Blood and Sand Read online

  Naturally, Xanthus thought.

  It seemed the mercenaries enjoyed surrounding themselves with women of the night, even if they didn’t partake in what those women offered.

  “They keep better secrets than most,” Number Two explained.

  “Wasn’t it one of those women who told you about Fido’s men?”

  Number Two shrugged. “She liked my face.”

  They all bedded down on the third floor of an abandoned insula. The poorer districts had lost numerous tenants in recent months, due in part to the massive taxes Titus had levied to pay for the construction of the Coliseum. Xanthus didn’t understand the point of eviction; no one paid rent on empty insulas anyway. He settled into a corner of the room while Kanut’s men perched themselves at the windows and the doorway. Always watching.

  Xanthus looked around. “Why don’t the rest of you talk?”

  “Maybe we’re like Spartacus,” one said. “Mute.”

  The one Xanthus had punched in Capua said, “Or maybe we just don’t like you.”

  Xanthus shrugged. “I suppose your leader talks enough for all of you.”

  “Capua was a dead end,” Number Two said, ignoring the banter. “And I have a feeling we won’t find much more here.”

  “Are you ready to amend your previous statements, gladiator?” Kanut asked.

  “About?”

  “About the giant with seven wives and a home in the far east.”

  “Seven sons,” Xanthus corrected.

  “And that’s why we don’t like you,” said the mercenary with the smashed nose.

  “The feeling is mutual,” Xanthus said.

  Number Two smiled. “That hurts our feelings, gladiator.”

  But they stopped asking questions.

  Xanthus lay on his pallet, though he was too wary to sleep just yet. Kanut and Number Two had taken first watch, and he still didn’t trust either of them. Especially not with the boy. Balius slept at his side. Small as he was, his snores racked his body, making his shoulders tremble with each breath. The sound reminded Xanthus of Albinus when they were younger. His old master used to hit him in the face with a piece of wood when he wasn’t cutting into his skin. The damage to Albinus’s nose had resulted in a particularly resonant snore, especially on cold nights.

  Xanthus turned to look at Balius. It was a good thing he’d found him, probably. He wouldn’t have survived another winter on his own. Number Two was willing to spare him, but Kanut still wanted to simplify matters, as he saw it. So Xanthus couldn’t sleep. Not until they’d let the boy go. He was still awake several hours later when he heard the whispers start.

  “He’s Timeus’s champion,” Number Two said. “He wants to stay that way and…”

  Balius’s snores drowned out the rest.

  “… something else,” Kanut replied. It was the softest that Xanthus had ever heard the man speak. “He’s not just lying … hiding something.”

  “… he’ll never tell us … damn statue.”

  “… statues break.”

  “… need more information,” Number Two whispered. “Fido said … and the Ardeans…”

  “Small and light … possible?”

  They stopped talking, and Xanthus thought they were done.

  Then Kanut said, “His horse … before Fido’s men came.”

  Number Two’s silhouette stiffened. “… caught him off guard … You think…”

  Oh, hell.

  “… we were right,” Kanut whispered. Xanthus’s heart plummeted. “Spartacus is a girl.”

  CHAPTER 22

  I have to kill them, Xanthus thought.

  All of them. There was no other choice. Ennius had made the suggestion in jest. But the farce had gone on long enough, and now that they knew the secret of Spartacus, they had to die.

  Kanut must have been planning something, too. From the moment the sun began to rise, his eyes were on Xanthus’s face. In that first look, Xanthus understood. Whatever happened would be between them. He’d have to kill Kanut before he could get to the others.

  As if to confirm Xanthus’s unspoken thoughts, Kanut gave his orders to the mercenaries—spread out, search the city’s ludi. Information only.

  Most of the men nodded their heads, though Number Two hesitated. His eyes shifted back and forth between Xanthus and Kanut. He probably knew what was about to happen, and maybe he wasn’t sure if he should let it. But he was a good boy, and in the end, he did what he was told.

  The mercenaries disappeared out the door, and Xanthus put his hand on Balius’s shoulder. “Run,” he said.

  The boy took one look at Kanut’s face and fled.

  A stillness began to settle over Xanthus, the same dark quiet he’d felt in the clearing when the bandits had attacked. There wouldn’t be any prayers today. No guilt. No remorse. Kanut and his men deserved exactly what was coming to them.

  “Consider the boy’s life a gift,” Kanut said. He already held a throwing dagger in his hand.

  “How magnanimous of you.” Xanthus had no weapons, but when had that ever been a problem for him?

  “Before I kill you, tell me what you heard.”

  “Everything,” Xanthus said.

  Kanut scoffed. “I said before that you’re a bad liar. Still, this will be a shame. I have come to think that, in spite of everything you are, you are also good.”

  “You overestimate me,” Xanthus said.

  “No,” Kanut said, tossing the dagger and catching the tip of the blade between two fingers. “I think not.” Before the last word was out, Kanut’s dagger was flying.

  Xanthus dodged it by less than an inch and caught the handle before it hit the wall. The first dagger was quickly followed by a second dagger and then a third. The last one sliced Xanthus’s arm before tumbling out the window.

  When Kanut saw the blood, he charged at Xanthus and punched him in the gut. All of his body weight was behind the hit. A sharp kick followed, colliding with Xanthus’s shoulder.

  Gods, he’s strong.

  He was twice Xanthus’s age, but Kanut’s body seemed made of iron. A ringing pain shot up Xanthus’s arm when he hit Kanut’s ribs. He knew he’d broken at least two of them, but the man didn’t stop. Not for a second.

  More daggers came out. Xanthus still had the first two that Kanut had thrown at him. Their movements quickly became a flurry of rushing blades. They stabbed at the same time, each cutting edge deflected by the other. Each time getting closer and closer to the other’s throat.

  Kanut never pulled back, never tempered his aim or his blows. They weren’t in the training yard. This wasn’t practice. Kanut wanted to kill Xanthus just as badly as Xanthus needed to kill him. And for the first time in Xanthus’s long years as a gladiator, he thought he’d finally met his match. Kanut was easily the best he’d ever fought.

  They broke everything around them, smashing into tables, shattering chairs against the wall. No matter how hard Xanthus hit, Kanut wouldn’t go down. And no matter how Kanut attacked, Xanthus wouldn’t stop.

  “Having fun yet, gladiator?” Kanut asked.

  “Most definitely.”

  “I won’t let you leave here,” he said.

  Xanthus shook his head. “You’ll never find Spartacus.”

  Fury burned in Kanut’s dark eyes, and that actually surprised Xanthus almost as much as when he suddenly dropped his daggers. “You know,” Kanut said, “I think I’d like to kill you with my bare hands.”

  Xanthus tossed his own blades aside. “You’re welcome to try.”

  Kanut rushed at him again, this time with an angry shout as he raised his leg to kick at the joint of Xanthus’s knee. For some reason, the image of Ennius and his broken leg flashed through Xanthus’s mind. He leapt forward just in time, catching Kanut beneath the jaw with his skull. Pain blossomed through his head, obscuring his vision. Xanthus heard Kanut smash against the wall. The man blinked his eyes up at the ceiling, and it was just enough time for Xanthus to launch himself at him.
/>   He caught Kanut’s neck in a chokehold and started to squeeze. But before he could actually kill him, something sharp stabbed him in the back. Xanthus stumbled away, hands flying up to protect his face from a flurry of feathers and a sharp beak.

  The falcon didn’t stop attacking until Xanthus was several feet away from Kanut. Then it swooped down to land on Kanut’s shoulder. Xanthus was too stunned to speak, and Kanut was still too dazed to move from the wall. He raised his hand to gently pet the falcon’s back, and the bird squawked loudly. When the echo of it died down, the only sound left was the men’s fast breathing.

  “Your reputation is well deserved, champion,” Kanut said.

  “Go to hell.”

  Kanut grinned. One of his teeth had chipped. Blood ran from his nose and dripped onto his tunic. “If you’d been smarter, you would have helped us. You could have traded information for your freedom. Why do you want to go back so badly? Do you enjoy the arena that much?”

  “I don’t want to go back,” Xanthus said. “But I have to.”

  “Why? Because you’re the champion? Because Timeus claims ownership over you?”

  Xanthus started to shake his head, then thought better of it. His vision was shaky enough. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “You’re wrong,” Kanut said. “I know all about Decimus, and I know you see him as your enemy. But that match has nothing to do with you. It’s about Timeus’s wager, not your sense of justice. Do you know what your dominus stands to win? A place in the gentes maiores and a seat in the Senate. Timeus will get everything he wants, and yes, you may kill Decimus. But you’ll still be a slave.”

  “And you think you’re any better? You’re a hired sword. You kill and betray for the highest bidder. You have no right to speak of honor or justice.”

  “Just admit that when you crawl back to Timeus, it will be to feed your pride. That’s the reason you’ll go back to chains, to a lifetime of slavery.”

  “As opposed to working with a bastard like you? One who would murder a child if it was convenient? No. I go back for her.”

  “A woman?” Kanut laughed bitterly. “Let me guess—she was given to you as a prize. Is that right? What makes you think that she isn’t just Timeus’s little pet? Now I truly understand you, gladiator, and I must say, I’m disappointed. Your master gives you a whore, and now he’s got you by the—”

  Xanthus grabbed Kanut’s tunic and practically lifted the man off the ground. The dizziness, the pain, that damn falcon—all of it faded from his mind. “Attia is no whore, and if you suggest it again, I’ll send you to the underworld with fewer limbs than you started with.”

  Kanut’s face changed instantly, the exhaustion melting to fury then to disbelief, and then—hope. “Attia of Thrace?”

  Xanthus felt the world tilt on its axis. He dropped Kanut as though the man’s tunic were on fire.

  “Answer me, gladiator!” Kanut shouted, grabbing Xanthus by the collar and twisting the fabric in his scarred hands. “Is Attia of Thrace alive?”

  “How do you—?”

  “Is she in Pompeii?”

  “What do you know about her?” Xanthus demanded. “And what have you told Timeus?”

  “He knows nothing,” Kanut said. “He certainly doesn’t realize that he has Thracian royalty living under his roof.” He was smiling, but tears were slowly filling his eyes. “I knew it. I knew it had to be her. Who else but a Maedi could be the Shadow of Death? Who else but the heir of Spartan kings would take a name like Spartacus?”

  Xanthus felt unsteady again, and not from the fight. Kanut loosened his hold on him.

  “The Romans tried to burn me alive. I watched as my people were crucified and left to die in the hills. I thought I’d lost everything—my king, my princess, my brothers. I thought all memory of Thrace would die with me.”

  Xanthus couldn’t blink. He could barely breathe. “Who are you?” he whispered.

  “I am Crius, first captain of King Sparro of Thrace. I am a Maedi.” He reached around Xanthus and pushed open the remains of the shattered door. “And so are they.”

  The mercenaries were waiting outside. It seemed they’d been waiting the whole time, waiting to see who won. They’d caught Balius, too—Number Two gripped his neck as though he was a puppy rather than a boy.

  And now that Xanthus looked—really looked—he could see that all of the mercenaries wore a bloodred length of fabric tied around their necks, mostly hidden by their dark, plain clothing. He was surprised that his knees didn’t give out right then. He barely heard the next words of the man he’d known as Kanut.

  “We never wanted Spartacus,” he said. “We only wanted our princess. And now that search is over. You’re getting your wish, Xanthus: We’re going back to Pompeii.”

  CHAPTER 23

  It was all quite ornate. Brightly colored silk drapes hung in loops from the ceiling and caressed the pillars. There were couches, chairs, and pillows spread all over the tiled floor. If Lucretia fell during her dance, she’d probably just bounce right back up again.

  From where she hid in a shadowed doorway, Attia could smell the vast assortment of food—roasted and cold meats, warm breads, sliced cheeses, exotic fruits. There was just so much, and all of it for Tycho Flavius. Attia found it nauseating.

  The man himself sat on a dais near the back of the room with thin drapes hanging all around him and partially obscuring his face. Attia was glad. He hadn’t been pleasant to look at the first time. She was, however, surprised to notice that he was sitting in Timeus’s chair. The old man was left to stand at Tycho’s shoulder like a servant. From the scowl on Timeus’s face, he wasn’t pleased with the arrangement at all.

  Sabina had told her to stay in Rory’s room, but Attia felt like she would be abandoning Lucretia again if she did that. Moving silently through the crowd, she took a place near the front and watched as Lucretia moved to the very center of the room.

  The sheer gown she wore shimmered like spun gold, and Attia was surprised to see that the color and the candlelight actually did a fair job of obscuring Lucretia’s bruises, even if you could see nearly everything else. She moved as gracefully as ever, despite her injuries. Attia was probably the only one to notice the hesitation in her step, or the way she only extended her arms a little because she wasn’t quite healed yet.

  Attia’s own body strained with violence, and it took everything in her to keep still while Lucretia danced ever closer to Tycho’s chair, her body twisting in ways that must have hurt every bruised muscle she had. When her hands subtly touched her shoulders, Attia knew she was preparing to peel her dress away. The crowd sensed it, too, and began to call out with loud cheers and obnoxious whistles.

  Attia swallowed hard. Her hands clenched into fists, and she took an involuntary step forward, accidently knocking into the arm of a nobleman and sending his cup of wine shattering to the floor.

  The music stopped instantly, and suddenly, everyone was silent and staring at her. Timeus’s face hardened as her eyes met his.

  “Who,” Tycho said with a slight slur, “is that? Bring her here.”

  Lucretia had gone pale, and she shook her head slightly. Attia was nearly overwhelmed by the look of pity on her face. Her dark eyes practically screamed “I’m sorry,” as though she could have shielded Attia from this. And there Attia was trying to protect her. The irony struck her hard, and she had to concentrate to walk toward the dais where Tycho and Timeus waited.

  As she walked, she felt a strange trembling beneath her feet, and she had to change her stance to stay balanced. But no one else noticed it, and it left her wondering if it was only in her head. The Romans were so loud that sometimes it seemed like their cheers could rattle her teeth loose.

  “Wherever did you find her, Timeus?” Tycho asked as Attia approached.

  “The gods guide them all to my door, Tycho. But I suppose I have your father to thank for this one.”

  “Is that so? How fascinating. Something he brought back from the
savage lands, no doubt.” Attia was trying to keep her focus, but a movement near the door in the far corner caught her eye—a shock of red hair and pale skin.

  “… from Thrace,” Timeus was saying.

  “Oh, savage indeed. Though undoubtedly beautiful. Bring her closer.”

  Attia didn’t have another second to think about it before she stepped forward. But she refused to bow her head. She refused to give a Flavian the satisfaction of her deference.

  “Closer,” Tycho said.

  She took another single step, her eyes raised and scanning the far end of the room.

  “Closer,” he said again, his voice becoming hard.

  Attia complied, but her thoughts were on someone else entirely. She’d seen Rory. She knew she had. That red hair and pale skin—it had to be the child. And the girl had promised. Attia clenched her teeth in frustration.

  Behind her, the guests watched with interest, waiting to see what Tycho would do next.

  “What is your name?” Tycho asked.

  Attia seriously considered the possibility of not answering at all. But she heard Timeus clear his throat loudly.

  “Attia,” she said.

  “What? I can’t hear you.”

  Attia sighed before raising her voice. “My name is Attia,” she said, her words ringing clearly through the room.

  “Attia,” Tycho repeated with a sigh of his own that set her teeth on edge. There was an audible intake of breath around her as Tycho stood from his seat. “Look at me,” he said from just a few inches away.

  Attia clenched her fists.

  “Look at me,” he nearly shouted.

  With a deep, steadying breath, Attia shifted her eyes from the back wall to look into his.

  Yes. He looked just as he had when he arrived—short, pale, soft. And now drunk. She felt a split second of amusement when she realized that she was actually slightly taller than him.

  “Oh, she is lovely,” Tycho said in a husky whisper. “Thracian, you say?”

  Timeus nodded. “The last Thracian.”

  “Of course. So you were the one my father spared.” A sour smile spread across his mouth. “He said you tried to save old Sparro—ran to his side like a little soldier with a sword of your own. But you were too late. My father had already cut him down. Did you hear Sparro beg for his life? Funny that a weak girl like you would have more courage than that old fool. No wonder his heir wasn’t worth knowing about. A man like that probably spawned a pitiful son.”