Fido scoffed. “You won’t shake me off so easily, gladiator. I want Spartacus.”
Kanut nodded in agreement. “As do we. Besides, we’re all still gathering information. There are rumors and then there are rumors.”
Xanthus sighed heavily. “Well, I wish you all luck with your rumors.”
“Spartacus would make me a fortune,” Fido said. He cocked his head. “But if you expect me to stop looking, you’ll have to make it worth my while, champion.”
“Not that I care, but how would you expect me to do that, Fido? With all of the land and gold I have at my disposal?”
Fido shrugged. “You could fight for me here, in Capua. Then return with me to Ardea—as a free man.”
“No,” Xanthus said.
“That was fast,” Kanut commented.
Fido looked incredulous. “No? You wish to remain a slave? Are you really so happy being Timeus’s pet? I can give you matches you’ve never had before. I can give you greater rewards than Timeus has even thought to give you!”
Xanthus straightened his back, using his height and his size to stare down at Fido. He wanted his next words to be very clear. “Fido, there is not a single thing in this whole damn world that you could ever offer me.”
Fido seemed genuinely surprised by his response. “I don’t understand you,” he said, shaking his head.
Kanut turned to Xanthus with a slight smile. “Oh, I think I understand you perfectly, gladiator.”
“If you won’t leave with me, then you won’t leave at all,” Fido said. “I certainly won’t set you free to keep searching for Spartacus.”
“Oh. Now that is a pity,” Kanut said. Then he whistled.
Xanthus would have sworn the mercenaries melted from the walls. They made quick work of Fido’s men. Their movements were sure, silent. Bodies dropped around Xanthus like stones. He realized that their surrender and capture had all been a ruse to get to Fido.
Number Two cut through their bonds, glared at Xanthus, then turned and gutted a man who tried to run past them. The mercenaries turned on Fido as one.
Kanut massaged his wrists before accepting a spear that Number Two held out to him. “Last words?” he asked.
Fido started to scream. Kanut raised the spear and threw it with such power that fat Fido was launched backward and pinned against the brick wall. But even though the man was dead, the scream didn’t end. It just came from somewhere else.
Xanthus turned quickly to see a young boy watching from a break in the wall. Before he could run, one of the mercenaries caught him by the collar of his tunic.
“And who the hell are you?” Kanut asked over the boy’s shouts of protest. A quickly stuffed piece of linen muffled his cries.
Xanthus guessed the boy couldn’t be more than eight or nine. His knees were scraped raw, and dirt covered every inch of his scrawny frame. From the way his skin hung on his bones, it didn’t look like he’d eaten a proper meal in weeks. The mercenary who held him pulled a dagger from his belt and poised it at the boy’s throat.
“Not happening,” Xanthus said. He smashed his fist into the man’s face and caught the boy with his free arm. “We’re not going to start killing children now.”
“Who says this is the start?” Kanut asked. “We don’t need witnesses, gladiator. He can’t live.”
“No one touches him,” Xanthus said.
The mercenaries watched him with blank expressions. No one moved.
“Bring the boy with us,” Number Two finally said. “We’ll free him once we’re out of Capua.”
The echo of men’s voices began to drift toward them.
“Vigiles,” Kanut said. He turned to Xanthus. “You want to save him? You can carry him.”
Xanthus looked at the men lying dead on the ground, at Fido’s bleeding body pinned to the wall. The mercenaries were already hurrying away.
Damn it all.
He tossed the boy over his shoulder and ran after them.
CHAPTER 20
If Attia got through the day without murdering someone, she would consider it a good day. Or she might just be sorely disappointed.
She found Lucretia in the early morning, stumbling up the steps to the upper level of the villa and clutching her tattered tunic to her body. Even in the darkness before sunrise, Attia could see the way Lucretia glanced nervously over her shoulder, as though she thought some monster lurked there.
Attia whispered her name, called to her as quietly as she could. But Lucretia either didn’t hear her or didn’t want to hear her. It wasn’t until Attia stood right beside her that Lucretia even lifted her eyes.
She refused to let Attia touch her, shrinking away when Attia reached for her hand. It was like another morning in another city. It was happening all over again, just when Lucretia was beginning to heal. Just as she said it would. She winced with every movement. One eye was completely swollen shut. New bruises covered her wrists. Her neck was ringed with red. Spots of blood on her tunic told Attia that her nose had probably bled at some point, too.
Attia’s first instinct was fury. More than ever she wanted to slit Timeus’s throat and tear the old man apart. It was only the waning light in Lucretia’s eyes that stayed her hand. Lucretia needed Attia’s comfort, not her vengeance. She needed solace and warmth. And Attia wasn’t good at any of that. So she simply took Lucretia to their little garden, and rested the woman’s head in her lap as dawn lightened the sky.
“It’s getting worse,” Lucretia whispered. “He’s been angry before, but ever since Ardea…” Tears slipped slowly down her cheeks. A few minutes later, she fell into a fitful sleep, her hand curled around Attia’s.
Sabina found them soon after, ready with her basket of salves and ointments. She sent Attia to fetch Rory’s morning meal, promising she would tend to Lucretia as she had done so often before.
Attia did what she was told. It seemed she had become a good, domesticated little pet, after all. But her thoughts were still in the garden where Lucretia’s battered body curled in the grass, and her blood screamed with anger and guilt.
Lucretia said things had gotten worse since Ardea, and the only explanation for that was the sudden disappearance of Spartacus. Timeus’s rage would only escalate the longer he went without finding his prize, and Attia knew that Lucretia couldn’t survive his wrath for much longer. The next time Timeus took his anger out on Lucretia, she could very well die.
And it will be my fault.
*
That night, Attia lit Xanthus’s candles by the window but curled herself on the corner of the bed, far from the candles’ light. She’d never minded the shadows. They’d been her friends long before the Maedi had bowed before her. She was a child of the dark, after all—born on the Winter Solstice, the longest night of the year. Darkness had always nipped at her heels.
Still, it took hours for her to fall into a fitful sleep. It was long past midnight when her eyes snapped open again, and every hair on her body stood on end.
Someone was in the room.
Someone was watching her.