All she’d wanted was a fresh breeze and the sun on her skin. Being joined by Lucius minutes after she’d emerged from Rory’s cart made her tense immediately. She hadn’t spoken to him since that day when she’d bandaged his hands, but she couldn’t be sure that he wouldn’t recognize her from the arena. What set her on edge the most was that she could sense a severe change in him, and she didn’t yet know what it was.
“I’ve been meaning to thank you for taking such good care of my sister,” he said as he dismounted to walk beside her. “First you save my hands, and now you’re my sister’s companion. I’m glad you’re with us.”
“She’s a sweet girl, but I’m not her companion.”
“What do you mean?”
Attia raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you know? Timeus bought me for Xanthus. I’m his companion.”
Lucius hadn’t looked particularly happy to begin with, but Attia watched the last bit of light fade from his face when she said that. Without his easy smile, he looked like a different man entirely—less himself, more his uncle. A deep frown carved new creases into his face, and he turned his eyes down to look at his boots. “You weren’t born a slave, were you?” he said.
Attia turned her face away.
“You were free once. My uncle told me that you’re a Thracian. You probably know more about battles and soldiering than I do,” he said with a little smile. “You must miss your home. Ever since I was a boy, I’ve wanted to see Thrace. It’s a shame that … well…” His voice faded off, and he glanced sidelong at Attia. They both knew there was no good way for him to finish that sentence. Eventually, he said, “You know, I met a senator once who was born in Egypt. No one is really from Rome anymore, not even Romans.”
Attia couldn’t hold back a snort. “Funny how that happens when you try to take over the world.”
“Do you oppose the Republic on ideological grounds then? We have law, order, and prosperity here. Many would say we bring civilization to barbarous nations.”
“Yes, if by civilization you mean destruction, terror, famine, slavery, death. Even you must see the hypocrisy of it all. You and your kind would like to believe that Rome is the light, but it’s not. Rome is the darkness.”
Lucius bristled. “You don’t know me. Perhaps I believe in justice. Perhaps slavery disgusts me.”
“Perhaps your inheritance rests on the backs of slaves.”
Lucius became very quiet then, and Attia couldn’t believe she’d just said all of that to Timeus’s nephew. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. What would happen when he told his uncle about all of the clever, perfidious things the little Thracian had said? The punishment could easily cost her—
“You’re right.” Lucius’s soft words interrupted Attia’s self-rebuke. He ran a hand through his hair. “Rome isn’t what it was meant to be. My father used to tell me stories of how the Republic was founded. There was equality and freedom of thought. No one suffered.”
“The founders of Rome may have tried to build something pure. But it seems corruption will always bleed through.”
“That doesn’t mean we should stop trying,” he said earnestly.
“No, but you can’t keep doing the same thing and expect different results. Look at Carthage, Antioch, Jerusalem, the Germanic tribes, Britannia—look at what’s happened to their people. Conquest is not the same as liberation. Whatever past your father remembered has long been lost. Rome has changed, and I think it will be a very different beast before the end.”
Lucius’s expression hardened again, and a faraway look came into his eyes, as though he was remembering something he’d rather forget.
A part of him had definitely changed, and though Attia couldn’t know for sure, she thought it had something to do with the attack in the clearing. Lucius was colder now. Angrier. The same thing had happened to her the first time she’d killed a man. The difference was, her kill had been for survival, so she’d eventually been able to let go of her anger. She wondered if Lucius ever would.
“Is there no chance for redemption?” Lucius asked in a strangely hollow voice. The words came slowly, as though he had to force them out. “Do you think we’re all damned?”
“I wouldn’t know about damnation. I don’t know what comes after this. But we’re here now, and that’s all that really matters.”
“What about the afterlife? Don’t you believe in the gods?”
“Only when I curse at them.”
Lucius smiled—a sad contrast to the deep shadows and lines in his face. “Well, I knew there was something different about you.”
Oh, Lucius, she thought. You have no idea.
“I should get back to Rory,” Attia said.
Lucius nodded and raised his hand in a weak wave as Attia tugged on the door and disappeared into the darkness of the cart. She leaned back against the wall to get her bearings.
She shouldn’t have spoken to him. She shouldn’t have said the things she had. But somehow, her time in the arena with the ghosts and the dust and the specter of Spartacus had resurrected memories that she’d tried to push away. Beneath everything else, buried in rubble and the fires of conquest, she was still her father’s daughter. She could still hear the outrage in his voice as he cursed the Romans with his dying breath. And she remembered the day they lost her mother and stillborn brother—how her father had held her in his arms, rocking her gently to the rhythm of a lament so bone-deep that its message echoed through her even though the melody had long been lost. She remembered the strike of her sword as she killed more legionaries than she bothered to count the day of the invasion. And she remembered the face of Crius, her father’s first captain.
When she was young, Crius had given her a small wooden practice sword. She’d swung it over her head like a sling until Crius snapped at her. “You are a Maedi, Attia! For the gods’ sakes, act like one!”
Incensed, Attia had swung her wooden sword into his side as hard as she could, cracking two of his ribs. She hadn’t realized her own strength. She’d immediately dropped the sword and taken a step back.
But Crius had barely flinched. He’d simply picked up the weapon and put it back into her hand. “I’ll make a warrior of you yet,” he’d said with a grin.
This is who I am.
Those thoughts and memories, jumbled and sharp, comprised her very essence. She couldn’t go numb. She couldn’t push it away. The best and the worst—she couldn’t forget.
The rumble of the cart’s wheels made her teeth chatter as she opened the inner door. The road to Pompeii was worn and pitted, causing the cart to rock dangerously. Then she stepped through the door and saw something that nearly made her heart do the same: Rory stood on her toes on the bench with her little face pressed against one of the slits in the side of the cart. Sunlight streamed in through the narrow opening, kissing the pale skin of her nose and cheek. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.
“Rory, no!” Attia yanked her away from the side, using her body to shield the girl.
“I did it!” Rory said, gripping Attia’s shoulders. “I felt the sun!”
“You’re not supposed to!” Attia said in a horrified whisper.