Attia followed her gaze back to the valley, barely visible now through the descending ash and smoke. The refugees murmured among themselves in subdued conversation. The stink of burned cloth and flesh hung heavy in the air.
On the road, the Maedi and the surviving gladiators from Timeus’s ludus had spread through the crowd, listening and watching for any information that could be of value. Ennius had hobbled along on his damaged knee, refusing to ride while the gladiators and Maedi walked. Rory had stared at the sea of refugees with wide eyes. It was the first time she’d been around so many people, and the only thing that stopped her from going wild with excitement was Sabina’s firm hand. The little boy, Balius, had been another story. He’d walked by Sabina’s side, seemingly afraid to be separated from her for even a moment. Attia wondered where he’d come from, where his family was. The same thing she wondered about the dark-eyed woman sitting beside her.
“Your turn,” Attia said.
“My name is Lucretia.”
“You’re breaking our deal.”
Lucretia shook her head. “No, you don’t understand. It’s the only name I can remember now. It’s been too long. In my dreams, there’s a face and a voice—I think they belong to my mother. But between that time and the summer that Timeus claimed me, there’s … a gap.”
“How long of a gap?”
Lucretia tilted her head in thought. “Two years, I think.”
“You have no memory of your first two years in Timeus’s house?”
“All I know is that for as long as I’ve been in Rome, I have been called Lucretia. So that is my name.”
“But it’s not,” Attia said.
Lucretia smiled. “Would you rename me, Thracian? A third name for a broken woman?”
“No,” Attia said, shaking her head firmly. “But you could do it yourself. If you can’t remember your first name, you could pick a new one.”
“No man—or woman—chooses their own name. You didn’t choose to be called Attia. You didn’t choose Spartacus.”
Attia thought back to that night in Ardea, fighting beside Xanthus and waiting for the dawn.
“Didn’t I?” she whispered. “You’re right about one thing: This is my war, not yours, and I don’t want anyone else to die because of me. Once we get everyone to safety, I’ll go my own way. You needn’t have any part in this. None of you do. You can live new lives, start over. You can be free.”
Lucretia laughed, a faint, breathy sound. “Free,” she said, as though the word tasted bitter in her mouth. “I don’t even know what that means anymore.”
Attia reached into her pocket and pulled out her father’s pendant. The fires had done a grand job mutilating the once proud symbol of the Maedi swordlord. The fine details of the Thracian falcon were disfigured now, all slashes and scars, scales and claws. Lucretia had burned her hand snatching the thing from the fires.
“Albinus calls you the ‘little falcon.’ Did you know that? Maybe he ought to think of something else. That pendant certainly doesn’t look much like a bird anymore.”
“Why did you save it?” Attia asked.
This time, Lucretia’s laugh glittered with delight. “You tried to kill Tycho Flavius for that thing,” she said. “I guessed it must be important. And what can I say? Perhaps I’m sentimental at heart.”
“Spartacus, the Lizard of Death,” Attia said dryly.
Lucretia snorted. “That is truly awful. We’ll have to come up with something better if this is going to work.”
“We?”
“A war needs soldiers. Soldiers need a general. And a general needs a name—one that inspires. You already have gladiators and Maedi warriors willing to fight with you. Others will come. They’ll have their own reasons, but you can’t afford to be picky.”
“I’m not being picky.”
“No, you’re trying to be noble. But it’s not your place to decide others’ fates for them.”
Attia sat quietly, mulling over Lucretia’s words.
“Accept help when it is given, Attia. Even if it is given by a broken concubine.”
“Lucretia…” Attia’s voice faltered as she considered the implications of what her friend was saying, of what they would be doing. “This is going to be dangerous.”
“Wars generally are.”
“But it won’t be like any war that any of us have ever fought. There are no rules for what we’re about to do. There are only risks.”
“What is life without a little risk?”
“Some of us may die.”
Lucretia smiled grimly. “We’re all going to die. But we can make certain that our lives—and our deaths—mean something. Whatever happens, whatever comes, we’ll face it together.”