“Goodnight, Xanthus.”
Attia could hardly think straight. Ennius with his broken leg and musical voice, an old gladiator and former slave—he’d been freed when he became champion. He’s free and he stays. Serving that old pig. And if he’d been freed as a champion, then that probably meant …
She swung around to look at Xanthus. “You’re the champion of this house. Of Rome.” It wasn’t a question.
He considered her for a moment before answering. “Yes…”
“And that man was champion before you,” she said, pointing in the direction of the villa.
His brow wrinkled in confusion. “Ennius, yes.”
“And he is free.”
Xanthus’s expression went blank as understanding began to dawn.
“Are you?”
He looked away, but Attia took a step forward and persisted.
“Answer me. Are you a freeman?” It hurt to get the words out. She’d almost let herself think that they were in a similar situation, but if the champion was free, it changed everything.
Xanthus’s eyes were a dark shade of green when he met her gaze, as though a shadow looked out from deep inside him. He walked slowly toward her and lifted his sleeve. Timeus’s brand was seared into the flesh of his muscled arm, just below the shoulder. “No,” he said finally. “I am a slave, like you. We are equals.”
Attia released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “We may both be slaves, but we’re hardly equals. In case you don’t remember, I was given to you. The guards don’t even lock your door.”
“Yes, my door is unbarred. But just how far do you think I’d get if I tried to walk away from this house right now?”
“You could try.”
Xanthus turned away to pick up a small basket that sat beside the door. “I did try. A long time ago. And someone else paid for my transgression.” His face darkened. “I won’t take that risk again.”
The finality in his voice told Attia that that particular subject was best left for another time. “Why did Timeus free Ennius?” she asked instead.
“He didn’t. Ennius was freed by Timeus’s father, Quintus, who was a very different sort of man.” Xanthus set the basket on the table and started unpacking it.
“Did you know him?” Attia asked.
Fruit, fresh bread, a wedge of cheese, a hunk of seasoned pork, and a small jug of wine emerged, one by one. “No. By the time I was brought here, Quintus had already passed. But Ennius talked about him often while he was training us.”
“And now you’re the Champion of Rome. Are you as good as they say?”
The corner of Xanthus’s mouth quirked upward. “I’m no Thracian.”
No, Attia thought. You’re not.
A heavy silence followed. Part of Attia liked how the gladiator spoke of her home with such obvious reverence. But thinking of Thrace awakened too many memories, too many regrets. Too many plans and intentions that had died with her enslavement. Just a few months before the invasion, her father had hesitantly brought up the prospect of marriage. A queen needed heirs, after all.
But her father was dead, and Attia would never marry, by choice or by force. She realized that this sordid association with the gladiator might be the closest she would ever be to a man. She knew nothing about him—where he came from or who his people were or what he saw when he closed his eyes—but he was considerate and bright, with a quiet voice and hands that hadn’t hurt her. At least, not yet.
All marriages were things of convenience, in one way or another, and Attia had no intention of making any vows to Xanthus. She only had to give him her nights, and if Timeus had his way, her body. Not her self. Not her soul. A body was a cheap, temporary thing anyway. She didn’t realize Xanthus had been watching her—staring intently at the emotions playing out over her face.
“You still don’t trust me, do you?” he asked.
“You shouldn’t trust me either. We’re strangers.”
“That’s true,” Xanthus conceded. He put down his cup and sat down at the foot of his bed, leaning back to rest against the wall. “So ask me something. What do you want to know?”
Attia wasn’t sure she had heard him correctly. “What?”
“I’ll tell you anything you want to know about me. But the information isn’t free.”
Of course not.
Attia clenched her hands around her cup, trying to keep from shaking or striking or both. Hopefully, in the dimness of the candlelight, he didn’t notice. She didn’t want him to know what her control was costing her. She waited to hear his proposal.
“You have to tell me about yourself, too,” he said.
Now she was sure she hadn’t heard him properly. “Why?” she said, her voice harsh with suspicion.
“Because I’m curious. And because I’d rather be friends if we’re going to have to share this little room from now on.” He smiled gently as Attia narrowed her eyes at him. “Look, I’m offering you a deal: a question for a question. The Romans call it quid pro quo. You can go first.” He gestured to the half-empty bed. “And you don’t have to stand all night.”
Attia considered the space between them, a mere four feet of separation. She’d known warriors all her life. Men who were meaner, colder, more bloodthirsty than this gladiator could ever hope to be. The Romans called him a god, but Attia could see in his face a sort of regret, as though it was a curse rather than a gift for him to be so good at what he did. In that moment, she realized something that surprised her: She couldn’t quite trust the man, but she didn’t want to kill him.
She approached the bed slowly and sat down on the opposite end.
Xanthus didn’t give any indication that he minded the distance. In fact, he looked rather pleased that she’d sat down at all. He smiled at her—a bright smile that reminded Attia of spring—and folded his hands on his stomach.
Attia cocked her head, staring at the gladiator with blatant curiosity. “Who are you? That is, you’re obviously not a Roman.”
“Obviously?”
“Your accent—you sound like a northerner, though you speak the Vulgate well enough. And you don’t have that look.… That … hunger.”
Xanthus frowned thoughtfully. “Well, you’re right. I’m not a Roman. I’m from Britannia.”
Now that was surprising. More than a decade ago, when the Romans first ventured onto that lonely northern island, Attia’s father had shaken his head, closed his eyes, and said, “The world is falling.” She’d only been a child so she hadn’t understood what he meant at the time. She understood now.
“Nearly everything is green in Britannia,” Xanthus continued with a wistful smile. “Mist hugs the land, the trees, and the hills. And when the sun rises in the morning, the light pierces through the fog and paints the grass a thousand colors.” The smile started to fade when he turned to Attia. “My turn. Who taught you to fight? I saw what you did to Ennius, but I didn’t realize the Maedi trained their daughters as well.”
Attia chose her words carefully. “Mine was a … unique circumstance.”
“Was your father a warrior?”