13. Drusilla #3
Dru walks away slowly. Not a single thought plagues her mind except what that might’ve meant, and how this strange woman could possibly know her full name.
She heads in the direction of the king, the ashes already placed upon his chest. Cato wears the same outfit as Marcus, the silk indigo instead of black. Lean, gentle muscles peek out through his open shirt, his bronze crown perfectly placed on his head.
“What did you think of the ceremony?” he asks once she’s beside him, taking the place of one of his guards. Unable to help herself, her gaze finds Marcus as one of the Tredici priestess’s fingers lingers a moment too long on his chest.
“An overwrought spectacle. But hopefully it placates the Imperium.”
He snorts a shallow laugh. “I couldn’t agree more.”
Dru pulls at the tie around her waist, trying to loosen it even the smallest bit.
“I didn’t mention it before at the palace, but you look beautiful today.” He says it pragmatically, with little emotion attached. But she knows he means it.
“Thank you. Sabina helped.”
Marcus heads in their direction, visibly uncomfortable. Better get this out quick. “The Tredici woman in the middle—she said something when she blessed me.”
Cato cocks his head. “The high priestess? What did she say?”
“La morte affligge i coraggiosi. And she knew my name. My full name.”
Cato stiffens. “It means: ‘Death plagues the brave.’”
She considers this. “My being in this temple—or in Anziano—isn’t particularly brave. No more so than anyone else.”
Cato brushes his jaw in thought. “The Tredici are known to be clairvoyant when the mood strikes them. It’s possible she told you of something that has yet to happen.”
Sure they are. “But how did she know my full name?”
“That, I do not know.”
With Marcus in earshot, she lets it go; he doesn’t need to know about this, no matter how little she herself believes in it.
Marcus looks not at her as he approaches, but at the older woman poised between two of Cato’s guards. Her hair is a shock of white, a dark blue dress hanging on her thin frame. Still, she bears a shocking resemblance to Cato.
She puts out her hand, and Marcus kisses her palm.
“Regina Vedova Alessandra.”
“My mother,” Cato helpfully supplies to Dru. “Dowager Queen of Anziano.”
“Marcus,” she breathes softly, as if she doesn’t have enough air inside her chest to do more than that.
“If she’s your mother, why haven’t I seen her at the palace?” Dru asks.
“She hasn’t lived there since my father died. She can’t bear to be in that place when he is not. Instead, she’s taken up residence in this temple. ”
Dru swallows and regards the regina vedova.
Alessandra speaks first. “You must be Drusilla, the woman my son found to train him for the Valorem Blood Trials.”
Dru nods. “I am. You have a wonderful son. Stubborn, but level-headed.”
“Like Father,” Cato murmurs low enough his mother can’t hear, sorrow choking his words.
She fails to hide her tired smile. “You’re just as Marcus described you.”
Dru’s attention shifts to Marcus, who looks away and clears his throat. “We should leave—we don’t want to linger too long after that display.”
Alessandra laughs softly. “Yes, it was quite something.”
“Are the Tredici normally so…” Dru trails off.
“Naked?” Mischief sparks in Alessandra’s deep golden eyes—Cato must inherit his blue eyes from his father. “No, they did that especially for the Imperium. If they want to paint us as savages and pit us against each other for sport, we shall show them savagery.”
Cato clicks his tongue. “Let’s not get carried away, Mother.”
“Even in death, I love your father. But he was wrong to agree to this.” Her shoulders curl in. “Once you let the Imperium in, they never leave.”
“I know,” Cato agrees. “I’m doing all I can.”
“Let’s get moving,” Marcus insists after a moment, nodding toward the gaping entrance to the temple.
As they glide through the crowd of Durevolians and Phaedrans alike, all eyes follow them. Some in reverence, some in malice. But Marcus leads them out nonetheless, guiding them back to the palace.
A few more people crowd the city center now, though there’s still no sign of the market. On the other side of the square, a fountain featuring a different depiction of the Viverna spews water from its open maw. Children try to catch the sparkling droplets with their hands, giggling .
Alessandra comes up beside Dru. She moves surprisingly fast for her age and apparent illness. “What do you think of Marcus?” she asks softly.
“I don’t think of Marcus,” she bites out.
She glances up at him anyway, unable to help herself.
His attentive gaze rests on the buildings, checking for signs of trouble, while Cato’s guards do the same.
His hair has loosened in the heat of the day, and the muscles in his arms strain against his shirt.
“Yes, you do,” the woman says bluntly. “He’s a good man.”
Dru takes a breath. “That’s one thing he has always been and will always be.”
“Good. And what do you think of Anziano? Of Notevole?”
“You have a beautiful country, regina vedova. It’s remarkable how you’ve been able to keep the Imperium out for so long.” A pair of Durevolians smile at Alessandra as they pass. “And your people love you.”
Alessandra peers up longingly at the palace, a spectacle from town shining in the sun on a cloudless day. “This country has never belonged to me, nor to my husband or son. It belongs to itself.”
Her cane keeps them company, tapping gently on the cobblestone to mark her steps. It’s a wonder she needs one at all, but Dru knows nothing about what ails her.
Except this. “You miss him—your husband.”
A painful smile pricks at her lips. “Every day. The grief eats away at me from the inside as if it has teeth.” She grabs Dru’s hand, surprising her, and lowers her voice. “Don’t let the Imperium take my son from me too.”
She squeezes her hand. “I’ll do everything in my power. I promise.”
Alessandra squeezes back a bit too tight.
“I know you will.”