22. Marcus #2
Marcus shakes his head. “We’re sticking to the plan, Cato. Dru doesn’t change that.”
“Maybe she should,” Cato argues, lowering his voice. “Perhaps we need a new plan.”
Marcus doesn’t respond so they won’t be overheard; he barely feels comfortable speaking about it in private.
The crowd cheers, and the drum sounds for the end of the next round that started without him realizing it. A Durevolian woman limps away, while her Phaedran opponent needs help off the ground, blood dripping down his arm .
Marcus crosses his arms nervously. “What are the chances they’re going to pair Dru up with a Phaedran man?”
Cato grasps his hands in front of him. “If the first few rounds are any indication, very high. But they think she’s a Durevolian servant—despite claiming it’s random, they’ll have curated the pairing based on that assumption.”
Marcus stares down at the blood-spattered dirt. “I hope you’re right.”
The drum beats twice, and Dru steps into the arena.
She’s pulled her hair back with a leather strap, her sleeveless beige tunic tight around her waist. She walks out confidently, her shoulders slinged back, arms loose at her sides.
Her opponent mirrors her from their side, red band blazing from his arm.
Fools . She might’ve considered being lenient if it were a Durevolian, but pitting her against a Phaedran means she’ll show no mercy.
He’s of average height and build, his hair cut short but not to the scalp.
His lack of grand musculature leads Marcus to believe he’s not from the capital but instead from a prosperous city nearby enough for him to train and eat well.
Cato breaks into his thoughts. “If you noticed, I didn’t retain Dru’s suggestion about keeping one’s feet on the ground.”
Marcus keeps his eyes locked on Dru, not wanting to let her out of his sight for a moment. “I did notice.”
After the next drum beat, Dru sprints at the man. He crouches, planting his feet hard into the ground. Marcus grins, knowing she doesn’t plan to hit him straight-on.
Closing in on him, she fakes going hard to the left—her opponent falls for the move. She’s quick enough to swiftly change direction, planting her left foot into the dirt to give herself enough momentum.
Unable to help himself, Marcus leans over the edge of the balcony to get a better look, fingers gripping the hard stone. He remembers teaching her this move when he had less muscle to weigh him down; it took her months to get it right .
The man stumbles at the change in direction, not quick enough to correct his mistake. Dru takes advantage.
Keeping pace, she leaps off the ground and flies around his right shoulder, striking him in the neck with the outside of her hand.
He stumbles to the side, stunned but remaining upright, grasping his neck with a trembling hand.
She lands behind him and pivots on her heel, dust pluming around her.
Pushing off the ball of her right foot, she strikes her final blow in a punch to the man’s back.
She hits her mark with perfect precision, instantly bringing him to his knees.
A moment later, he’s curled up in a ball on the arena floor, gasping for air as the crowd explodes with cheers and applause for Dru. Pride swells inside Marcus’s chest.
“Looks as if Drusilla noticed it as well,” Cato murmurs.
Dru glances up at their balcony, finding Marcus. A wide smile stretches across her lips as she exits the arena. His heart lightens at her elation, and he finds a smile stretching across his own face in return.
“My gods, she’s an impressive woman,” Alessandra breathes.
“She is,” Marcus says aloud. Might as well admit that, at least . She’s the most impressive person he’s ever met, which is saying a lot, given where they were both raised.
“She knows how to get a crowd going too,” Cato concedes. Nearly all the Durevolians around them are on their feet, whipping blue strips of cloth in the air and banging on their drums. They think she’s one of their own, and maybe that’s what they need. Perhaps it’ll give them hope.
With some mismatched pairings and more than a few mixed outcomes, a dozen more fights come to an end before one of Marcus’s own guards comes to get him for his turn inside the arena.
He follows them down, surprised Dru didn’t come back up to watch the spectacle with them.
Or, at least to gloat for besting her opponent so swiftly.
But he can’t let it distract him.
Standing at the Durevolian entrance to the arena with the remaining participants, he steels himself after the awful night he had.
He can’t remember the last time he’s felt this tired, but there’s not much he can do about it.
He’d do it again a thousand times for Dru, knowing it saved her.
He’ll simply have to be more strategic in how he uses his energy.
He has no doubt the gamemasters have paired him up with one of the more formidable Phaedran warriors.
Having him fight one of the weaker opponents would serve no purpose.
The Imperium will want to prove to the entire crowd that, if Marcus Scaevola can’t protect himself in the first trial, then he can’t protect the king from these trials either.
The moment the drum beats twice, he steps out into the arena.
The sun strikes at his vision and instantly slickens his brow with sweat.
He didn’t realize how protected he was inside the balcony.
Although it’s unpleasant, he can handle it.
One of the Faithless’ tests dropped him in the middle of the Cecidimus desert for a week with no supplies. This is nothing.
Focusing on his breathing, he shuts out the thronging arena and sizes up the Phaedran man across from him.
Marcus was right: they picked the largest, strongest warrior to oppose him.
With skin white as snow, he clearly hails from the northern territories.
He beats at his scarred, naked chest and yells in what Marcus imagines is meant to be a terrifying manner.
Smothering a grin, Marcus flexes his fingers.
This might be too easy. Men like him rely on brute force, but they’re slow.
Marcus will simply have to be quicker.
When the drum sounds, the Phaedran man sprints toward him as quickly as his size allows, lumbering across the arena with fury in his eyes.
Marcus easily dodges the first wild swing thrown at his head, sidestepping him altogether.
The man turns swiftly, rage popping out the blue veins in his neck and forehead.
Marcus sneaks a punch in before he can make his next move, hitting him directly in the vulnerable space beneath his chest.
The beastly man stumbles back but, unfortunately, doesn’t go down. Instead, he roars as he lunges for Marcus again, and this time, he can’t get out of the way before the hit lands.
His large fist connects with enough of Marcus’s ribs that it spins him around, forcing him to his hands and knees. Marcus quickly scrambles back to his feet, with barely enough time to dodge another swing.
Ribs throbbing, Marcus finds an opening and lands a blow to his jaw. But the other man remains upright, clipping Marcus in the shoulder as he tries to avoid him.
Grasping his shoulder, he reminds himself of his strategy. All I have to do is tire him out.
The Phaedran warrior isn’t making it easy. Although his swings are wild, they have enough accuracy to keep Marcus from catching his breath. Eventually, he takes a glance to the cheek that draws blood. He shakes his head to dispel the bright bursts in his vision from it. This isn’t working .
Deciding on a different tactic, Marcus shuffles side to side in circles across the ground, kicking up dirt into the air. The fool follows him.
Once the Phaedran’s legs start to wobble and his eyes cross, Marcus lunges forward, finding his opening with an uppercut beneath the jaw.
Any other opponent would’ve found themselves flying backward, but he merely stumbles back and collapses to the ground, unmoving.
The crowd erupts at his victory and Marcus can’t help pumping his fist in the air. Chest heaving, sweat pours off his body, but he feels alive . The Durevolians’ cheers breathe new confidence into him, even as exhaustion threatens to catch up with him again.
At the drum beats, he exits the arena.
He heads for the stairs to where Cato waits in the balcony, to share in his triumph—when he sees Dru leaning against one of the columns, staring at her hands.
Has she been down here all this time? Worry overshadows his victory as he hurries over to her .
“Dru?” But she doesn’t notice his presence. “What’s wrong?”
He touches her arm and she looks up at him, her eyes out of focus.
“Marcus,” she finally responds, blinking. “I don’t know.”
Concern sweeps through him. “Do they hurt? Your arms?”
He brushes his fingers along her right forearm, and Dru sucks in a breath. The Spettrale tattoo glares at him from its place on her arm; he won’t admit he noticed it earlier, not until he finds out what it might mean.
“It’s not that,” she interrupts his thoughts. “I haven’t done that move in years, not since…”
She doesn’t finish, but he can guess what she would’ve said: not since you taught me how .
“There’s no possible way I should’ve been able to execute it so perfectly,” she whispers, almost to herself.
He wants to reach out to her, to assure her that what she did in the arena was phenomenal. But he keeps his thoughts—and his hands—to himself.
“That doesn’t change the fact that you did.”
When she doesn’t respond, he looks down pointedly. “And what do your hands have to do with that?”
“I have no idea.” She draws in a breath and laughs. “I’m being ridiculous.”
“You’re not,” he assures her. Not after what you went through last night.
Looking up at him, her muddled expression turns to concern. She lifts her hand, nearly touching the cut on his cheek before letting it fall back to her side. “What happened to your face?”
He feigns hurt. “Don’t tell me you weren’t watching?”
“Of course, I was.” She pushes off the wall and leads the way up the stairs, dismissing whatever frightened her before. “You were amazing. I swear he was three times your size.”
Marcus chuckles. “He wasn’t that big.”
She glances over her shoulder. “Well, maybe not, but I’m sure they sent him out there with the purpose of beating you. Just to prove they could handle the praetor to the king of Anziano.”
“I thought the same.”
“Now we only need to worry about Cato.”
“Glad to hear you’re worried about me,” the king cuts in, meeting them at the top of the stairs. “I’ve been told I’m the last act of the day.”
Marcus nods. “That makes sense. There are only a few more participants left in the Durevolian area.”
Cato’s mouth draws downward. “I’ll be surprised if they don’t pit me against one of my own.”
Marcus places a reassuring hand on his arm. “I think that depends on whether or not you plan to win this round.”
Cato smiles. “It’ll be a surprise.”
“Cato,” Marcus chides.
“Trust me,” the king assures him. “I know what I’m doing.”
He and Dru share a look before he pushes past them, master of his own fate.