The Triumphant, page 12
“No,” Quint agreed. “It won’t. I give it until dusk. Then? Rome is going to burn.”
“We need to go. Now.” I glanced over my shoulder and was a little surprised to see that Acheron was still with us.
“I’d like to join you, Victrix,” he said. Then he nodded at Cai. “If you and Varro here don’t mind.”
“You don’t have to—”
He put up a hand to stop me. “I’m in your debt.”
“No. You’re not.” I shook my head. “You stood by Cai in the arena. You don’t owe us anything beyond that. And staying with us could . . .”
“Could present certain, uh, difficulties,” Cai finished for me. “Dangers.”
Acheron grinned. “All the more reason then,” he said. “Not like I have anywhere pressing to be, after all. And you’ll maybe need another sword, yeah, to help with those difficulties? Speaking of which . . .”
He jogged over to a weapons shed and, after a few moments, jogged back with a pair of serviceable gladii—one of which he handed to Cai. Cai nodded thanks and shoved it through the plain leather belt he wore.
I hadn’t thought to equip myself that day, but, as usual, Elka was thinking for us both. She pulled not one but two long daggers from sheaths concealed behind her back, under her cloak, and handed one to me. I gave her a small smile of thanks. Then, together, we stepped out into the deserted street. In the distance, I heard men shouting and the faint wail of women’s voices, but it all sounded miles away. Cai and Acheron took point, walking ahead of me and Elka, with Quint bringing up the rear.
“Walk quickly,” Cai said. “But don’t run. Heads up, eyes everywhere, blades at the ready.”
After two uneventful blocks, he waved for us to hang back while he and Acheron went to scout a few streets ahead of us. In the brief lull, Elka turned to me, her gaze flickering with wary curiosity.
“Back in the ludus,” she said. “With that gladiator . . .”
When she trailed off, I waited. Then: “What about it?”
She shrugged. “I just don’t think I’ve ever seen you quite so . . .”
“Vindictive?” I asked.
“Ja. I guess that’s the word.” She looked at me sideways, as if trying to fit a new piece of glass into a mosaic. One that didn’t really seem to fit. “Do your folk really hate his folk that much?”
“Truthfully?” I shook my head. “Meriel was Coritani.”
“She saved your life,” Elka said. “All our lives, probably.”
“She did. And that’s a debt I can never repay,” I said, feeling a deep ache in the center of my chest, like it had only just happened. “For her sake if nothing else, I could have forgiven Yoreth his tribe. I could even have forgiven him the lie about belonging to my father’s war band—dishonorable as it was.”
Elka’s frown deepened. “What then?”
I checked around the corner of the building where we stood to see if Cai had reappeared from scouting. The street was empty still. “Do you remember the first gladiator that turned against Cai in the arena yesterday?” I asked.
“Ahh . . .” The uncertainty and confusion cleared from Elka’s blue eyes before I even had to clarify further. “One and the same?”
I nodded. “I recognized the tattoo on his arm.”
At that, she laughed. “Poor idiot thing!” she said. “All that ‘kindred tribal’ nonsense to win your sympathies and he never even had a chance!”
She wasn’t wrong. Coritani, Catuvellauni, Gaul, or Greek. I honestly couldn’t have cared less where and who Yoreth had come from. But he’d put Caius Varro’s life at risk. And for that?
Yoreth could rot.
In that moment, Cai and Acheron returned from scouting ahead and Quint appeared from behind. They all had the same thing to report. Nothing. We could have walked through the streets of Rome whistling and no one would have called the tune. Because no one was there to hear it. Even the beggars and the prostitutes had gone to ground. There wasn’t so much as a cutpurse to be seen. It was eerie. Ominous.
We hurried unchallenged and unchecked in a tight group through the winding streets. We kept to the shadows and the alleys between buildings as much as possible. Because as much as it seemed like it, we weren’t the only living souls left in an empty city. And sooner or later . . .
Sooner, it was.
I hissed and drew back into the mouth of the alley, waving frantically for Cai and the others to stay behind me. At a glance, I’d counted nine of them—black tunics and thick-muscled builds honed on the arena sands, all of them bristling with weapons. It was the same bunch of gladiators that had spirited Brutus and his fellow conspirators away from the Theatrum Pompeii in the moments after the assassination.
“Brutus and Aquila’s thugs,” I whispered. “They’re heavily armed and outnumber us. We have to find another way.”
“There is no other way.” Cai eased his way around the corner just far enough to see our impediment. “That’s the road that leads to the Porta Flaminia just beyond the temple of Vulcan—the building with the red pillars—and it’s the only one. If we try to make it to another gate out of the city, we’ll be at least another hour.”
“What do we do now?” Elka asked.
Cai heaved a frustrated breath “We’re going to have to—”
“Go,” Acheron said, stepping forward. “I’ll lead them in the other direction and then double back.”
I shook my head. “No. Acheron, you don’t—”
“You gave me my freedom,” he said, holding up a hand to forestall my objections. “You didn’t have to turn that key. You could have left me there with the others, but you didn’t. And that’s not something I’m likely to forget. My dear old mother used to say that one should always take the chance in life to pay back a done deed in kind, Victrix. Let me do this.”
“There’s too many of them to fight on your own.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, bending down to check that the laces on his sandals were tightly tied. “I’ve no burning death wish—especially not now I’m free. Trust me. I know these streets well. I’ll be careful, but I’ll give them a reason to chase me.”
Cai and I exchanged a glance, and then he turned and held out his arm. Acheron clasped his wrist. “Meet us just outside the Flaminian Gate,” he said. “We’ll wait. But we won’t wait long.”
“You won’t have to. Stay here until I draw them off, and then go.”
“How in Hades is he going to draw them into a chase?” Quint wondered.
He didn’t have to wonder long. Moments after he’d bolted from the alley, we heard Acheron screaming, “Murderers! Assassins! Caesar’s blood drips from your blades! Citizens—come quick! I’ve found them!”
And then we heard distant swearing and a barked shout of response: “Catch that idiot and shut him up! He’ll bring the whole city down on us!”
Then the sound of running feet—hobnailed sandals and leather soles slapping on cobbles—fading into the distance, as Acheron led them on a merry chase away from the Porta Flaminia. After a lengthy silence, I peered cautiously around the corner. The Sons of Dis were gone. The gates stood open in the distance. The road beyond would take us away from Rome. And the Morrigan alone knew if I would ever see the inside of these city walls again.
Outside the gates of the Porta Flaminia, there was a line of picketed, saddled horses left unattended at a legion posting station. Normally reserved for army couriers on official business, the fact that they’d been left there for the taking was a clear indicator of the chaos to come. About half the legions were loyal to Caesar, half—maybe more, maybe less—to the Optimate faction he’d been warring against. If the army command chain didn’t receive a clear directive from the generals or the senate—and soon—the Republic really did stand in danger of tearing itself apart. But the untended horses were, at the least, a blessing for us. We mounted up and were on the verge of heading north toward the Via Clodia when Acheron came pelting through the gates. Alone. Unfollowed, as far as I could tell.
He was flushed and gasping for breath but actually seemed to be enjoying himself. I wondered how long he’d really been locked up in the Ludus Flaminius. It seemed that, to him, breathing free air—even while being chased by murderous thugs—was a rare and glorious gift from the gods.
It made me glad of my decision to free him from his ludus cell.
“Told you . . . I could lose them . . .” he huffed. “Led them back . . . toward the center of town. And straight into the beginnings of an angry mob . . . They’ll be lucky to get free of that lot with arms and legs still attached.”
Quint frowned. “A mob?”
Acheron nodded, straightening up. “It’s starting. The hornets in the nest are beginning to buzz. Saw a few vigiles poking about too.”
“But you’re sure you lost them all,” I said. “The gladiators.”
“Yeah.” He wiped his forearm across his brow and took the reins of the horse Cai had kept waiting for him. “They’re none too bright. Had ’em running in circles . . .” As he grabbed the saddle pommel to hoist himself up, something shiny fell from his tunic, chiming metallically on the ground.
I stared at the thing in horror as Acheron bent to retrieve it.
“One of them dropped this,” he said, and held up a slender feather, wrought in pure silver, with an edge sharp as a dagger blade. It gleamed in the dull gray afternoon light and struck instant terror in my heart.
“Throw it away,” I said, recoiling as if the thing was cursed. It probably was. “Get rid of it, now.”
Acheron looked back and forth between me and Cai in confusion. I felt the scar on my arm—the one Pontius Aquila had carved with just such a feather—blaze with phantom pain.
“It’s a symbol of the Sons of Dis,” Cai said, his lip curling in an angry sneer. “Used in their twisted rites.”
“Those were—wait. They actually exist?” Acheron gaped at him. “The Sons of Dis? I thought they were a myth—”
“Get rid of it,” I snapped. The image of the defiled practice dummies from the theatrum was still horribly fresh in my mind. A myth? No. The Sons of Dis were terrifyingly real. Prowling the streets of Rome . . . hunting.
“Uh. Could I maybe just . . . tuck it away?” Acheron slid the feather into a fold of his tunic. “I mean, it’s pure silver, and I left my last purse of winnings back in my cell . . .”
“Fine.” I took a deep breath and told myself to relax. It wasn’t as if the feather would magically lead them to us here outside the city walls. It didn’t need to. They already knew, ultimately, where to find us. “Just . . . keep the damned thing out of my sight.”
“Of course, Victrix,” he said, nodding in my direction. “And my apologies. I would never mean to upset you.”
“It’s all right,” I said, and tried to muster a smile. “And you can call me Fallon, Acheron.”
“Of course.”
“Now let’s get out of here.”
I put my heels to my horse, and we galloped away from the city as the sun began his slow descent into the west. The moon would rise that night on a world without Caesar.
* * *
—
The Ludus Achillea sentries had seen the dust of our rapid approach miles out from their posts up on the wall and were waiting for us, no doubt wondering what in the world the matter was.
“Open the gate!” I shouted as soon as I thought they would hear me over the pounding of our horses’ hooves on the dirt road.
I saw one of them disappear, and then the massive wood-and-iron doors swung ponderously open just before we reached them. We thundered through, into the courtyard, and I pulled my mount up to a rearing stop, leaping from his back and calling to Cai and the others over my shoulder.
“Close it and set the bar,” I said. “Tell the watch to keep a keen eye out. I’ll go find Sorcha . . .”
I burst through the doors of Sorcha’s house, calling for her, but the place seemed empty. I rushed from room to room, wondering where her servants were, and then I heard laughter coming from the garden courtyard. Before I got there, Sorcha swept through the archway, wine goblets in her hands, smiling over her shoulder at someone outside. When she turned and saw me, her mouth opened in surprise.
“Fallon!” she exclaimed. “What—”
“He’s dead!” I blurted. “Sorcha . . . Caesar’s dead!”
She froze. The goblets shattered on the mosaic beneath her feet.
We stood there, staring at each other, and I couldn’t even think of how to tell her what had happened. It was like Caesar’s torn and bloodied body lay on the floor between us and I couldn’t step around it.
But then I heard a sound—a convulsive intake of breath—and we both turned to see Cleopatra standing there. Her kohl-rimmed eyes were huge in her face, but the rest of her looked tiny. Childlike. I’d never thought of her as small before. The lapis and carnelian stones set in the necklace around her throat winked in the lamplight as she struggled for a breath.
“Your Highness—”
“You’ll excuse me, Sorcha,” she said abruptly, turning to Sennefer, her chief steward, who was suddenly at her side as if he’d sensed he was needed. “I . . . excuse me.”
In a flurry of striped linen and jangling bracelets, Sennefer swooped down on his mistress, wrapped her in the protective cocoon of his flowing robes, and whisked her through the archway to the gardens. Wordlessly, they swept past Cai and Elka, who’d followed in my wake while Quint and Acheron had stayed in the yard.
“I’m sorry,” I said to Sorcha. “I didn’t see the queen there when I . . .”
She shook her head. “No,” she said. “It’s not your fault. Fallon—what in the name of the Morrigan has happened? Was there an accident?”
I could see in her eyes that she knew there hadn’t been. But I also knew that, whatever she imagined had happened to Caesar, it wasn’t anywhere near as bad as the truth of it. I didn’t even know where to begin, so Cai stepped forward and told her the bald facts of the assassination as he knew them. As he did so, Charon came in from the garden to join us. His dark eyes focused on Cai, unblinking, as he waited for him to finish, and then he asked, “What state was the capital in when you left?”
“Quiet,” Cai said. “Streets empty, windows and doors shuttered and locked. They wouldn’t even show themselves to take away the body. The vigiles have gone to ground, and the legions are hunkered in their barracks, likely trying to decide whose side they’re on. I think everyone else is too damned afraid to leave their houses. But it won’t stay that way for long.”
Suddenly Kronos came striding in, covered in sweat and road dust. “It didn’t,” he said. “That was an uneasy peace short-lived.” He nodded at me, deep relief in his eyes. “I’m damned glad you’re safe.”
“You too,” I said.
“They hadn’t shut the gates?” Cai asked.
Kronos shook his head. “No one around to give the order. I imagine they have now, or will soon. But for who knows how long.”
So Aquila and his people could still be a threat, I thought.
“An impromptu memorial was gathering momentum as I left the city,” Kronos continued. “A handful of slaves from Caesar’s own house finally came and took the body away. But before I left, there was a mob brewing in the Forum, and certain senators”—he spat the word—“decided, in their collective wisdom, to send that treacherous, weak-kneed fool Brutus out to gentle them.”
“But he was one of the assassins!” I exclaimed.
“That he was.” Kronos spat in disgust. “But he pleaded with the crowd, telling them what they did was all for the love of Rome. To save the poor downtrodden plebs from the ravages of a self-proclaimed emperor and tyrant.”
“Did they listen?” Sorcha asked.
“Oh, aye,” Kronos grunted, a narrow grin twisting his mouth. “Right up until the moment Marc Antony entreated for a chance to speak too.”
Charon grunted in grim amusement, as if he suspected what had happened next, and said, “And?”
“He’s a sorcerer, that one.” Kronos shook his head. “Under the guise of praising Caesar’s murderers, he managed to whip the crowd into a frenzy against them.”
That didn’t actually surprise me. Back home, there were bards who could speak a tale that, under the pretense of “honoring” a chief or a freeman, would drip poison from a honeyed tongue in order to exact another man’s revenge. I thought about how sly Antony had been at the party and did not doubt he could give any one of those bards a stiff challenge.
“And the conspirators?” Cai asked.
“Most of ’em—the ones he mentioned by name, at least—are running for their lives or hiding behind high walls. If they’ve any sense. The crowd had already taken to building bonfires and throwing rocks.”
“And Aquila?” I asked.
“No sign of him that I could see.” Kronos shrugged.
“He’s like the runt of the pack that hangs back while the other jackals bring down the lion,” Cai said, “then sneaks in to steal the choicest piece of meat and runs away unnoticed.”
“He’s gone to gather other jackals,” I said directly to Sorcha. Then I took a breath and told them all about the mutilated practice dummies we’d seen in the Theatrum Pompeii. When I was finished, I turned back to my sister. Her lips were pressed together in a thin, bloodless line. “They were Aquila’s men, with Aquila’s grievances. He’ll take his revenge out on the ludus. You know it. He’ll lay siege to this place if he has to. And in the chaos and the void left in Caesar’s wake, there will be no one to come to our aid. “
She nodded. “We don’t have much time. Gather the girls.”
I hesitated. Unwilling, suddenly, to take that step.
Elka looked back and forth between the two of us. “What are we going to do?” she asked, frowning. “You’re not actually thinking of leaving the ludus again, are you?” She turned to me. “Are we?”
