12. Drusilla
CHAPTER TWELVE
DRUSILLA
D ru’s already awake when Sabina knocks on her door, loud enough to resurrect the dead.
She could barely sleep after what happened last night.
She’s not sure what to make of what she heard or what she saw—what she didn’t see.
It could easily be explained away by her grief, but the feeling the cave imprinted on her—of dread and danger, of promise and power—stuck with her into the early hours of the morning.
She rubs at her eyes, aching from the lack of sleep.
“I’m coming,” she calls out, and Sabina knocks again, louder somehow. Dru mutters to herself, “That girl has cotton in her ears.”
She flings the door open to find Sabina’s hand raised for a third knock. Dru raises her brow and Sabina does the same. Things feel more familiar between them now that they carry a shared secret. Dru doesn’t like owing anyone, but Sabina doesn’t seem like the type to call in the favor.
Sabina flits inside. “I heard that.”
Dru ignores her. “Is there something Cato needs from me so early in the morning?”
“Yes.” She lays a purple silk dress carefully on her bed. “The envoys from the Imperium have arrived. They’re here to see Sovrano and the rest of the council.”
“Very good, I’ll dress.”
Sabina folds her hands in front of her expectantly.
Dru holds in a sigh. “I’m only going to throw on a tunic for now; I don’t need much help with that.”
“Let me help with the belt, then,” Sabina offers.
Dru pulls off her slip, puts on her undergarments, and tosses a tunic—this one blue, like Cato’s yesterday—over her head.
Grabbing her belt, she hands it to Sabina.
The girl places it around her waist a bit snug at first, before finding the right length and ensuring it sits right on her hips.
Dru closes her eyes and bites her tongue. Give me strength .
Once Sabina stops fussing, Dru steps away to grab her dagger from her bedside and sheathes it. “I don’t have to look nice for anyone, especially the Imperium.”
Sabina clears her throat. “Cato says the same thing when the Imperium visits. But it’s nice to be presentable, no matter who the company is.”
Dru doesn’t respond as she laces up her sandals, allowing Sabina to tie them off. Although she draws the line at pinning up her hair.
Lastly, she searches the trunk for something to cover her Faithless tattoo.
Given the Faithless’ proclivity for undermining everything the Imperium does, their envoys won’t react kindly to being in the company of one of them.
She manages to find a thin leather armband wide enough to fully cover the dictum, which she tightens around her upper arm.
Before leaving, she nearly asks Sabina about the cave on the beach. But, in her sorrow over Ovi, she could’ve easily imagined it. And the last thing she needs is to appear incompetent. Or worse, like she’s losing her mind.
Striding out into the courtyard, a cornucopia of food has been spread out on their breakfast table.
Cured meats, cheeses, colorful fruits, squeezed juices, bread.
Even wine, which she notices a cup of already grasped in the bard’s hand.
Watching him jabber on, she bites the inside of her cheek to score her face.
There’ll be no getting rid of him now that Cato decided to pay special attention to him.
The council from the first day crowds one end of the table, along with gamemaster Ettore. Marcus stands alone on the other end, watching them intently.
Wariness sets Dru on edge the moment she approaches them. They don’t pay her any mind, but something about the quiet way they’re speaking to one another makes her feel out of place.
As much as she wants to, she doesn’t go to Marcus—not yet. Instead, she grabs a plate and places a few things she doesn’t plan to eat much of on it before entering the crowd.
Unsurprisingly, the Imperium appears to be the only topic.
“What do you think they’re like?”
“Like any other Phaedran who gets a taste of power. We shouldn’t have invited them here.”
“It was the king’s dying wish.”
“Exactly my point: the king was desperate and sick when he made this boon for peace. He wasn’t in his right mind.”
“Don’t talk about our late king like that.”
“Why won’t Cato simply name a proxy?”
“He deserves a chance at glory as much as anyone.”
“But is it worth his kingdom, or our freedom?”
“Have a little faith.”
And on it goes. Dru understands why they’re afraid: their young king’s life hangs in the balance.
It appears they’ve tried to talk him out of it before, so they know there’s nothing they can do now to persuade him not to participate.
Unlike the Phaedrans, glory and honor mean everything to the Durevolian people. Especially the king.
Leaving the crowd, she finally joins Marcus.
She speaks softly so no one else will overhear. “They’re afraid.”
He flexes his crossed arms. “They should be. In less than a week, they may very well lose their king, their country, and their freedom. ”
She smirks. “I thought I’m supposed to be the negative one.”
Before he can respond, the palace front doors open wide to reveal Cato flanked by two of his guards, and a handful of Phaedrans strutting in behind him. The council quiets as they enter the courtyard.
The man directly behind Cato wears blood-red robes embroidered with gold thread.
The dark hair cut close to his scalp fails to hide a receding hairline, and accentuates his bulbous nose.
His beady eyes squint against the Anziano sun, lips pursed.
He must be the ambassador—the legatus—sent from the Imperium.
Two guards march on either side of him in full military garb.
To his left stands the Phaedran gamemaster, the venatus magister, who could not look more plain or more bored.
His slicked-back blond hair brushes his shoulders, and his eyes are red-rimmed, his face sallow.
He looks young, close to Marcus’s age. The golden octagon—the shape of the arenas where official Phaedran fights take place—pinned to his chest marks his station.
This man controls all the sport betting that goes on in the Imperium.
It would be impressive if it didn’t sicken her to her core. Most of the Imperium fights involve slaves.
On the gamemaster’s other side she finds their priest, the sacerdos.
Swathed in the finely-stitched traditional gold robes of his religion, his hood drapes over the back half of his sweaty bald head.
He grasps a wooden staff in his right hand, though it doesn’t touch the floor.
He looks to be closer in age to the legatus than the venatus magister.
Simply by the way he holds himself, this man likely hails from Phaedra, the Imperium’s capital.
He exudes the sort of confidence only someone who calls himself a mouthpiece for the gods could, in the tilt of his chin and the puffing out of his chest. Dru clenches her hands together so as to not show her hatred.
“We’ve invited demons into our midst,” Dru mutters.
“Demons cower in the presence of these men.”
She glances at Marcus. “You’ve met them before.”
He nods in their direction. “I met the venatus magister only once or twice during my time in the Imperium. But I’m very familiar with the middle one, Legatus Ambitus.
He visits once every few months to check in, though it was less often before the king died.
He’s biding his time, waiting for his opportunity to find a weakness in Cato he can exploit. ”
“And is there?” she asks. “A visible weakness Cato might let slip?”
He meets her gaze. “We all have weaknesses. And with the Imperium spending the next week here, it’s only a matter of time before they find one.”
“Please welcome our honored guests.” Cato gestures to the men. “Legatus Ambitus, Venatus Magister Blaise, and Sacerdos Matteo. They will assist in governing the Valorem Blood Trials.”
The council members either grumble in disappointment or remain silent.
Legatus Ambitus steps forward. “I understand some of you are less than pleased to welcome us here for such a sacred tradition. But we’ve come here in the name of peace and unity between our countries, and I truly believe unifying ourselves in your Valorem Blood Trials will foster that peace.”
The entire council remains silent in opposition.
“Let us break bread now,” Ambitus continues, his voice hoarse, “so we might strive to be more amiable toward one another.”
“I’d rather break his nose,” Marcus grumbles beside her.
“Careful now,” Dru says as the council congregates warily around the newcomers. “He might hear you and think you don’t like him.”
Marcus shakes his head, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “I suppose we should say hello.”
As much as she’d rather stay here with Marcus, Dru steels herself. Better to look your enemy in the eye than to miss them coming at your back.
Venatus Magister Blaise stands on his own when Dru approaches him. Up close, he comes off as a cruel man who befits his title, his calculating gaze moving over the crowd as if he’s deciding who will die first.
“Venatus Magister Blaise.” She offers him her arm to shake. “It’s good to meet you. I’m Drusilla Valerius.”
His sharp gaze immediately lands on her. Instead of grasping her forearm with his, he takes her hand and kisses it, his palms moist from sweat. Her stomach turns at the feeling of his dry lips on her skin, her other hand forming into a fist to stop her from slapping him across the face.
“Delighted to meet you.” He eyes her up and down, and she nearly reconsiders her prior restraint. “You’re not from Anziano.”
“No, venatus magister. I’m visiting from the Imperium.”
“And who here is lucky enough to receive a visit from someone as enchanting as you?”
She clenches her jaw. He’s not worth starting a brawl over , she reminds herself.
“Sovrano, King Cato, of course.”
The corner of his eye twitches. “Yet I noticed you speaking with Marcus Scaevola.”
Dru glances over her shoulder at Marcus. His gaze rages and his nostrils flair as he watches her with Blaise. The gamemaster must’ve done something egregious to him when they met before to warrant such a reaction.
She scores her face when she meets his gaze again, curious what information he’s fishing for. “He’s praetor to the king. It would be rude not to speak to him from time to time, given I’m a guest here.”
“Drusilla, if I may,” the king cuts in. Dru lets out a breath. Thank the stellae for Cato.
“Until we meet again, venatus magister.” She bows her head.
His hungry gaze lingers on her. “Which will hopefully be soon.”
“You looked like you could use saving,” Cato whispers once they’re out of earshot.
“And just in time too. I was moments away from unsheathing my dagger and stabbing him between the ribs.” She grits her teeth. “I hate men like him.”
“Not to disagree with you, but what sort of man is that? ”
She sniffs. “The kind who thinks he can get any woman he wants simply because he has power.”
Cato smiles softly. “Well, at least you’ve proven him wrong.”
“At least I can take care of myself,” she amends. “Most women aren’t so lucky.”
She surveys the tension between the Durevolians and the Phaedrans. Despite the open courtyard, the uneasiness of the Durevolians suffocates the air. “What else do you have planned for them today?”
“A welcoming ceremony at the temple, when the sun rises to its highest point.”
Dru nearly laughs. “Why? You don’t even worship the same gods.”
“My father insisted on it. The preparations have already been made.” He sighs. “I don’t see the harm in it.”
She steps closer and speaks low. “The more the Imperium inserts themselves into your country, the more likely they’ll try to convert your people to follow the Phaedran way.”
Cato furrows his brow. “My people are stronger than you realize?—”
“It’s not about your people’s strength,” she cuts him off. “It’s about the Imperium’s might. You’ve managed to evade it for hundreds of years, but now you’ve invited it in.”
“And they’re bound to be poor house guests,” he mumbles.
She glances around, finding the bard speaking to one of the Phaedrans. “At least you placed a spy in their midst. It’ll be good to have someone keeping an eye on them, even if it is the bard.”
Cato snorts out a laugh. “You don’t like calling him by his name, do you?”
“You know, I don’t.” Not that I can remember it if I did.
The rest of the breakfast goes on without a single outburst from either side. As much as the Durevolians might not want to, they’ve found a way to be civil with the only nation that’s tried to invade their country.
Dru settles down long enough to eat what’s on her plate, watching the sun rise over the palace walls. Thankfully, no one else from the Imperium tries to talk to her. After her interaction with their gamemaster, she’s had her fill of them.
After they’ve gorged themselves on food and drink, they take their leave with the promise of seeing everyone at the ceremony. The council departs not long after.
“We should get ready,” the king announces, already heading for his chambers. “Sabina will help you, Drusilla.”
“Why must I attend?” she wonders, trying not to sound ungrateful.
He looks away. “To show unity.”
A lie. “How would my presence show unity?”
“Fine,” he amends, meeting her gaze. “I want you there, that’s all.”
She nearly blushes, though she’s again struck by how quickly Cato trusts people. It’s still most likely that Marcus is the reason for that.
“In that case, I’ll be there.”