“Dominus?” Attia repeated.
“It is the Romans’ word for master, and our master’s name is Josias Neleus Timeus. He—”
“He isn’t my master,” Attia said.
Sabina put a sturdy hand against Attia’s cheek and looked her in the eye. “Never say that again.”
Attia was too fatigued to argue. It took all of her strength just to get to her feet, and even then, she leaned heavily against Sabina. Standing upright sent a wave of dizziness washing over her, and pale light blinked in her eyes.
Master. A Thracian would never abide the word. It filled her with white-hot anger, a raw hatred that was enough to make her take her first step. Injured as she was, her legs still worked.
“It’s not far,” Sabina said.
They turned down a long hallway, and Sabina guided Attia into the tablinum—a square, windowless room just beyond the atrium. Two guards flanked the entrance, and a curtain fell behind them as Sabina and Attia entered. The stone walls of the tablinum were almost entirely covered with tapestries that stretched from the floor to the ceiling. The heavy fabric, dark with age, seemed to swallow light and sound, disorienting Attia even further.
Five more guards stood at intervals around the room. Near the back, Timeus sat in a curved cushioned seat. To Attia, it looked more like a Thracian cradle than a proper chair. In the dim light, she could see green-edged bruises spread from the bridge of Timeus’s nose to his eyes and even down toward his mouth. The sickly color made the whites of his eyes look whiter and the blue of his irises look menacing.
A fire pit burned in the center of the room. It was barely autumn and a warm, clear night at that. Were the Romans so soft and self-indulgent that they needed the warmth of a fire right now?
“Good evening,” Timeus said in an unnervingly gracious tone.
Hearing his voice again—that intonation and cadence that implied wealth if not nobility—made Attia’s eyes blaze with contempt. Timeus leaned forward in his chair and cocked his head. Silence descended on the room. Perhaps he expected Attia to say something. Perhaps he expected her to genuflect or apologize or beg for mercy. Perhaps he could jump face-first into the Aegean.
“You do look a bit worse for wear, but whose fault is that now? I paid good money for you to be here, and now look at you—bloody and bruised and covered in filth. If he doesn’t want to keep you, it will be no one’s fault but your own. It was foolish of you to run.”
Attia lifted her chin, but couldn’t keep a look of suspicion from her face. Keep me?
Timeus almost smiled. “Haven’t you accepted it yet? You are a spoil of war, Thracian. You are property. And now, you will be a gift to my champion. I’m sure you’ll bring him immense pleasure.” He looked her over and sneered. “Once you’re clean.”
Like hell I will. Digging for her last reserves of strength, Attia straightened her back and pulled away from Sabina to stand on her own. Timeus’s eyes bore into hers, and she met his gaze full-on, defiance written all over her.
Timeus’s smile faded into a dark, threatening glare. “Understand me, Thracian. There are two ways of doing things in my house: There is the easy way, and there is the hard way.”
Oh, how original, Attia scoffed.
“Which way would you prefer?”
Attia would die before she obeyed him, before she was given to anyone. And if she was lucky, she’d get the chance to die fighting. She spat on the smooth marble floor—an answer that made her lips crack in new places. The mixture of blood and saliva glistened in the firelight.
“Very well,” Timeus said.
The guards arranged themselves around her in a loose circle. They appeared relaxed, but Attia could see how they held themselves ready. Her own heartbeat quickened with anticipation. At some unseen command, the leader reached forward to grab her. She raised her arms instinctively, ready to fight back, when Sabina grasped her from behind.
“Don’t,” she whispered desperately into Attia’s ear. “If you fight again, they’ll kill you.”
Attia’s brief moment of hesitation was her undoing. The guards took hold of her and dragged her to the fire. And Sabina—treacherous Sabina—kept her hand on Attia’s shoulder until the last second.
It was only as the guards held her prone beside the fire that Attia suddenly knew. Through the confusion and pain, she knew what the fire was for. Why had it taken her so long?
Timeus walked toward Attia, wrapping a thick length of canvas around his right hand. “I bought and paid for you, girl. If you try to run again, I will hunt you down, and next time, there will be no mercy.”
Attia struggled, but the guards held her fast in their firm grip, and she was still broken in so many places.
“Whatever you were before, you belong to me now. I own you.” He lifted a branding iron from the fire.
Attia’s fingers clenched, desperate to reach one of the gleaming daggers in the guards’ belts. She could see the handle of one just a few inches away. But all she could reach was the fabric of their black cloaks.
“And if you ever attack me again,” Timeus said in a deadly quiet voice, “I will crucify you.”
At that, Attia’s heart clenched, not from fear, but from memory. All at once, she saw thousands of dying Thracians, all nailed to crosses blanketing the hillsides. She heard the Roman legatus who promised her dying father that all of his people would follow him to the underworld.
A guard ripped a hole in the side of her bloody, tattered war tunic, and Attia turned her head. Her scream seemed to tear through her whole body as Timeus seared his brand onto her hip. Then she saw black.
*
The brand blistered and burned, the pain insinuating itself into a familiar, relentless nightmare. As she had every night since her capture, Attia dreamed of the Romans invading with the dawn, their legions spilling over the rain-soaked hills like ants. She dreamed of every able-bodied Thracian—men and women—taking up arms to join the Maedi, to defend their families and their freedom. She dreamed of following her father into battle, and the bone-chilling cry he made as he died. The memory of that sound drew her into consciousness.