23. Drusilla
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
DRUSILLA
D ru can’t believe she let Cato and Marcus convince her he was ready for the trials.
Cato and his opponent continue to circle each other, drawing out the inevitable fight. Enough time has passed since the single drum beat sounded that the crowd’s impatience sours the arena. The jeers and boos grate on her own restlessness.
Cato wipes sweat from his brow and Dru sighs. “He has no idea what he’s doing.”
“Give him time,” Marcus says beside her.
“Time to what, circle around again?”
She glances up at the agitated crowd, gaze traveling across the packed, sun-drenched arena.
“They’re becoming irritable.”
“They’ve been irritable all day; they want this trial to end so they can see the leaderboard for the next one and place their bets accordingly.”
“Or see the king of Anziano get defeated by one of his own people.”
“You’re so—” Marcus starts .
“Go for his throat!” she yells to Cato, cutting Marcus off.
Some of the crowd above her cry out in agreement, spurring on the rest of the arena. His opponent shakes out his arms and cracks his neck. Either he’s grown restless too, or he’s feigning it to trick Cato.
To her surprise, Cato does what she says: seeing an opening, he lashes out, jabbing his hand into his opponent’s throat. The larger man grips his neck for a moment, working to draw breath.
“You’re lucky that worked,” Marcus muttered.
“Luck had nothing to do with it.” She shakes her head as the opponent rebounds quickly. “And it didn’t work as intended.”
The two men circle each other again, one lunging, the other dodging. Maybe it’s because she won her own fight so quickly, or that she shouldn’t have won it in the first place, but even Dru can’t contain her anxieties. And not just for Cato.
She clenches her hands at her sides, wishing she knew if the dragon’s fire did something to her—gave her some strength she didn’t have before. Or if she took more strength from Marcus than she should have.
Or if it’s all in her head.
“Why won’t Cato use”—she stops herself before blurting the word magic out loud—“everything he’s got.”
Marcus easily catches on to her meaning. “He must have a reason.”
Cato’s opponent finally appears to be tiring out: one of his shoulders dips and he reaches for his left wrist, fiddling with the leather band around it. Odd .
Once he sees an opening, he rushes at Cato, the hand without the leather band poised oddly, as if grasping something. Then she notices a metallic glint in the sunlight, aimed at the king’s neck.
She rushes toward Cato, but she won’t be able to place herself between him and his attacker in time.
“Blade!” she screams.
Cato’s eyes widen. Almost too late, he reacts to her warning, throwing his arm across his neck. The sharp blade rakes down his forearm and splits his skin open.
The man lunges for him again, but Cato’s guards rush past her into the arena, tackling the opponent to the ground. The small weapon tumbles to the dirt, coating the blood-soaked blade in a thin layer of dust.
The king stumbles back, stunned, his blood dripping steadily onto the packed dirt. Heart in her throat, Dru runs to his side with Marcus at her heels.
The two guards haul the attacker to his feet and yank his arms behind his back. A moment later, they push him to his knees, irons already clapped around his wrists. The king stares at the man. Stellae, one of his own people.
Dru touches Cato’s good arm. “Let’s get you to a healer.”
Cato shakes her off, gaze stunned but determined. “If this goes unpunished, even for a moment longer, the Phaedrans and my own people will think me weak.”
Watching more of his blood spill onto the ground, she merely reiterates, “You need to be attended to.”
His gaze snaps to her, his indigo eyes manic. “I’m not dying, Drusilla—not yet, anyway. I cannot waver on this.”
At the venom in his words, she takes a step back.
The shocked silence of the crowd follows him as he walks up to the man, allowing the blood from his open wound to drip down his fingers. Dru moves to go after him again, but Marcus places a hand on her shoulder, keeping her at his side.
“For the attempted assassination of the king of Anziano,” Cato announces to the crowd more than the failed assassin, “you are found guilty and given no trial. I sentence you to death.”
One of his guards unsheathes his Gladius sword and hands it to him.
The crowd remains silent—a good sign. If they didn’t agree with him, they’d make it known.
Even the Phaedrans want to see if he’ll go through with it.
Fear crosses the man’s dark eyes for a moment.
The bit of food in Dru’s stomach sits heavy .
With the traitor sufficiently incapacitated, Cato bends down on one knee and murmurs something in his ear. Tears spring to the man’s eyes, shoulders slumping as his chest heaves in a silent sob.
Cato gets to his feet again, takes a determined step back, and swings the sword. The man’s expression is almost peaceful as his head detaches from his body, both tumbling to the ground.
Dru’s ears ring from the silence that hangs in the arena like pungent smoke. Without another word, Cato hands the guard his blood-soaked sword back and walks toward the exit. Marcus and Dru follow.
“What did you say to him?” she asks once they’re out of the arena.
“Nothing your ears need to hear.”
The finality of his words stops her from prodding, for now. It’s likely he thanked him, because that man, whoever he was, just martyred himself for his king. Even if that wasn’t his intention.
Marcus leads them up the path to the palace that runs through the garden, to avoid the inevitable spectacle.
Cato marks his steps with drops of crimson and hard footfalls, his dark curls obscuring his face as he hangs his head.
The muted sounds of the arena follow them, announcements read aloud to those who remain.
Cato doesn’t turn his head once to listen, or to speak.
If he wasn’t walking upright, she couldn’t be sure he draws breath.
“Why didn’t you use your magic?” Dru asks once she’s certain the three of them are alone.
He doesn’t answer at first, and when he does, his voice lacks the emotion she expected. “With so much Phaedran attention on me, the risks of wielding it outweighed the risks of not. Now, at least, I’ve been made a martyr and a fair ruler in their eyes instead.”
Dru nods. Though the truth is hard, he’s resigned to it. I should’ve known Cato would have this well in hand. She underestimated his fortitude.
The moment they bring him inside the palace doors, his servants flurry around him, rushing him off to his chambers. Marcus sends a pair of them into town to call on the king’s physician.
“Looks like he’s well taken care of,” Dru comments, watching the servants run down the steps to Notevole.
Marcus sighs. “After what he had to do, he likely won’t want to see anyone for the rest of the day.”
Waiting for the physician to arrive, the two of them walk side-by-side in silence through the open-air courtyard and come to stand before the pool.
The towering palm trees sway in the ocean breeze, flinging bits of golden pollen onto the water’s azureous surface.
The calmness of this place settles around her, almost as if the trial happened in another country and another time entirely.
“The Imperium is behind this attack,” Dru says into the silence.
“Absolutely,” Marcus agrees. “Without a doubt in my mind, Legatus Ambitus orchestrated the entire first trial, including every single pairing.”
Fatigue weighs on her, and she sits down at the pool’s edge to undo her sandals before dipping her legs in.
She sighs at the sensation of the water as it laps languidly along the tops of her calves, cooling her down and removing the sweat-slick dirt from the arena.
It hazes the clear water around her in gentle plumes.
She draws in a deep breath through her nose and breathes out of her mouth slowly.
With the first trial over, she thought she’d feel a sense of liberation.
Instead, dread sits heavy on her chest. While the worst thing she could imagine didn’t quite come to pass, Cato was one wrong move away from being murdered.
And, instead, he was forced to take the life of one of his own people, with little time to consider the ramifications and under the rapt attentions of the Phaedran ambassadors.
No doubt it’s exactly what the Imperium hoped would happen.
She peers up at Marcus. “I never asked how you know Legatus Ambitus and Venatus Magister Blaise.”
Marcus sniffs, remaining on his feet. “This isn’t the first time Ambitus has come to Anziano to treat with the king in a supposed attempt at peace.
Blaise, I know from the little time I spent out in the Imperium.
He only got his position because of his father; he’s worthless.
Ambitus pulls the strings, with the help of his sacerdos. ”
Dru sits back on her palms, the marble cool on her skin. “What power does the sacerdos have here?”
“Converting people, mostly, creating religious dissention. One of many plans Ambitus and the Imperium have set in motion to oust Cato from his throne since Ambitus was first made legatus to Anziano.”
Dru nods, glad to have her suspicions confirmed. “I suppose we just witnessed another.”
Marcus bends down to undo his own sandals and sits beside her, closer than she would’ve thought him comfortable—so close she can feel the heat radiating off of him.
“As much as I hate to admit it, Cato did the right thing. It was too risky for him to do anything more.”
She sighs, knowing he’s right. “We’ll have to be better about protecting him.”
“There’s not much we could’ve done in the first trial,” he reasons. “But I agree. The three of us will have to try harder to stick together in the others, especially the final trial.”
“Is that allowed?”
He scratches at his jaw. “There are no rules explicitly against it. If anything, it’s considered a tactic.”