“It’ll be daylight soon,” Xanthus said. “If they find Spartacus here, there will be more questions. And if they find Aurora’s nursemaid, there will be punishment.” His hold tightened, and he whispered her name against her hair, soft and earnest as a prayer.
Attia touched the silver crescent moon that hung at his throat. “They don’t have to find either of us. I can lead us out of the city. I know the way now. We’re right by the sea and there’s a great forest to the east. We can disappear.” She pulled away to look up at him. “No more matches or arenas. No more chains. We can be free.”
But Xanthus shook his head. “There is no freedom in Rome. Not for me. Timeus will hunt me all the way to the underworld.” His face settled into a calm, empty mask. Only his eyes betrayed the emotions boiling underneath.
Attia could sense a hurt, a deep anger that he was keeping from her. She knew he wanted freedom just as badly as she did, but he was holding back. She wanted to ask why. But more, she wanted him to tell her.
“You should go,” he said. “You can make it, and I told you before that I would never force you to stay with me. There’s nothing for you here. You have the chance at a real life again.” He gently touched the backs of his fingers to her cheek, staring into her eyes for a long minute before kissing her tenderly. “Run,” he whispered against her lips. “Just run.”
Attia gripped his tunic in her fists and shut her eyes. There was a terrible sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. The urge to run was so great she could barely contain it. Every fiber in her body was pulling her toward the door, urging her to make her escape. But there was Xanthus—warm and solid and good. Attia wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, feeling the desperation and hope swirling around them like smoke. Even before she opened her eyes again, she knew. They lived amidst ugliness, but between them there was light. This is real, she thought. The only real thing left. She kissed him again before pulling back just enough to look into his eyes.
“I can’t,” she said. “Not without you.”
Their arms tightened around each other once again, and so the princess of Thrace found herself bound to a gladiator.
Outside, a heavy mist hung over the city of Ardea. The sun had risen but had yet to break through the fog. When they opened the door, they saw two guards sleeping soundly across the road.
Attia pulled the linen over her mouth again and turned to look at Xanthus one more time. Her heart ached when he tried to smile at her.
“You look like a boy, Thracian,” he teased.
“You look like a savage, Briton.” Her voice was muffled by the fabric over her mouth.
She put a hand against his cheek, her gaze caressing every hard line and curve, the fantastic life in his green eyes, the way a day’s growth of stubble darkened his jaw, the soft streaks of gold in his brown hair.
Already, so many other faces had begun to fade from her memory. Her mother’s was like a dim reflection in her head, nothing but gray eyes and indistinct features, as though she looked into a rippling pool. How had she smiled? And her father—how had Sparro laughed? The sound of his voice slithered through Attia’s mind like smoke, translucent and just as brief.
This is our curse then, she thought. Xanthus is haunted by his ghosts. I forget them.
She pressed her mouth to his palm in silent promise before stepping out into the morning.
No torch-lit stadiums guided her this time, and the fog was thick. But once she climbed onto the roof of Xanthus’s rock-walled room, she looked out over the city and remembered her way. It wasn’t far after all. She could be back with Sabina and Rory before a single Roman—or Ardean—knew that she’d gone missing.
Before the day began, she would become a slave once more.
Attia snuck back into Rory’s room just as the sun finally broke through to light the sky.
Hands immediately grabbed her.
“You’re alive! Are you hurt? Did they recognize you?” It was Sabina with red, watery eyes. She ran her hands over Attia’s face and arms and stomach, looking for wounds that weren’t there.
“I’m fine,” Attia said as Sabina pulled her close, wrapping her strong arms around her.
“Don’t do that again,” Sabina said. “Promise me.”
Attia said nothing. She simply let Sabina hold her and let herself believe that it was for the older woman’s comfort rather than her own.
After she helped Attia undress, Sabina flung the dark, bloody clothes into the fire. Smoke bloomed out into the room before drifting up through the column that led to the roof. The copper water tub still sat in the center of the room, cold now. But Attia slipped into it and tried to scrub the arena from her skin.
She’d just pulled a clean tunic over her head when there was a knock at the door. She could hear a man muttering something, and the sound of heavy, departing footsteps.
Attia nearly didn’t recognize the broken woman who stood just inside the door. Her black hair was knotted and hung in uneven sections around her tear-streaked face. A cut still bled from her swollen lips. Dark bruises covered her arms, shoulders, and neck.
Bile rose in Attia’s throat. “Lucretia? What happened? Who did this to you?”
Lucretia didn’t answer. She let Sabina guide her through the room to a cushioned chair by the fire. She flinched only a little as she sat down. With pursed lips, Sabina sought out her basket of salves.
Attia approached slowly, trying not to startle the woman. “Lucretia?”
And still the woman didn’t speak. She lifted her chin and tried to pull the torn sleeve of her gown over her shoulder.
Attia knelt before Lucretia and waited until she met her eyes. “I am so sorry. You don’t deserve this. No one does.”
Lucretia managed to keep her composure for a few more seconds before her face crumpled and she started to weep. She fell forward, and Attia caught her in her arms. Lucretia’s nearly silent sobs racked her whole body as she shuddered and trembled. The shoulder of Attia’s dress dampened with her tears and blood.
At least Rory wasn’t awake to see the terrible, bloody thing her uncle had done. Because Attia knew it had to have been Timeus. Who else would touch the dominus’s concubine?
Sabina laid out her bandages and salves with such stoicism that Attia knew she’d done it before. No wonder the woman had known how to help Attia heal. She’d been treating Lucretia’s injuries for far longer.
If Attia’s hate for Timeus had not yet known its reach, it did then. Disgust and loathing flared up like kindling, doused in the toxic fumes of every remembered hurt—the brand on her hip, the sword in her father’s chest, the despair in Xanthus’s eyes. And now Lucretia.
“Lucretia, drink this,” Sabina said. She handed over a small cup that Attia put to Lucretia’s sore lips.
“I’m sorry,” Attia said again. “No one deserves this.”
Eyes closed, Lucretia smiled bitterly. “You are still so young, Thracian.”
“I’ve grown a lot in recent days. And I know that not every man is like Timeus.”
Lucretia opened her eyes, and more tears spilled free. “For me, there is no other man.”