CHAPTER 13
Xanthus would say this much for the Ardeans—they knew how to handle themselves. After ten years in the arena, he could take one look at a man and determine how well he was going to fight. New slaves panicked. Their motions were erratic, and they often died quickly. Former soldiers tried to jab and cut, following too many rules that no longer applied. The best gladiators had a mix of formal training and good instincts. Their eyes took in everything—arm movements, leg movements, the twitch of a brow or quirk of the mouth.
The Ardeans didn’t seem to have any training to speak of, but their instincts and ferocity almost made up for it. It was clear to Xanthus from the very first contender that these were men who had fought often and for much of their lives.
His eighth opponent strutted into the arena like a peacock, but he was light on his feet, for all that he looked slightly drunk. Back and forth, they circled each other. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry. Xanthus wondered if he could keep this up until dawn.
During one particularly long circuit around the arena, Xanthus’s attention drifted, and the peacock chose that moment to take a jab and nick Xanthus’s side. Blood spilled from the narrow cut, and the crowd began to scream in earnest. Xanthus reacted instinctually, spinning around and restraining the man’s arm. The peacock kicked backward and broke free. With a shout, he raised his sword high and brought it crashing down. It was almost too easy for Xanthus to block the hit and drive his own sword into the man’s chest.
The words that followed felt like they’d worn themselves into his soul. “Forgive me,” he whispered as the body was dragged away.
Gods, he was tired. It had been days since he’d had a proper night’s sleep. He just needed to close his eyes for a moment. He could feel his lids starting to drift shut when the sound of shouting caught his attention.
“He is not a gladiator!”
Xanthus looked up in confusion.
“He is barely a man!” Lucius was shouting. “Yet his one true wish is to fight beside his hero, the Champion of Rome! Are you not bored with these cheap wins? What do you have to be frightened of? Look at him!” He swung his arm around to point at the figure standing at the edge of the balcony.
Xanthus had no idea what was going on, but Lucius was right about the stranger—he was barely a man. His short legs were strapped with leather manicas meant for a soldier’s arms, and he wore a light, useless piece of leather across his chest. Black clothing covered the rest of his body and most of his face. He was laughably small.
Amusement and curiosity bloomed on the Ardeans’ faces.
Xanthus gritted his teeth in exasperation. Lucius wanted to send that boy into the arena with him? Was he trying to get them both killed?
“And when he dies,” Lucius continued with a broad, fake smile, “wine for everyone!” He raised his hands, and the crowd conceded with deafening cheers.
Xanthus groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose.
This is going to be a long night.
*
There was no other way to put it—Fido smelled like literal shit. It was as though a fat hog had eaten a dinner of moldy boots, sour wine, and month-old cheese, and then proceeded to defecate all over the tunic that Fido wore. Standing a few feet away from him made Attia gag as she tried to focus her watering eyes on Xanthus.
She listened as Lucius convinced the crowd to let her join, and smiled when she saw Xanthus pinch the bridge of his nose in exasperation. It was a motion she’d seen a few times already.
Ennius led her to a table that held all manner of macabre toys for her to choose from—curved swords, knives as thin and sharp as razors, double-headed axes, blunt machetes, star-shaped pieces of iron with pointed tips. But she chose the gladius, simple and short. The grip of the sword fit perfectly in her hand. The weight was well balanced.
The weapon was an easy choice. The name was a different matter entirely.
Ennius escorted her to the gate of the arena. “What are we supposed to call you?” he asked.
Attia thought she wouldn’t care what they called her now that they’d called her a slave. But she found that she still did care, and the one name that meant the most to her was the one that would most probably end her. She looked into Ennius’s night-dark eyes. “They say Spartan blood flows in Thracian veins. And I am a daughter of the Maedi. Call me Sparro.”
Ennius showed no outward reaction, though he did stare at her for what felt like a long time. Finally, he said, “I hope you know what you’re doing, Thracian.”
So Attia waited impatiently at the gate to the arena while Lucius introduced her from the third-floor balcony, sounding so much like his uncle that chills rose along her skin.
“He has appeared like a shade from the underworld. Light as smoke, small as a demon,” Lucius said.
Attia rolled her eyes.
“Not quite a man—but not a boy either,” he said.
If only he knew how right he is.
“And he has come for one reason—to fight beside a favored son of Rome, like the shadow of death itself! I give you … Spartacus!”
Attia looked up at Ennius. She’d given him her father’s name, but apparently, he wasn’t quite willing to let her be as reckless as she wanted. He shrugged one shoulder in non-apology as Attia was pushed forward into the arena.
No one made a sound.
The silence was uncomfortable, to say the least. A part of Attia had expected at least a few cheers. Maybe the idea of her had seemed more appealing from a distance. But now that the crowd was actually looking at her, their expressions were a mixture of disinterest, disappointment, and boredom. Someone dropped a cup of wine, and Attia actually heard it clatter down the steps.
Attia scowled. Really? Not a single shout of welcome? Not even a little bit of polite applause? She knew it shouldn’t bother her, but it did. Her irritation only grew when the next Ardean contender approached, and the stadium practically vibrated with screams for the man. She crossed her arms over her chest as the man stepped forward.
He was easily twice her width and at least a head taller. If she stood close, she’d probably have to crane her neck to look him in the eye. None of that was particularly important. She focused instead on his body language as he chose a long weapon with three sharp points. Like Xanthus’s last opponent, this man was cocky. He sauntered into the arena, kicking out his legs with each step, jutting his chest forward, and throwing his shoulders back.
Attia lowered her arms and flexed her hand around the hilt of her sword, letting her body adjust to the weight of the weapon.
For his part, Xanthus seemed totally unimpressed with both of them. “Just stay out of my way,” he said to Attia without even looking at her. “I have plenty to feel guilty about without adding your death to the scales.”