“Go to hell.”
Kanut grinned. One of his teeth had chipped. Blood ran from his nose and dripped onto his tunic. “If you’d been smarter, you would have helped us. You could have traded information for your freedom. Why do you want to go back so badly? Do you enjoy the arena that much?”
“I don’t want to go back,” Xanthus said. “But I have to.”
“Why? Because you’re the champion? Because Timeus claims ownership over you?”
Xanthus started to shake his head, then thought better of it. His vision was shaky enough. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“You’re wrong,” Kanut said. “I know all about Decimus, and I know you see him as your enemy. But that match has nothing to do with you. It’s about Timeus’s wager, not your sense of justice. Do you know what your dominus stands to win? A place in the gentes maiores and a seat in the Senate. Timeus will get everything he wants, and yes, you may kill Decimus. But you’ll still be a slave.”
“And you think you’re any better? You’re a hired sword. You kill and betray for the highest bidder. You have no right to speak of honor or justice.”
“Just admit that when you crawl back to Timeus, it will be to feed your pride. That’s the reason you’ll go back to chains, to a lifetime of slavery.”
“As opposed to working with a bastard like you? One who would murder a child if it was convenient? No. I go back for her.”
“A woman?” Kanut laughed bitterly. “Let me guess—she was given to you as a prize. Is that right? What makes you think that she isn’t just Timeus’s little pet? Now I truly understand you, gladiator, and I must say, I’m disappointed. Your master gives you a whore, and now he’s got you by the—”
Xanthus grabbed Kanut’s tunic and practically lifted the man off the ground. The dizziness, the pain, that damn falcon—all of it faded from his mind. “Attia is no whore, and if you suggest it again, I’ll send you to the underworld with fewer limbs than you started with.”
Kanut’s face changed instantly, the exhaustion melting to fury then to disbelief, and then—hope. “Attia of Thrace?”
Xanthus felt the world tilt on its axis. He dropped Kanut as though the man’s tunic were on fire.
“Answer me, gladiator!” Kanut shouted, grabbing Xanthus by the collar and twisting the fabric in his scarred hands. “Is Attia of Thrace alive?”
“How do you—?”
“Is she in Pompeii?”
“What do you know about her?” Xanthus demanded. “And what have you told Timeus?”
“He knows nothing,” Kanut said. “He certainly doesn’t realize that he has Thracian royalty living under his roof.” He was smiling, but tears were slowly filling his eyes. “I knew it. I knew it had to be her. Who else but a Maedi could be the Shadow of Death? Who else but the heir of Spartan kings would take a name like Spartacus?”
Xanthus felt unsteady again, and not from the fight. Kanut loosened his hold on him.
“The Romans tried to burn me alive. I watched as my people were crucified and left to die in the hills. I thought I’d lost everything—my king, my princess, my brothers. I thought all memory of Thrace would die with me.”
Xanthus couldn’t blink. He could barely breathe. “Who are you?” he whispered.
“I am Crius, first captain of King Sparro of Thrace. I am a Maedi.” He reached around Xanthus and pushed open the remains of the shattered door. “And so are they.”
The mercenaries were waiting outside. It seemed they’d been waiting the whole time, waiting to see who won. They’d caught Balius, too—Number Two gripped his neck as though he was a puppy rather than a boy.
And now that Xanthus looked—really looked—he could see that all of the mercenaries wore a bloodred length of fabric tied around their necks, mostly hidden by their dark, plain clothing. He was surprised that his knees didn’t give out right then. He barely heard the next words of the man he’d known as Kanut.
“We never wanted Spartacus,” he said. “We only wanted our princess. And now that search is over. You’re getting your wish, Xanthus: We’re going back to Pompeii.”
CHAPTER 23
It was all quite ornate. Brightly colored silk drapes hung in loops from the ceiling and caressed the pillars. There were couches, chairs, and pillows spread all over the tiled floor. If Lucretia fell during her dance, she’d probably just bounce right back up again.
From where she hid in a shadowed doorway, Attia could smell the vast assortment of food—roasted and cold meats, warm breads, sliced cheeses, exotic fruits. There was just so much, and all of it for Tycho Flavius. Attia found it nauseating.
The man himself sat on a dais near the back of the room with thin drapes hanging all around him and partially obscuring his face. Attia was glad. He hadn’t been pleasant to look at the first time. She was, however, surprised to notice that he was sitting in Timeus’s chair. The old man was left to stand at Tycho’s shoulder like a servant. From the scowl on Timeus’s face, he wasn’t pleased with the arrangement at all.
Sabina had told her to stay in Rory’s room, but Attia felt like she would be abandoning Lucretia again if she did that. Moving silently through the crowd, she took a place near the front and watched as Lucretia moved to the very center of the room.
The sheer gown she wore shimmered like spun gold, and Attia was surprised to see that the color and the candlelight actually did a fair job of obscuring Lucretia’s bruises, even if you could see nearly everything else. She moved as gracefully as ever, despite her injuries. Attia was probably the only one to notice the hesitation in her step, or the way she only extended her arms a little because she wasn’t quite healed yet.
Attia’s own body strained with violence, and it took everything in her to keep still while Lucretia danced ever closer to Tycho’s chair, her body twisting in ways that must have hurt every bruised muscle she had. When her hands subtly touched her shoulders, Attia knew she was preparing to peel her dress away. The crowd sensed it, too, and began to call out with loud cheers and obnoxious whistles.
Attia swallowed hard. Her hands clenched into fists, and she took an involuntary step forward, accidently knocking into the arm of a nobleman and sending his cup of wine shattering to the floor.
The music stopped instantly, and suddenly, everyone was silent and staring at her. Timeus’s face hardened as her eyes met his.
“Who,” Tycho said with a slight slur, “is that? Bring her here.”