Attia scanned the crowd, searching out their master. She burned with curiosity to see the infamous Tycho Flavius. But after just a few minutes, she knew that he wasn’t there. He hadn’t arrived with his caravan.
When the soldiers had taken their places, everyone looked west to the sloping cliff that bordered the villa and the sea. Three long ships appeared on the horizon. Their hulls and sails were dyed black, the canvas fluttering in the wind like demon wings. As they came closer, Attia could see that even the men at the oars wore black tunics. The sail of the center ship bore the image of a silver, snarling wolf’s head.
Tycho Flavius had arrived.
The ships eventually disappeared by the edge of the cliff. There must have been some unseen pass there, because soon men emerged into the courtyard through a passage that Attia hadn’t even known existed. She was so anxious to see if Crassus had come with them that every muscle in her body was as tight as the strings on a lyre.
The courtyard was nearly full and yet almost completely still. There were people everywhere who’d simply stopped moving, an unsettling juxtaposition to the frenetic activity of the day. Only a few men walked through the gathering. Attia strained her neck to see over the crowd, and her eyes met those of the gladiators, who stood in place with blank faces. Lucius’s eyes, which had been so dull and lifeless these past weeks, now seemed to blaze with frightening intensity.
Attia could hear Timeus greet someone. Slowly, the small group of men approached the villa. Her eyes scanned the group, searching out the face that had haunted her dreams for months now. But it seemed that Crassus hadn’t come, and disappointment sank deep to fuse with old anger. Then another face caught her attention, and she found herself staring at another member of the House of Flavius.
Tycho stood nearly a head shorter than Timeus. His skin was pasty white, and a cap of short, curly auburn hair framed rounded features. When he turned his head to look up at the villa, Attia noticed how small his nose looked compared to the rest of his face. Coupled with thick, round lips, it gave him a disjointed appearance, as though he was caught between the fa?ades of two men. Only his clothing seemed to complement the Flavian name. His tunic was the color of new cream and partially obscured by the heavy drape of purple fabric that hung off of one shoulder. Attia wondered how silly he must feel—dressing for deep winter in a place that only knew the occasional rainfall. As he moved, the dying sunlight reflected off a gold torque around his neck, and something silver peeked out from under his purple sash.
Attia frowned. Was that it, then? Was this short, pasty frog of a man the Tycho Flavius? The man who supposedly ordered the attack on their camp? The one who seemed to inspire fear and anxiety in hundreds of people? The son of Crassus Flavius, the infamous legatus who defeated the greatest warrior kingdom in the world?
“Mind your expression, little Thracian. You look disgusted,” Albinus said behind her.
Attia glanced back to see that Albinus and the gladiators towered around her like mighty sentinels, all exposed muscle and hard expressions.
“I’m unimpressed,” she said.
“What were you expecting?” Gallus asked.
“A man.”
Iduma faked a cough to hide his laughter.
The small group paused at the entryway to the villa, and Timeus snapped his fingers. Lucretia appeared at his side dressed in her black gown. The thin material barely managed to disguise the bruises that still lingered on her hips and legs. The swelling in her jaw was hidden by the way she’d styled her hair to curl about her neck.
Attia couldn’t hear what was being said, but Lucretia bowed gracefully before Tycho. Her dark eyes lifted slowly to meet Attia’s.
Again, that little smile appeared, but her eyes were cold. Then she lowered her head, turned, and followed Timeus into the villa.
*
By the time they arrived in Naples, Xanthus decided that he had finally atoned for his sins and now deserved the highest reward in the afterlife.
Not for his prayers.
Not for protecting Attia.
Not even for saving the boy, Balius.
But just for having enough self-control to keep from pushing Kanut off his damn horse.
Most of the others—including Number Two—had branched off to scout through the night. Xanthus was left to deal with Kanut’s excessive conversation alone. He took a deep breath as he pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I simply wish to state—for the record—that this is a stupid, foolish, asinine idea, if ever I’ve heard one,” Kanut said.
“I find that surprising,” Xanthus said.
“Who the hell taught you to be so damn spineless? We could have killed the boy and been done with it.”
“Well, we didn’t kill him, and we’re not going to,” Xanthus said. “Consider Timeus’s bounty money adequate payment. You know, you are surprisingly ungrateful for a man who will soon be a good deal richer.”
“Yes, well, we’ll have to find Spartacus first, won’t we? And this sniveling infant certainly won’t help.”
“The Shadow of Death?” a small voice asked.
Xanthus and Kanut both turned in their saddles to look at the young boy who rode with them.
“What was the rule, Balius?” Xanthus asked.
The boy pouted. “To keep quiet or you’d sell me to a ludus in Naples.”
“Exactly,” Xanthus said. He and Kanut turned around.
“The gods only know why you spared him. Or why you brought him!” Kanut said.
“It is one thing to kill animals in the arena. But he is a child, not a gladiator. Or an Ardean.”
“I’m no child! I’m almost nine years old,” Balius said with conviction. “I’m very nearly a man.”
Kanut glared at him until Balius turned bright red and fell silent again.
“Besides, he’s an orphan,” Xanthus said. “We can find a decent family to take him in, and that will be that. No cost. No blood.”
Kanut scoffed. “He may have been free, but he was still too expensive, if you ask me. I don’t like children. They’re irritating. Obstinate. Loud.”
Xanthus couldn’t help but smile at the irony of hearing Kanut say that.
“I knew a feisty one years back. The little monster broke two of my ribs.”
“I am very sorry that you let a child beat you,” Xanthus said with mock solemnity.
Kanut surprised him by grinning. His eyes lost focus, as though he was seeing something far away. “You’ve never met a child like that before, gladiator—stubborn as a bull, but brave. So very brave.”
“Your child?”
“Near enough,” Kanut said.
Xanthus waited to hear more, but now that he was marginally interested in what the man had to say, Kanut decided to drop the subject.
“Hold on tight, young Balius,” he said. “If you fall, I won’t turn back to catch you.”
*
It was a good dream.
Attia was in Thrace again, sleeping with her head on her horse’s flank while Jez and the others snored around her. The tide pulled at the shoreline some thirty yards away, and overhead, the moonless sky twinkled with the first sprinkling of stars.
Then a voice called out her name.
“Attia. Attia! Wake up!”
Eyes still closed, Attia sighed.