“That’s two questions.”
“But you didn’t really answer my first one. Come on, Attia. Play fair. Tell me something about him.”
“He lived with courage,” she said. “And he died the same way.”
Xanthus’s face softened with sympathy. “How?” he asked.
Attia tried to push it away—tried to reject the familiar nightmare, but it found her anyway, as it always did. And again, the memory was just as clear, just as brutal. But she didn’t describe any of it for the gladiator. She didn’t even want to see it herself. “A Roman named Crassus Flavius murdered him and then took me out of spite,” she said. “After the invasion, everyone else was crucified. I am the last of them.”
Xanthus’s face contorted.
“I don’t want your pity,” she said quickly.
But he shook his head. “It’s not pity.”
Understanding dawned. “The same thing happened to your people,” Attia said.
Xanthus looked away. “Crassus came. My village burned. And my mother…” He swallowed hard. “I lost everything, too.”
There was more to his story, she could tell. More that he was holding back, just as she had. But she could see his mind working and saw the instant that his face lit up with a sudden realization.
He sat up quickly. “By the goddess,” he whispered. “Sparro? Your father was Sparro, the war-king of Thrace?”
Attia was a little shocked that he’d figured it out so quickly. A tiny crack was forming in the wall she’d so diligently built around her, but she met Xanthus’s eyes straight on. She tried to suppress her sudden wariness, her need to strike at something. She waited to see what he would do next.
“I never even knew he had a daughter,” he said. “Everyone assumed the swordlord’s heir was a son.”
Attia couldn’t help snorting at that. Of course they thought so. It was an ignorant assumption that had undoubtedly saved her life. That day on the hillside, the Romans had only seen one young girl who valiantly tried and failed to protect an old king.
More of her people might have been spared if they had simply surrendered, but that word was nearly unknown to Thracians. There wasn’t even a true equivalent in their language. The Romans killed so many because they had to, because Thracians would never stop fighting and the only way to defeat them was through annihilation. Still, even if Thrace had surrendered, Attia doubted that any of the men would have been allowed to live. As the champion said, they thought the swordlord’s heir was a boy.
Xanthus was still looking at her, this time with sad wonder in his eyes. “No wonder you wanted to kill me. No wonder you could have. Gods, we’re not equals at all. You’re royalty.” Coming from him, the word sent chills across her skin. “You’re a Maedi princess.”
Was, she corrected silently. She was one of the Maedi. She was a princess.
Xanthus relaxed back against the wall and actually chuckled. “A princess.”
Attia pulled her legs up underneath her and rested her head against the wall. “And you, a northern barbarian.” There was a light, teasing note in her voice that Xanthus immediately responded to.
“Well, you know what they say about barbarians…,” he said with a grin.
Attia couldn’t help it. She laughed. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, she laughed—unrestrained and genuine, as though the tragedy of her existence had been erased, just for that one moment.
When she finally got her breath back, she and Xanthus were leaning together against the wall, their shoulders nearly touching. “Your turn again,” he said.
Wanting to push away the memories of war and loss, Attia asked an entirely different question. “What kind of animals do you have in Britannia?”
*
Xanthus watched her sleep as pale gray light filled the room. It was nearly dawn, but he didn’t want to wake her. Not yet.
She looked different in sleep. Younger. Softer. Her lips were slightly parted. Her hand rested by her temple. Her neat braid had come partially undone in the night, and strands of dark hair curled around her face. Every now and then, her eyelashes fluttered. What—or who—was she dreaming about?
They’d talked long into the night, until their voices became hoarse. Until their memories hung like bright lights all around them. Xanthus saw sparks of silver in her dark gray eyes every time she laughed, and he found he couldn’t look away from her. And when she fell asleep, her head drifted down to his pillow, and her hand—her hand fell perfectly into his. It was so unlike that first night when she couldn’t kill him and he couldn’t watch her grieve. He didn’t want to move an inch, not even when his arm tingled with numbness and his lids became heavy. After a while, she turned over with a sigh. But he still felt the warmth of her skin against his for hours after.
Xanthus had known strong women in his life, but not like her. Even if she hadn’t been one of the legendary Maedi, there was a brightness inside her, a core of fire that burned steadily beneath her scarred bronze skin.
Now, there she was. In his bed. Because of Timeus.
Seeing her nearly break the first night had been almost painful, and the memory of it made him shrug his shoulders as though he could throw off that heavy mantle of guilt he’d worn for so long. Attia grieved for her people, as he did. Now who was to blame for her condition? The Romans, yes. Crassus and Timeus, certainly. But what about Xanthus? What did you call a slave who agreed to enslave another?
Self-disgust boiled in his stomach. The gods were taunting him. Wasn’t this the nightmare that resurrected itself every Samhain? He’d saved his mother by taking her life when the Romans came. Was he saving the Thracian by taking her freedom? Maybe a man’s crimes could be placed on the scales, weighed and measured for wickedness. So, he asked himself again—what did that make him? The possibilities made him shudder.
Xanthus leaned his head back against the wall and shut his eyes. At least there was one other thing he could give her—his silence. No one else knew who she really was, and as Xanthus watched her sleep, he swore an oath to the goddess that he would never reveal her true identity. He would die before that happened.
A soft knock at the door grabbed his attention. He wondered if it was Sabina come to save Attia from his vicious ways. He ignored it, wanting just a few more quiet moments.
The knock came again, louder, more insistent. Then someone slammed a closed fist against the door.
There were stumbling footsteps, and Iduma shouted, “You ass!”
Lebuin laughed loudly. “Well you shouldn’t have had your ear to the door!”
“Step aside, ladies,” Albinus said.
Xanthus jumped to his feet just as Albinus pushed the door open.
Attia was still fast asleep. Her slender figure was partially covered by the blanket, and her hair was spread out like a fan. She mumbled a word before turning over to face the wall. Xanthus thought it was probably the first deep sleep she’d had since she arrived.