My father and Xanthus would still be alive.
There was fear in Sabina’s warm, weathered face and a wary scowl on Ennius’s dark one. Castor was quiet as ever. The Maedi simply looked at her, all of them warriors she’d known since she was young—gentle Dacian, the twins Rhesus and Teres, sturdy Haemus.
And Jezrael.
She looked at her old friend, her blood-brother, and steeled her voice. “The House of Flavius will fall to my sword. You can either help me or get out of my way.”
Crius sighed heavily. “You are your father’s daughter,” he said with a sad, lopsided smile. “But are you sure you’re ready for this, Attia? Revenge is a dirty business.”
Attia calmly met his gaze. “This isn’t revenge, Crius. This is war.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Many of the events and individuals in Blood and Sand are based on true events, including the eruption of Vesuvius, the destruction of Pompeii, the completion of the Coliseum (also known as the Flavian Amphitheater), and the political undercurrents surrounding the Flavian dynasty. But to say that I took liberties with historical facts here would be like saying that the earth has a slight curve to it. Nearly everything—while rooted in truth—has been altered to fit the narrative, especially when it comes to dates.
It is true that in A.D. 79, Mount Vesuvius erupted over Pompeii, killing thousands and burying the city under layers of volcanic ash and rock nearly ten feet deep. Over the past three centuries, archeological excavations have revealed the surprisingly well-preserved remains of homes, buildings, forums, roads, and even people. Historians have since used the artifacts discovered in Pompeii to provide context for the city’s cultural and architectural facets. According to historical documentation, the eruption lasted approximately six hours, and the few people who escaped the destruction did so by boarding naval ships that had been docked along the coast. The eruption of Vesuvius was so massive that it caused the fall of neighboring cities, including Herculaneum and Oplontis. Wind currents carried surges of heat and ash southward nearly thirty miles to the Gulf of Salerno. It is still considered one of the most devastating natural disasters of the ancient world.
That same year, Titus Flavius became emperor of Rome—not Princeps—succeeding his father, Vespasian. Here, then, is the beginning of the numerous divergences between history and this story. The transition from free Republic to empire is a major plot element in Blood and Sand, but in truth, Rome had already entered its imperial period as early as 27 B.C. Emperor Vespasian—not the fictional Crassus Flavius—was the legatus responsible for invading Britain in A.D. 43. His son Titus earned a reputation during that time as a competent military commander, though he became best known for completing the construction of the famous Coliseum in Rome. He married several times before dying without an heir and was succeeded by his younger brother, Domitian.
The quote at the beginning of Blood and Sand was written by an actual historian who lived in the early Roman Empire, one of many well-regarded men who based their records largely on eyewitness accounts, anecdotal evidence, and word of mouth. Primary documents recording history in ancient times are rather like the culmination of a particularly long game of telephone. That is really how stories were passed along in the ancient world—from person to person, over miles and decades, until they were written down and became canon. And now we come to the crux of this alternative historical fiction: the identity of the rebel slave known as Spartacus. By most accounts, Spartacus lived sometime around 70 B.C., nearly one hundred and forty years before this story takes place. After escaping from slavery with a group of gladiators, Spartacus went on to lead what was called the Third Servile War, in which some seventy thousand freed slaves fought against Roman legions and nearly brought the empire to its knees. Historians agree upon that much, at least. But the details of Spartacus’s identity and early life not only differ but are often wildly contradictory. No one knows who Spartacus was before the war, or if “Spartacus” was a real name or one chosen by the Romans. No one knows where Spartacus was born, what language he spoke, whether he was a soldier or a gladiator, or whether he ever married. And no one can agree on why Spartacus fought the war to begin with, or whether he even survived it.
It may seem odd that a historical figure whose name has inspired songs, films, poems, and novels can be such an enigma. But if there was one major theme that I learned as a history major, it is that history is imperfect because we are imperfect. History is nothing but a collection of stories, colored and twisted and shaped by time and bias and language. It shifts depending upon the lens through which you look at it, and you may find it slowly grow or shrink or change altogether as the years pass and your experiences accumulate. As Napoleon Bonaparte once infamously said, “What is history but a fable agreed upon?” And so my dear, curious, clever reader, I implore you to ask questions and challenge narratives. Facts may be indisputable, but truth is a wily thing. Discover it for yourself, and maybe somewhere along the line, you’ll see the world—and its possibilities—in an entirely new light.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Telling a story and sharing a story are two very different things. The first can be a solitary, often isolating experience, whether by necessity or circumstance. But the second—well, that’s a horse of a different color. Sharing a story with the world, giving it a name and a cover, finding it a home on shelves and in hands takes the passion, faith, and dedication of every person who comes in contact with it. Those people deserve to be named and thanked, as well as I can. So here they are, the glorious folks who’ve stuck around, supported me and this story, told me when I was royally screwing things up and then giggled with sheer joy when I finally got something right. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.
To my parents, for their constant love and willingness to buy me all the books I asked for, even when those books started to take up more space in my room than clothing or furniture.
My teachers and mentors from middle school to college, especially Mrs. Tisdale, Deborah Hoffman, Francille Bergquist, Helmut Smith, Vereen Bell, and Katherine Crawford.
The people who cheered for this book before even reading it and kept me going with virtual cookies and very real words of love: Tiffany Flecha, Kelsey Tricoli, Katilyn Walker, Jessica Scales, and Anna Priemaza.
One of my oldest friends, Ben Quigley, who’s been willing to read my words—the good, the bad, and the oh so damn ugly—since we were eighteen.