Xanthus forced a tight smile on his face.
The massive, octagonal room was heavy with incense. The scented smoke curled up in the folds of the silk drapes and curtains before releasing again in intoxicating waves when the breeze blew in from the sea. The westernmost edge of the room had no wall, only a row of evenly spaced pillars separating it from a wide balcony. The floor was a sophisticated pattern of impossibly small and perfectly fitted pieces of white and gray stone. Torchlight flickered off the seven sparkling mosaics on the walls inlaid with gold, brass, silver, and copper. One mosaic showed a man seated on a white throne wearing a tunic fashioned out of deep purple amethysts, his head and fingers lined with rubies. Another depicted Xanthus himself—his eyes made of two large emeralds, his swords inlaid with garnets meant to look like drops of blood, and his feet standing atop a mound of ivory carved into the shapes of hundreds of human bones.
Xanthus turned away, craning his neck to look for his brothers. After the match, they’d waited for him in the hypogeum. One by one, they’d gripped his shoulder hard enough to bruise, their grasps expressing the relief they were careful to keep from their faces. Not one of them said a word.
Now, Iduma was likely somewhere in the room, flirting shamelessly with one of the courtesans Timeus had rented for the evening. Lebuin was probably drinking himself into oblivion in a dark corner. Castor had no doubt remained in his quarters because no one would miss a man who never spoke.
Albinus appeared at Xanthus’s side, a cup of wine in hand.
“They look like cattle, don’t they? Fat, lazy, angry cattle,” Xanthus said.
“Moooooo,” Albinus replied before draining his cup.
Xanthus shook his head and chuckled. “Where’s Gallus?”
“Probably tending to Ennius’s leg.”
“I thought so,” Xanthus said. Ennius had been the one to train them from the very beginning—to teach six lost, stolen boys how to become gladiators. Watching him try to limp around the household was as painful for Xanthus as an injury to his own body.
“I still can’t believe he was taken down by some slave,” Albinus said.
“A Thracian slave,” Xanthus said. “You know how they’re trained.”
They all knew. When word had reached them of the fall of Thrace, they could hardly believe it. It seemed that the entire world was crumbling under the heel of Rome, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it. Not even the legendary Maedi of Thrace.
From across the room, Timeus caught Xanthus’s eye and raised a wiry arm, beckoning his champion forward.
“The master calls,” Albinus said.
“Where the hell are you going?”
Albinus clicked his tongue. “Poor Ennius and his broken leg. I really ought to offer my expertise.” Xanthus wasn’t surprised. Like Castor, Albinus preferred the solitude and quiet of the gladiators’ quarters, especially during Timeus’s parties. They grasped each other’s arms.
“Watch your back in there,” Albinus said, and left.
Xanthus walked across the room, nodding at the men and tolerating the suggestive, fleeting touches of the women. Much as some of the male guests might want to sample his talents outside of the arena, Timeus had never forced such trysts on him. If anything, the old man allowed Xanthus liberties that no one else enjoyed. All he demanded in return were constant victories, and he had yet to be disappointed.
“Good evening, Dominus,” Xanthus said. He glanced at the woman at Timeus’s side. “Lucretia.”
“Champion,” she replied. “I believe congratulations are in order.” Her dark eyes were already turning away with disinterest while she fiddled with a curl of her smooth black hair.
“You’re late,” Timeus said. “And the guest of honor must never be late.” But his words were softened by the expression on his face—an expression that immediately made Xanthus wary.
“My apologies, Dominus.”
Timeus swatted the words away with a flapping hand. “Come. We need to talk.” He dismissed Lucretia with a careless snap of his fingers.
She turned away without sparing a second glance at either of them and went to stand by Timeus’s empty chair, where she would wait until he called for her again. She casually rested a hand on the back of the chair, her light brown skin complementing the white and gold cushions. No one spoke to her, but many stared at the dominus’s young and beautiful concubine.
“I have another match for you,” Timeus said.
Xanthus sighed. Another match, another kill. Or perhaps another chance to do what he couldn’t do against the Taurus. “Does this next one have a proper name?”
Timeus’s smile darkened. “Decimus.”
Xanthus pinned Timeus with a penetrating glare. “What?”
“Do I have your interest now?” Timeus said, his voice laced with just a hint of aggravation. He waved to the crowd and pulled Xanthus out to the balcony. All at once, the drunken, jovial persona that he’d put on for his guests evaporated, and he became the hard, calculating man that Xanthus knew so well.
“When?” Xanthus demanded.
“Two months ago, Decimus killed his old master and was facing execution. He’s nearly as good in the arena as you are. His death would have been a terrible waste, don’t you think, Xanthus?”
“When?”
“Tycho Flavius seemed to think so, and so he purchased Decimus and took him to his estate in Capua,” Timeus continued.
Xanthus clenched his jaw to control his breathing. Red spots blossomed in the corners of his vision and swam before his eyes. “When?”
Timeus smiled. “You’ll fight him on the first day of spring at the Festival of Lupa.”
Nearly six months away. Xanthus stood frozen as a statue, but Timeus could see the rage that clouded his champion’s features.
“Decimus has been earning himself a reputation these past few years. Now that a Flavian has purchased him, he’ll garner even more attention. A fight this big requires preparation, and Tycho wants to wait until his father can be present for the match,” Timeus said. “Imagine the advantage of hosting the fight here in Rome. In your arena!”
Xanthus knew he would descend to hell itself to take that dog’s life.
“The entire city is talking about your victory over the Taurus,” Timeus continued. “Think of the rewards of defeating a gladiator from the House of Flavius. The Republic will remember your name for generations to come. Monuments will be erected in your visage. The House of Timeus will be glorified above all others and you with it.”
Xanthus didn’t care if the House of Timeus fell into the sea, but he said nothing. His mind was still whirling with the news.
As the silence filled the space between them, Timeus sighed. “Have patience, Xanthus. Besides, I’ve seen to it that you’ll have other things to keep you occupied until then.”
Xanthus shrugged the comment away. There was nothing he wanted more than to kill Decimus.
“Patience,” Timeus said again. “I promise it will be worth it.”
Xanthus nodded and clenched his hands.
Six months.
He could already feel Decimus’s neck in his grasp.