14. Marcus
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MARCUS
“ A mbitus, thank you for coming,” Cato announces.
Marcus stands slightly behind Cato seated on his throne, clenching his hands behind his back to restrain himself from choking the life out of the Imperium ambassador.
The man’s obsession with placing Anziano under Imperium rule—likely so he can get the promotion he has yet to secure since he first began his post here a few years ago—has overshadowed all of Cato’s reign, as well as the end of his father’s.
The Phaedran’s constant hunger for power will eventually weaken them in Marcus’s eyes, but, for now, they remain a constant threat to Anziano.
The harsh sun bleeds through the green leaves of the palm trees, casting shade over them, as birds twitter happily nearby. The weight of what’s about to happen overshadows their joy.
Ambitus picks at something beneath his fingernails, appearing bored by it all. “The pleasure’s all mine, Sovrano Cato Draghi. Dowager Queen Alessandra Draghi.”
At Ambitus’s side stands the venatus magister, Blaise.
He and Marcus have met before, but under vastly different circumstances.
He’s surprised Blaise hasn’t approached him yet, offering to pay him to keep his many indiscretions a secret.
The few Marcus is aware of would be more than enough to oust him from his post. But Marcus would rather have an enemy he holds something over than an enemy he doesn’t know.
Except he nearly stabbed Blaise in the neck when he took Dru’s hand and kissed it at breakfast. Knowing Dru can handle him herself didn’t help Marcus barely contain the rage he felt when she flinched at the gesture. If Cato hadn’t intervened, Marcus would have, and it wouldn’t have been as gentle.
The legatus next directs his attention to Marcus. He looks ridiculous in his full military garb, especially when Marcus knows full well he’s never killed a man with his own two hands—never swung the axe or pulled the lever that ends the lives of the people he condemns to death.
“Marcus Scaevola,” he offers. “Praetor to the king.”
Ambitus gives him a long look before moving on. Marcus takes a calculated breath to slow his thundering pulse.
“Jove, the bard,” their guest offers next. “I’m just here as the entertainment.”
Ambitus raises his brow but says nothing in response. Honestly, Marcus has no idea why Cato has chosen the bard, of all people, to spy on the Phaedrans. Perhaps he found a kindred spirit in him, though that feels like an insult to kindred spirits.
“To business, then.” Cato sits back in his throne, feigning composure. The slight tremble in his hands proves otherwise, but he tempers it quickly.
One of the palace servants hands Cato a stack of papers, dictating the rules of the trials. They’ve hidden the most important addendums somewhere in the middle. With what Cato has proposed, Marcus hopes they stay that way.
“These detail the rules long-held for the Valorem Blood Trials,” Cato tells them, “set forth by my ancestors. ”
“And we respect those rules, with only a few of our own… suggestions.”
Ambitus snatches a scroll from his slave, who cowers back, before passing it to Cato.
The slave can’t be much younger than Cato’s father was when he died.
White scars slash across his arms and legs, and the whites of his eyes are yellow and bloodshot.
His bones threaten to stab through his weathered skin, his sweat-stained tunic hanging loose on him.
Chains encumber his wrists, leaving indents.
Only death will free this man.
“Read them, my son,” Alessandra commands as Cato unrolls it. She sits at his side, though slightly lower to the ground and on a silk-covered stool.
“‘Addendum one: a lottery shall be held first in the Imperium capital, Phaedra, and again in Anziano prior to the start of the trials.’”
“You’ve already chosen your victims, then?” Marcus asks, unable to keep the bite out of his words.
Ambitus ignores him. “We’ve provided a list of fifty participants across the Imperium, willing and unwilling, that we have transported here by boat. Which leaves?—”
“—another fifty,” Cato finishes. “Fifty citizens of Anziano, willing and unwilling.”
Ambitus grimaces. “Exactly. And I’m afraid that one is non-negotiable.”
Marcus grinds his teeth to stay his tongue.
Cato’s next words come out hoarse. “Accepted. ‘Addendum two: the envoys from the Imperium will be granted use of a royal balcony inside the arena, as well as joint control in the workings of the arena, whatever that might wholly entail.’”
Cato shares a look with Marcus, who shrugs. Marcus knows nothing about the arena, not even how the lower level that hosts the maze appears. He leaves that to Cato’s judgment.
“Accepted. ”
Ambitus smiles, and Marcus can’t help feeling like they missed something. “Wonderful. The third and final one should be simple.”
“‘Addendum three: two participants instead of one will be crowned victor, one from the Imperium and one from Anziano.’”
Cato doesn’t respond at first, and Marcus watches him stare sightless at the papers.
“Why?” Marcus asks simply.
Alessandra answers, hands trembling in her lap, though not from fear. “In the name of unity, I imagine.” Cato purses his lips.
Or, Marcus thinks, because it would allow him to become the benevolent ambassador he’s always touted to be and gain the favor of the people—people who were less than ecstatic with the laws he introduced into the senate this past year.
Ambitus’s lip curls, but he doesn’t argue.
Cato clears his throat. “Accepted. Now that’s settled, here’s a more detailed summary of the rules of the trials. They’ll be posted on the arena barracks where the participants gather prior to each task.”
Cato hands Ambitus the rules he penned last night, and Marcus holds his breath. The finer points of the rules sit unread in the stack of papers at his side, but all Ambitus has to do is ask for them.
Ambitus passes it immediately to Blaise.
“Venatus Magister Blaise will handle the rest. I’m needed elsewhere.”
He turns on his heel and leaves the palace without another word, his gold-stitched robes fluttering in the ocean breeze.
“Right, let’s get to it then,” Blaise starts. Marcus bows his head at Cato and Alessandra, excusing himself, knowing he won’t be needed for this part.
Guilt for not sharing Cato’s updates to the rules with Dru guides him to her door. Despite her not being able to do anything about them now, she deserves to know what they are.
Besides, he wants to brief her on the lottery ceremony tomorrow.
After knocking once, she opens it promptly, appearing unsurprised to find him there.
She already changed out of her dress, which he finds truly disappointing.
All throughout her Faithless training, she only wore practice tunics, a uniform meant to keep the initiates on equal ground and deter intermingling.
She’s undoubtedly worn dresses like the one she put on for the ceremony today since taking her oaths, and he’s jealous of anyone and everyone who witnessed it.
The moment he saw her in that dress, he wanted to see her out of it.
The way the silk clung to her curves, exposing skin she normally keeps covered for the sake of convenience… He wanted to take her in his arms the moment he laid eyes on her across the courtyard, tell her how beautiful and strong she looked. To tell her how much he wanted her.
But she wouldn’t have wanted to hear it, not from him. Besides, it would only serve to complicate things.
“Did he take my advice about spinning the rules in his favor?” she asks, bringing him back to the present.
Marcus glances behind him, worried they’ll be overheard.
“Don’t worry,” he assures her, stepping inside the room despite not being invited and closing the door behind him. She doesn’t tell him to leave. “Cato has it under control.”
“I believe you.”
Marcus cocks his head. “Do you? Even though I didn’t share them with you before?”
“I realized I’m not here to approve rules,” she admits. “I’m here to ensure Cato is ready for whatever he faces in the trials. To do everything I can to keep him alive.”
He keeps his surprise to himself. The old Dru would’ve held onto her pride for as long as possible. He’s not sure if he misses that about her or not.
“Be that as it may, I’d like to tell you about them all the same.”
She perches on the edge of her bed. He looks purposefully out the balcony door, trying not to think of her in it… with him .
“Go on.”
Once he has a grip on himself, he steps further into the room and regards her again. “For the first trial, he specified that the fighting style be scazzottata. I’ll be providing a tutorial for any competitors who don’t know it.”
Dru nods. “Good.”
“For the second task, he added an addendum that the riddles aren’t required to be Imperium-only.”
Confusion crosses her brow. “But you didn’t mention them being Durevolian-only?”
“In case they did ask for the specifics, he didn’t want to push our luck.”
Marcus continues when she doesn’t respond. “For the third task, Anziano won’t be providing any horses. The participants will have to procure their own or can buy one here.”
A mischievous grin tips up her lips. “I know it would be foolish, but a part of me wants to release the Imperium’s horses from all the stables so they’re forced to buy new ones.”
Marcus chuckles. “At that rate, there won’t be enough horses left in Anziano.”
She sighs. “True.”
“Now, for the Gladiator combat… There’s not much we could tweak there. All we mentioned is that the competitors cannot bring their own weapons. They’ll be provided spears and shields—that’s all.”
“It all sounds promising,” she admits, “but there’s something else you’re not telling me.”
There’s so much I’m not telling you.
“I need your help with something,” he says instead.
Concern pinches her brow. “What is it?”
Marcus doesn’t like asking for help, but he needs her. With her there, he’ll have the strength to do what he needs to.
He breathes in sharply. “I’d like you to come with me tomorrow to the lottery ceremony. The king has asked me to oversee it and I need someone to spy on the crowd, to gauge the unrest among his people.”
“Why not ask the bard to do it?” A hint of jealousy sours her question.
“I don’t care about the bard. I want you there.”
Her lips part in silence, and he can’t help the spark of pride in his chest at shocking her.
“All right,” she agrees after a moment. “Who should I pretend to be, then?”
Relief at her being there floods him, especially knowing what he has planned.
“A rich woman from the other side of Anziano. That way, you’ll look like you belong with the Durevolians, but no one will recognize you.”
She nods, standing to approach him. “I’ll take Sabina with me, then. She can be my servant.”
“She is your servant.”
She shoots him a look. “You know what I mean.”
He nods; he does. The Dru he knew before thought she’d be placed in a palace like this one to infiltrate the home of a high-ranking military officer or one of the senators to report back on all their movements.
But the Faithless had other ideas. Last he heard, she and Ovidia were living a life akin to the Imperium slaves.
The woman who stands before him now is no novice.
She’s counted each and every one of her kills, wears them as ugly scars on her heart.
A hardened warrior, if ever he saw one. Yet softness pervades too, in her small smiles, in the way he catches her looking at him sometimes, in how she cares for Cato despite having only just met him.
He brushes her open palm with the tips of his fingers, this time to reassure her. Her fingers twitch but she doesn’t pull away. The memory of grasping her hand tight inside the temple—of wishing he could take her pain away—invades his thoughts .
She doesn’t want you , he reminds himself. Not after what you did to her.
“I’ll come for you before the sun rises.”
Then he inclines his head and leaves her.