by C. V. Wyk
This then was her prayer: remembering.
On the last day of the previous summer, she’d been on a scouting mission with a small unit of soldiers. As daylight waned, she’d sat on a hilltop with the calm expanse of the Aegean spread out before her. Her blood-brother Jezrael was there, too, his dark eyes narrowed against the sunset, emphasizing the crooked angle of his nose—a souvenir from their childhood and the day when he had teased her until she kicked him in the face. He was fiddling mindlessly with a frayed strand of red wool that had come undone from his cloak. For a long time, they said nothing, just stared out into the blue.
“I’m going to ask Mena to marry me,” Jezrael finally said into the silence.
Attia took care to keep her face neutral. She’d known the announcement was coming, but it didn’t make it any easier to hear.
“I’ve already spoken to the elders and Mena’s parents. King Sparro has given his blessing.”
Attia gritted her teeth. Even her father had been told before her.
“I’m going to marry her in the spring.” He glanced at Attia. “I’m sorry. I know we always swore that we would never marry. That we would just turn into old, fat, useless warriors together. Like your father and Crius.”
A snort of laughter burst out of Attia before she could stop it.
“They’ve really let themselves go,” Jezrael continued.
Attia had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.
“It’s sad.”
Attia shook her head.
Jezrael’s voice lowered, losing that laughing edge. “She’s the one, Attia. The one I’ve been looking for since … since before I knew I was looking. It’s not enough to say that I love her. I can’t breathe without her.”
Attia turned to look at him. His face was so open and vulnerable, and he looked so hopeful.
“I know, Jez. Of course I know.”
He took a deep breath. “We always said—”
“That doesn’t matter now.”
“Then why are you upset? Talk to me, Attia.”
“It’s just … if you get married…”
He watched her face carefully, and Attia knew the instant he understood. He took her hand in his and squeezed. “You think that if I take a wife, your father will make you take a husband.”
“Jez, I’m not ready for marriage, and I don’t know if I ever will be.”
“Maybe this is part of growing up.”
Attia pulled her hand from his.
“I just want you to be happy,” he said.
“But I am happy. What do I need a man for?”
“Family? Love?”
Attia shook her head. “I have that already.”
“You might change your mind one day, Attia,” he said. “Maybe you’ll find someone—someone strong like you—and you won’t be able to imagine a life without them. Marriage or no, children or no. You’ll find a person who makes you feel whole, and then everything will be different.” He smiled earnestly, and the tension between them eased.
Attia subtly dug her hand into the dirt, scooping up a handful of the dark soil. “Will it really be different?” She threw the dirt at his face.
He ran after her, laughing and shouting as they raced down the hill and across the shoreline. The soldiers watching them smiled.
It was a beautiful memory. One of her last good ones.
But now there were other people, other memories to add. Sabina combing out her hair with gentle hands. Rory wrapping her arms around Attia’s waist with such complete trust. Xanthus holding her with the only comfort she’d found in this damned country. She couldn’t separate that anymore. Her path had never been an easy or a straight one, and as she sat there in the cold with her memories and her fury, the whole world seemed so incredibly broken.
Except for one thing.
She didn’t even have to knock on his door. Xanthus opened it immediately and pulled her close. He’d been waiting for her.
Attia thought she should probably say something—ask about Decimus or the search—but she didn’t want to talk. Instead, she wrapped her arms around him and let her kiss say everything that she couldn’t.
Xanthus’s lips never left hers as he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed. Her hands wandered across the line of his jaw and the cords of his neck while he pulled the pins from her hair, freeing the dark mass to tumble down around her shoulders like a veil.
Attia’s heart was beating so loudly that she almost missed it when he whispered something against her lips. It was a different language, rounded and sweet and fluid like a bubbling brook.
“What does that mean?”
He smiled as he buried a hand in her hair. “I’ll tell you when you’re ready to hear it.” Then he pulled her mouth back to his, and the touch became rougher, more demanding.
Something flared to life inside of Attia, a heat she’d never felt before. She lost herself to Xanthus’s kiss, hardly caring when he twisted her around to lie flat on the bed, his arms braced on either side to hold his weight. The roughness of his hands flooded her senses as he nudged her knees apart and settled between her legs.
“Attia,” he whispered.
At the sound of his voice, awareness came rushing back. For a moment she couldn’t control her breathing or her panic. She must have made some small noise, because Xanthus suddenly became still on top of her.
She wasn’t frightened, exactly. After all, it was just her body. She’d done worse things with it—she’d used it to kill and to maim. She’d used her knowledge of sword and staff and bow to revel in death. But maybe, she thought, maybe I’m not meant for this. Maybe I am only a warrior, a killer. Maybe I can never truly be a part of a beautiful thing.
The immensity of such a terrible possibility weighed down on her chest until she thought she might collapse from so many broken promises. What was she that now, with a man she could respect and adore, she seemed so incapable of love?
Xanthus waited for her, patient and undemanding as ever. His thumb rubbed light strokes against her cheek, and he brushed his lips against her temple. “It’s all right,” he said. She could feel his heart hammering in his chest, but his voice was steady. “Do you want me to stop?”
Attia knew that if she said yes, he would back away immediately. Xanthus was the kind of man who asked rather than took, who begged the gods to forgive his sins with whispered breath. He was the man who’d fallen to his knees before her, who had held her close until the night was over, who would give anything to keep her whole.
So when he started to pull away and the cold rushed back in, Attia wrapped her arms around his neck to keep him against her.
“No,” she whispered. “Don’t stop.”
* * *
They stayed tangled up in each other, so close that Xanthus wondered if she was truly a part of him now—a piece of his very soul. He entwined his fingers through hers and whispered in her ear. He knew she didn’t understand the words, but in a way, he thought she probably understood them more clearly than anything he’d ever said. He held her close in the dark as their breathing finally slowed.
Outside, a heavy gray cloud of smoke bubbled up from the crest of Vesuvius. White flakes drifted down from the summit to scatter at the base of the mountain. The waves crashed to the east, insistent as a heartbeat.
“Are you asleep?” Attia whispered.
He nuzzled her neck in response. “Are you all right? Did I hurt you?” The possibility pained him.
She laughed. “I’m fine. I just didn’t expect it to be like this.”
Xanthus smiled. He knew exactly what she meant.
After a while, she said, “Ennius told me about the freemen. The search.”
“Mercenaries,” Xanthus said. “I don’t want to go, but maybe it’s a good thing. I can keep you safe this way. I can convince them that Spartacus is lost, or at least paint a particularly unhelpful picture. Ennius said something about a giant man with seven sons.”
Attia giggled. “An apt des
cription. I’ve always considered myself taller than average,” she said. She turned in his arms to face him. “There was something else that Ennius said.”
Xanthus held his breath.
“He told me that you’re going to fight a gladiator named Decimus at the Festival of Lupa.” Attia ran her fingers down his cheek. “But he said to ask you about it. Is there something I should know?”
Xanthus turned his head to kiss her hand. He wasn’t sure where to start or how much to say. But he realized that his earlier words were still true—Attia deserved honesty. Complete honesty. When he finally found his voice, it was little more than a whisper.
“Decimus was a legionary of low rank, and ten years ago, he showed the Romans a route into the deep hills of Britannia.”
Britannia. With that one word, he saw understanding dawn for her.
“You have to understand. Vespasian wanted that island desperately. He wanted to be the first Princeps to venture so far north. So he sent his kinsman, Crassus Flavius.”
Attia’s hand tightened around his.
“It was a massacre. The old were burned alive. Children were drowned in the lake. And the women…” Xanthus shook his head. “I learned later that only a tenth of the people in my village were allowed to live. It’s a common practice. The Romans call it decimatio. Those of us who survived became slaves.”
“Is that why they call him Decimus?”
Xanthus nodded once. “I’m sorry I kept this from you, Attia. I didn’t want those memories to taint whatever it was we had. And then I just didn’t know how to say the words. But if there’s anyone I hate in this world, it’s Decimus. I’ve waited ten years to face him.”
“For vengeance?”
“For justice.”
“I understand,” she said.
Xanthus put a finger under her chin and held her gaze. “After this,” he said. “After I convince the mercenaries that Spartacus can’t be found. After I meet Decimus in the arena. After I finish this, we’ll run.”
Her eyes widened. “You’ll escape with me?”
“Yes. It won’t be easy. I told you—Timeus will hunt us across the known world.”
“Let him try. We’ll die somehow, but not as slaves.”
Xanthus caressed the side of her face. “I just need a little more time, Attia. I know I have no right to ask it of you, and if you say no, I’ll understand. But I just need to finish this.”
Instead of answering, she kissed him again.
Xanthus lifted the silver pendant from his neck and looped it around hers. The twisted leather was dark against her golden skin. When she looked up again, her eyes were bright with promise. She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her forehead to his. So close, and yet not close enough.
“I’ll come back for you,” he said.
“I’ll wait.”
CHAPTER 18
Leaving was harder than he thought possible. But it was the best way to protect her, and Xanthus forced himself not to look back. Especially with the mercenary riding beside him. Especially with Timeus watching from the gate.
Just before Xanthus mounted his horse, the old man had grabbed his arm. “Find him, Xanthus,” he said. “Whatever it takes. Find Spartacus and bring him to me.”
“And if he won’t come?” Xanthus asked.
Timeus had narrowed his eyes. The chill in them reflected the dead blue of the winter sky. “Just find him.”
Kanut whistled after they passed the bend in the road. “That dominus of yours is one uptight ass, you know that? I’ve never had a patron try to tell me how to do my job,” he said with a laugh.
“You’re lucky he didn’t come himself,” Xanthus said.
“I understand why he sent you, gladiator, but I must say that I’m surprised he did.”
“And why is that?”
“Champion or no, you’re still a slave.” He said it so easily, reaching over to tap the brand on Xanthus’s arm. “How old is it?”
Xanthus didn’t answer.
“I’d guess nine, maybe ten years. Am I right? Of course I’m right.” Kanut extended his own arm, pulling the sleeve up to show Xanthus the full extent of his burns. They reached from his palm all the way up past his elbow. Xanthus thought they probably stretched over his shoulder and back but couldn’t be sure. “These are much newer,” Kanut said with a ghoulish wink.
“How did you get them?”
“Drowning,” Kanut said sardonically. Xanthus rolled his eyes, and that made Kanut laugh harder. “Men came and tried to burn my home to the ground with me in it.”
“How did you get out?”
“Maybe the gods favor me,” Kanut said. “Then again, I hear you’re the son of a god, and you’re a slave. So. To hell with what the gods think, eh?”
“Didn’t your mother ever tell you that you shouldn’t believe everything you hear?”
“Oh, but I hear such interesting things, gladiator. For instance, I hear that Spartacus was something of a little demon—covered in black from head to toe, leaping about the arena like a shadow.” Kanut grinned, watching Xanthus out of the corner of his eye. “Just tell me one thing—was Spartacus as good as they say?”
For the first time since he’d left Attia’s side, Xanthus allowed himself a brief smile. “Better.”
* * *
Attia didn’t watch Xanthus leave. She couldn’t. Instead, she stood at the window in his room, listening to the clatter of hooves disappear down the road and looking out at the heavy gray clouds that blocked the morning sun. Her fingers caressed the pendant that hung from her neck. Below, the townspeople kept the night-lamps burning on their poles in an effort to cast out the shadows. Xanthus’s own short candles—ringed with hemp and feathers—burned steadily by the window.
After a little while, she entered the villa and headed for Rory’s room. But before she could get far, she ran into Ennius.
He greeted her with a quirked brow. “What are you doing?”
“Walking.”
“Walking?”
“Yes. Placing one foot in front of the other and moving forward. Why, do you need me for something? Will it take long or can it wait?”
“You know, whenever we talk, I have the strangest feeling that you’re just a breath away from giving me orders,” he said, with a twinkle in his eyes that told her he wasn’t actually offended.
“Habit?” she said with a shrug.
He laughed at that but sobered quickly. “You haven’t upset the domina recently, have you?”
“Valeria? No. At least, I don’t think so.”
“She’s sent for you.”
“Again? Why? I haven’t even spoken to her since the match at the Coliseum.”
Ennius couldn’t answer that question. They walked together through the long, echoing halls of the villa, Attia subtly slowing her pace to accommodate him. She was struck with an immense feeling of guilt over what she’d done to his leg. He walked a bit easier now, but there was still a pronounced limp.
“I’m sorry,” she said. She’d refused to apologize before, but everything seemed different now. “Really. It wasn’t personal. I know that sounds like an excuse, but…”
Ennius looked at her in confusion until he saw her pointedly staring at his leg. He shrugged. “I’ll heal.”
“Will you?” she asked. “I’ve used that technique on others, and I don’t think they ever walked straight again. Of course, they were enemy soldiers, and I didn’t really stick around afterwards to find out.”
“Attia. I said that I would heal, and I will. Straight or crooked, I’m still walking.”
“You should hate me.”
“Hate you?” Ennius said with a soft smile. “How could I? You make me laugh almost every time I see you. You’re clever and strong, and I understand why Xanthus loves you.”
Attia stopped in her tracks. “What did you say?” she asked. Or, at least she meant to ask that. She couldn’t be sure if any sound came out of her mouth.
Ennius paused, too
. When he spoke again, his voice was gentle. “Didn’t you know?”
Attia couldn’t even manage to shake her head. She just stared at him, unblinking, her brain refusing to work again.
“Do you…?” His voice drifted off.
Attia still couldn’t think straight. In some distant part of her head, she recognized Ennius’s question. Do I love Xanthus? But her mind was being rather obstinate and refusing to share the information with the rest of her, so she simply continued to stare at Ennius like an idiot.
He sighed. “Come on, Attia.” She was so distracted, he had to guide her by the elbow to keep her moving in the right direction.
A few minutes later, they reached Valeria’s quarters. It was a part of the house that Attia hadn’t seen before, though they hadn’t been in Pompeii long enough for her to explore.
Ennius walked her to the door, but before she left his side, he whispered, “Forget about what I’ve just said, and pull yourself together now. You’ll have plenty of time to think about it all later.” A house slave opened the door and let her in.
Valeria’s room was bedecked in blinding white. The curtains, the couches, the chairs, the walls—everything was the color of ivory and marble. And it wasn’t really just one room. Attia could see doorways branching off on either side, probably leading to a bedroom and washrooms and closets and whatever other rooms wealthy Roman women enjoyed.
Attia took a step forward, and her feet touched a white rug made from the pelt of a snow leopard. She grimaced. What a shame the poor animal had to die to decorate this place. She found Valeria in her bedroom, sprawled across her bed. Her beauty paint was smeared across her cheek and pillow, and her eyes were partially closed. Wine stained the sheets. She looked drugged. Or dying. Or both.
When Valeria heard her enter, she opened her eyes and propped herself up on her elbow. “It’s you. The pretty little Thracian.”
“You asked for me, Domina?”
“Yes, I did. Though I can’t remember why.”
Hopefully not to paint her face again. “Would you like me to go?” Attia asked.
“No!” Valeria said quickly. “Don’t go. Stay. Keep me company. Tell me about the champion. What’s he like behind closed doors?”