4. Marcus #2
The bard scurries over, careful not to spook the horse while he climbs on and places his arms loosely around Marcus’s waist. The horse huffs impatiently before rising to his full height.
“You’re never going to call me Jove, are you?”
Marcus kicks his heels into his horse to catch up to Dru. “I wouldn’t count on it.”
Trotting along the worn path, the light of the early morning stains the sky in lessening blues and pinks and reds, the waxing moon hanging steadily among the diminishing stars. The way has narrowed here, the thick, yellow-flowered shrubbery encroaching onto the packed dirt.
A weary quietness accompanies them, interrupted only by the sound of their horses’ hooves and the soft burbling of the wide river beside them. It hasn’t rained for months, but the strong, deep water outpaces them easily.
Dru’s attention isn’t on the river though, or the path—it’s far up on the road ahead, sightless.
Though sleeplessness surely plays a part, he can’t blame her for being distracted by her own thoughts.
Surely, she’s questioned by now why the king of Anziano wants to see her; why Marcus, of all people, was sent to retrieve her.
Although her first thought was probably whether or not she could trust him when he clearly convinced all the legions of the Faithless of his betrayal.
For all she knows, he’s leading her into a trap right now. And there’s nothing he could say to convince her otherwise. I’ll just have to prove it to her.
Her attention doesn’t stray from the horizon for some time, until, as if conjuring it into existence, the bridge to Anziano appears in the distance.
“Thank the gods,” the bard mutters at his back. “I thought we were doomed to walk along this river until we died of old age.”
“Hush, bard,” Dru hisses. He snaps his mouth closed so quickly that his teeth click together.
Were it not for sheer exhaustion, they would’ve crossed the bridge last night; at dawn, the market built upon its thick, ancient stones opens for business, making it nearly impossible to pass through.
They could probably manage if they didn’t have the horses, but it would take them far too long to get to the palace without them.
The Mercato Bridge remains the safest way across the Pelagus River into Anziano, making it the only route for the lucrative Imperium silk trade.
Silk worms can only be found in Anziano—it’s one of the few reasons the Imperium allows them to exist as their own country.
The affluent Phaedrans would rather perish than go a whole season without their imported silk robes.
Closer now, the rounded limestone arches of the buildings become clearer.
The four at the center remain empty, allowing more light into the open-air market, while the others border the closed shutters of residences.
Shops built beside and on top of one another crowd the rest of the viaduct.
Most merchants on the bridge live above their shops, while the rest barely get by in the unnamed town on the other side.
Realizing its potential, the Imperium once sought to take the bridge from Anziano, amassing an army on the Phaedran side.
When they recognized doing so would involve slaughtering every merchant there—those of whom procured some of their most sought-after wares—any semblance of peace would be impossible. So, they allowed Anziano to keep it .
But the threat the Imperium holds over them remains ever-constant.
Sooner than Marcus would’ve liked, the morning sun crests over the Scabroso Mountains deep inside the borders of Anziano. Dru notices it too—she leans into her horse and hastens. Marcus follows her lead, forcing the bard to tighten his grip uncomfortably around his waist and against his thighs.
Although completely impractical, he wishes it was Dru at his back instead.
Their horses’ hooves beat the ground hard, marking the remaining distance between them and the bridge.
From here, a handful of merchants push open the colorful shutters above their shops to let in the sunlight, readying to start their day.
A morsel of panic pinches his stomach. We’re not going to make it.
Marcus squints against the morning sun as they pass by weary travelers on their way to the bridge.
They appear sleepy but unburdened, clearly unaware of the battle that raged between the Imperium and the Namicans last night.
A part of him wonders who won, but the truth is that no one stands a chance against the Imperium.
Even if they managed to find a way to win that battle, the swift hammer of the Imperium would squish their rebellion until it was dust.
Caught up to Dru now, their four pairs of hooves crash onto the cobblestone bridge.
They fly by the merchants setting up shop, past the cloth awnings and sleep-filled shouts of discontent, and the heavy smells of spice and fish, of dried meats and flowers.
Fine jewelry stands shimmer and sparkle in the coming sun, the heady scents of rose, lavender, pomegranate, and rosemary in various perfumes on the other side of the market lingering.
Multiple silk stalls pull out their folded wares and drape them across taught lines of rope, the material unmoving in the calm morning.
Seeing a clear path to the other side of the bridge, the tightness in his chest uncurls. We made it .
As soon as he thinks this, half a dozen inebriated men spill out onto the road and stumble into their path, bringing their horses to a halt. Marcus eyes the open door. The brothel .
Dru pulls on her horse’s reins and tries to go around them. But they’re immovable and oblivious. One of them staggers backward into her—her horse neighs in indignation and sidesteps, forcing him backward onto his ass.
Another drunk with a red, puffy face and a large gut spins on her, slurring, “Watch it, woman.”
Anger rages in his blood, but he sees it ignite in Dru’s eyes before he can react.
“Perhaps you should be the one watching it, sir. It’s a shameful death, being trampled by a horse.”
His lip curls. “And you need to learn when to shut up, whore.”
Before Marcus can make a move, the drunkard grabs Dru’s leg and yanks her off the horse.
She hits the ground hard on her side, breath audibly whooshing out of her chest from the impact.
The man maintains his iron grip and drags her across the cobblestone toward the brothel.
She kicks at him and grunts breathlessly, but to no avail.
Fury pulses along Marcus’s limbs and fills his chest. I’ll tear him apart.
He dismounts, hurrying after her—when he remembers the bard.
He scowls over his shoulder. “Grab the other horse and make sure they don’t take off. Otherwise, we’ll be riding you to Anziano.”
The bard’s eyes widen, and he nods, clicking the inside of his cheek to trot up next to Dru’s horse. I suppose he’s not completely useless. Marcus has no idea if he can trust the bard not to run off with their horses, but he doesn’t have much of a choice.
A moment later, Marcus steps inside the murky brothel, ready to kill the man who took Dru.
Instead, he finds the lout laid out on a table, Dru jabbing her dagger into his throat. Piss runs down the man’s leg onto the sordid floor, his entire body trembling.
“I’m no one’s whore,” she seethes, still catching her breath from being yanked off the horse.
He watches her, impressed. He should’ve known she’d have the situation well in hand, but he’s still unsure what this Dru is capable of.
When she presses the knife in further, drawing a bead of blood, Marcus clears his throat. “Best not to kill anyone so close to Durevolian soil. Not when you’re the king’s invited guest.”
She scowls at him over her shoulder, but she must also see the logic in it. Sliding the dull side of her dagger up his jaw, she knicks his earlobe.
He shrieks and throws his hands over his bleeding ear. She releases him, kicking his damp leg before sheathing her dagger. Seeing his opportunity to escape, he rolls off the table onto the floor and crawls out the door.
Dru catches Marcus’s eye—he nods, tamping down how impressed he is. This is definitely not the same woman I left . But there’s a spark of her there, igniting something long forgotten inside him.
“What in the gods’ names—oh, Praetor Marcus.” The owner of this irreputable establishment hurries out of the back room now that the threat has taken itself out. Marcus is unsurprised to find he’d been hiding, like the coward he knows him to be.
“Ignavus.” Marcus crosses his arms over his chest as Dru comes to stand next to him. “Have you not been advised multiple times to close your place of business prior to the sun’s rising?”
The older man trembles, feigning frailty. “I tried to, sir, but they refused to leave. I’m only one man after all.”
“You didn’t tell me you were praetor to the king,” Dru accuses out of the side of her mouth.
He matches her tone. “It didn’t come up organically.” To the owner, he continues, “I’ve seen your books and know you can afford to hire a protettore. I trust this won’t happen again?”
Fear fills the man’s eyes at the threat. Marcus almost feels sorry for it. Almost .
“No, Praetor Marcus, it won’t.”
Ignavus scurries behind the bar. “You and your companion look like you could use some provisions for your journey.”
Marcus nods and considers thanking him, but knows the man won’t keep his word about hiring protection.
Instead, he takes stock of the brothel. More soot and grime streak the walls and windows than the last time he paid a visit.
Ignavus either can’t afford the upkeep or, more likely, pockets the money meant for it.
The stench, too, is staggering: a nauseating concoction of sweat, piss, vomit, and sex.
The sooner we leave this place, the better.
Dru bumps his arm with her shoulder. “When were you going to tell me about your high standing in Anziano?”
She cares more about this than he thought she would.
“I knew you’d figure it out once we got there.”