During the long night, she’d come to a decision. Until she had the strength to fight her way out of the estate, she would stay quiet. She would learn the halls and the corridors. She would count the guards. She would sleep in the gladiator’s quarters each night so long as he kept his word and kept his hands to himself.
And she would do what small chores Sabina asked of her, even if she did get off to a rather disastrous start. As the house slaves soon learned, the young Thracian might be the champion’s new pet, but she was certainly not a domesticated one.
That morning, Attia followed Sabina to the steaming room where the house slaves cleaned the linens and clothes. It was a single rectangular space with raised vats of hot water standing in rows throughout the room. The strong stench of ammonia brought tears to Attia’s eyes, and she covered her nose as Sabina introduced her to the laundress.
“She doesn’t know much,” Sabina said. “But she’s a quick learner.”
Attia raised her eyebrow. Sabina had no reason to think she was quick at anything except fighting, and she obviously didn’t know that Attia had cleaned her own clothes before, as all Maedi had. Attia knew well enough how to launder tunics and other linens. But she didn’t say a word.
The laundress looked her over and sighed. “Fine. Come with me, girl.” She led Attia to a vat of hot water near the back of the room. A massive wooden paddle rested against the side, and the laundress handed it to Attia. “Stir,” she said. “And don’t put anything else in there. This one is for the dark tunics.”
So Attia stirred. Every slow movement of the paddle made the stench stronger, and she turned her face away in an effort to take a clear breath. Behind her, rows and rows of clean and folded linens filled wooden shelves. Other slaves came in pairs to take armfuls of the sheets out of the steaming room.
Attia paused and cocked her head, her eyes on the last pile of clean linen just an arm’s reach away. In the end, she couldn’t help herself. She swept the linens up into her arms before clumsily dropping them into the vat. She stirred with vigor before lifting the cloth up with her wooden paddle. The linen was no longer snowy white but had turned to a muddy gray color.
The laundress saw and nearly screamed. “By the gods!” she shouted, hurrying over to snatch the paddle from Attia’s hands. “What have you done?” She pulled the ruined linens from the steaming vat with her bare hands and dropped them on the floor when the heat proved too much. With the long end of the paddle, she raised a corner of the linen to reveal singed, frayed edges.
“Apologies,” Attia said, not looking apologetic at all.
The laundress turned a dark glare on her. “Get out! Get out! Get out!”
She ran Attia out of the steaming room with the paddle still in her hands.
It took Sabina nearly half an hour to calm the woman down, and she only succeeded by promising over and over that she would never bring Attia back to the steaming room again.
Attia was just fine with that.
Sabina shook her head at Attia before taking her to the kitchens. The slaves there were already hard at work preparing the midday meal. As she’d done with the laundress, Sabina told the head cook that Attia was new, a quick learner, however ignorant she seemed. She turned an exasperated look at Attia when she said that last part.
“Can you cook?” the man asked.
Of course she could. Maedi had to eat, didn’t they? But she simply shrugged and let the cook lead her to the roasting pit in the middle of the kitchen.
“All you have to do is turn this spit,” he said, “and make sure the meat doesn’t burn. The dominus hates burned pork.”
So Attia turned the spit. The smell of the meat made her mouth water, and she fought the urge to pull just a small piece from the spit. Her arms were already tired from stirring the paddle in the washing vat, but she kept a steady pace over the fire pit.
Only when the head cook looked away did Attia loosen her grip. She released her hold on the spit, and deliberately knocked it off its stand, sending a whole rack of pork straight onto the ash and coals below. She used the spit to push the meat off the fire, but only ended up burning and smothering it in more ash.
“You imbecile!” the head cook screamed when he saw what had happened. He ran over and snatched the spit from her hands, but there was nothing to be done. The pork was ruined—not just burnt or overcooked, but completely and thoroughly inedible.
“Apologies,” Attia said.
It took Sabina more than an hour to convince the head cook not to run straight to Timeus, saying that it would only get them all punished in the end.
“Never bring her back here!” the head cook shouted.
And Attia was just fine with that, too.
When they were alone, Sabina gripped Attia’s arm. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?” she demanded, clearly exasperated.
“Would it help if I said I was sorry?” Attia asked with feigned innocence.
Sabina narrowed her eyes before leading Attia to a tiny room down the hall from the kitchen. She pulled out a bucket, a handful of rags, and a stiff brush. “Since you’re so talented at making messes, maybe you can learn to clean them up as well.”
This time, Sabina led Attia through the house to the great welcoming room of the villa. No doubt Sabina had seen it countless times, but Attia hadn’t yet, and as soon as she passed through the doorway, her step faltered.
The room was beautiful and terrifying—a massive octagonal space that echoed with the work of dozens of slaves. The complex mosaics and murals, the marble and stone, the silk and satin drapes that hung from the row of pillars to the west, the jewels sparkling on the walls. It was more than Attia had ever seen, and the sight of so much concentrated wealth made her dizzy.
“All this from training gladiators?” Attia asked. “He only has six.”
Sabina frowned. “How do you know that?”
“I saw them this morning in the training yard.”
“Yes, well, the dominus needs no more. His gladiators are famous throughout the Republic, and his champion is beloved.”
“Timeus must treat them all well, not just his champion,” Attia said. “Why else haven’t they tried to kill him?”
Sabina’s eyes flicked toward Attia then away. With capable hands, she began plucking and pruning an ugly arrangement of sticks and flowers in a tall, painted vase. She trimmed away at the brown stems before adding a handful of rust-colored blooms. “Take care, Attia,” she said eventually. “He is our dominus, and you should show respect.”
“Respect is earned.”
“Not in Rome.”
“No, you’re right. Here it is bought.”
Sabina shot her a warning look. “Hush, now. Go scrub that far pillar; then I need you to clean a few of the rooms on the upper floor. Maybe if I keep you away from too many people, I can keep you out of trouble.”
Attia shrugged again as she lifted her bucket. “Yes. Maybe.”
*