Xanthus and his men now took the offensive and began to advance on the last two gladiators. They walked slowly, each man perfectly spaced from the next. Their heads tilted down, and the sun on their helmets cast blinding reflections onto the crowd. Xanthus led them like a spear point.
One of Sisera’s gladiators lost his wits then and threw his sword at Xanthus with a wild scream. Xanthus dodged it with a casual twist of his torso, his muscles flexing. But his arm—and even Attia barely saw this—swung out and caught the sword by the tip before flinging it back with impossible speed. It found its mark in the armored chest of the opposing gladiator who fell to the ground, his eyes wide with shock.
The crowd was silent for a brief moment before stomps, screams, and sworn oaths drowned the arena in sound.
Chills spilled across Attia’s skin, and she finally saw what the people saw—not gladiators, not even men, but immortal warriors from legend, perfect and invincible. The whole thing suddenly seemed incredibly unbalanced. Who could ever defeat such a force? Who could ever face Xanthus, the Champion of Rome, in combat and live?
It looked like the fight would be over all too quickly. Only one of Sisera’s men remained.
Attia could see the lone gladiator clearly from where she stood on the veranda. The blue sash across his chest billowed in the wind, and the plumes on his helmet trembled. He and Xanthus looked straight at each other for a long moment. Then the other gladiators began taking slow, deliberate steps back, sheathing their weapons as they went. It became clear that they wouldn’t take part in this last fight. It was, after all, a duel between Achilles and Hector.
When the lone gladiator realized that, he looked down at his hands. His chest rose and fell as he took a deep breath before dismounting and removing his helmet. Black hair curled tightly against his scalp. He was younger than Attia expected. Perhaps no older than fourteen, a boy who was more Paris than Hector. And Xanthus was about to kill him.
Her stomach turned. She’d never shied away from combat, but this was no fight. It was a slaughter. Against her will, she remembered Xanthus’s unguarded laughter, the steadiness of his voice, the soft touch of his hand on her face. She’d seen a gentler man, but the one who stood in the arena now—his name ringing out through the city—was little more than a murderer.
She closed her eyes just as iron clashed against iron.
Suddenly, the entire arena was silent.
Looking down, Attia prepared herself for the worst.
Xanthus and the young gladiator were locked against each other, swords crossed. With a lurch, Hector pushed away, and for a single breath, their weapons lowered. Then a few moments later, he raised his sword to strike.
The pattern went on for several minutes. One attacked, the other deflected. Then one lunged forward and the other dodged neatly aside. Thrust, parry, dodge, attack. Xanthus aimed to punch the young man in the gut with his left hand, but managed to miss even that as Hector twisted himself out of the way.
It dawned on Attia that Xanthus was holding himself back. It was the only explanation for why the boy wasn’t dead yet.
Xanthus looked completely unaffected, as though he’d been lounging up on the veranda rather than fighting to the death. The young gladiator was panting and heaving with exhaustion. His sword hand lowered more with every passing minute, and he struggled to his feet after each fall. But still, he stood. He rushed forward over and over. He had courage, at least.
Then Xanthus thrust again, and this time, Hector didn’t react quite fast enough. The blade sliced a deep wound in his arm, and he fell to his knees, his hand losing its grip on his sword.
Xanthus rested one sword on the boy’s shoulder, and his lips formed whispered words that seemed to make Hector straighten up and lift his chin.
Up on the veranda, the man with the ruby and the circlet stood and approached the stone railing. He extended his right fist outward, and Attia felt the entire arena hold its breath. He made a motion that she couldn’t see, though the rabid cheers of the crowd told her exactly what it meant: permission—or an order—to kill.
But Xanthus didn’t move for a minute, then two. The seconds trickled by as everyone waited. Confused murmurs began to rush through the crowd, heavy with speculation and wariness, until Timeus stood and leaned over the railing.
He didn’t say a word. He hardly made a sound. But Xanthus’s gaze sharpened on him, then drifted to where Attia stood. A look of terrible resignation settled on his face. He took a deep breath and looked down at the young gladiator.
“You fought with courage,” he said, his deep voice carrying through the now silent arena. “You might almost be a prince of Troy, our … Hector reborn.”
Attia wondered if she was the only one to hear the hesitation in his voice.
Xanthus lowered his sword and turned his face away. For a moment, the whole crowd believed he would defy orders and let the boy live. Then he plunged his blade into the boy’s heart, killing him instantly.
Galena smiled through teary eyes. “Mercy,” she whispered.
Attia swallowed against the tightness in her throat. Yes. It was merciful. As merciful as any death could be.
“I don’t think he’s ever let a losing gladiator live,” Galena said.
“Xanthus?”
Galena shook her head and nodded toward the railing, at the man with the ruby. “Princeps Titus.”
An escort of Praetorians suddenly filled the veranda and surrounded the man. Together, they left in a frenzy of black cloaks and heavy steps.
Galena looked at Attia’s shocked face as they passed. “Didn’t you know?”
Attia gaped. The Princeps of Rome—a kinsman to that bastard Crassus—had been sitting just a few feet away from her the entire time, and she’d had no idea.
“Oh, wasn’t that delightful!” Valeria said, though her voice shook just a little. “A bit short maybe, but vastly entertaining.”
“Length is not always the determining factor in such vigorous exercises,” Timeus said before turning away from the railing.
Despite his loss, Sisera burst out laughing.
*
Xanthus let his brothers carry the boy’s body away. There was one more thing he had to do.
Raising his swords, he opened his arms in victory. Bile rose in his throat, but the people—and Timeus—expected him to play his part. The crowd was still cheering maniacally when Xanthus finally sheathed his swords and passed back through the gates.
Respect and fear—that was what made the other gladiators and even the guards lower their heads as he passed. They knew better than to talk to him after a kill. They thought he was still hungry, that he was still consumed with bloodlust.
Only a handful knew the truth, and they waited for him deep in the hypogeum.
Castor and Lebuin had cleared off a stone table and gently laid the boy’s body down on it. Iduma had found a cloth to cover him, but there was already a red stain seeping through. Sisera’s Hector was younger than any of them had expected, and they watched Xanthus warily as he entered the small room.
No one said anything. Xanthus’s last words to the boy screamed in his head.