Blood and Sand

by C. V. Wyk

  “Domina?”

  “Does he treat you well?”

  “Yes, Domina.”

  Valeria let herself fall back onto her pillows with a sigh. “You’re lucky. It’s been so long since a man treated me like anything. I knew one once who had the gentlest hands. When he touched my cheek, I…” Her voice broke, and her glazed blue eyes filled with tears. Then she blinked and turned away. “But that was a long time ago.”

  “I have heard a little about Legatus Bassus—that he was a strong, honorable man,” Attia said, and it was true. Lucius had told her of his father—the Roman general who believed in Roman decency.

  Valeria’s eyes focused on Attia. “Oh,” she said finally. “Him. Yes. Lucius Bassus was quite strong and … honorable.” The last word was said with a bitterness that surprised Attia. “My son is like him in some ways. He’s also like me.”

  If she’s expecting me to say that she is honorable, I’ll eat my sandal, Attia thought. But apparently, Valeria didn’t expect that at all.

  “Do you sing, Thracian?” she asked.

  “No, Domina.”

  “Did your people not have songs?”

  “Some.”

  “Sing for me.”

  Oh, the woman couldn’t be serious. “I can’t quite remember any of the words, Domina.”

  Valeria rolled onto her side. “My children make up their own songs, you know? Meaningless words. No melody at all. I don’t know where they learned to do that. Certainly not from me. Old Vespasian once said I sang like the sirens who lured men from their ships.”

  Attia smiled to herself. Her own father had once told her she sang like a dying seagull. But since she knew nothing of sirens, she couldn’t tell if it was a good thing or a bad thing to sound like one. Then Valeria opened her mouth, and chills blossomed across Attia’s skin.

  She could honestly say that she’d never heard anything so beautiful. Valeria’s voice—shrill and strained when she spoke—suddenly became ethereal and resonant, a sound Attia never would have expected from looking at her. When she closed her eyes, blocking out the sad sight of the woman sprawled on the bed, Attia thought this was probably what the Christians and Jews meant when they spoke of angel voices.

  The moment Valeria stopped singing, the air rang hollow and empty. Attia opened her eyes to see a tear slip down Valeria’s face.

  “Do you believe in the gods, Thracian?” she whispered. “Do you pray?”

  “No,” Attia answered honestly. “Not anymore.”

  “Me neither,” Valeria said with a sad smile. She blinked several times and craned her neck to look out the window. “It’s raining. I think I’ll have a bath.”

  Attia spent the next two hours sitting beside Valeria’s gold-plated tub. Neither spoke, though the echo of Valeria’s song hung heavy in the air for Attia.

  Valeria was far from sober. Every few minutes, her body went slack and she started to dip down beneath the water. Attia had to lean over and pull her up again by her arms. When the water turned cold and Valeria’s skin was wrinkled as a prune, Attia wrapped a towel around her—like she’d done so many times for Rory—and helped her back to bed.

  “Honor isn’t everything, you know,” Valeria said as she snuggled under her wine-stained sheets. “For many, it is a cheap word. Easily spoken and easily discarded. There are more important things—love, loyalty. Things men could never understand. I loved once, Thracian. Too much. Now I pay the cost of it. My brother thinks he can barter for power. But you can’t trust a Flavian. Not ever.” Valeria met her eyes. “Attia,” she said, “you care about my daughter. I know you do. Make me a promise: Whatever happens, you must keep her safe.”

  The twists in their conversation kept throwing Attia into confusion. Valeria’s mind jumped from one topic to another with seemingly no connection between them. But her blue eyes were filled with sadness, fear, and regret. She gripped Attia’s hand in hers.

  “Promise me,” she said again. “No matter what. Keep her safe from them.”

  “Of course I’ll protect her,” Attia answered. “I will always protect her.”

  Valeria closed her eyes with relief. “Good. Yes. That’s good.” A minute later, her body relaxed and she was asleep.

  * * *

  Kanut led Xanthus through back streets and alleys, away from the main road, away from soldiers and most of the vigiles. They didn’t stop until they reached the Red District, where Xanthus raised a questioning brow.

  “Don’t judge a man for needing his comforts,” Kanut said. But he passed the prostitutes lining the street, turned down another alley, and stopped at the closed door of a crumbling insula. A small, crude image of a bird was drawn in chalk at the base of the door. Kanut barely knocked before stomping inside.

  Three men sat or reclined in different parts of the room, and all of them turned to stare at Xanthus. They didn’t make any other move—not to stand or grab a weapon or even to show surprise. Either they’d been expecting Kanut and Xanthus at that very minute, or they thought little of strategic vigilance.

  Xanthus was unimpressed. “You told Timeus there were nine of you.”

  Kanut ignored him. “What did the woman say?”

  A dark-haired man close to Xanthus’s age answered. “Same as the rest.” He narrowed his eyes and looked Xanthus up and down, leaning back in his chair. His nose looked like it had been broken a few times.

  A big man with graying hair turned in his seat. “He the one?”

  “Brothers, meet Xanthus Maximus Colossus,” Kanut said. “The Champion of Rome.”

  The third man was barely a man at all, more a youth who couldn’t have been older than fourteen. He had his back to a wall and his legs propped up on a crate. He chewed on a piece of dried meat, walked up to Xanthus, and craned his neck back to meet his eyes. “I thought you’d be bigger,” he said.

  Xanthus raised an eyebrow. “I thought there would be more of you.”

  Kanut clicked his teeth. “What about Fido’s man?”

  The youth looked back at Kanut and grinned in response.

  “Good,” Kanut said. “Let’s go.”

  The ground began to shake.

  “Not again,” the older one murmured.

  They streamed out of the insula just before the weak roof caved in, littering the ground with debris. A cloud of dust bloomed out into the street. The horses panicked, rearing and neighing wildly. Kanut and Xanthus grabbed their reins to keep them from bolting. Around them, the prostitutes were laughing as men ran from the insulas, hurrying down the street in their layered, disheveled tunics.

  As soon as the ground was still again, Kanut mounted his horse. “One hour,” he said to the others. “Let’s go, gladiator.” They left the three men in the street and rode off.

  Again, Kanut chose a route through the back alleys of Pompeii. Every so often, he would whistle—a sharp, piercing sound that grated on Xanthus’s nerves. Kanut wouldn’t say where they were going or why. He just rode and whistled, and Xanthus had no choice but to follow him. They reached the city’s borders as another tremor raced through the ground. At least that one only lasted a couple of seconds.

  “I’ll be glad to be rid of this city,” Kanut grumbled.

  A mile out from the gates, Kanut turned west and started leading them toward the forest. Xanthus caught subtle movements in the trees around them but heard nothing. Then Kanut started that damn whistling again.

  Nine men melted out of the shadows. Xanthus recognized three of them as the men from the Red District. The others were strangers. All nine wore the same dark clothing, and they all watched him with open suspicion.

  “Gladiator, meet my men,” Kanut said.

  So that’s what he’d been doing with his irritating whistle—calling to them. “Why hide?” Xanthus asked.

  “Not your concern,” someone answered.

  “You’ve already met my lieutenant,” Kanut said, pointing to the dark-haired one with the slightly crooked nose.

  “And the othe
rs?”

  “Not your concern either,” Number Two said.

  Xanthus sighed. “Well, this has been a productive meeting.”

  “We’ve been gathering our own information for some time,” Kanut said. “Now we have questions for you—the man who actually fought beside Spartacus.”

  Here we go.

  “What did he look like?” Number Two asked.

  “Like a black mask,” Xanthus said. “His face was covered. I never saw it.”

  “Size?”

  “At least a foot taller than me, and muscular.”

  “Tattoos? Marks?”

  “None that I saw.”

  “How did he move?”

  That made Xanthus hesitate. “What do you mean?”

  “How. Did. He. Move?” Number Two repeated each word slowly and deliberately, as though he were speaking to a child.

  Xanthus pictured Attia in the arena, running circles around their opponents as though she walked on air, maneuvering her sword as though it were an extension of her own body. She fought with the merciless precision of a Maedi warrior, yet she was lithe, graceful. Lucius had been right to dub her the Shadow of Death.

  “He was heavy,” Xanthus said. “Not very light on his feet, but strong. He knocked down his first opponent with one strike.” Well, the last part is true.

  Kanut smiled at Number Two.

  “What kind of weapon did he use?” one of the others asked.

  “A gladius.”

  For some reason, everyone nodded.

  “Did he say anything?” Kanut asked.

  “No. He was mute.”

  That made Number Two laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” Xanthus asked.

  Number Two cleared his throat. “The prostitute in the Red District—she … serviced one of Fido’s men, found out a few things. Everyone seems to agree that Spartacus never spoke, and well, I’ve never met a mute. Seems like a funny sort of affliction to have. Almost unbelievable.”

  Xanthus stared back at him with a straight face.

  Kanut’s smile become thoughtful. “You’re not a very emotive man, are you, gladiator?” The teasing note was gone from his voice. He sounded more curious than anything.

  “No. I’m not,” Xanthus said.

  “And you don’t trust us.”

  “Of course I don’t.”

  The others smiled before lifting up small packs that Xanthus hadn’t noticed before. Without an order, saddled horses came trotting out of the woods.

  “That’s smart,” Kanut said. “You shouldn’t trust anyone.”

  High above, a falcon wheeled and cried.

  * * *

  Attia didn’t expect it to be so difficult to sleep without him.

  The night after Xanthus left, she bolted upright in their bed, her eyes open and her senses sharp even though it wasn’t yet dawn. When she couldn’t force herself back to sleep, she opened the door and looked out into the gladiators’ training yard.

  A low mist hovered above the ground. The yard was empty except for Lucius. His hands were wrapped around a wooden sword, eyes focused on one of the training dummies in the farthest corner. He held the sword in front of him but didn’t move. He just stared at the training dummy, unblinking. It seemed Attia wasn’t the only who couldn’t sleep. She slipped back into Xanthus’s room before Lucius noticed her.

  On the third day, Lucretia appeared while Attia was preparing Rory’s midday meal. Her bruises had started to fade, but she still wore a loose, long-sleeved dress. Her black hair was pulled back in a leather thong, exposing the cuts on her face and the swelling of her jaw. At least she was healing. She said nothing while Attia worked, and Attia found that she didn’t mind the quiet company.

  In the evenings after the sun had set and Rory had fallen asleep, Attia and Lucretia secreted away to one of the gardens along the western wall. Attia always brought food for the two of them, and Lucretia would stretch out in the grass to stare up at the stars. The garden became their own little sanctuary where words weren’t necessary. But it was in the garden that Lucretia finally broke her silence.

  “It’s quiet out here.” Her voice was raspy from disuse.

  Attia wondered if these were the first words Lucretia had spoken to anyone since Ardea. The ring of bruises around her neck was still dark against her skin. Attia must have been looking at her with some concern because Lucretia smiled tightly and took her hand.

  “Sabina’s tonics help.”

  “I know.” Attia stretched out to lie beside Lucretia, their hands still clasped. “They helped me, too. Before.”

  “I heard about the champion and the freemen.” Lucretia turned her head to look at Attia, and their hair tangled together in the grass. “I hope you’re not worried. Xanthus is strong. He’ll be safe. And … and he cares about you. He’ll come back.” She said the last part with a sad smile. Attia could see the sorrow in her eyes, and it made her cringe. “You’re lucky, Thracian.”

  Again, Attia saw Lucretia on that dark morning in Ardea, covered in bruises and cuts and wounds, some too deep to heal. She turned her eyes back up to the stars, trying to purge the images from her head.

  Lucretia was quiet for several long minutes. “How’s your mark?” she asked gently.

  Attia shrugged. “Sabina used her salves to treat it in the beginning and make sure infection didn’t set in. Now I try not to look at it.” Attia knew the skin around the brand had healed well, all things considered. It was only slightly wrinkled and a bit shiny. The raised edges of the brand were still tinged with pink, but Attia doubted that would ever fade. Maybe one day, she’d just take a sharp knife and …

  “It fulfills its purpose,” Lucretia said as though she could hear Attia’s thoughts. “It forces us to remember.”

  “I think I would rather forget.” Attia bit her lip and frowned. “Were you always called Lucretia?”

  Lucretia’s eyes focused on the velvet blackness of the sky above, and her pupils dilated just a little, making her look as though she was entranced by something Attia couldn’t see. “I can’t remember,” she finally said. “I know what you mean about wanting to forget, but I’ve forgotten so much already.”

  “How do you stand it?”

  “I just think of darkness—total nothingness. It’s warm and cool, tiny and infinite all at the same time. And you’re alone, but you realize that you’ve never truly been alone. The universe spins on around us and through us. What makes it unfathomable is what makes it so beautiful. Everything just … stops.”

  When she said it like that, with her eyes looking into the distance and her voice drifting on an unseen breeze, it almost sounded beautiful. But Attia knew better. “You speak of death,” she said.

  Lucretia turned her eyes back to her. “I speak of peace. For some of us, it’s the same thing.”

  Attia remembered dreaming that way, too. But not anymore. She had Xanthus now. What did Lucretia have but her few moments of darkness and silence? Attia gently squeezed her hand, eyes still looking up at the starry sky as Lucretia fell asleep beside her.

  Two nights later, Attia and Lucretia were talking quietly in their little garden when someone appeared in the doorway to the villa. The boy’s bald head and simple loincloth identified him as a eunuch before he even spoke.

  “I’ve come to collect the dominus’s woman.” His high-pitched voice grated along every nerve in Attia’s body.

  Lucretia’s face went blank, and she took Attia’s hand in hers as they stood.

  No. Attia felt as though her blood were freezing in her veins, numbing the tips of her fingers and toes. The bruises were better. The cuts were healing. Lucretia had only just started talking again. How could he call for her now? He couldn’t do this. Attia couldn’t let him.

  “No,” she said out loud. “She’s ill. Tell Timeus she’s not coming.”

  The eunuch’s eyes widened as he shook his head. “But I can’t. The dominus … he gave orders…”

  “I said to tell him no!�
�� Attia shouted.

  The boy flinched. Lucretia moved to stand between them, her hand gentle on Attia’s shoulder.

  Attia gritted her teeth together, pain radiating along her cheek. She refused to let go of Lucretia’s hand. “I won’t let him,” she said. “I won’t let him take you.”

  Lucretia put her arms around Attia and held her close. “Don’t worry about me,” she whispered. “I can always forget, remember?” She kissed her cheek before turning away, walking out of the garden and back into the villa with the eunuch close on her heels.

  A second later, she was gone, and it was all Attia could do to stop the scream of outrage welling in her throat.

  * * *

  Xanthus had to admit—Kanut and his mercenaries were experienced.

  For two days, they stayed a safe distance from the road. Scouts went on ahead or stayed behind. Never the same riders. They shifted their formation constantly and in random intervals. One minute, Number Two was riding beside Xanthus. The next, he had disappeared to scout through a copse of trees.

  The rocky terrain helped conceal their trail, but even then, they rode in circles, retraced their steps, moved on foot through wooded areas, and led the horses through every stream they could find. Only three or four slept at a time, and usually while they were riding. They just looped their reins through their belts to keep from falling over. Then they woke again without a sound, without a single word spoken among them. Xanthus had never seen such discipline.

  In fact, none of the mercenaries spoke much at all, to Xanthus or to each other.

  Except for Kanut.

  Who couldn’t shut up.

  For even one.

  Single.

  Minute.

  “You see, birds are mercurial creatures,” he was saying. “Fiercely loyal. But give a falcon the wrong look, and she’ll bite. Hard. Maybe growl a bit while she’s at it.” He laughed and turned to Number Two. “Do you remember the gray one?”

  Number Two, who’d been frowning all day, suddenly grinned. “I still have a scar from that one.”

  “Exactly my point,” Kanut said, turning to Xanthus. “You always remember the bird who gave you your first scar.”