Still on the ground, her hands buried in the dirt, she’d kicked back and up with all her strength, the heel of her foot colliding hard with the boy’s face. Everyone heard the sickening crunch of his broken nose right before he fell.
The whole yard was silent as she twisted her skinny body about and leapt to her feet in a technique she’d made up on her own. She stood over the boy with clenched fists and fought the urge to kick him again. “My name is Attia,” she said to the boys and soldiers gathered around watching.
Groaning, the boy covered his nose with his hands. His eyes stared at her with a mixture of fear and admiration. Only after he nodded did she step back and let him stand. He was almost a foot taller than she.
No one called her names again after that. Jezrael—the boy she’d fought—became her closest friend, nearly a brother. From that day on, Attia had often caught her father watching her with pride. He finally believed she would make a fine Maedi after all.
That future was dead. But below the scars and the wounds that would never heal, there was still the spirit of a swordlord’s heir.
Whatever it took, Attia knew she had to find Crassus. She had to make him pay.
*
The gladiators paused in their training to drink from the barrel of fresh water at the wall of the training yard. Gone were the jests and laughter from the days before. After what Albinus had said, their training had changed. It had to.
Xanthus was sipping from his cup when he noticed his brothers go still around him. Their faces went blank and their hands tightened their holds on their cups. Even their eyes turned down to the ground, as though they couldn’t see or hear a thing.
Turning to the archway of the training yard, Xanthus saw the reason why. He put down his cup and extended his right hand. “Welcome home, Master Lucius.”
Lucius, Timeus’s nephew, glanced awkwardly at the others as he grasped Xanthus’s hand. Xanthus thought he was still too slender for a man of nearly eighteen. He turned Lucius’s hand over in his, examining the smooth texture of his palms.
“No calluses,” Xanthus said. “You haven’t been practicing.”
Lucius blushed. “Something I hope to remedy. How are you, Xanthus?”
“The same,” Xanthus said, mostly for lack of anything better to say. “How’s your arm?”
Lucius grimaced before tugging on his sleeve. A short scar ran along the inner part of his forearm from the time Xanthus had accidentally snapped the bone clean in half with the blunt end of a training sword. Timeus’s physicians had been forced to cut into Lucius’s arm to repair it.
“I think it’s an improvement, actually. Women are always impressed by scars,” Lucius said.
Someone snorted behind Xanthus—probably Albinus—but he ignored it. “You’re welcome to join us in training, Master Lucius,” Xanthus said loudly enough for the others to hear.
His brothers had never been particularly fond of Lucius, though it wasn’t anything personal. It was simply too difficult for them to separate the boy from the family, to see him as anything but the heir to the House of Timeus. But Xanthus sympathized with Lucius. He’d been young once, too—untrained and green around the edges until Ennius taught him.
Lucius looked at the gladiators, who’d moved farther down the training yard. “They really don’t like me.”
“They’re gladiators, Master Lucius. They don’t really like anyone or anything, except perhaps fighting.”
Lucius nodded. “Oh, that actually reminds me. My uncle asked me to extend a message. He says he hopes you’re enjoying your gift. What did he get you?”
Xanthus turned away so Lucius wouldn’t see him grit his teeth. “Your uncle is generous with me,” he said simply. He led Lucius into the training yard and tossed him a staff. “Since you haven’t been practicing, we’ll start with the basics.”
Looking slightly abashed, Lucius caught the staff and tried to ignore the glowers of the other gladiators.
*
It was midafternoon and warm. A weighty quiet had descended on the estate as the household took its brief daily rest. Attia cut through the western dining room to avoid the guards, thinking she could get to the upper levels and back to Timeus’s study unnoticed. But as soon as she entered the dining room, she found a young man struggling to lift a cup of wine to his lips.
She watched him silently for a few seconds before speaking. “Problems?” she asked.
His head jerked up, and his grip involuntarily tightened on the cup. He sucked air through his teeth, trying not to look like he was in such obvious pain.
“I’m fine,” he said.
Attia cocked her head at him as recognition dawned. “You’re Timeus’s nephew.”
“Unfortunately,” he grumbled, frowning as he tried to get a better grip on the cup.
That one response made Attia smile, and she decided that nephew or not, maybe she could spare him the benefit of the doubt.
As she slowly approached him, she saw the blisters raging across both palms. She’d had her share of aches and pains from her own training. Really, he should have known better. He could have at least wrapped his hands to protect himself from the rough leather binding on the practice swords. His injuries—if she could even call them that—were his own fault.
When he caught her staring, he put his cup down and tried to hide his hands behind his back. Attia tried not to laugh.
He grumbled again. “It’s not funny.”
“Forgive me for not laughing, Timeus’s nephew.”
“My name is Lucius, and these are serious wounds, you know. I could have died in the practice yard.”
Attia nodded seriously. “Many warriors have succumbed to such hurts.”
“I sparred with the Champion of Rome. That’s not nothing.”
“It’s rather heroic, in fact.”
“Perhaps you could make yourself useful then and help me bind these up.” He lifted his hands into the air. The blisters really did look angry. They’d already started to seep.
Attia shook her head with feigned pity, and a short while later, she and Lucius were sitting side by side on a bench just outside of the dining room, Sabina’s basket of linen and salves between them.
“You really should have asked Sabina to do this,” Attia said, sniffing cautiously at one of the jars. “I’m not a healer. You’ll be lucky if you don’t lose your hands entirely.” She took a generous scoop of the salve that Sabina had instructed her to use and began rubbing it vigorously into Lucius’s palms.
He flinched and pulled away. “Gods, you might just take my hands off after all. Aren’t women supposed to be gentle?”
“Aren’t men supposed to be fearless? Hold still. I can’t do this if you keep squirming.”
He held his hands up and out of her reach. “You don’t need to rub so hard.”
Attia raised an eyebrow and tried not to smirk.
A deep blush worked its way up from beneath the collar of Lucius’s tunic. Lacking a decent response, he held out his hands again and only hissed a little when she touched the ointment to them.
“You probably shouldn’t have practiced for so long,” she told him.
“The gladiators train all day every day.”
“Their survival depends on their training. Anyway, you’re not a gladiator.”