8. Drusilla #2
—with a figure crouching down at the center of them, dark curls obscuring his face.
“Cato?” His name leaves her lips before she can stop it.
The king leaps to his feet, a metal spade gripped tightly in his hand, dark blue eyes manic. But he relaxes his form the moment he recognizes her—his trust in Dru mere hours after their meeting confuses her. Marcus must’ve told him about me .
In fact, that’s the only logical reason for her being here at all—Marcus. Not Cato.
“Oh, Drusilla.” He relaxes the arm holding the spade and places his hand over his heart. “You startled me.”
“It’s my fault. I didn’t know anything was down here, much less someone occupying it. I’m surprised you’re alone.” She glances around her. “Where are your guards?”
“Elsewhere. This is the one place Marcus allows me to be on my own.”
She wants to ask if that’s wise, but bites her tongue.
He returns to kneeling among the dirt again. “If you’re looking to escape the palace like I am, you’ve come to the right place. This is my favorite spot in all of Anziano.”
Dru glances in the direction of the ocean, which she can only mark a sliver of from this vantage point. I suppose when you’ve lived by the sea your entire life, you grow tired of it. Dru’s certain she never would.
“Why?” she asks honestly.
“With my hands in the dirt, bringing life to the things that feed us, that heal us—that feels so much more significant than being king.” He sighs. “I know it sounds trivial, but I’m most at peace here. Especially since my father passed.”
Her heart clenches. She never knew her father, and her mother never spoke of him. The Faithless became both a father and a mother once her real parents were both gone. But the pain of losing family never dissipates.
“I’m sorry about your father. I wish I could’ve met him.”
Cato laughs once. “No, you don’t.”
Enough rumors have circulated about the dead king and the last years of his life that it takes little convincing.
She pauses before asking, “And your mother?”
His eyes light up. “You’ll meet her as soon as she’s well enough. She’s afflicted with chlorosis.”
A blood disease. “I hope her health returns soon.”
“It always does. Though she’ll never be fully well as long as she lives.” He stands again, rinsing his hands in a bucket of water. “But I know you’re not here to ask about my family.”
“You don’t know that. ”
One side of his lips cocks up. “You’re right, I assumed. Apologies.”
A laugh bubbles out of her. “Forgiven.”
“Marcus did tell me a bit about you—you wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t—and I’m going to make a proposal I think you’ll find more amiable than the subject of my parents.”
Not that she expects him to be aware of her existence beyond the Faithless, but now she wonders what all he knows.
“Go on.”
“You want to spar with me in the arena; see what I’m capable of.”
She smirks. “I stand corrected—you do know me.”
“Only because Marcus does. Or, at least he thinks he does.” Grinning, he waves her forward. “Follow me.”
They make their way past the last of the garden boxes and down the dirt path beyond, where it gradually turns into stone steps, worn down by the footfalls that have trod it. To their left, the cliff drops off suddenly, forcing her to lean into the hillside.
Dozens of houses sit peacefully below. Children play outside in the streets, laughing and screeching. An open window reveals a couple making love inside. The woman throws her head back in ecstasy before they move out of sight.
She has no idea how they’re supposed to get to the arena this way until Cato takes her around a sharp bend and it appears. The sight of it physically stops her; through all her travels in the Imperium, she’s never seen anything like it before.
From this high vantage point, the arena is daunting: the empty dirt center mirrors the bloated half-moon shape of it, the outside lined with six tall rows of carved elevated stones which span the entire arena, meant to seat thousands of people.
The cerulean sea sits behind it—a calm apposition to the warm limestone as it peeks through the open, rounded arches on the top row.
She feels a hand on her arm, steadying her. It takes a moment for her to find Cato’s gaze, but she grasps his arm in turn. Curiously, his blue eyes have small flecks of purple in them, and his nose is slightly crooked, like it’s been broken before but set well.
Once they reach the bottom of the steps, she releases his arm. Wordlessly, he leads them to the outer wall of the arena where a second, narrower path appears, taking them further to the left. With all the dust kicking up around her, she almost wishes she’d waited to bathe.
The end of the path spits them out onto a wide cobblestone courtyard, a few of the insulae outside it visible. Bronze torches as tall as trees stand dormant around them, pointing them toward the entrance to the arena.
Cato waves her over. “This way.”
They pass beneath one of three tall, rounded arches carved into the mountain that span the entire width of the thick wall before entering the arena.
Packed dirt scuffs beneath Dru’s feet as she glances up, taking in the breadth of the arena. It must fit at least five-thousand people. Turning back, she cranes her neck, barely able to make out the palace over the very top of the arena.
On the flatter side facing the ocean, large balconies have been carved into the jagged face of the rock. Royalty and the more affluent Durevolians must take their place there to watch the trials. The rest of the arena is built out from the cliff, encircling her.
The most impressive thing about the arena, however, hangs above her head.
Suspended over the stands is a large semicircle structure carved out of what she believes to be strong oak, supported by a dozen posts set deep in the stone of the second row from the center.
Overhead, long swaths of dark blue linen hover between them, aided by hundreds of wooden masts fixed around the top of the arena, along with a system of ropes.
Almost as if the shades can be pulled back and forth with ease.
Dru can hardly believe her eyes. A true marvel.
Beneath the hot sun, she imagines every seat filled, trying to place herself in the shoes of all the competitors from the prior blood trials.
Closing her eyes, she can almost hear the roaring crowds, the chanting and the cheering, the screams echoing along the walls.
She feels impossibly small among the massive stonework.
The dirt beneath her stretches to either end, farther than her view from above led her to believe. So much blood spilled on this ground . She shivers as cold understanding seeps into her skin at the thought of the violence these stones have witnessed.
“This arena was built on the bones of what was once a gathering place and bath house. A symbol of selfish decadence,” Cato explains, breaking the silence between them. “Until one of my ancestors, King Caritatevole, decided he wanted to win over the people.”
Cato steps into the exact center, where a circular carved stone split in jagged halves rests. His feet cover the symbols and ancient words carved into it.
He regards her. “Marcus told me you already know the history of the Valorem Blood Trials, but humor me.”
She gestures for him to go on.
“King Caritatevole built the Ammaliare Arena to gain his subjects’ affection.
Which, it did. For a few generations, this place hosted plays, musical acts, lively debates.
Until his own great-great-granddaughter, Queen Iniga, who hated her ancestor’s love for the people and wanted to remind them her line was descended from gods, turned it into a battle arena.
From that, she created the first trial.”
“That seems cruel,” Dru notes, as she’s always thought so and wonders how Cato feels about it. “To deprive her people of art and philosophy by exchanging it for blood and death.”
“Many Durevolian scholars agree with you. It was a dark time for Anziano.”
He continues, “The trials were once held yearly, but with so many people dying, the entire country threatened to revolt. She decreed magnanimously that they would take place every ten years. But once Queen Iniga died, her own daughter, who knew the country would kill her if she kept on like her mother, chose to host them once every one hundred years.”
Dru crosses her arms. “And this is one of those years.”
Gazing around the arena, he nods.
“And what do your people think about the Valorem Blood Trials? About their origin?”
He meets her gaze again. “That origin has been kept secret from my people. In their minds, it’s remembered as a test of bravery, a show of loyalty to their country, and a chance at glory in the eyes of the gods, rather than as a reminder of who holds power.
” Cato’s nostrils flair. “Truthfully, I never liked the idea of them. But I can’t buck such a steadfast tradition so soon after my father died. ”
He smiles. “Thank you for allowing me to recount the history to you. There’s something about telling it inside the very place it began.”
Her attention strays to the stands again. “You feel like you were there, at the creation of it all.”
Though she’s normally quick to mistrust, Dru finds it easier to speak her mind around Cato. Not like when she’s around Marcus. Which means she needs to be careful about what she divulges.
“Exactly.” He sighs. “It’s barbaric in many ways, but it’s the pride of the Durevolian people. A reminder of who we were before the Imperium.”
“That’s why you want to go through with it.” She also guesses, “And why you want to participate.”
Cato casts his gaze down. “If my father were still alive, I’d be his champion. Despite his many objections. Now, I’m my own champion.”
She chooses her next words carefully. “I think your people would rather have a king than a champion. Only one can survive the Valorem Blood Trials.”
He still refuses to meet her gaze. “Things will be different this time. ”
She waits but he doesn’t elaborate, and she doesn’t push him. Yet.
The sparring weapons on the other side of the arena catch her eye, some glinting dully in the waning sunlight.
“When do the trials start?”
“In a few days’ time. I know it’s short notice,” he admits as Dru swallows her surprise. That’s an understatement . “But if anyone can make sure I’m ready to compete, I’m told it’s you.”
Dru lets out a single laugh, knowing Marcus has oversold her. “Then we’d better get started.”