for this, she might burn the city down.”
A reluctant smile tugged at the corners of Xanthus’s mouth. “And wouldn’t that be a blessing?”
Once Kanut disappeared around a bend in the road, Xanthus turned to Ennius.
“She deserves the truth now. Besides, I know what I have to do.”
Ennius sighed. “Killing the freemen seems harsh, but if you have to…” He chuckled when Xanthus gave him a hard look. “Well, that’s what I would do.”
“No, it’s not. You would tell Timeus’s hired thugs exactly what you saw in Ardea—that Spartacus was a giant, bigger and taller than me. That he had black eyes and a scar across his cheek.”
“That he spoke of his home in the far east,” Ennius added. “A wife, and six—no, seven sons.”
“And that he planned to journey to … Egypt, perhaps? Maybe old Persia. I haven’t decided yet. Or rather, my memory is only just coming back to me.”
Ennius nodded. “Almost as good as my plan. Anyway, it’s probably more dangerous to lie to Attia than it is to lie to the freemen.”
“Mercenaries,” Xanthus corrected. He turned in time to see Lucius walking out of the villa. He’d changed his clothing and was headed straight for the training yard.
“He’s not happy,” Ennius said. “Do you want me to talk to him?”
“I will.”
Xanthus had to move quickly to catch up with Lucius before he reached the other gladiators. Even then, Lucius could barely look at him.
“My uncle has always said that softness has no place in the arena.”
“Lives are gambled, Master Lucius.”
“Yes. And my uncle only gambles on the best. Like you.”
“He’s not sending me because I’m better. He’s sending me because I’m expendable.”
Lucius scoffed. “Horseshit.”
“You and I both know that the chances of finding Spartacus with such little information are phenomenally low. Do you really think your uncle would risk his only heir on what will probably amount to a fool’s errand? Chasing ghosts through the Republic?”
“My uncle will do whatever it takes to win.”
“There’s another reason he wants you to stay,” Xanthus said.
Lucius narrowed his eyes, waiting.
“Tycho Flavius is coming. He wants to meet Spartacus. Your uncle needs you here, at his side, when Flavius comes.”
At the mention of the name, Lucius’s careful mask slipped back into place. Neutral. Empty. As though he’d been two completely different people in just the last few seconds.
Xanthus wasn’t particularly surprised by the reaction. Tycho Flavius had a less than flattering reputation in Timeus’s household. Valeria and Lucius took pains to avoid him whenever possible, and like most of the world, he’d never even seen Rory. All Xanthus knew or cared about was that Tycho owned Decimus. Nothing else really mattered to him.
“Master Lucius?” Xanthus said.
“Let’s train,” Lucius said, and stalked away before Xanthus could say another word.
Xanthus’s brothers were training with wooden swords this time. As soon as they saw Lucius, they changed their pairings. Iduma and Albinus were never willing to partner with Lucius, and Castor kept his distance from everyone but his brothers. It was Lebuin who took position in front of Lucius with a brief nod.
Xanthus hesitated. The last time he’d seen Lucius so upset was at the clearing right after the attack, right after he’d been forced to execute a man in front of the household. He wondered if the coldness in Lucius’s eyes had anything to do with Spartacus anymore. The uncertainty made him nervous. But he couldn’t stand still forever. He gave the command for the others to begin. Five gladiators and one young Roman slave master moved in unison.
The exercise was intentionally coordinated, meant to enforce muscle memory through repetition. It had been Ennius’s way of instilling their bodies with new reflexes, and they used it still. Each man followed the same sequence, blocking and thrusting as one unit. That didn’t stop any of them from hitting as hard as they could.
Wood splintered with each impact, cascading down to the ground in chunks. The sand of the courtyard swept up and around, coating their feet in dust. Over and over. Strike, spin, attack, block.
Lucius was just a little bit slower on the last turn, and Xanthus could see exhaustion beginning to eat away at him. Soon, he was nearly a full second behind the others. His breath was coming fast, and Xanthus noticed a thin trickle of blood running down his wrist. He was gripping his practice sword too tightly, and the wood was cutting into his skin.
Xanthus was about to call an end to the exercise when Lucius raised his sword and slashed.
Lebuin wasn’t expecting it—that move wasn’t part of the sequence—but his training kicked in, as it was meant to. He blocked easily, moving out of the way as Lucius charged forward again.
The other gladiators immediately cleared out, positioning themselves around Xanthus. They weren’t at all interested in getting involved. In fact, Iduma had a wicked grin on his face. He was probably hoping to see Lucius drop to the ground in the next few seconds.
But Lebuin had always had more patience than the rest. He simply continued to block and roll. He never attacked. He just let Lucius push him around and back in wide circles.
A feral look entered Lucius’s eyes, making them gleam in the sunlight. Sweat matted down his short hair and made his tunic stick to his back. With each impact, his hands shook. Finally, he lowered his sword, panting hard.
Lebuin took the motion as a concession, and he looked at Xanthus with a raised brow. He wasn’t even winded. But while his head was turned, Lucius raised his sword and swung again. The weapon struck Lebuin’s temple with a loud crack, knocking him out cold. His body fell like a tree.
Lucius was panting and shaking, standing over Lebuin, looking shocked. He swayed slightly as the practice sword fell from his hand. The hilt was coated in blood and sweat. Lucius looked down at his shredded palm for a second, almost unseeing.
No one moved. No one said a single word. The gladiators’ faces were still and calm as stone, as though they’d simply been watching the clouds move across the sky. And they stayed that way as Lucius turned and rushed back to the villa. Only when he’d left the training yard did the gladiators walk calmly to Lebuin’s side.
Iduma brought a water skin and unceremoniously emptied it onto Lebuin’s face. “Wake up, sleeping beauty,” he said in a flat tone.
Lebuin’s eyes fluttered open. “Well,” he said. “Didn’t see that coming.”
“You should’ve broken his other arm,” Albinus said.
Gallus scoffed but said nothing.
They stood back and let Lebuin get to his feet alone. He picked up his fallen sword and took his old position again. “Ready,” he said.
“Idiot,” Albinus grumbled. They all knew who he was talking about, and it wasn’t Lebuin.
Everyone paired off again, and Castor flung Lucius’s bloody sword into a far corner.
CHAPTER 17
A strong wind blew in from the sea, making the night colder and clearer than it had been since they’d arrived. Attia felt it sharply as she sat on the railing of a balcony on the upper floor.
She hadn’t seen Lucretia since they’d left Ardea, and she felt guilty for feeling relief. The lifeless look in the woman’s eyes was so much harder to stomach than the bruises or the cuts. Sabina said that Lucretia was recuperating somewhere in the villa, and Attia decided it was probably better for Sabina to be with her anyway. Lucretia needed peace to heal, and all Attia had to offer was her rage.
Bracing her hands on the balcony, she leaned forward and looked past her toes to the raging surf below. The salty air filled her senses, and she took a deep, steadying breath.
That was how Ennius found her, dragging his uneven step to stand at her side.
Attia waited for his musical voice, waited to hear the message he was holding in the space between his words. Instead, he simply leaned against the balcony beside her, a small lantern in his hand. The light reflected off of something hanging from his neck, and Attia recognized a braided leather cord similar to the one that Xanthus wore. It too held a silver pendant, but instead of a crescent moon, Ennius wore a sharp inverted triangle with serrated edges.
“What is that?” Attia asked. “A symbol of one of your gods?”
Ennius reached his free hand up to touch the pendant. “No. A tooth.”
Attia nearly laughed. “A tooth,” she repeated, skepticism coloring her voice. The triangle was nearly as long as her thumb.
“Not a real one, but a decent likeness.”
“I’ve never seen an animal with a tooth like that.”
“Off the coast near my village, there were water monsters fifty times bigger than the fish you see here, long and blue-gray with fins that rose up above the surface. They had rows and rows of teeth, and they hunted the seals that came to mate on the beaches.”
Attia had never heard of such a creature. “What did you call them?”
Ennius’s mouth moved in a series of clicks, whistles, and consonants that she couldn’t identify. He laughed at her expression. “And,” he said with a grin, “they could fly.”
“Now you’re teasing me.”
Ennius shook his head. “When they hunt, they swim up from the seabed as fast as they can and break through the surface so that their whole bodies sail through the air like birds.”
“You’ve seen this?”
“Many times,” he said. “When I was young.”
“A fish that can fly,” Attia said with wonder.
“What men call impossible are simply the things they haven’t seen yet.”
Attia smiled. “You should have been a philosopher, Ennius. But I suppose we all should have been many things.”
Ennius nodded and tur
ned away, but it was too late. She’d already seen the stricken expression that crossed his face.
“What’s happened?” she asked.
His gaze stayed on the dark water below as he answered. “Timeus has hired a group of freemen to search for Spartacus. Xanthus will go with them.”
The irony of it might have made Attia laugh if the wretched fear that filled her wasn’t so powerful. Her hands gripped the railing until her knuckles turned white. “So Timeus has no idea,” she muttered.
“That Spartacus is a slave girl in his own household?” Ennius said. “No, and he probably wouldn’t believe it. But you must have realized that word of you would spread. Now that others have seen what Spartacus can do, there is no going back.”
“What happens when they don’t find what they’re looking for?”
“I’m not sure. They have almost no information, but Timeus is as tenacious as they come. I can’t tell how far he’ll take this. Especially since the match with Decimus is so soon.”
“Decimus?”
“Xanthus will fight him at the Festival of Lupa.” He glanced at Attia and sighed. “He should be the one to tell you.” Ennius put a gentle hand on Attia’s shoulder. “He leaves tomorrow. Go to him. For both your sakes.”
When he’d gone, Attia swung her legs back over the railing and let her body sink to the floor of the balcony, curling her knees up under her chin the way she’d done as a child. Moonlight flooded the narrow balcony like liquid silver, illuminating even the dark places in the room behind her.
Attia’s vision wasn’t nearly as clear. A cavalcade of emotions marched through her skull like foreign soldiers on parade. Helplessness blended with resentment and anger, fear of loss but also fear of wanting. Before she came to Rome, she’d lived by very simple truths. All that mattered was family—the people bound to her by blood and by oath. The easiest thing she’d ever done was take up a sword in their defense. Without that—her cause and her purpose—she felt lost. Adrift. She didn’t know what to do anymore. If she were the praying kind, she might petition the gods for guidance. But the clarity she sought had little to do with gods or even men. Until now, she’d been blinded by grief and placated by tenderness.