Attia’s head felt light, and the tips of her fingers tingled. If Xanthus weren’t holding her, she thought she might just float away, lost in the flood of so much feeling. Driven by instinct and need, she parted her lips to deepen the kiss.
Xanthus responded immediately, tightening his arms around her with almost crushing force. A part of Attia realized that this new thing was incredibly fragile. But as heat coursed through her body, she thought it was probably the first time in her life that she’d ever felt something so right. Nothing else mattered but this one touch, this one shared breath.
When Xanthus began to kiss a trail down the side of her neck, Attia leaned her head back and closed her eyes. He moved slowly, so slowly, taking his time not just to touch but to feel. His lips pressed against the hollow of her throat as he whispered her name against her skin. His fingers touched her cheek, her lips, and her lashes in the lightest of caresses before he put his mouth to hers again. His arms fit around her as though they were made to hold her, and he was gentle. So much gentler than Attia could have imagined.
Then, just as he shifted their bodies to lie down, a terrible scream cut through the night.
CHAPTER 11
The scream was followed immediately by the clang of iron.
“We’re under attack,” Xanthus said. But before he could move, Attia whispered a single word.
“Rory.”
Between one blink and the next, she was on her feet and gone. Xanthus didn’t even have time to shout her name.
He had no choice. He had to follow her.
All across the clearing, tents were on fire, burning through the fog and rain. Slaves struggled to put out the flames and defend themselves while armed men charged through the encampment.
In the dark, it was hard to tell the difference between Timeus’s men and the attackers, but Xanthus was only really looking for Attia. He ran after her and watched her agile frame duck and roll and jump over and under spears and swords and the swinging fist of a man twice her size. When one of the attackers tried to grab her arm, she wrapped her fingers around his wrist, twisted until the bone cracked, then pulled his body toward her raised knee. His cry of pain was quickly silenced as he fell unconscious to the ground. Another attacker came for her, then another. But she dispatched the poor bastards with ruthless efficiency.
She was impressive. And too, too reckless.
Xanthus was only a few feet away when someone finally caught her by surprise. A man grabbed her ankle from beneath one of the carts. She lost her balance for half a second before twisting her body and stopping her fall with two outstretched arms. Then she raised her right foot and smashed it into the man’s face. Xanthus actually heard his neck snap.
Xanthus should probably have been watching his own back half as well. He might have noticed the man running straight at him with a sword raised high. As it was, the tip of the blade sliced along his shoulder, but he was able to use the other man’s momentum to drive his fist into the man’s throat. He grabbed the sword before catching up to Attia just outside of Rory’s cart.
“Still in one piece, I see,” he said with a tight smile.
“You’re a little bit worse for wear,” Attia said, nudging her chin at the cut on his shoulder.
“I need to find my brothers. You should stay here.” When Attia started to protest, Xanthus lowered his voice. “If you keep fighting, the soldiers might take notice. It’s not worth the risk. Besides, someone needs to stay with the child and make sure no one tries to break into the cart.” He waited until Attia nodded grudgingly. “I’ll come back when it’s clear.”
“Should I warn you to be careful?”
“Probably wouldn’t do any good,” he said before winking and shutting the door of the cart. He heard a lock bolt into place from the other side.
At least he knew she’d be safe. At least he could take a proper breath again. He squeezed his eyes shut to block out the scene around him. The concept of fear had become a diluted emotion long ago, but the sounds of men fighting and dying—the sharp ring of their swords, the sickening crunch of bone—all reminded him of the arena. He had to fight the urge to recoil in disgust.
Then again, this was something else entirely, wasn’t it? Not death for sport or entertainment. This was survival, and he didn’t think he could afford the luxury of detachment.
When he opened his eyes, he tried to find familiar faces.
Lucius was the closest, gripping his sword with both hands. His eyes were intent on one of the bandits—watching and matching the movement of shoulder and torso and skittering gaze. Maybe those training sessions were paying off after all.
Ennius protected Timeus’s tent near the tree line. An attacker charged at him swinging a club. Ennius simply ducked his head before punching the man square in the face.
Not far away, Gallus and Lebuin fought back-to-back against six attackers. Neither of them had any weapons save their scarred, scabbed hands. Still, they didn’t look like they were having much trouble. Xanthus made his way toward them.
“Should you take a look at that?” Lebuin asked, nodding at Xanthus’s bleeding shoulder before jabbing one of his attackers in the stomach.
Gallus scoffed. “It is but a scratch!” he said. “Not like his arm has come off.” He caught a bandit’s fist in midair and used it to shatter another man’s nose. “Besides, I bet his new bedmate is probably much rougher on him.”
“Did you see her?” Lebuin said, his voice full of admiration. “Gods, she really is a Thracian. I’m surprised she doesn’t want to come out and play some more.”
“At least she’s not off breaking Ennius’s other leg,” Gallus said with a dark chuckle.
“Now that would just be cruel,” Albinus said as he joined them. He knocked down the last of the attackers. Xanthus hadn’t even bothered to help.
Someone whistled, and they all turned to see Castor incline his bald head toward the northern edge of the camp. Dozens of horses bearing Timeus’s mark were being corralled into the forest.
Gallus snorted. “Well, Timeus probably stole them first.”
“He might be a tad bit upset,” Lebuin said with a grin.
“Good,” Albinus said. “They can all rot.”
“So bitter, Albinus. So bitter.” Gallus slung his arm around Albinus’s neck. “Shall I cheer you up, brother?”
Albinus slammed his elbow through the gap between them, knocking down a man as he tried to attack them from behind.
“I am in a perfectly agreeable mood,” Albinus said.
Gallus glanced over his shoulder without releasing him. “Yes, I can see that.”
“Where’s Iduma?” Lebuin asked.
They looked around to see their blood-brother fighting two attackers some twenty yards away. His wet red hair was plastered against his skull. In one hand, he wielded a lit torch that flared in the rain. In the other, he swung …
“Is that a ham bone?” Gallus said with a snort of laughter.
Iduma swung his torch and his ham bone, taking a bite out of the meat every few seconds. The attackers looked at each other uncertainly but held their ground.
“Stop dawdling, Iduma, and finish already!” Albinus yelled.