Mirroring those were names less familiar to Attia. First, there was Vespasian’s brother, Crassus Flavius, who was actually a year older and still alive. Below that was the name of Crassus’s son, Tycho, who—at thirty-six years of age—was four years younger than Titus. Spread around them were the names of no more than half a dozen cousins, uncles, and other sons. The sparsity of names allowed room for other details to be recorded—years and places of birth, notable events, even military ranks. Apparently some distant cousin had recently been appointed to the Senate, though he was only fifteen years old.
It didn’t surprise Attia that Timeus would keep such information or that he would be so meticulous about adding to it. His gladiators had given him absurd wealth and prominence. But Timeus was no senator, and his status as a patrician was bought, not inherited. He didn’t even have a military rank to his name, as far as Attia was aware. When it came down to it, he was nothing more than a lanista, a glorified merchant. And for a man as ambitious as Timeus, social class meant everything. If he ever hoped to improve his family’s standing within the Republic, he’d need to form strong ties with the only family in Rome who could raise him up.
The one thing that did surprise Attia was that the House of Flavius seemed smaller than she’d expected. Including the brothers Vespasian and Crassus, there were barely more than two generations of offspring listed. Male offspring. She had to scan the papyrus several times to confirm that there were no women listed at all. No wives nor mothers nor daughters. A small house, indeed. Attia’s own family were direct descendants of the kings of ancient Sparta, and they had led the tribes of Thrace for over three hundred years. Twelve generations of swordlords had all dedicated their lives to protecting their people. Attia frowned down at the papyrus on the table. The size of it suggested the beginning of a dynasty, but really, the Flavians seemed little more than pretenders to a throne they didn’t deserve.
Attia’s eyes drifted back up to Crassus’s name, and she noticed a title beside it. Written in tiny brown letters was a word that had come to haunt her days and nights: legatus. So Vespasian’s big brother was a general in the Roman army, and of all the people documented, he appeared to be the most accomplished. Just below his name was a long list of places and dates. Jerusalem, Britannia, Germanica. All military campaigns going back more than twenty years.
Attia scrolled down the list with mild curiosity until she reached the bottom. Then it felt as though her stomach had lurched into her chest.
At the very end, written in new, glistening ink, was Thrace.
And suddenly, the face that had burned itself into her nightmares and her memory had a name.
Legatus Crassus Flavius.
The Roman who had killed her father.
CHAPTER 7
Crassus.
A shiver of cold rage trickled down Attia’s spine as she sat on a window ledge on the upper floor, watching the soft purple hues of dusk settle on the edge of the horizon. Soon, she’d have to get up and go to Xanthus’s quarters for the night. He hadn’t hurt her last time, and he’d promised not to touch her. But what was a Roman’s promise worth? How patient could any man be about this sort of thing? She wondered if this would be the night she’d have to kill him. In her current mood, she thought she might just want to kill the first person she saw.
With a sigh, she stood and prepared herself for the inevitable. But she didn’t expect the man who waited for her at the foot of the stairs. When she recognized his face, her body froze with suspicion and distrust. It was Timeus’s muscled bodyguard from the auction. His right leg—the one she’d broken—was wrapped in a stiff leather brace, and he stood with one hand firmly clasped around a thick staff. The whites of his eyes stared out from his night-dark face. Even injured, he looked stoic and forbidding.
Shit.
Attia stared at him with her jaw clamped shut and her nails digging into her palms. He’d probably come specifically to get her alone, to exact some sort of revenge for what she’d done to him. But then he just nodded his head, turned, and began walking in the direction of the training yard.
Well, limping.
Attia had no choice but to follow. She squirmed as she walked in his wake, watching as he practically dragged his leg across the floor with each step. She was amazed he could even walk at all. She’d used that move countless times, but she’d never stuck around to see what happened to the man afterward. The evidence of it was now right before her eyes, and she had no idea what to think.
He couldn’t be here as a guard; what use would he be with his injury? So what did he want? An apology? Like hell. He didn’t know her, but he should know better. Attia was surprised that he was even willing to turn his back on her. Wasn’t he afraid that she’d just attack him again and try to escape a second time? She would only have to—
“Clever trick.”
The sudden deepness of his voice disturbed Attia’s thoughts. She measured her pace to maintain a short distance between them. “Trick?” she asked warily.
He glanced back and tapped his finger against the leather cast. “Where did you learn how to do that?”
Attia couldn’t quite place his accent, but she knew that the Latin he spoke wasn’t his native language. There was a surprisingly pleasant lilt to his voice, a musical quality that made it sound like he was humming the words rather than speaking them.
“My father,” she said.
“A skilled man. My father was also quite skilled. He taught me everything he knew.”
What was she supposed to say to that? Why was the man even talking to her?
“His true love was the sea,” he was saying. “The waves, the salt, the depth of it. He would have lived and died on the sea if he was able.”
“But he wasn’t?”
“No,” he said in a quiet voice. “He wasn’t.”
Attia couldn’t help herself any longer. “Aren’t you angry after what I did to you?” she said, her voice loud in the dark hall.
He looked at her with a wry smile, and Attia realized that she’d closed the distance between them. They were walking shoulder to shoulder as she matched his painful limp with small steps. “No,” he said.
“Why not?”
“A man learns to respect others’ abilities, or he falls.”
Attia snorted. Oh, you fell, all right.
“And I’ve been injured much worse. I was a gladiator for nearly fifteen years.”
“I’m surprised that Timeus trusts a slave to protect him.”
“I am a freeman.” He laughed lightly at the shocked look on Attia’s face. “Years ago, when I became champion of the house, I was given a rudis and set free. Now I serve the dominus outside of the arena.” He said it so simply, as though it was a matter of course to be given one’s freedom.
Attia sputtered. “But … but if you’re free, why have you stayed here?”
Ennius came to a stop. “Xanthus,” he said with a nod of his head.
“What?”
Ennius cleared his throat. Attia turned to see the red “X” marking the doorway to the champion’s quarters. They’d reached the training yard without her realizing it, and Xanthus was leaning against the lintel as though he’d been waiting for them.
“A pleasant evening, Ennius, isn’t it?” the gladiator said.
“Quite,” Ennius, the freeman, replied.
They both looked at Attia, and still bewildered, she shuffled past Xanthus and into his small room.
Ennius lowered his voice, thinking Attia wouldn’t hear. “She’s very young.”
“Goodnight, Ennius,” was the strained reply.