The woman he was talking about became rigid with terror. Her eyes flicked back and forth like those of a wounded animal, never once settling as the voices around her rose.
There were at least four dozen people in the crowd, all waving their hands and shouting their bids with enthusiasm. It wasn’t often that an auction of foreign women like this took place, and the bidding didn’t last for very long. Silver changed hands, the rope was cut, and the woman at the end of the line was dragged away by a middle-aged man in a blue tunic.
Attia was so tired, so full of rage for her own circumstances that she couldn’t find the energy to pity the woman. She just stared at the soft line of her bared shoulder until she disappeared, barely even recognizing the fact that the other woman was real.
The nature of the sale became clear soon enough. The women who wept and showed fear were bought by the sadists in the crowd—the ones who enjoyed broken things. The women who looked dry-eyed and defiant were claimed for the brothels. The oldest women were bought by the few female patricians present, probably to clean floors or serve food.
Then, at the very end, Attia’s turn came. She stood alone on the planks. There was still a large crowd gathered, despite the other women having already been sold. Attia tried to school her face to look as benign and uninteresting as possible though her blood boiled with contempt.
“And finally,” the merchant said, “we come to the prize of the day—a true Thracian beauty. She—”
Before the merchant could say another word, the shouting began, echoing up against the clay walls surrounding the alley. Most of the bidders offered increasing amounts of money, while others tried to sweeten the deal with promises of horses or trades of other slaves. It seemed that everyone wanted the exotic girl from across the Aegean, the first Thracian woman to be captured in nearly a decade.
Only one man stayed silent as he watched from a shadowy corner of the alley. His white hair was cropped short, his mouth pinched into a thin line. His clothing was simple and unadorned but obviously expensive; the silk of his robe shimmered even in the shade. Beside him stood another man, this one dark and hard-muscled. He wore a loose blue tunic with wide sleeves that didn’t reach his elbows. His eyes swept over and around the crowd, ever watchful.
“Eighty denarii!” a fat patrician shouted, licking his lips.
It was the highest bid yet, but the merchant waved his hands wildly over the crowd. “Is there a counteroffer?”
The old man in the corner carefully regarded Attia with cold blue eyes before speaking. “Five hundred denarii,” he said, keeping his gaze on Attia’s face.
The fat patrician sputtered. “Five hundred—you can’t be serious!”
“Five hundred denarii,” the man repeated, “and let that be the end of it.”
The merchant beamed and sent a prayer of thanks to all the gods he could name. “Sold! Well bought, Timeus. Well bought!”
The fat patrician tried to argue again, but the auction was over. The other bidders reluctantly dispersed, grumbling as they went. The merchant waited for Timeus and his bodyguard to approach before saying, “I was almost certain Marius was going to challenge you.”
Timeus looked unfazed. “He’s too cheap to challenge me.”
“She is well worth it,” the merchant continued. “Young, spirited, in perfect health, and—as I wrote to you—I have it on excellent authority that she was not defiled after her capture. She is absolutely pure.”
Timeus smiled, the calm expression nearly transforming his pinched face. He looked almost kind, until the smile tightened into a cold, harsh line. He tossed a heavy pouch at the merchant, a dismissal as much as a payment. Then to his bodyguard, he said, “Take her, Ennius. She has a job to do.”
The merchant could barely contain his glee. He was glad to be rid of the stubborn whelp and thrilled with the small fortune he’d made off her sale. She hadn’t stopped struggling since the moment of her capture, so he had kept her tightly shackled and bound for the journey to the city. The merchant sneered as he removed the iron that bound Attia’s wrists and ankles. “Good luck, little Thracian.”
For the first time in two weeks, Attia flexed her tightened limbs, pain and relief surging together.
The bodyguard reached out a dark, scarred hand to take hold of the rope still hanging loosely around her neck. “Steady, girl,” he said. “Relax.”
Relax? Attia would have laughed if her throat didn’t feel like it had been stuffed with sand. Instead, she looked away from the bodyguard and took in her surroundings.
The little plaza was nearly empty by then. The windows and doors were covered and closed. The alley was narrow, and the vigiles—the watchmen charged with keeping law and order within the city limits—were hardly being vigilant. The nearest one was more than a hundred yards away and preoccupied with a prostitute flashing her wares. Attia saw it all in a single breath. The distance. The positioning.
The opportunity.
The bodyguard was speaking again, and his hand was closing around the rope. “Don’t try to fight.”
Attia met his eyes with a sudden, unexpected smile.
Challenge accepted.
She snatched the end of the rope from the man’s grasp and looped it around his neck, the wiry strands of the cord digging into her bloody hands in the process. With a quick jump, she wedged her feet against the bodyguard’s knee and pulled down, hard and fast. There was a wet pop—like pulling apart a roasted chicken thigh—right before they both fell to the ground in a pile of dust and limbs.
Attia gritted her teeth as the pain in her arm flared up toward her shoulder. But just like that, Ennius the bodyguard became damaged goods, crying out and clutching a broken leg that bent at a disturbingly sharp angle. There was not even any blood.
Crius would be proud.
Timeus’s pale face turned an impressive shade of burgundy as Attia struggled to her feet again. White spots crowded her vision, and she tried to ignore the rocks and debris that cut into her skin.
“Foolish bitch,” Timeus growled before rushing at her.
It was a wholehearted effort, but silly, really. Attia extended her leg and kicked him full in the face with the heel of her foot. With a distinct crunch, his nose shattered, and Timeus fell heavily on top of his bodyguard, eliciting pained screams from the both of them.
Shock and fear were written all over the merchant’s face. He clutched his bulging purse before turning and hurrying as fast as he could down the street.
Attia had lifted the rope from around her neck and was beginning to wrap it around her bleeding hand. There was just enough length at the end of it to fit twice around Timeus’s neck. She took a step toward him as he shouted through a mouthful of blood.
“Stop her!”
The distracted vigil finally took notice of what was happening at the end of the alley and moved to confront her.