“A man should still know how to handle a sword.”
“Why? Your uncle has guards posted all over the estate.”
“You wouldn’t understand. You’re only a—” He paused.
“I’m only a what? A slave?”
He shook his head. “I was going to say that you’re only a woman.”
A harsh laugh broke out of Attia. “Well, that’s much better.”
He shook his head again, fighting another blush, and his shoulders seemed to sink just a little. “I mean no offense. It’s just that no one ever expects anything of women. You only have to look pretty and marry someone and give him children. But my father was the Legatus Lucius Bassus. He led an army through Herodium and sacked the mountain fortress in less than three weeks. He and Crassus nearly conquered Jerusalem. Vespasian became Princeps because of my father. I am the only son of one of the greatest generals Rome has ever seen. I am the last to carry on his name, to bring greatness to the house that he built. And…” he looked down and away. “And I’m nothing compared to him.”
Attia had to swallow hard past the lump in her throat. She had no idea why he was telling her this, but she had to acknowledge the irony in the fact that she probably understood the weight of a father’s legacy better than anyone. She carried it with her every second of every day. No one but Xanthus knew who she was, and that was a blessing but also a curse. Her anonymity ensured her survival. But her father’s name would die with her.
Lucius’s voice softened as he stared out over the wall. “Xanthus reminds me of him sometimes. Not in look or manner, exactly, but in other ways. I’ve never said this out loud, but I think my father would have liked to have Xanthus for a son. He’s intelligent and brave. Men would follow him straight into the underworld. Slave or no.”
Attia pursed her lips and paused before asking, “Where is your father now?”
“He died in Machaerus when I was twelve—the year my sister was born. It wasn’t in battle. He contracted some sickness. No one knows exactly what, only that one day he had a fever and the next day he was dead. Titus himself delivered the news to my mother.”
“Is that when you came to live here? With your uncle?”
Lucius nodded. “It’s been nearly six years, but this house still doesn’t feel like home.”
They sat in silence as Attia finished wrapping his hands in the linen and tied it off with a neat knot.
Lucius flexed his fingers. “Well, you managed to save my hands. Thank you.”
“Not half bad for a woman, wouldn’t you say?”
He sighed. “You’re irritated with me.”
“What would you do if I said I was?”
“Apologize again?”
“Is that a question?”
“This coming from the person who likes to answer all of my questions with more questions?”
“Oh, so I’m a person now?”
He raised his bandaged hands in front of him. “Truce, please, truce. This is exhausting.”
“Well, now you’ve had your first real lesson on women—never argue with one.”
“Perhaps I should practice sparring with you instead of the gladiators,” he said with a sudden grin. “Then again, I might lose more than my hands.”
“Yes. You might.”
*
“I don’t know anything about children,” Attia said for the third time.
“Then you’ll have to learn. Mistress Aurora’s nursemaid took sick in Naples and couldn’t return with the household. The child needs someone to watch over her during the day. And we both know you haven’t exactly been doing any of the other chores I’ve assigned you.”
Attia frowned and looked away. “What am I supposed to do with a little girl?”
“You were a little girl once, too, Attia,” Sabina said.
Attia nearly snorted. She’d been a little girl in a Maedi camp. She couldn’t very well teach Timeus’s niece to wield a sword now, could she?
“Just figure it out and take care of her. She’s not allowed outside anyway. How difficult can it possibly be?” Sabina said.
Attia sighed. They both knew that Sabina couldn’t force her to do anything, but they also both knew that Attia would never willingly hurt a child. Oh, she’d ruin linens and burn pork and leave rooms dirtier than they were when she first went in. But a little girl? It seemed Sabina had finally found a responsibility that Attia couldn’t completely shrug off.
Attia was still grumbling to herself about children and nursemaids as she climbed the steps to the upper floor. She paused when she reached the landing, her eyes looking to the east wing, where Timeus’s study was located. With a heavy sigh, she turned in the opposite direction and made her way down the hall. She’d passed through these rooms numerous times on her half-hearted rounds of cleaning. Now she ignored them and walked straight to a small door with a ringed handle. Attia glowered at the thing for a long moment before finally pushing the door open.
The only light in the room came from a few candles on the window ledges. The shutters had been pulled closed, preventing sunlight from entering the room. A small bed with patterned blankets was nestled in one corner. And the young mistress Aurora Bassus sat alone in front of a low-burning fire, tracing symbols in the ash that coated the floor there.
The child was small and very thin. She reminded Attia of a baby bird who hadn’t yet left the nest. In the dim light, Attia could see that the girl’s skin was incredibly pale, but deep auburn curls framed her heart-shaped face.
Attia took another step into the room. “Mistress Aurora?”
The child smiled up at her. “Please don’t call me that. Anyway, my proper name is very long. Do you want to hear it? It’s Aurora Morgana Alexandria Bassus. But my brother calls me Rory because when I was a baby, I couldn’t say my name, so he shortened it up for me. You’re Attia. I know because they told me. It’s a pretty name. What does it mean? Are you named after someone? Lucius is named after our father, but I’m not named after anyone. I never even knew Father. He died in battle somewhere a long, long, long time ago just before I was born, so I wouldn’t remember him anyway. I only remember Mother and Lucius. He sings for me, you know.”
Attia stood staring at the girl, unsure what to say. For a sickly child, little Rory could certainly talk. Probably because she didn’t have many people to talk to. Attia glanced at the closed windows.
“I can’t be in the sun,” Rory explained. “There’s something wrong with my skin. If the sunlight touches me, I’ll burn up and die.” She said it all quite matter-of-factly, as though she was reciting the words from a well-rehearsed lesson.
“Oh,” Attia said.
Rory smiled. “It’s all right. You don’t have to feel sorry for me. How old are you?”