Attia found herself in a dark room, lying on a pallet on the floor. A tiny window was cut high in the wall. She tried to sit up, but the movement tugged at the tender flesh of her hip. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, swearing she would never again let the Romans hear the sound of her pain. Attia rolled over, trying her best to avoid the new wound, and began to claw her way up the wall. Her movements were painfully slow. She had to fight for every last inch. But finally she managed to prop herself up in a sitting position. Only then did she realize that someone had taken her shredded tunic—the last remnant of her life as a Maedi warrior—and dressed her in what was essentially a shapeless wool sack that fell below her knees. Three holes were cut out for her arms and head. Attia clenched her jaw, bracing herself for what she needed to do next, and pulled up the hem of her pathetic garb.
She saw the brand immediately—a sharp-tipped letter “T,” the bottom tail of which tapered down like a knife point. The wound was angry and red, and a shiny blister covered the upper bar of the letter. A simple mark, and yet it cut her in a way the Romans’ swords never could.
It was true now. Undeniable.
She was a slave.
CHAPTER 3
A man can get used to any name.
Dog. Barbarian. Savage.
Bastard son of Mars.
Pagan seed.
In the long decade since he’d been taken, the Romans had called him by many names. Now they favored one in particular: Xanthus Maximus Colossus, the Champion of Rome.
The dominus had once told him that the crowd cheered for him more than any other, that in their own twisted, morbid way, they loved him. Funny. And here all Xanthus wanted to do was burn down the Coliseum and every damn Roman in it.
Even though he was a gladiator.
Even though he was very, very good at what he did.
But that would end soon enough. His lips creased in a pained, determined smile as he turned his gaze to the iron gates that opened to the arena.
It would be the last time he walked through those gates, the last time he took his weapons in hand and put on the show these animals wanted. He would go out and lose his first match in ten years, and finally face the long column of broken men who waited for him on the banks of the Styx.
His dominus would undoubtedly rage about his death being a terrible waste, as though Xanthus hadn’t been a helpless nine-year-old boy when he was first shoved into an arena.
No, Xanthus wouldn’t—couldn’t—waver.
After everything, he was just so tired.
His heavy sigh broke the uneasy silence of the hypogeum—the massive chamber beneath the arena where gladiators and slaves waited for their turn to fight or die. The hypogeum was a shadowy, damp space with tables and shelves groaning under the weight of weapons and armor. The only light came from flickering torches hung at uneven intervals on the walls. Broad pillars covered in chains and harnesses stretched down the middle of the room, and nearly half a dozen men were bound to them. They weren’t gladiators, they were fodder—their sole purpose to entertain by dying in sand and blood.
A man chained to the nearest pillar was sobbing, his tears dripping down to cover the front of his tunic. All morning, he’d been muttering under his breath about the Christians’ god and praying for an apocalypse. The Cult of Christ had been causing the Republic problems as of late, and the poor fool was probably in the Coliseum precisely for speaking such blasphemies. Xanthus pitied the man. It didn’t matter what god he worshipped. All of them were already in hell.
There were other men, too. Unchained, silent, hulking men. At a glance, they looked massive and muscled, but after so many years, Xanthus recognized a different sort of strength in them. These men were hardened by experience, cloaked in apathy. They were veteran gladiators, just like him, and they had learned to equate killing with survival. Still, few were willing to meet his eyes, and when they did, they looked quickly away. Xanthus’s reputation preceded him.
Of all the men waiting in the hypogeum, only a handful could hold his gaze. They sat apart from the rest because they too had reputations. One by one, they lifted their eyes to look at Xanthus, and their expressions were heavy with unspoken comprehension. Albinus, Gallus, Lebuin, Iduma, and Castor—the men who had been forged beside him in the ludus, who had become his blood-brothers in every way that mattered. He hadn’t said anything to them about what he planned to do. But after all these years, he didn’t have to. They knew him.
Lebuin tried to smile at Xanthus, but the expression faltered and fell. Gallus and Iduma, usually so quick to laugh, lowered their heads to hide the shadows gathering in their eyes. Castor simply stared, sadness tightening his mouth into a grim line.
Xanthus looked away, closed his eyes, and leaned his head against the wall. He just wanted a moment—one last, single, solitary moment to pretend that he might see Britannia again, that his family might someday be made whole. That he was not the thing they’d carved him into.
One last time, he thought. Just one.
But as soon as he closed his eyes, the wall against his back began to shake in heavy, pulsing beats. Outside, the trumpets sounded off, high and resonant like the wailing of the Little People who lived in the bogs back home. They were followed by a voice Xanthus had heard for more than half his life.
“Rome’s champion needs no introduction,” the dominus shouted. “Call his name! Release his fury!”
And the crowd dutifully responded. “Xanthus! Xanthus! XANTHUS!”
After all, no man chooses his own name. Why should he be any different? He wasn’t in Britannia; he was in the Coliseum. The trumpets were blaring, and it was time.
The iron of an unsheathed blade hissed in his ear. Opening his eyes, Xanthus looked up to see Albinus standing beside him with two swords—long, straight spathas—held ready in his hands. The man’s white-blond hair hung down around his scarred face like a shroud. Albinus didn’t speak, but he and the others were all silently pleading the same thing as they looked at Xanthus: Live.
Well, life was full of disappointment.
Xanthus put a hand on Albinus’s shoulder—the closest he would come to saying goodbye—and accepted the swords. Then the iron bars rose, and bright, shifting beams of sunlight crossed his face. Xanthus sheathed the swords at his back and walked slowly out into the arena, not once looking behind him.
The sand, the shouts, the coppery scent of blood in the air, and the steady drums that followed his progress across the wide-open space were all too familiar. He knew exactly what the Romans wanted.
In one smooth motion, Xanthus drew his swords and struck them together over his head in the shape of an “X.” The iron flared briefly in the autumn sun, and he held the position for a long minute, letting the crowd get a good look.
Xanthus was always surprised by how excited they were to see him. Then again, some of these spectators had watched him fight since he was a boy. He wondered if they felt like they knew him, if they considered him one of their own. And he wondered if there would ever be forgiveness for what he’d done to please them.
He would find out soon enough.
Before the cheering faded, Xanthus lowered his swords and turned to watch his opponent approach from the southern end of the arena.
The Taurus, the Butcher of Capua, had been happily butchering all day long, and Xanthus could see why the crowd was so eager for this fight.