Lucretia had gone pale, and she shook her head slightly. Attia was nearly overwhelmed by the look of pity on her face. Her dark eyes practically screamed “I’m sorry,” as though she could have shielded Attia from this. And there Attia was trying to protect her. The irony struck her hard, and she had to concentrate to walk toward the dais where Tycho and Timeus waited.
As she walked, she felt a strange trembling beneath her feet, and she had to change her stance to stay balanced. But no one else noticed it, and it left her wondering if it was only in her head. The Romans were so loud that sometimes it seemed like their cheers could rattle her teeth loose.
“Wherever did you find her, Timeus?” Tycho asked as Attia approached.
“The gods guide them all to my door, Tycho. But I suppose I have your father to thank for this one.”
“Is that so? How fascinating. Something he brought back from the savage lands, no doubt.” Attia was trying to keep her focus, but a movement near the door in the far corner caught her eye—a shock of red hair and pale skin.
“… from Thrace,” Timeus was saying.
“Oh, savage indeed. Though undoubtedly beautiful. Bring her closer.”
Attia didn’t have another second to think about it before she stepped forward. But she refused to bow her head. She refused to give a Flavian the satisfaction of her deference.
“Closer,” Tycho said.
She took another single step, her eyes raised and scanning the far end of the room.
“Closer,” he said again, his voice becoming hard.
Attia complied, but her thoughts were on someone else entirely. She’d seen Rory. She knew she had. That red hair and pale skin—it had to be the child. And the girl had promised. Attia clenched her teeth in frustration.
Behind her, the guests watched with interest, waiting to see what Tycho would do next.
“What is your name?” Tycho asked.
Attia seriously considered the possibility of not answering at all. But she heard Timeus clear his throat loudly.
“Attia,” she said.
“What? I can’t hear you.”
Attia sighed before raising her voice. “My name is Attia,” she said, her words ringing clearly through the room.
“Attia,” Tycho repeated with a sigh of his own that set her teeth on edge. There was an audible intake of breath around her as Tycho stood from his seat. “Look at me,” he said from just a few inches away.
Attia clenched her fists.
“Look at me,” he nearly shouted.
With a deep, steadying breath, Attia shifted her eyes from the back wall to look into his.
Yes. He looked just as he had when he arrived—short, pale, soft. And now drunk. She felt a split second of amusement when she realized that she was actually slightly taller than him.
“Oh, she is lovely,” Tycho said in a husky whisper. “Thracian, you say?”
Timeus nodded. “The last Thracian.”
“Of course. So you were the one my father spared.” A sour smile spread across his mouth. “He said you tried to save old Sparro—ran to his side like a little soldier with a sword of your own. But you were too late. My father had already cut him down. Did you hear Sparro beg for his life? Funny that a weak girl like you would have more courage than that old fool. No wonder his heir wasn’t worth knowing about. A man like that probably spawned a pitiful son.”
Attia could feel her lips twitching, as though she wanted to snarl at the bastard. She clenched her hands at her sides to keep still.
Tycho cocked his head at her while his fingers reached up to his chest to toy with something pinned to the fabric there. Attia’s eyes inadvertently followed the movement, flitting down past the luster of the gold torque around his neck and the purple sash across his shoulder. Past the gold threads on the neckline of his tunic, and down to a pendant fastened to his clothing.
In that one moment, the entire universe—from the particles of dust in the air to the very breath of the gods—stopped. All Attia could comprehend was the distinct silverwork of the pendant, the falcon in flight, the sparkling fire of the clear stone in the center.
This was what Rory had seen. Tycho had had it all this time.
Her pendant.
Something inside of Attia shifted then. She’d heard men call it a trance, a bloodlust, a berserker fury that overwhelmed warriors with the need to kill. But there was nothing numb about this feeling. It was hot and cold and fast and slow, all at the same time. It was like lightning in the middle of the sea, an inferno in the heart of a storm. And before she could think another thought, she had her hands wrapped tight around Tycho Flavius’s neck.
The soldiers and guards rushed into action. They put a knife to Attia’s throat to try to stop her. Like Xanthus, she had no fear of the blade. She didn’t care if they cut her or bled her dry, but they got in her way, loosening her grip for a fraction of an instant.
Tycho crumpled to the floor, gasping for breath. As he tried to crawl away toward the back wall, his eyes went wide with shock, trained on a spot in the back of the room—on a terrified little girl curling up in the corner. His face twisted.
“Titus…,” he whispered, just as a thunderous boom echoed through the villa.
Attia took the chance to fight off the guards and reach for Tycho again. But another roar shook the walls, and chunks of marble began to fall all around them.
Everyone ran.
They screamed and pushed and clawed their way to the doors as the air vibrated with sound. Marble and dust rained down, and Attia struggled to her feet, pushed along by the stampeding Romans as they rushed into the courtyard. Almost immediately, people doubled over, gasping and choking.
Smoke and sulfur filled the air. Small flakes of white stuff floated gently to the ground. It looked like snow, but it was warm rather than cold, and it turned to dust at the slightest touch.
Ash.
“Gods, help us!” someone screamed, and Attia followed the man’s terrified gaze to the northeast.
It was only then, as they all stood beneath the ink-black sky, that she saw it: Mount Vesuvius, alive and furious, spitting fire onto the city of Pompeii.
CHAPTER 24
The blackened crest of the mountain spewed flame into the sky. The ground shook violently as a river of molten rock spilled out from Vesuvius and began to snake its way through the streets like a fiery serpent. It consumed the houses and people in its path, slowly but steadily.
The air was still cool around Timeus’s villa by the sea, as though it hadn’t quite realized that the world around it was burning. Attia couldn’t move. She stared around the courtyard in a daze, the sounds of the Romans’ terror muted and dull. All she could comprehend was their mouths opening wide in silent screams. She saw the tears streaming down their faces and watched as they ran over each other like frantic animals.