15. Drusilla
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DRUSILLA
T he following morning, the Phaedran ships come.
One of Cato’s council members brought them the news at breakfast. The opulent vessels now crowd the small port tucked into an inlet not far from the capital.
They brought with them Imperium clothes, goods, food, and whatever else they could carry from the mainland.
The smaller boats hale from the nearby southern coast; others are larger, ferrying more people from the northern reaches of the Imperium.
According to the council member, the most affluent visitors brought their own luxurious tents with all the amenities one could imagine.
Some have taken up residence among the olive groves more inland and across from the palace, while others chose spots directly on the beach.
The less affluent rented rooms at the local inns, occupying every available space.
Knowing the Phaedran elite have invaded Notevole, however, doesn’t prepare her for it.
Mobs of Phaedrans crowd the street around Dru. Dressed in fine clothes and jewelry, outlandish hairstyles and imprudent footwear, their affluence sickens her.
If it weren’t for Marcus, she’d be uncomfortable among so many of them. She glances over at him and he meets her gaze, his expression stern but reassuring, and she remembers how gently he touched her hand in her room yesterday.
When he held her hand in the temple, it was for comfort, reminding her that he felt her pain as his own. But when he brushed his fingertips against her palm after she agreed to go with him to the lottery, it was as if he couldn’t help himself.
She’s unsure how to feel about it.
She can’t help being of two minds about Marcus.
On the outside, he appears to still be the good man she once knew, if not a little different.
He was never much of a deceiver; he could barely keep a secret from her when they trained together.
But he’s certainly hiding something now—something important.
Either he doesn’t trust her with it, or it involves her somehow. Or both.
Yet, she feels safer with him than anyone else.
Walking beside him, with Sabina trailing behind, he charts a path in his full military uniform.
His brown leather chest plate forms to his frame, attached with tightened straps on one side.
His belt sits low on his hips, his Gladius sword sheathed on his left.
He tied his caligae sandals all the way up to below his knees, his hair knotted atop his head.
Dru fiddles with the pearl drop earring in her right ear, her skin slightly irritated from the metal.
Pretending to be of nobler blood proves to be no easy task: her posture keeps slumping, and her feet shuffle along the dirt road in the slippers he insisted she wear.
What she wouldn’t give for her sandals and the comfort of her pugio dagger. But he made her give that up as well.
She hates being out in public without it. Even when she sleeps, she keeps her blade within reach. The only weapons at her disposal now are her own hands and Marcus.
She has no issue spotting the Durevolians in the crowd: simple silk robes and tunics, and no jewelry to speak of except maybe an odd necklace here and there. And none of them look happy to be here. Nervousness and anger pinch their brows and tense their shoulders.
The area outside the temple where the market normally takes place now plays host to this farce. In front of the Viverna fountain, a short wooden stage has been set up. Phaedran soldiers flank either side of it, gloved hands on the hilts of their swords.
Three men stand atop the platform: Legatus Ambitus, Venatus Magister Blaise, and Ettore.
She could swear both Phaedran men only brought the one outfit, though they’re clearly roasting inside them.
One of their slaves fans them with palm leaves from below the stage as sweat charts multiple paths down the sides of their faces.
Blaise holds a bronze bowl in both hands. The names of their victims.
“Stay here,” Marcus bids her, leaving Dru and Sabina amidst the building crowd for the side of the stage, behind the Imperium soldiers. Once in position, he stands at attention, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword and the other behind his back.
The crowd murmurs around her, the sound trickling along her ears like rain on dirt. Loud, lurid words quickly extricate themselves from the torrent in the form of the loudest Phaedran voices behind her, unafraid of who might be around to hear.
“It’s been some time since we’ve seen such a fine spectacle of brutes,” one of them comments. She flinches.
“They’re not brutes.”
“Then what would you call these barbaric trials?”
“Tradition?” another suggests.
“I say a good bit of fun.”
It takes everything in Dru not to turn around and punch all of them in their smug faces. But she must behave, for Marcus’s sake.
“And lucrative. I’ve already placed my wagers on all four events.”
“Before seeing the competitors? Seems risky.”
“No one from this country can compete with a Phaedran. Their participation is merely sport.”
The others make sounds of agreement .
“I’ve heard the capital is calling this a good faith exhibition.”
“They always know how to frame things.”
The legatus holds up his hands in an order to quiet the masses, and they quiet down. Fucking finally. Sabina shifts closer to Dru.
“Phaedrans, Durevolians; today, we witness an auspicious moment in history. This will be the first lottery for the Valorem Blood Trials, a sacred competition where anyone can win if they are brave and determined enough.”
A lie. The Durevolians in the crowd shift uneasily on their feet. The Phaedrans, on the other hand, beat on their chests three times. Like the drums of war. Contempt hangs in the air between the two peoples like a thick fog.
“So far, thirty-two people from Anziano have volunteered. We need eighteen Durevolian citizens to harness their bravery and take their place among their peers for a chance to prove the love they have for their country.”
Angry murmurs ripple through the crowd. Sabina moves in closer to Dru, their arms brushing.
“Before I pluck a name from this bowl, would anyone like to volunteer?”
Dru glances around her discretely, unsurprised to see not one hand raised.
She finds Marcus again, his gaze already on her. Jaw clenched, grip tightened on his hilt, he watches her for a moment. Panic rises in her chest. He can’t be doing what I think he’s doing.
He steps toward the stage.
She stumbles forward before she can stop herself, wishing she could keep him from what he’s about to do—but it’s too late.
“I volunteer.”
Deodamnatus, Marcus. What a stupid thing to do.
The crowd’s mutterings grow, falling away when Ambitus holds up a hand again.
“So it is done, Marcus Scaevola.”
He nods at the recorder on the opposite side of the stage, who scratches Marcus’s name down on the ledger in his hand.
Dru’s stomach revolts, bile climbing up her throat.
Why would Marcus do this? He knows how dangerous the trials are.
She wants to stomp up there and shake him until he changes his mind.
I should’ve known he would do something like this.
But what’s done is done.
The legatus gives the crowd another moment to follow in Marcus’s footsteps. When he’s met with silence, he dips a ringed hand into the bowl.
“Ersilia Locatello.”
A moment later, an older woman slips through the crowd and approaches the stage. Age and fear curl her shoulders and color her hair gray. Stellae, she won’t last one round in the arena .
“I am Ersilia Locatello.”
The recorder scratches her name down—when a single voice from the crowd calls out.
“Morte all’Imperium. Morte all’Imperium!”
A handful of others join him. Before it can gain momentum, Phaedran soldiers sift through the crowd and haul the dissenters away, easily squashing it.
Despite the disruption, the lottery continues on over a dozen more times, each person’s reluctance greater than the last. The old, the young, and all those in between are chosen, becoming nothing but a spectacle for the Phaedrans to hedge their bets.
Yet it’s her anger at Marcus that refuses to wane.
Until the next name is called.
“Sabina Cantu.”
Dread squeezes Dru’s heart as she shifts her attention to Sabina. “Please tell me your last name isn’t Cantu.”
But the fear in her eyes and the trembling of her lower lip confirms it.
Thinking quickly, Dru yanks the necklace Cato gave her in order to pass off as one of the rich Durevolians over her head and hands it to Sabina .
“Put this on right now,” Dru whispers, pulse thundering.
Sabina doesn’t fight it, her eyes blank, no doubt certain that her life’s been made forfeit by simple chance. Not if I can help it.
Unclipping the earrings from her ears, she slips them into Sabina’s pocket.
She doesn’t look like a servant, but the envoys from the Imperium have no idea what any of those chosen from the lottery look like.
Even Blaise is unlikely to remember her from the previous morning.
She just has to hope no one else will say a word, or that Sabina’s awful brother isn’t somewhere in the crowd.
She steps up to the stage, ignoring the murmurs of the Durevolians and the rageful glare from Marcus. But no one dares argue that she’s not who she claims to be.
“I am Sabina Cantu.”
As she hoped, neither the legatus nor the venatus magister appear to recognize her from yesterday; their attention shifts over her as if she’s nothing. She supposes, to them, she is nothing. Ettore recognizes her, of course, but he stays silent with the rest of the Durevolians.
A few more names are called, but she doesn’t hear them. Sabina stares at her from the crowd, wide-eyed and grasping the pendant around her neck. Dru holds her gaze. Please, don’t say anything.
“With that, we have the last of our one-hundred participants. May the gods favor you.”