“Almost eighteen.”
“That makes you…”—Rory counted quickly on her fingers—“almost twelve years older than me—just like Lucius! There are lots of years between us because Mother didn’t want another child. I was an accident. But Lucius says that he and father both wanted me, so that evens out, right? Lucius is my best friend.” She frowned and wrinkled her little nose. “Well, I don’t have any other friends, but he’s the best one. Maybe now, we can be friends!”
Attia looked around uncomfortably. “I don’t think your family would find that … appropriate.”
“Mother doesn’t like anything that other people do. Lucius calls her a hippo.” Rory bit her lip. “No, that’s not right. A hiccup?”
“A hypocrite?”
“That’s it! Lucius would like you. You’re pretty and smart and the girls he usually courts are only just pretty. I never get to talk to them either, but sometimes I sneak out of my room—just to see. You can’t tell anyone though,” she said. Her voice suddenly became so soft that Attia could barely hear her. “Lucius is my best friend, but he doesn’t know what it’s like.”
“What what’s like?”
“Being alone,” Rory said.
Attia swallowed past a lump in her throat. “No, he wouldn’t know about that, would he?”
Rory was quiet for a moment. “Would you like to draw with me?”
So Attia sat beside the girl near the fire, drawing random symbols in the ash for what felt like hours. Rory kept glancing back at the closed windows with a hopeful look on her face, and when the sun finally set, she jumped to her feet, pushed the candles aside, and swung the shutters open.
From the northern window, there was a clear view of the coastline and even a bit of the gladiators’ training yard. If Attia craned her neck just a bit, she could see the red “X” that marked the lintel over Xanthus’s door.
“You have to go now, don’t you?” Rory asked.
“Yes, but I’ll come back tomorrow.”
“Promise?”
Attia knelt beside the little girl and found herself smiling. “I promise.”
*
A light breeze rustled through the trees and plants that bordered the estate walls. The promise of winter lingered in the evening air, though she doubted the weather would be too harsh so far south. It wouldn’t be anything like a winter on the Aegean—gray and angry, with salty winds and waves strong enough to drown a ship.
As Attia passed through the main courtyard on her way to Xanthus’s quarters, a beam of light caught her attention. It bounced along the ground, following the uneven line of the shrubbery and drawing random circles on the wall. If the guards at the gate noticed, they didn’t seem to care.
Attia’s step didn’t falter, but she looked back to the upper window of the villa, where Rory held a small mirror in her hand. Her chin rested along one folded arm, and her head lolled from side to side in apparent boredom. As soon as she saw Attia watching, she ducked down to hide beneath the window. She wasn’t very good at it; her little fingers still clutched the windowsill.
Attia turned away from the window, but after a few more steps, she glanced back with a grin and caught Rory peeking at her through her fingers. The child smiled, and Attia heard a faint giggle before the girl ducked down again to hide below the window. Attia looked back once more before she reached the training courtyard, and this time the girl didn’t hide. Attia could only make out a few of her features in the moonlight—namely the fierce auburn curls that surrounded the girl’s face like a halo.
Growing up in her father’s camp, Attia had only had boys to keep her company, and training had always taken precedence over child’s play. So she was surprised by how charming she found the strange little girl in the window. She’d never thought of herself as someone who cared much about children.
Attia raised her hand in a little wave just as Xanthus’s door opened a few feet away. She smiled faintly and shook her head as she entered his quarters.
“What’s so funny?” Xanthus asked, his face open and curious, ready to laugh along at whatever joke she might share.
Again, he looked different to Attia. Not the stoic champion or the contrite killer or even the playful barbarian. No, he looked calm. Still. A bit tired. Attia wondered what version of Xanthus she was seeing now.
“I’m to play nursemaid to Timeus’s niece,” Attia said in a mocking tone before her voice softened. “But she’s actually a sweet girl. I didn’t expect that.”
“I’ve never really seen her. They say she’s quite ill—not allowed outside. Even when the household travels, she’s shielded in drapes and curtains.”
“I know. The windows in her room were shut tight for most of the day. What kind of sickness doesn’t let you go outside?”
Xanthus shrugged. “A very bad one?”
Attia rolled her eyes. “Romans are strange.”
“Not at all. They’re simple, really.”
“Are they? Enlighten me, oh championed one,” Attia teased, bowing forward with a smile.
But Xanthus’s face had gone cold. “They’re wolves torn between pack mentality and inflated ambition. They’ll kill and betray as it suits them with little regard for anyone else.”
The smile faded from Attia’s face.
“Don’t tell me you disagree, Thracian.”
“I don’t,” Attia said softly.
They stood in awkward silence until Xanthus grabbed a blanket and spread it out on the floor. His movements seemed more rigid, and his face looked strained as he blew out the candles.
“I’ll sleep on the floor tonight,” Attia offered. “I’m more used to it, and you can’t keep giving me your bed.”
Xanthus shook his head. “No, you take it.”
“No, it’s your bed.” She tried to move past him to the blanket on the floor.
“No, Attia. Take the bed,” he said, his voice hardening as he tried to usher her away.
“No, you!”
She pushed back against him as his hand brushed lightly against her breast. They both pulled away so quickly that they lost their balance and tumbled to the floor. Xanthus managed to break his fall with an outstretched arm and caught Attia as she literally fell into his lap.
They froze. Two hardened, experienced fighters with countless kills and victories, and all either of them could do in that moment was stare stupidly at the other.
A fierce blush began working its way from Attia’s neck to her scalp. The only time she’d ever been so close to a man was, well, to kill him. Or maim him. But she didn’t think those experiences were particularly relevant at the moment. She bit her lip.