Blood and Sand Read online

  Another group of men stood at attention along the road, and Attia frowned at them as she passed. Each man palmed the rounded hilt of a gladius and sported a distinct tattoo on his left shoulder: SPQR, Senatus Populusque Romanus. The Senate and the People of Rome. They were soldiers—members of the Roman infantry who still bore the symbols of the Republic even though Princeps Titus had all but called himself emperor. Attia couldn’t decide if their presence made the caravan more secure or more dangerous.

  Lucius lifted the bundle of linen that was his sister into a closed cart before moving aside so Attia could follow her in.

  Attia blinked rapidly while her vision adjusted to the surprising darkness. It took her a minute to realize there was a second door a few feet away from the one she’d just used. It was easy enough to open, and she entered the main compartment. Narrow slits in the sides of the cart let in tiny shafts of light that didn’t reach the floor. They were barely enough to see by.

  “Here, take my hand,” Rory said. Her small form was little more than a shadow. “Don’t be afraid. You’ll get used to the dark.”

  Attia smiled, knowing the child couldn’t see. There were few things she feared, and the dark had never been one of them.

  * * *

  Xanthus walked unchained at the rear of the caravan, flanked by soldiers in front and behind. Beside him, his brothers were bound together with iron shackles that were already cutting into their wrists. But from the sound of their constant banter, they hardly noticed.

  They’re used to it now, Xanthus thought bitterly.

  “Why are we moving so damn slowly?” Iduma complained. “At this rate, it’ll take us a month to reach Pompeii.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Albinus said. “You know the rains always worsen the roads.”

  “I’d rather walk in the rain than be carted around like an invalid,” Lebuin said.

  A few yards ahead, Lucretia walked beside one of the carts. Instead of her usual sheer black gown, she wore an opaque gray dress that clung to her body and a long veil over her hair. Her hips swayed with each step. When she turned her head, Xanthus saw that the light rain had washed away a bit of the kohl she often wore around her eyes. With her face almost bare, she looked much more like her twenty-one years and less like the woman whose soul had withered in Timeus’s bed. Xanthus realized suddenly that he had never seen Lucretia smile. He wondered if she still remembered how.

  Fingers snapped in front of his face, and he turned to look at his brothers. “Xanthus, have you been listening?” Gallus asked.

  “To your whining? No, not really,” Xanthus said.

  Iduma rolled his eyes. “You never listen. And here I was talking about how you’re such a great mentor to us all.”

  Xanthus smiled. His brothers’ teasing rarely failed to lighten his mood, whatever the topic. “I’m your mentor, Iduma? I’m touched, truly.”

  “Don’t be too flattered,” Albinus said. “We all know how low Iduma’s standards are.”

  Their laughter echoed down the caravan.

  * * *

  They stopped just before dusk, and Attia found the sudden stillness disorienting. Her limbs cried out with the need to stretch, to walk, to move. Trying not to wake Rory, she opened the doors at the back of the cart and jumped out. Her sandaled feet sank a few inches into the cool mud. The rain soaked her hair and tunic within moments.

  Attia saw that they had made camp in a clearing surrounded by trees almost a half mile from the main road. Sunset still lingered on the western horizon, but slaves had already begun to hang dozens of lanterns on sturdy poles throughout the camp. The carts, wagons, and people had been positioned in a sort of three-ring formation. The slaves and servants filled the large outer ring, huddling in tiny, tattered tents that were somehow meant to accommodate as many as five people. The guards’ larger tents formed a smaller ring within the first. And in the very center stood Rory’s cart and three tents that looked more like pavilions than anything else, each twelve feet high. This inner circle was undoubtedly where Timeus and family would sleep. The Roman soldiers who accompanied the caravan hadn’t erected any tents at all. They simply strolled around the edges of the camp, seemingly oblivious to the rain.

  Sabina approached with an oilskin cloak held over her head. “I’ll stay with Mistress Aurora. You go to the champion.”

  Attia sighed. She no longer distrusted the gladiator as fiercely as she once had. But their last few nights together had been awkward and stilted. She dreaded finding out what tonight would be like. She turned around and stared out through the rain. “Where exactly am I supposed to go?” she asked as Sabina draped the oilskin cloak over her shoulders.

  “There,” Sabina said, pointing at a dark gray tent set apart from both the ring of guards and the inner circle. It wasn’t as big as the family’s tents, but it was at least three times the size of any other.

  Less than a minute ago, the rain had felt fresh and cool, but now Attia could feel a chill seeping into her bones. She wrapped her arms around her chest and walked through the encampment that was Timeus’s household. Four women huddled together in a tiny tent nearby, holding open the flap to let out the smoke from their small fire. They glanced at Attia and just as quickly dismissed her. Two of Timeus’s guards talked under the cover of another larger tent, sharing a cup of some steaming drink and laughing.

  Attia quickened her pace until she reached Xanthus’s tent and pulled the flap open. A smokeless fire warmed the space, and after so much cold, the sudden heat made chills blossom along her skin.

  Xanthus sat shirtless by the fire. When he heard her enter, he looked up with a smile. He already had a sheet and clean tunic set aside for her.

  Attia raised her eyebrows in surprise. “What’s this?”

  “I thought you’d be soaked through in this rain,” Xanthus said as he handed her the linens.

  “Thank you,” Attia said. She waited a moment. “Will you at least turn around?”

  Xanthus turned obediently to face the wall of the tent, putting his back to Attia and the fire.

  Attia used the sheet to dry her skin and get most of the water out of her hair. Then as quickly as she could, she undressed and pulled the clean tunic over her head. The frayed hem fell below her knees. “I feel like I’m wearing this tent,” she said. “But at least it’s dry. Thank you.”

  “Of course,” Xanthus said as he turned around.

  Attia took a seat beside him and accepted the proffered piece of hard bread and some dried beef.

  “There will be more meat when we reach Pompeii.”

  “This is plenty,” Attia said. She’d been worried that the awkwardness between them would continue, but she was surprised to find that they ate in rather comfortable silence.

  Every now and then, her shoulder bumped his, or his elbow brushed against her knee. Small, fleeting touches that made Attia’s skin prickle. She was acutely aware of just how close they sat, but she didn’t move away, and she tried not to feel pleased by the fact that Xanthus didn’t either.

  The food was long gone by the time either of them said anything again.

  “I’m sorry that Timeus made you watch,” Xanthus said eventually, his voice hoarse.

  It took Attia a few moments to realize he was talking about his match in the Coliseum. Neither of them had spoken of it in the days since, and Attia was surprised he was bringing it up now. She glanced at Xanthus then away.

  “I see now why they call you the Champion of Rome. You were good. Incredible, really. But you hate it, don’t you? You hate what you do.”

  Xanthus rubbed at the calluses on his palms. “I never thought death would be my calling.” His words were barely audible over the rain and the crackle of the fire.

  Funny, Attia thought. I grew up thinking the exact opposite.

  “I met a woman at the match,” Attia said. “Her name was Galena, but she said that the Romans had given her a new name.” She paused.

  Xanthus’s body stiffened as he waited for h
er to continue.

  “And there was something in your voice when you said the name Hector in the arena. I heard it before when you first told me that they call you Xanthus.”

  His profile was illuminated by the glow of the fire, but his eyes were like dark emeralds. Shadowed. Murky. “I am a gladiator, Attia.”

  “You weren’t always.”

  “That was a long time ago,” he said, weariness heavy in his voice. “Does it really matter?”

  “It matters to me. What is your real name?”

  Xanthus’s lips tightened, and he trained his gaze on the far wall of the tent.

  Attia waited. She’d never thought of herself as a patient person, but she decided that she could wait for this.

  Finally, he said, “In another life, my name was Gareth, and I had a brother named Hector.”

  Attia pursed her lips. She’d been expecting an answer along those lines, but hearing it still made her heart clench with fury and sorrow. “Do they take everything?” she murmured.

  “It’s a different sort of branding.”

  “Then why hasn’t Timeus tried to rename me?”

  A pained expression crossed Xanthus’s face, and he hesitated again. “Because…” He swallowed hard and stared into the fire. “Because he wanted me to do it,” he said, his voice filled with shame.

  Attia stared at him. “But you haven’t.”

  Xanthus shook his head. “And I never will.”

  “Timeus truly favors you.”

  “He favors winning,” Xanthus said bluntly. “When I get old or start to lose my popularity, I’ll lose other things as well.”

  “Like me?” Attia said. She’d meant to tease him, but the words came out sounding harsher than she intended.

  An unexpectedly fierce expression transformed Xanthus’s features. His jaw clenched, and his brow furrowed into a deep scowl. “That won’t happen.” His eyes bore into hers, and Attia felt rooted to the earth. “No one will take you from me.”

  She’d never seen that look on his face before—hot and cold at the same time. She imagined she should feel angry or resentful. He’d just sworn he’d never let her go, no matter what Timeus or anyone else might say. He spoke of death. He spoke of eternal bondage. But there was something else.

  Past the furious light in his eyes, Attia saw something she’d been trying hard not to see. It was infinitely more dangerous to her than his hands or his hate, and suddenly, she couldn’t ignore it anymore. She couldn’t keep turning away. She just had to know one thing.

  “Would you force me to be with you? Regardless of what Timeus says—would you try to keep me against my will?”

  The hurt that filled Xanthus’s eyes made her chest ache.

  “No, Attia. I could never let anyone take you, but if you don’t want me, you only have to say so.”

  Attia reached for his hand, and he took it immediately, wrapping his fingers around hers in a tight grasp. The simple touch wasn’t so much a show of affection as it was an expression of solidarity, of mutual comfort. For the first time in months, she didn’t feel so completely alone. Maybe, in spite of whatever else was forced upon her in this new life, whatever else might become of her, she could choose this one thing. Make this one single choice.

  She raised her free hand to his cheek before passing her thumb lightly over his lips. Xanthus drew a shuddering breath. This time, when he reached for her, she didn’t pull away. She let the heat of him warm her skin, and she smiled at the expression of wonder on his face. Closing her eyes, she leaned her forehead against his.

  They barely moved, just a slight shifting of warm skin on skin. Then their lips touched, and everything beyond them disappeared.

  Attia’s head felt light, and the tips of her fingers tingled. If Xanthus weren’t holding her, she thought she might just float away, lost in the flood of so much feeling. Driven by instinct and need, she parted her lips to deepen the kiss.

  Xanthus responded immediately, tightening his arms around her with almost crushing force. A part of Attia realized that this new thing was incredibly fragile. But as heat coursed through her body, she thought it was probably the first time in her life that she’d ever felt something so right. Nothing else mattered but this one touch, this one shared breath.

  When Xanthus began to kiss a trail down the side of her neck, Attia leaned her head back and closed her eyes. He moved slowly, so slowly, taking his time not just to touch but to feel. His lips pressed against the hollow of her throat as he whispered her name against her skin. His fingers touched her cheek, her lips, and her lashes in the lightest of caresses before he put his mouth to hers again. His arms fit around her as though they were made to hold her, and he was gentle. So much gentler than Attia could have imagined.

  Then, just as he shifted their bodies to lie down, a terrible scream cut through the night.

  CHAPTER 11

  The scream was followed immediately by the clang of iron.

  “We’re under attack,” Xanthus said. But before he could move, Attia whispered a single word.

  “Rory.”

  Between one blink and the next, she was on her feet and gone. Xanthus didn’t even have time to shout her name.

  He had no choice. He had to follow her.

  All across the clearing, tents were on fire, burning through the fog and rain. Slaves struggled to put out the flames and defend themselves while armed men charged through the encampment.

  In the dark, it was hard to tell the difference between Timeus’s men and the attackers, but Xanthus was only really looking for Attia. He ran after her and watched her agile frame duck and roll and jump over and under spears and swords and the swinging fist of a man twice her size. When one of the attackers tried to grab her arm, she wrapped her fingers around his wrist, twisted until the bone cracked, then pulled his body toward her raised knee. His cry of pain was quickly silenced as he fell unconscious to the ground. Another attacker came for her, then another. But she dispatched the poor bastards with ruthless efficiency.

  She was impressive. And too, too reckless.

  Xanthus was only a few feet away when someone finally caught her by surprise. A man grabbed her ankle from beneath one of the carts. She lost her balance for half a second before twisting her body and stopping her fall with two outstretched arms. Then she raised her right foot and smashed it into the man’s face. Xanthus actually heard his neck snap.

  Xanthus should probably have been watching his own back half as well. He might have noticed the man running straight at him with a sword raised high. As it was, the tip of the blade sliced along his shoulder, but he was able to use the other man’s momentum to drive his fist into the man’s throat. He grabbed the sword before catching up to Attia just outside of Rory’s cart.

  “Still in one piece, I see,” he said with a tight smile.

  “You’re a little bit worse for wear,” Attia said, nudging her chin at the cut on his shoulder.

  “I need to find my brothers. You should stay here.” When Attia started to protest, Xanthus lowered his voice. “If you keep fighting, the soldiers might take notice. It’s not worth the risk. Besides, someone needs to stay with the child and make sure no one tries to break into the cart.” He waited until Attia nodded grudgingly. “I’ll come back when it’s clear.”

  “Should I warn you to be careful?”

  “Probably wouldn’t do any good,” he said before winking and shutting the door of the cart. He heard a lock bolt into place from the other side.

  At least he knew she’d be safe. At least he could take a proper breath again. He squeezed his eyes shut to block out the scene around him. The concept of fear had become a diluted emotion long ago, but the sounds of men fighting and dying—the sharp ring of their swords, the sickening crunch of bone—all reminded him of the arena. He had to fight the urge to recoil in disgust.

  Then again, this was something else entirely, wasn’t it? Not death for sport or entertainment. This was survival, and he didn’t think he could afford
the luxury of detachment.

  When he opened his eyes, he tried to find familiar faces.

  Lucius was the closest, gripping his sword with both hands. His eyes were intent on one of the bandits—watching and matching the movement of shoulder and torso and skittering gaze. Maybe those training sessions were paying off after all.

  Ennius protected Timeus’s tent near the tree line. An attacker charged at him swinging a club. Ennius simply ducked his head before punching the man square in the face.

  Not far away, Gallus and Lebuin fought back-to-back against six attackers. Neither of them had any weapons save their scarred, scabbed hands. Still, they didn’t look like they were having much trouble. Xanthus made his way toward them.

  “Should you take a look at that?” Lebuin asked, nodding at Xanthus’s bleeding shoulder before jabbing one of his attackers in the stomach.

  Gallus scoffed. “It is but a scratch!” he said. “Not like his arm has come off.” He caught a bandit’s fist in midair and used it to shatter another man’s nose. “Besides, I bet his new bedmate is probably much rougher on him.”

  “Did you see her?” Lebuin said, his voice full of admiration. “Gods, she really is a Thracian. I’m surprised she doesn’t want to come out and play some more.”

  “At least she’s not off breaking Ennius’s other leg,” Gallus said with a dark chuckle.

  “Now that would just be cruel,” Albinus said as he joined them. He knocked down the last of the attackers. Xanthus hadn’t even bothered to help.

  Someone whistled, and they all turned to see Castor incline his bald head toward the northern edge of the camp. Dozens of horses bearing Timeus’s mark were being corralled into the forest.

  Gallus snorted. “Well, Timeus probably stole them first.”

  “He might be a tad bit upset,” Lebuin said with a grin.

  “Good,” Albinus said. “They can all rot.”

  “So bitter, Albinus. So bitter.” Gallus slung his arm around Albinus’s neck. “Shall I cheer you up, brother?”

  Albinus slammed his elbow through the gap between them, knocking down a man as he tried to attack them from behind.