Some even looked as though they were trying their damnedest to hinder the vigiles who gave chase. All Attia knew was that she had to keep moving. Fighting through waves of nausea and dizziness, she took off across the rooftops, using them like stepping stones as she leapt across alleys and narrow streets, always going east.
She didn’t stop until she’d come to the outskirts of the city. Behind her, the crowded clay insulas of the poor loomed in growing shadow, while up ahead were the open farmlands, grazing pastures, and sleek estates of the patricians. The dirt beneath her bare feet changed from dust and rock to soil and grass. Her breathing was even, and her muscles sang with the thrill of a chase. Attia paused to watch the sun set over the lip of the horizon, staining the sky red as the moon rose. There wouldn’t be any darkness. She’d have to move fast. The long finger of the hill was still to the northeast, but shrouded in clouds.
Then she heard it—boots thundering against the earth. They moved in formation between a march and a run. And there were more of them. Dozens more. All this for a single runaway slave?
Attia was certain they didn’t know who she was. If they did, she would surely have been executed long before reaching Rome. But there was no time to think about it. She adjusted her grip on her stolen sword—ready for whatever might come—and started to run again.
The estates gave way to wide, empty fields. The nearly barren land was like a memorial to the thousands of trees and roots and animals destroyed in the making of the city. There was nowhere to hide, no sanctuary or haven. The boots of the vigiles were nearly upon her.
Attia wanted to go home. She wanted to see her father’s warrior frame bent in concentration over his beloved letters and scrolls. She wanted to see the familiar bloodred wool of the Maedi cloaks. She wanted to run and run until her breath was spent, until the ashes of her bones mingled with those of her people.
But they’re dead.
Above her, the moon rose, the sky blazed, the mountains themselves seemed to sink into the deep, and her people—every single person she had ever known—were dead.
I am dead.
And suddenly, she realized there was nothing left to run to.
She stopped running in the middle of a flat field, and within moments, the vigiles surrounded her in a wide circle of black and iron.
I am nothing. Attia is nothing. Not a name or a sound. There is no me. There is only a ghost of Thrace.
She felt herself going numb as one of the vigiles approached with chains in his extended hands. Moonlight glinted off a silver ring on his middle finger—a tiny, snarling wolf’s head. His hand and that ring seemed to move in slow motion. Closer and closer.
It was instinct more than a conscious choice. Attia was just as surprised as the vigil when she deftly grabbed the man’s wrist and pulled him toward her, right onto her stolen blade. She looked coldly into his eyes as his expression changed from one of shock to agony. Blood oozed from his belly and his mouth, staining the front of his uniform. Attia pushed him off her sword and let him fall to the ground with a dull thud.
Dead. Dead. Dead.
A startled laugh burst from her throat, and she didn’t try to hold it back.
The vigiles shuffled uneasily around her like a pack of anxious wolves, wary now, confused, perhaps even frightened.
Attia’s maniacal laughter warped into a scream, and then the scream became a keening that echoed against the bare trees, up to the swollen moon above. It was wordless, sharp, and high, a bone-deep lament that silenced the Roman beasts that surrounded her.
Perhaps it was almost over. Perhaps now, the darkness would bring some kind of peace.
“Stop!” The word shattered the tension in the field.
Out of the corner of her eye, Attia saw a mounted centurion, the plumes of his helmet rustling in the wind. His presence only made the vigiles more confused, and Attia understood. A centurion was a Roman officer, not one to involve himself in the simple business of city watchmen.
“She has been bought and paid for by the House of Timeus,” the centurion said. “Seize and disarm her, but do not kill her.”
The order finally brought the vigiles to their senses. They raised their swords, and more out of habit than anything else, Attia raised hers, too. Relying on reflex and muscle memory, she managed to strike down more than a few before their numbers and her exhaustion got the better of her.
They descended like a swarm.
CHAPTER 2
At first, Attia wasn’t sure where she was. The hard pallet beneath her was so unlike the mound of blankets and furs she’d used in her tent. When she reached out, she felt only cool stone, not the hard-packed earth of the Maedi camps. The smell of roses rather than horses filled the air. She realized she was in a small, rectangular room with marble walls and floors—a typical Roman bath. Attia turned her gaze to the freshwater pool built into the middle of the floor. All she wanted to do was close her eyes and melt into that water. But then she realized she wasn’t alone. A middle-aged woman hovered over her.
Attia recoiled. Through a fog of sleep and pain, she barely managed to whisper three words. “Who are you?”
“My name is Sabina,” the woman said, taking Attia’s hand gently in hers. “You’ve been unconscious for two days.” Her gray-streaked brown hair was pulled back in a tight knot. She evaluated Attia’s injuries with a penetrating gaze, her dark gray eyes slowly moving over the gash at Attia’s temple, her swollen eye, her bruised cheeks. She gently turned Attia’s head to examine the most serious injury—the hard, throbbing spot where the hilt of a sword had collided with the base of Attia’s skull.
With every breath, Attia’s chest ached, likely from several cracked ribs. She was certain that her left wrist was sprained, and at least two of her fingers were broken. She glanced down to see her olive-gold skin splattered with dried blood and grime. But she’d suffered worse in training and on the battlefield. Her body was a proud patchwork of scars, and she knew she would heal in time.
“What is your name?” Sabina asked.
“A—” The coarseness in Attia’s throat made her sputter. “Attia.”
Sabina tried to give her some water, but Attia choked and coughed, and only a few drops made it down her sore throat. “Try again, Attia. Drink.” Sabina held the cup to Attia’s lips and made her drink it all. With swift, confident movements, Sabina began to change the bandages on Attia’s wounds. She looked grim but determined as she applied pressure to the places that still bled, cleaned the gashes and cuts, and examined the line of stitches she’d sewn along Attia’s side. Attia didn’t make a sound.
“You’re strong,” Sabina said, her voice soft with approval. “That’s good. You’ll need to be.”
A man walked into the room, drawn by the sound of their voices. His leather breastplate and greaves meant he was a guard of some sort. The black cape he wore over his tunic nearly concealed the long dagger in his belt. “Is she awake?” he asked brusquely.
Sabina pursed her lips. “Barely,” she said over her shoulder.
“Good enough. Bring her. I’ll inform the dominus.” He left the room, his black cape fluttering in his wake.