5. Drusilla #2
What you feel for him is nothing more than dormant yearning. Let it pass.
She doesn’t return the grin. “With a name like that, I’ll be feared throughout the entire Imperium.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she watches the bard glance between them and raise a brow before spreading some ricotta on his focaccia with his finger and devouring it. Dru goes back to her own meal, trying not to grimace at the idea of the bard’s dirty finger inside the jar.
Dru’s never been one to feel lonely, but even in the company of these two, she can’t help being consumed by it.
Thinking back on what happened at the brothel—on Marcus and Ovi, on King Cato and the Imperium—she realizes no creature left on this earth cares about her.
The bard doesn’t know her from any other Phaedran woman, and Marcus…
she can’t decide if Marcus merely recalls her existence or if he remembers her.
And honestly, she’s not sure which is worse.
Everything is fucked . Not as if everything hasn’t been fucked before, but now Ovi’s not here to help her through it. Or at least make light of it, reassure her it can’t be as bad as she thinks even when it usually is.
Grief is a strange thing. Once you lose someone, that loss never leaves you; it merely lies in wait until something— anything —calls it forth again. It is the deep ache that drowns her now, tearing apart her insides and silencing her cries of pain.
The slight popping of a cork brings her attention to Marcus again as he takes a swig from the wine skin.
He hands it to her, and she does the same, then reluctantly passes it to the bard. He takes the longest pull out of any of them, a few dark drops leaking down his chin and plopping onto the sand.
“Water would’ve been more prudent than wine,” she notes, getting to her feet.
Marcus caps the skin and stands too, handing the bard the mostly empty bag. “I don’t think brothels keep anything but wine stocked.”
She pauses. “I don’t want to know how you know that.”
He smirks, stepping onto the same boulder she took refuge on to mount his horse, waiting for the bard to follow. Looking down at her, some of his dark hair falls in front of his face. He doesn’t tuck it back though, instead meeting her gaze with an intensity she’s not expecting.
“The things you don’t know about me could drown the sea.”
She swallows her response. Though the image is absurd, he’s right: she has no idea what she does and doesn’t know about Marcus Scaevola, praetor to the king of Anziano.
Hours pass on their journey until the tide comes back in and they can no longer travel by shore.
Instead, Marcus leads them up a steep, uneven path into the low, dry brush of a wide ledge carved out of the cliffside.
The strong afternoon breeze whips at her hair, extricating strand after strand from her braid and drying out her eyes.
Her chapped lips scrape together like sandpaper, and her dry throat aches .
She flexes her grip on the reins, the sleepless night taking its toll on her. “How much farther to the palace?”
Marcus turns his head without looking at her, his posture rigid. “We’re nearly there.”
“Oh, so it’s fine when she asks it,” the bard mutters, the same exhaustion she feels weighing down his shoulders.
Marcus wasn’t lying, at least: it’s not long before they climb a particularly difficult section of the cliffs, where Dru nearly slides backward off her horse. At the top, they find themselves on an enormous plateau inhabited by mature olive trees, their shade a welcome reprieve.
The worn path at their feet leads them through the old olive grove. Tall golden grass sways in the breeze like waves on the sea, the horses’ hooves silent among it.
In the distance and precariously close to the edge of the plateau stands what she assumes to be the famed Vecchio palace—a dazzling white, oblong structure, marked by tall columns—whose edges drop off sharply into the sea below.
The path takes them out of the olive grove and slightly to the left, where the cliffs have been carved out by the ocean and left bare centuries ago.
There lays the capital city of Notevole.
Smaller but higher-end insulae surround houses similar to the marble dumos in the Imperium, their red clay roofs and closed-in courtyards crowding against one another. Every single building faces the temple at the center of town, the tallest structure in the entire capital.
Dru cranes her neck to get a better look.
It’s not only one of the most legendary and stunning temples in all the known world, but also the birthplace of the Spettrale religion.
She used to love hearing her mother tell stories about them: made up of thirteen priestesses called the Tredici, they harmonize their hums to a pitch perfect enough for their gods to hear them.
They also have the ability to control the elements with it .
They’re mere tales, of course, but she loved the thought of being able to control things as a child—of being able to speak to the gods, before learning there aren’t any gods to speak to.
The open-air market set up all around the temple exhibits the wonderful array of colors Anziano is known for.
Bright, multi-hued fabrics hang over the merchants’ carts to block out most of the sun, customers crowding the spaces between stalls dressed in their vibrant silk robes and tunics.
Aromas of cooked meat and burned sugar manage to reach them, and her stomach growls again.
The sounds of haggling soon prick at her ears.
“That’s far too steep a price for a dozen albacore tuna. I’ll give you half that.”
“Only three moneta for a hat? What a steal! Come get yours.”
“Those robes are beautiful. And the stitching! My wife will love it.”
Other Durevolians walk the streets, tossing coins near a lively flute player or having a drink together outside a tabernae. Two women laugh as one of them places a wide, fuchsia-dyed scarf over the other’s head.
Jealousy spoils the few bites of food swirling inside her stomach. What must it be like to be free? To live without the heel of the Imperium on their necks? To not be bound by Faithless oaths?
But she shifts her attention away before those thoughts can take root, knowing that dwelling on her lot in life will do more harm than good.
The closer they get to the palace, the grander it becomes.
Constructed from huge blocks of spackled limestone, it towers high above them, the soft-sloping point in the middle piercing the cloudless sky.
Smooth columns support the deep stone overhang spanning the entire anterior, the thick marble cut with veins of sparkling pale-white agate and dark red jasper.
The rounded archways linking each column depict carved figures of what she can only assume to be the various gods of the Durevolian people.
Soaring, ancient mulberry trees surround each side of the palace with impenetrable greenery, their gnarly roots thick from the fertile ground. Detailed marble statues of past emperors, distinguished on their pedestals, flank either side of the dozen or so limestone steps leading up to the entrance.
“I could get used to this,” the bard announces, peering upward as they ascend on horseback.
“I wouldn’t,” Marcus warns him. “Once the treasury repays you, you’ll likely be out on the street again.”
The bard groans, pushing back his greasy blond hair from his face. “Please, I’m not meant for the streets. At least allow me to play for the king, prove my worth.”
“If you’re not meant for the streets, and you’re not meant for prison, then what are you meant for?” Dru asks.
He sighs, gazing affectionately at the palace. “This.”
“I’ll consider it,” Marcus says, though, by his dismissive tone, she doubts he means it.
Once they reach the top, a handful of servants in beige silk tunics hurry out to greet them, offering their hands to help them dismount.
Stunned, Dru takes the lead from Marcus, who couldn’t be more at ease.
Not that the servants appear threatening, but Dru’s not used to such treatment.
The line between the poor and the enslaved grows thinner every day in the Imperium, with the Phaedrans owning tortured slaves.
Here, she finds finely clothed servants instead.
Looks as though Marcus has been living in luxury all this time.
It stings more than she cares to admit, although now his silk cloak makes sense.
All this time spent in Anziano, he’s grown used to their way of life.
She wasn’t ready to admit it, but this man can’t be the same Marcus she knew before. Good or bad, it’s the truth.
This Marcus… He’s so different from the man she once knew. He fits in place here like a key turning in its lock.
Like any good spy would.
Marcus regards the servant with his horse in hand. “To the stables, please. ”
The boy bows his head and leaves with both their beasts, who deserve plenty of hay for their service.
With the horse no longer beneath her, Dru takes a beat to draw a long breath, air filling her chest and settling her nerves.
She desperately needs water, and her body aches from riding, but at least they’re no longer being beaten down by the sun.
The shade provided by the palace dries the sweat and dirt on her face and neck; she can’t help feeling disgusting.
Over a week of hard travel, and she hasn’t had a moment to wash herself.
Another servant appears, holding a round plate of rolled cloths. The bard immediately snatches his, placing it directly on his face and sucking in a breath.
“Here.” Marcus hands her one of the cotton cloths soaked in infused water. The hint of lavender from it soothes her.
Still, she pauses before grabbing it. “Thank you.”
He nods, wiping his face and neck with his own. Realizing she’s staring at him as he arches his neck, she forces herself to look away.
After gently dabbing the stinging cut on her cheek left by the Namican arrow, she rubs a bit too hard on her face, neck, legs, everywhere she can reach without taking off her cloak and sandals. Eventually, the grime from the past week begins to come off.
Turning slightly, she winces at the pain in her right thigh, the ache unmistakable. Probably from when that asinus pulled me off my horse. She lifts up the hem of her tunic to get a good look at it.
A bruise the color of ripe plums—redder on the inside and slowly blackening at the edges—takes up nearly half of her upper thigh. No doubt, a similar bruise burdens her hip and shoulder. And given it’s already formed on her skin, it must go deeper. Maybe to the bone.
Some part of her wishes she’d killed the bastard, but Marcus was right to stay her hand.
A soft intake of breath pulls her attention to him. Marcus watches her movements with a strained expression, and for a moment she swears she finds warring emotions of anger and… lust .
Her lips part at the thought. It’s impossible to mistake; he’s not the first man to give her either look before, and he won’t be the last. Her soft features have proven to be one of her greatest assets—another weapon forged by the Faithless.
But this is different: although the second look normally sickens her, coming from Marcus, it doesn’t. If anything, it has the opposite effect. Warmth coils inside her, tightening in her core, demanding to be set free. Deodamnatus . She hates how firm of a hold he has on her after all this time.
Even as her shredded heart reminds her of Ovi, the memory of her death like a shard of ice carving down her back. Ovi never truly understood her obsession with Marcus, and maybe she was right.
It doesn’t mean anything, the logical voice inside reminds her. He knows what you wanted from him back then. It would be all too easy to weaponize it, to get you to lower your guard.
Tamping down the heat rising up her neck, she lets her tunic fall back over her leg. He looks away, clenching his fist around the soaked linen, unaware she was watching him. She, too, turns her attention elsewhere—to the palace and the king behind its walls who sent his praetor after her.