“I do believe that is what Layla said to him last night,” Lebuin commented with a smirk.
When the attackers noticed the rest of them watching, they finally seemed convinced of the futility of their mission. They dropped their weapons, their heels kicking mud up into Iduma’s face as they raced for the forest.
“How rude,” Iduma said, wiping the dirt from his chin.
Lebuin took the opportunity to reach up and snatch the ham bone out of his hand. “Where the hell did you get this?” he said before taking a full bite.
“I was eating that!” Iduma said, and shoved Lebuin’s shoulder, causing the ham bone to slip from his hands onto the muddy ground.
“Oh, well done, Iduma,” Lebuin said.
“You both eat too much anyway,” Albinus said.
Gallus began sorting through the weapons. He handed swords to Iduma and Lebuin, a double-sided axe to Castor, and a spear to Albinus. Xanthus still had his stolen sword. Seconds after they were armed, a new group of bandits charged at them.
It certainly wasn’t the arena. There were no cheers, no lewd encouragements from a drunken crowd to urge them on. They had no uniforms, no glossy black armor or heavy shields. But they had their training and their strength.
Xanthus fought with an inner quiet that was almost foreign to him. When had it ever been so easy to kill? When had he ever swung his sword without that gnawing sensation of guilt?
Never.
Because there had never before been a good reason.
Now his reason was crouching in a dark cart protecting a Roman child. Attia didn’t need him, but she wanted him. That was more than enough.
So Xanthus raised his fist and his sword. The men who challenged him died for it, and he had no regrets. It was the first time in almost ten years of killing that he didn’t ask for forgiveness.
It seemed that close to a hundred bandits were spread out through the camp. That didn’t include the ones who’d already gotten away with horses or other loot, nor the others who had retreated into the forest earlier on. Xanthus had no idea what they were doing there. Thieves never travelled in such numbers, not even roaming gangs. What kind of idiot had decided to attack a camp protected by Roman soldiers on a Roman road?
Another high scream cut through the sounds of battle. A bandit dragged a hysterical Valeria out into the middle of the field. She wore only a thin, gold-colored tunic that soaked through almost immediately in the rain. Her face was starkly pale, and her round blue eyes skittered about like those of a trapped animal. She struggled desperately to free her tangled hair from the man’s grasp, screaming again and again.
Xanthus didn’t care for Valeria. But she had never done anything to directly hurt him, and whatever her sins, she didn’t deserve this.
“Look,” Iduma said suddenly. “The boy!”
From the other side of the clearing, Lucius was fighting as hard as he could to reach his mother, stabbing and slicing through the air as Xanthus had taught him. His nose was bleeding, and his tunic was drenched with water and mud. Xanthus ran to his side, and the gladiators followed. Between them, the guards, and the soldiers, the attackers were struck down or chased off until the only man left was the one who held Valeria hostage.
Lucius’s face was contorted with anger when he finally reached the man. “Let her go. Now.”
“Stay back or she dies!” the man shouted. The tip of his knife pressed into Valeria’s belly, and she started to sob quietly.
“Let her go,” Lucius said again. “I’ll pay you anything. Whatever you want. Let her go, and I’ll let you live.”
The man was concentrating so hard on the woman he held captive that he didn’t hear the gladiator who snuck up behind him. Before he could respond, Xanthus grabbed his arm from behind and snapped it back with a sickening pop. Valeria fell forward into Lucius’s embrace.
“Lucius,” she sobbed.
“Are you all right?”
She managed a nod. Lucius squeezed her shoulder once before letting two guards escort her back to her tent.
Leaning forward, Lucius addressed the injured bandit with frightening calm. “You picked the wrong camp, and you grabbed the wrong woman. Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you here.”
“You should kill him,” Timeus interjected. He was standing just a few yards away with Ennius at his side.
Lucius stared at his uncle, conflicted.
“Send a message, Lucius. No one attacks our house without retribution.” Timeus’s cold blue eyes bore into his nephew.
Xanthus knew that Lucius had never killed before. But Timeus was ordering him to perform an execution, and Lucius couldn’t deny his uncle. Certainly not in front of an audience. The rest of the bandits had been struck down or chased off, and now nearly everyone in the household was watching Lucius. He had no choice. He schooled his features and gave Xanthus a reluctant nod. The bandit fell at their feet, and two of the guards started to drag him away. The man’s sobs rang through the sudden silence of the night.
Lucius started to follow when Xanthus stopped him. “Make it quick, if you can,” he said in a low voice that only Lucius could hear. “Aim the tip of your sword at the back of his neck.”
Lucius nodded. His face was pale, and beads of sweat gathered along his forehead and upper lip. He looked at the bloody sword in his hand with disgust. “Back of the neck,” he muttered.
The guards waited with the man sobbing on his knees between them. The bandit’s head hung low, chin against his chest as his shoulders shook.
From a distance, Xanthus watched Lucius swallow hard—probably against the urge to retch in the grass—before he positioned himself behind the man. Their eyes met for a second. Then Lucius raised his sword and plunged it into the back of the man’s neck with all his strength.
The silence that followed was deafening. Blood gurgled out of the man’s mouth, and the guards let the body fall.
The household began to disperse, focused on the task of trying to salvage whatever they could from the destroyed camp.
Lucius stared at the body, his sword still gripped tightly in his hands.
Xanthus’s stomach twisted with pity. Iduma had been wrong. Lucius wasn’t a boy. Not anymore. Not after this. The sharp, tangy, familiar scent of blood filled Xanthus’s nostrils.
Lucius blinked rapidly, as though he couldn’t quite get used to the sight of the dead man before him. He ran a hand through his hair, barely aware of the blood coating his hands and now his face. He stood beside the body for several long minutes.
It was past midnight, and the storm clouds had moved to obscure the stars and the moon. The massive stone pines that bordered the forest in densely packed clusters creaked in the wind and made long, menacing shadows across the clearing. The rain had finally stopped, but cold, fat droplets still fell sporadically from the swaying branches. Even with the light of the lanterns and torches, the night seemed darker than usual. It was almost impossible to see anything anymore.