Valeria was far from sober. Every few minutes, her body went slack and she started to dip down beneath the water. Attia had to lean over and pull her up again by her arms. When the water turned cold and Valeria’s skin was wrinkled as a prune, Attia wrapped a towel around her—like she’d done so many times for Rory—and helped her back to bed.
“Honor isn’t everything, you know,” Valeria said as she snuggled under her wine-stained sheets. “For many, it is a cheap word. Easily spoken and easily discarded. There are more important things—love, loyalty. Things men could never understand. I loved once, Thracian. Too much. Now I pay the cost of it. My brother thinks he can barter for power. But you can’t trust a Flavian. Not ever.” Valeria met her eyes. “Attia,” she said, “you care about my daughter. I know you do. Make me a promise: Whatever happens, you must keep her safe.”
The twists in their conversation kept throwing Attia into confusion. Valeria’s mind jumped from one topic to another with seemingly no connection between them. But her blue eyes were filled with sadness, fear, and regret. She gripped Attia’s hand in hers.
“Promise me,” she said again. “No matter what. Keep her safe from them.”
“Of course I’ll protect her,” Attia answered. “I will always protect her.”
Valeria closed her eyes with relief. “Good. Yes. That’s good.” A minute later, her body relaxed and she was asleep.
*
Kanut led Xanthus through back streets and alleys, away from the main road, away from soldiers and most of the vigiles. They didn’t stop until they reached the Red District, where Xanthus raised a questioning brow.
“Don’t judge a man for needing his comforts,” Kanut said. But he passed the prostitutes lining the street, turned down another alley, and stopped at the closed door of a crumbling insula. A small, crude image of a bird was drawn in chalk at the base of the door. Kanut barely knocked before stomping inside.
Three men sat or reclined in different parts of the room, and all of them turned to stare at Xanthus. They didn’t make any other move—not to stand or grab a weapon or even to show surprise. Either they’d been expecting Kanut and Xanthus at that very minute, or they thought little of strategic vigilance.
Xanthus was unimpressed. “You told Timeus there were nine of you.”
Kanut ignored him. “What did the woman say?”
A dark-haired man close to Xanthus’s age answered. “Same as the rest.” He narrowed his eyes and looked Xanthus up and down, leaning back in his chair. His nose looked like it had been broken a few times.
A big man with graying hair turned in his seat. “He the one?”
“Brothers, meet Xanthus Maximus Colossus,” Kanut said. “The Champion of Rome.”
The third man was barely a man at all, more a youth who couldn’t have been older than fourteen. He had his back to a wall and his legs propped up on a crate. He chewed on a piece of dried meat, walked up to Xanthus, and craned his neck back to meet his eyes. “I thought you’d be bigger,” he said.
Xanthus raised an eyebrow. “I thought there would be more of you.”
Kanut clicked his teeth. “What about Fido’s man?”
The youth looked back at Kanut and grinned in response.
“Good,” Kanut said. “Let’s go.”
The ground began to shake.
“Not again,” the older one murmured.
They streamed out of the insula just before the weak roof caved in, littering the ground with debris. A cloud of dust bloomed out into the street. The horses panicked, rearing and neighing wildly. Kanut and Xanthus grabbed their reins to keep them from bolting. Around them, the prostitutes were laughing as men ran from the insulas, hurrying down the street in their layered, disheveled tunics.
As soon as the ground was still again, Kanut mounted his horse. “One hour,” he said to the others. “Let’s go, gladiator.” They left the three men in the street and rode off.
Again, Kanut chose a route through the back alleys of Pompeii. Every so often, he would whistle—a sharp, piercing sound that grated on Xanthus’s nerves. Kanut wouldn’t say where they were going or why. He just rode and whistled, and Xanthus had no choice but to follow him. They reached the city’s borders as another tremor raced through the ground. At least that one only lasted a couple of seconds.
“I’ll be glad to be rid of this city,” Kanut grumbled.
A mile out from the gates, Kanut turned west and started leading them toward the forest. Xanthus caught subtle movements in the trees around them but heard nothing. Then Kanut started that damn whistling again.
Nine men melted out of the shadows. Xanthus recognized three of them as the men from the Red District. The others were strangers. All nine wore the same dark clothing, and they all watched him with open suspicion.
“Gladiator, meet my men,” Kanut said.
So that’s what he’d been doing with his irritating whistle—calling to them. “Why hide?” Xanthus asked.
“Not your concern,” someone answered.
“You’ve already met my lieutenant,” Kanut said, pointing to the dark-haired one with the slightly crooked nose.
“And the others?”
“Not your concern either,” Number Two said.
Xanthus sighed. “Well, this has been a productive meeting.”
“We’ve been gathering our own information for some time,” Kanut said. “Now we have questions for you—the man who actually fought beside Spartacus.”
Here we go.
“What did he look like?” Number Two asked.
“Like a black mask,” Xanthus said. “His face was covered. I never saw it.”
“Size?”
“At least a foot taller than me, and muscular.”
“Tattoos? Marks?”
“None that I saw.”
“How did he move?”
That made Xanthus hesitate. “What do you mean?”
“How. Did. He. Move?” Number Two repeated each word slowly and deliberately, as though he were speaking to a child.
Xanthus pictured Attia in the arena, running circles around their opponents as though she walked on air, maneuvering her sword as though it were an extension of her own body. She fought with the merciless precision of a Maedi warrior, yet she was lithe, graceful. Lucius had been right to dub her the Shadow of Death.
“He was heavy,” Xanthus said. “Not very light on his feet, but strong. He knocked down his first opponent with one strike.” Well, the last part is true.
Kanut smiled at Number Two.
“What kind of weapon did he use?” one of the others asked.
“A gladius.”
For some reason, everyone nodded.
“Did he say anything?” Kanut asked.
“No. He was mute.”
That made Number Two laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Xanthus asked.
Number Two cleared his throat. “The prostitute in the Red District—she … serviced one of Fido’s men, found out a few things. Everyone seems to agree that Spartacus never spoke, and well, I’ve never met a mute. Seems like a funny sort of affliction to have. Almost unbelievable.”
Xanthus stared back at him with a straight face.
Kanut’s smile become thoughtful. “You’re not a very emotive man, are you, gladiator?” The teasing note was gone from his voice. He sounded more curious than anything.
“No. I’m not,” Xanthus said.
“And you don’t trust us.”
“Of course I don’t.”