Xanthus finally approached Lucius, put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder, and squeezed. There was nothing for either of them to say.
Lucius looked up. With a nod of appreciation to Xanthus, he wiped his sword on his tunic and sheathed it before forcing his feet to walk straight toward his uncle’s tent. Xanthus followed close behind.
Timeus’s captain of the guard, a few soldiers, and Ennius were already inside. Timeus was leaning over a map spread out over a table.
“It is done,” Lucius said. His voice was different. Heavier. Deeper.
Timeus looked up from the map and scowled at his nephew. “More than half of those bastards got away with some kind of loot, and my horses are missing. Do you really think this is done?”
Dozens of tents and wagons were still burning. The food had been raided, and what was left was barely salvageable. Dozens of people were dead, missing, or seriously injured. Guards, soldiers, slaves—they all bled the same.
But Timeus didn’t give a shit about any of that. Why would he?
The old man leaned over the map again. “We won’t make it straight to Pompeii,” he said. “We’ll have to stop off here—in Ardea.”
“Dominus,” the captain of the guards said, “in our current condition—”
“Ardea isn’t safe.”
“Perhaps we should just turn back to Rome and—”
“No,” Timeus said firmly, silencing the men. “I won’t go back looking like this. Ardea will have food and supplies, and everyone accepts gold—Roman or not. We’ll go there.” He turned his cold gaze to Lucius. “Did he say anything useful before you killed him?”
Lucius frowned at his uncle.
“Come on, boy! Did you get any information at all about who was behind this?”
“Aurora is safe,” Lucius blurted out.
“What?” Timeus said.
“I said that my sister is safe. And my mother, as well, once I intervened.”
“You mean once Xanthus intervened.”
“I didn’t need him to—”
“No?” Timeus laughed coldly. “Tell me, what would you have done if my champion had not incapacitated that man? Would you have tried diplomacy, perhaps? Would you have asked nicely?”
“I could have handled it,” Lucius spat out. “I did handle it. What more do you want from me?”
Timeus slowly approached his nephew. “I want you to think, for once in your goddamn life. I want you to have the spine to punish anyone who dares raise a single finger against this house. I want you to be decisive and firm. I want you to act without me having to tell you what to do. I want you to be a man. That’s what I want!”
Lucius’s breathing stuttered then stopped altogether.
No one spoke, and no one looked at uncle or nephew.
Timeus turned back to the table, his hands rustling the map. “We stop at Ardea,” he said again with finality.
A murmured chorus responded, “Yes, Dominus.”
Xanthus couldn’t listen anymore. He walked out of the tent, closely followed by Ennius.
“Who do you think they were?” Ennius asked quietly.
“Thieves? But common thieves would never have attacked a camp this size.”
Ennius nodded. “And certainly not with soldiers present.” He paused. “Did the man say anything to Lucius?”
Xanthus shook his head. “Not that I heard.” He glanced back into the tent.
“That is what it must be like to be raised by wolves,” Ennius said, his face drawn with pity.
Xanthus touched his hand to the man’s shoulder and walked away.
*
A soft knock sounded on the door to the cart, and Sabina and Rory huddled closer together on the back cushion. Attia went alone to unlock the outer door and found Xanthus standing just outside. Laying down a sword she’d taken from one of her attackers, she jumped from the cart and ran her hands over his body. Her touch was hurried and not particularly gentle. She wasn’t trying to be affectionate; she was looking for wounds.
“I’m fine,” Xanthus said.
She ignored him, frowning with concentration as she continued to look him over. The only injury she could see was the shallow slice at his shoulder. Satisfied, she stepped back and nodded. “Good. I would have been rather irritated if you’d gotten yourself maimed.”
Xanthus smiled at her teasing tone but quickly sobered. “We won’t make it to Pompeii like this. Too much was taken or destroyed.”
“And Timeus? Is he dead?” She couldn’t decide if she hoped the old man had been killed or if she’d be disappointed that she didn’t get the chance to do it herself.
But Xanthus shook his head. “He hid in his tent.”
Attia’s mouth quirked in bitter amusement. “Of course he did. So what happens now? Do we turn back to Rome?” Hope flared in Attia’s breast at the thought of going back to Rome, back to where Crassus was apparently staying.
But Xanthus shook his head. “Ardea—it’s a province about two days away. Timeus is too embarrassed to go back to the capital like this.”
“What’s in Ardea?”
“No one is sure. The people there don’t consider themselves a part of the Republic. The soldiers and Lucius are against it, but Timeus is adamant. Some of his men will stay behind to see to the bodies. The rest of us will leave at first light.”
Several armed guards approached.
“Master Lucius has requested that his sister and her nursemaid be housed in his personal tent.” They glanced at Xanthus. “Please bring the child and come with us.”
Attia wondered if they would have been so polite if Timeus’s champion weren’t present. “All right,” Attia said.
The guards waited patiently while Sabina wrapped Rory up in a thick blanket, moving to surround them as they walked across the wrecked camp to Lucius’s tent. Xanthus walked with them, stopping short several feet from the tent’s entrance. He gave Attia a small smile before walking away.
Attia kept her face impassive, but she could feel her pulse racing as she and Sabina readied Rory for bed. Like the rest of the household, she had no idea what kind of welcome they’d find in Ardea. All she cared about was that she’d soon find herself outside of the Republic’s authority. She bit her lip, contemplating what to do, when Rory’s voice broke through her thoughts.
“Attia?” Rory’s small voice trembled. She’d been terrified in the cart, listening to the screams and the fighting. The only thing that could console her was Attia clutching her tight. “Will you tell me a story?”
Attia went to the girl’s bedside. “A story? About what?”
“I don’t know. Anything. Please?” she begged.
Attia slid onto the bed next to the little girl. “All right. Well. Let’s see. I’ll tell you the story of … of a young girl who was a princess and a warrior, and whose people loved her.”
Rory laughed, though her body was still shaking with fear. “Princesses can’t be warriors,” she said. “Can they?”
“Of course they can. Sometimes. Sometimes a princess must be strong and learn to fight so that…” Attia paused, her throat tightening.
“So that what?” Rory prodded.