Blood and Sand Read online

  * * *

  After Attia left, Xanthus leaned his head against the door, shut his eyes, and slammed his fist into the wood so hard that it splintered.

  She should have run—she should have escaped without him, damn the consequences. She could be free at that very moment. But she stayed because he stayed.

  They both knew that Timeus would hunt them down. The man would tear through every province in the Republic, burn every forest, cross every sea. He was that tenacious and that possessive. But Xanthus had another reason for staying—one that he couldn’t yet bring himself to tell Attia. One that involved the arena at the Festival of Lupa and a vendetta that was more than ten years old.

  His blood turned cold at the thought of Decimus. Old screams rang in his ears.

  In his memory—the worst of his memories—Xanthus saw flames.

  He’d been called Gareth then, nine years old and at the end of his last summer in his mother’s village. No man was allowed to live in the holy community of priestesses, so at the celebration of Samhain, he was to be given over to his father’s clan in the highlands of Alba, just as his beloved half-brother Hector had been given to his own father in one of the southern villages five years earlier.

  He’d been running along the crest of the hill they called the Tor, looking over his home spread out below—the misty glass surface of the lake, the rocky crags of the surrounding hillsides, the broad green swath of dense forest, and … smoke. Shielding his eyes, he squinted and saw the fires just starting to burn on the far shore. Then he heard a piercing scream.

  He did not know it yet, but the Romans had come.

  He raced back down the hill as the fires burned away the thatch-and-wood huts. A small group of children ran toward him, and he herded them into the forest, into the hands of the Little People and the goddess. Running back to the village, he watched in horror as a Roman soldier thrust a sword into the old high priestess. Her blue robes turned black with her blood.

  The other priestesses wailed and pulled their hair, calling down curses upon the foreign soldiers. But Xanthus heard his mother’s keening more than any other. Two soldiers grabbed her, dragging her away from the other women. She struggled mightily and spat in their faces as they forced her down onto the stone altar in the center of the village.

  The boy found a half-burnt bow in the tall grass. His fingers closed around the wooden shaft of a single arrow as the sound of ripping fabric echoed across the lake. Twenty yards away, his mother was tied down, spread-eagled on the stone altar. The boy raised his bow, aiming his arrow at the soldier who approached her with such obvious lust in his eyes.

  Before he could let loose his arrow, he glanced away from the soldier and straight into his mother’s brilliant green eyes. The corners of her mouth lifted up slightly, as if she wasn’t about to be torn apart in front of her people. Her mouth formed a word that struck Xanthus to the core.

  “Run.”

  The soldier began to part the leather straps of his armor.

  That moment had felt like an eternity, one that looped back on itself until the past and present and future became a tangled web of space and time. There was no yesterday, no tomorrow. There was only a young boy watching, furious and terrified, as a nameless army destroyed everything he held dear. The boy saw his mother’s face, traced the tears that tracked down her cheeks.

  And then the moment was over. With heartbreaking resolve, he inhaled, aimed, and released. Three black raven’s feathers guided the arrow to its target—straight to his mother’s beating heart. She looked up at the sky as she breathed her final breath.

  In the semidarkness of the damp stone room in Ardea, Xanthus choked back a sob. He’d saved her; he knew that. There were fates worse than death. But his mother was still dead, and at the hands of her own son. How could the gods not curse a man who had committed so many unforgivable sins?

  He wasn’t a boy anymore. He wasn’t even Gareth. He was Xanthus, the Champion of Rome. In the long decade since he’d been stolen, he’d been made into something ugly, something monstrous. But he remembered—he remembered everything he’d lost when a legionary named Decimus led Crassus and his Romans into Britannia.

  Xanthus knew that fighting Decimus at the Festival of Lupa couldn’t change the past. But it would satisfy his hate, and that, he decided, was enough.

  Someday, he would tell Attia the truth. But after. When it was done.

  Until then, there were rituals he could not abandon and a vigil he would always keep.

  Facing east, he dropped to his knees and raised his hands in supplication. “Goddess, guide Attia’s steps. Hold my family in your hands. And for all I have done, and for all that I have yet to do—forgive me.”

  * * *

  His brothers came at midday, deep in silence as they entered Xanthus’s room.

  “By the gods…” Gallus muttered.

  Xanthus looked down at the dried blood that still covered nearly every inch of his arms, legs, chest, and face. He knew the bruises would fade. Water and soap would wash away the blood and dirt. He was barely wounded. At least on the outside.

  Lebuin’s large hands clenched into fists like hammers. He gritted his teeth so hard that the muscles of his jaw twitched. Gallus’s broad, usually smiling face was gloomy and drawn. Iduma was deathly pale, and his breath hitched in his throat. Castor’s face was contorted in a painful grimace.

  Albinus stepped forward. “Is any of it yours?”

  “Maybe a scratch or two.”

  “Bloody bastard,” Albinus replied. He gripped Xanthus’s arm and pulled his brother into a tight embrace.

  “Literally,” Iduma commented. His voice shook with relief.

  His brothers didn’t ask any other questions. They’d fought side by side for nearly a decade. All that mattered to them was that he’d survived.

  Another figure appeared in the doorway, and they all turned to see Ennius.

  His dark eyes darted around the room. When he realized that only the gladiators were inside, his face relaxed into a relieved smile. “Tired?” he quipped.

  Xanthus and his brothers laughed.

  They walked together down the long avenue toward the sea. Guards accompanied them—some at the front, some at the back—though none of the gladiators were bound.

  “It’s like having an honor guard,” Gallus said. “Makes me feel a little special.”

  “Shut up, Gallus. Do you always have to be such a simple idiot?” Albinus said. He spat on the ground to his right, barely missing the boot of one of the guards. Xanthus smiled to see Albinus being his usual, personable self.

  “I wonder at your definition of honor,” Lebuin said.

  Iduma snorted. “Lebuin is right. First Timeus forces us to sit on our asses while Xanthus fights alone in that damn arena, and then he makes us spend half a day rubbing down those damn horses as though we wouldn’t be more useful elsewhere. What next? Perhaps he’ll cover us in bells and silks and make us dance. Damn ass.”

  Castor hit him hard in the side before nudging his head toward the nearest guard.

  Iduma promptly turned to the young guard beside him. “Do you dance?” he asked, plastering a leering smile on his face.

  The man palmed the hilt of his sword but averted his eyes.

  “I’m actually looking forward to a bath,” Gallus mused as though he hadn’t heard a word the others had said.

  “Are you a man or a woman?” Iduma asked. “Only women enjoy baths.”

  Gallus snickered. “Not yours.” He opened his mouth to make another joke, but then raised a hand to shield his eyes. “Look.”

  Iduma stuck his head between Gallus and Albinus to see. “The younger Master Lucius,” he said with mock formality.

  Lucius was standing on the beach some twenty yards away, eyes trained on the horizon. He was still wearing the same clothes from the night before. His hair was sticking up as though he’d been running his hands through it, and even from a distance, Xanthus could see that his face was a p
atchwork of color—pale skin, purple and blue shadows around his eyes. He almost looked worse than Xanthus. After a minute, Lucius turned and started walking slowly in the opposite direction.

  “Why does he always look so sad?” Iduma asked. “Like a puppy that someone’s just kicked.”

  Albinus pushed Iduma back. “I know you think I’m pretty, Iduma, but try not to breathe down my neck so much.”

  Iduma closed his eyes, puckered his lips, and made a loud, wet kissing sound.

  “What is he even doing over there?” Lebuin asked.

  Gallus shrugged. “Walking. I think.”

  “Brooding, more like,” Albinus said.

  Castor shook his head.

  “He fought well the other night, at the camp,” Lebuin said quietly. “He has plenty left to learn, but still.”

  Even Albinus couldn’t argue with that.

  They finally reached the water. As his feet hit the salty surf, Xanthus sighed. “Gods, I need a bath.”

  “So do Iduma’s women,” Gallus said.

  His brothers were still laughing as Iduma lifted Gallus up and tossed him into the cold water.

  CHAPTER 15

  Sleep eluded her.

  It seemed like she and Xanthus had spent a lifetime in that arena. She hadn’t felt so alive in so long, nor as comfortable as she was with a sword in her hand.

  Now all she wanted to do was stop—stop seeing, stop hearing, stop thinking, stop remembering. She was exhausted. Her muscles burned. Her joints were sore. Even her bones felt tender. But every time she closed her eyes, all she could see was the broken image of Lucretia.

  It was noon before Attia finally conceded the inevitable. She wouldn’t sleep. Maybe the next day. After a moment of hesitation, she went to sit beside Lucretia in front of the fire while Sabina played with Rory. Lucretia said nothing as Attia settled beside her.

  “I wish there was something more I could—”

  “I don’t need a savior, Thracian.”

  “What do you need?”

  “Nothing. I need nothing.”

  “I thought you’d be a better liar than that,” Attia said.

  A smile teetered on the edge of Lucretia’s cut lips. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” The firelight reflected sparks of orange and red in her dark eyes. The hint of a smile faded. “Don’t start thinking we’re friends, by the way. I don’t have friends.”

  “I never said I wanted to be your friend. I don’t even know if I like you. You’re moody and proud.”

  “You’re arrogant and entitled.”

  “You’re bossy.”

  Lucretia scoffed. “You’re stubborn.”

  “You’re too tall.”

  “You’re too short.”

  Attia shrugged her shoulder. “We can’t all be perfect.”

  Lucretia smiled despite herself but sobered quickly.

  “He’ll answer for his cruelty,” Attia said.

  “I wish I could believe that.”

  Attia hesitated only a moment before taking out the little knife that she’d kept for so long. It was a good knife, solid, reliable. She closed Lucretia’s fingers around the hilt.

  Attia didn’t tell her what it was for, and Lucretia didn’t ask. But after a few long moments, Lucretia tucked the knife into a fold of her dress.

  There were no spaces between them now.

  * * *

  They finally left Ardea on the third day. Fido had given them two nights to resupply and rest, but Attia still hadn’t slept.

  The caravan gained twelve horses, fifty pounds of silver, and enough food and necessities to see them to Pompeii. Fido and his Ardeans were undoubtedly bitter over their losses, but that didn’t come close to how furious Timeus was over his.

  Lucius had recounted Spartacus’s feats in the arena with gusto. It was the first time he’d taken any interest in Timeus’s business, and now they couldn’t find the man anywhere. Timeus insisted that everyone be questioned, but no one could say where Spartacus had gone—not the guards or members of the household, not the slaves or the soldiers who’d been forced to camp outside of the city walls. Even the Ardeans were unable to say whether or not Spartacus was one of them. The only thing everyone could agree on was that the Shadow of Death had vanished with the dawn, and Timeus felt as though he’d been cheated out of a great prize. His anger made him colder than usual, and his blue eyes glared at everyone and no one. He snapped and shouted every order.

  The gladiators were able to avoid him by clustering together near the back of the caravan. Lucius avoided him by riding alongside Rory’s cart. Right by Attia.

  All she’d wanted was a fresh breeze and the sun on her skin. Being joined by Lucius minutes after she’d emerged from Rory’s cart made her tense immediately. She hadn’t spoken to him since that day when she’d bandaged his hands, but she couldn’t be sure that he wouldn’t recognize her from the arena. What set her on edge the most was that she could sense a severe change in him, and she didn’t yet know what it was.

  “I’ve been meaning to thank you for taking such good care of my sister,” he said as he dismounted to walk beside her. “First you save my hands, and now you’re my sister’s companion. I’m glad you’re with us.”

  “She’s a sweet girl, but I’m not her companion.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Attia raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you know? Timeus bought me for Xanthus. I’m his companion.”

  Lucius hadn’t looked particularly happy to begin with, but Attia watched the last bit of light fade from his face when she said that. Without his easy smile, he looked like a different man entirely—less himself, more his uncle. A deep frown carved new creases into his face, and he turned his eyes down to look at his boots. “You weren’t born a slave, were you?” he said.

  Attia turned her face away.

  “You were free once. My uncle told me that you’re a Thracian. You probably know more about battles and soldiering than I do,” he said with a little smile. “You must miss your home. Ever since I was a boy, I’ve wanted to see Thrace. It’s a shame that … well…” His voice faded off, and he glanced sidelong at Attia. They both knew there was no good way for him to finish that sentence. Eventually, he said, “You know, I met a senator once who was born in Egypt. No one is really from Rome anymore, not even Romans.”

  Attia couldn’t hold back a snort. “Funny how that happens when you try to take over the world.”

  “Do you oppose the Republic on ideological grounds then? We have law, order, and prosperity here. Many would say we bring civilization to barbarous nations.”

  “Yes, if by civilization you mean destruction, terror, famine, slavery, death. Even you must see the hypocrisy of it all. You and your kind would like to believe that Rome is the light, but it’s not. Rome is the darkness.”

  Lucius bristled. “You don’t know me. Perhaps I believe in justice. Perhaps slavery disgusts me.”

  “Perhaps your inheritance rests on the backs of slaves.”

  Lucius became very quiet then, and Attia couldn’t believe she’d just said all of that to Timeus’s nephew. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. What would happen when he told his uncle about all of the clever, perfidious things the little Thracian had said? The punishment could easily cost her—

  “You’re right.” Lucius’s soft words interrupted Attia’s self-rebuke. He ran a hand through his hair. “Rome isn’t what it was meant to be. My father used to tell me stories of how the Republic was founded. There was equality and freedom of thought. No one suffered.”

  “The founders of Rome may have tried to build something pure. But it seems corruption will always bleed through.”

  “That doesn’t mean we should stop trying,” he said earnestly.

  “No, but you can’t keep doing the same thing and expect different results. Look at Carthage, Antioch, Jerusalem, the Germanic tribes, Britannia—look at what’s happened to their people. Conquest is not the same as liberation. Whatever past your father remembered has lon
g been lost. Rome has changed, and I think it will be a very different beast before the end.”

  Lucius’s expression hardened again, and a faraway look came into his eyes, as though he was remembering something he’d rather forget.

  A part of him had definitely changed, and though Attia couldn’t know for sure, she thought it had something to do with the attack in the clearing. Lucius was colder now. Angrier. The same thing had happened to her the first time she’d killed a man. The difference was, her kill had been for survival, so she’d eventually been able to let go of her anger. She wondered if Lucius ever would.

  “Is there no chance for redemption?” Lucius asked in a strangely hollow voice. The words came slowly, as though he had to force them out. “Do you think we’re all damned?”

  “I wouldn’t know about damnation. I don’t know what comes after this. But we’re here now, and that’s all that really matters.”

  “What about the afterlife? Don’t you believe in the gods?”

  “Only when I curse at them.”

  Lucius smiled—a sad contrast to the deep shadows and lines in his face. “Well, I knew there was something different about you.”

  Oh, Lucius, she thought. You have no idea.

  “I should get back to Rory,” Attia said.

  Lucius nodded and raised his hand in a weak wave as Attia tugged on the door and disappeared into the darkness of the cart. She leaned back against the wall to get her bearings.

  She shouldn’t have spoken to him. She shouldn’t have said the things she had. But somehow, her time in the arena with the ghosts and the dust and the specter of Spartacus had resurrected memories that she’d tried to push away. Beneath everything else, buried in rubble and the fires of conquest, she was still her father’s daughter. She could still hear the outrage in his voice as he cursed the Romans with his dying breath. And she remembered the day they lost her mother and stillborn brother—how her father had held her in his arms, rocking her gently to the rhythm of a lament so bone-deep that its message echoed through her even though the melody had long been lost. She remembered the strike of her sword as she killed more legionaries than she bothered to count the day of the invasion. And she remembered the face of Crius, her father’s first captain.