27. Marcus
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
MARCUS
“ Y ou’re saying you ran into the sacerdos leaving a brothel two nights ago while you were out with the bard and the king in the early hours of the morning without my knowledge, and I’m only hearing about it now?”
Dru sucks in a breath as Marcus presses a linen cloth, soaked in a concoction made from thyme and wild yarrow, on the wounds on her right arm. They’ve been waiting for the king’s physician to arrive for longer than he cares for, but at least they had this on hand.
She hisses again, bringing his attention back to her. “Be gentle.”
“I’m sorry.” He loosens his tight grip on the linen and dips it in the liquid again, staining the water in the bowl pink. “But I don’t understand why you didn’t wake me. Or at least make me aware of the incident afterward. I can’t protect the king from things I’m not aware of.” Or protect you.
“Two of your guards were with us, and I had things well in hand—that’s not the issue.” Sitting up, she winces. “The issue is that the sacerdos claimed to have recognized me from the Imperium, though he couldn’t remember where. ”
She looks up at him, and he finds something in her eyes he never expected: pleading.
“If he somehow knows I’m from the Faithless—that I’m not who I say I am—then I’m no longer safe here. And neither is Sabina.”
Marcus gets to his feet, wiping his hands hard on his tunic. Anger floods his chest at the sacerdos, at his audacity to punish Dru in the maze despite her giving the correct answer—at planting fear in her heart when she has enough to worry about.
His nostrils flare, muscles restless. “I’ll take care of it.”
At that moment, the physician bursts into her chamber and sets to work on Dru. Marcus steps away to give him room and heads for the door. The physician hands her a vial of something, which she downs immediately.
Marcus watches her from the threshold, hands clenched behind his back. Once her eyes close from whatever the physician gave her, he turns and leaves, hardened determination marking his steps through the palace and out its doors.
He makes his way down to the temple first, in case Sacerdos Matteo has chosen to search for enlightenment for his attempted murder there rather than the brothel.
Rage boils his blood, something he can’t quell with inaction this time.
Not when the sacerdos might know who Dru is and tried to kill her for it.
As praetor, he’s trained himself to look at situations logically and without bias. Now he knows that’s an impossible task when Dru is involved.
The doors to the temple hang open, and Marcus marches straight inside. One of the other priestesses, whose name he can’t remember in his rage, greets him—he doesn’t hear her.
“Is Sacerdos Matteo here?”
She shakes her head. “No, Praetor Marcus.”
A voice breaks into his rage—a voice he knows. “Marcus?”
He peers around the priestess to find Alessandra hobbling out from behind the bronze Viverna. Her blue robes hang a bit looser on her today, though she appears to be in good spirits .
“Alessandra.”
“You’re looking for the sacerdos? I watched him walk into the nearby tabernae with Venatus Magister Blaise.”
He flexes his grip around the hilt of his dagger at his hip. “Thank you.”
“Now, hold on.” She puts a hand out before he can walk away. “I didn’t give that information away for nothing. I’m coming with you, and you’re going to tell me why you’re looking for him.”
Too angry to argue with her, he waits until she’s at his side, and they set off together.
Once they leave the temple, he explains, “The sacerdos set Dru up in the maze. Lied by telling her the answer she gave to the last riddle was wrong and then dropped her into a pit with a lion.” He huffs out through his nose. “She nearly died.”
“Ah, that’s why she was covered in blood and nearly collapsed in the arena.”
“Yes.” He clenches his jaw. “Dru caught him coming out of a brothel the other night, so he decided to take vengeance.”
“Brothel? Vengeance?” She chuckles. “So much for being a man of the gods.”
They near the closest tabernae to the temple, Marcus’s heart pounding furiously inside his chest. “That’s typical for Imperium sacerdotes, actually.”
Ducking down through the rounded threshold to get inside, he searches the patrons for Sacerdos Matteo. Alessandra taps his leg with her cane and points to the far left corner.
“There.”
He follows the end of her cane to find the holy man sulking in the corner. Blaise sits opposite him, jabbering on about something. But Marcus sees nothing else besides the sacerdos.
“Don’t do anything you’ll regret,” Alessandra murmurs.
“That’s exactly what I intend to do,” Marcus bites out, rushing at them.
Sacerdos Matteo barely has time to look up and recognize Marcus before he grabs the man’s robes at the neck and pulls him up from his chair, pushing him against the wall. The sounds of the other patrons—including Blaise—scurrying out barely penetrate his ears.
“P-P-Praetor Marcus,” the sacerdos stutters. “Is there a problem?”
“I know what you did,” Marcus seethes, tightening his grasp on his robes. “I know you sent Dru to her death.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking?—”
Marcus tightens his grip and speaks through his teeth. “Don’t. Lie. To me.”
Face reddening, he finally chokes out, “She murdered a high-ranking senator in the Imperium, a friend of mine. That girl deserved to die.”
Marcus’s lip curls. “Unfortunately for you, she lived. But your lion wasn’t so lucky.”
Fear widens his gray eyes. “Deus auxilium.”
“Your gods can’t help you now,” Marcus growls.
“Marcus,” Alessandra calls to him.
He ignores her. “If it were up to me, I’d kill you where you stand. But you’re not worth starting a war over.” He leans in closer to the sacerdos. “You’re going to leave Anziano today. I don’t care how, but I’ll escort you over the Mercato Bridge myself if necessary.”
“Praetor Marcus!” the regina vedova barks at him.
Maintaining his grip, he glances over his shoulder to find a Phaedran man he’s never seen before holding a knife to Alessandra’s ribs, one thrust away from stabbing her in the heart. His tunic barely clings to his boney frame, and his dark eyes are sunken in, the hand holding the knife trembling.
His vengeance dissipates. Deodamnatus, I should’ve stayed at her side .
Cold fear sweeps down Marcus’s spine, spurring him into action. He releases Sacerdos Matteo; the holy man crumples to the ground and scrambles back into the corner. Turning on his heel, Marcus takes a step toward the other man? —
“Stay where you are.” His soft voice quivers. “Or I’ll carry out the order I was given and kill her.”
The Imperium’s order, no doubt. Marcus holds out his hands, trying to decide whether or not he has enough time to reach for the sheathed dagger at his hip and throw it before the man can make a move. “Let’s not?—”
A strange twang cuts him off. The man’s eyes roll into the back of his head before he collapses to the ground.
The bard stands behind him, lute held high over his head, chest heaving.
Marcus blinks, certain he’s imagining things. Yet the bard remains, the lute quaking in his grip.
Straightening, Marcus approaches the would-be assassin. He places the bottom of his sandal on the man’s cheek and pushes it to the other side. Mouth hanging open, he doesn’t stir.
“Well done,” Marcus commends, and the bard’s eyes brighten, a smile stretching across his lips. “Now go find one of my men.”
He nods seriously, slinging his instrument over his shoulder and running out of the tabernae.
Once he’s gone, Marcus regards Alessandra. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” She pushes out her chin, though her voice wobbles slightly. “I knew something like this would happen. The Imperium will do anything and everything to hurt my son, including going after the people he loves.”
He steels himself, channeling his anger more productively now. “Don’t worry, this won’t go unpunished.”
The bard returns with one of his guards, Nico, who glances between Marcus, the unconscious assassin, and the sacerdos in the corner. His eyes widen once they find Marcus again.
“Arrest this one”—Marcus points to the man on the floor—“and take him to the holding cell in the arena barracks. Then meet me outside the palace with another guard and two horses.”
Nico procures the irons from his belt and kicks the assassin over so that he flops onto his stomach. Yanking back his arms, he locks them in place and hauls him to his feet, lifting him over his shoulder like a sack of flour.
Marcus turns back to the sacerdos. Standing once more, he grasps his quivering hands together. The dirt from the tavern floor has sullied his red robes, the fabric partly twisted at the throat from Marcus’s grip.
He holds up his hands. “I’ll come peacefully.”
They walk out of the tabernae together, close enough the holy man can’t escape but far enough apart they won’t arouse suspicion.
Alessandra and the bard walk in front of them; the old queen murmurs something in the bard’s ear, and he smiles.
Marcus hates to admit it, but Alessandra wouldn’t be alive if not for the bard intervening.
A modicum of trust and respect takes root in his mind.
Marcus plans not to say a word to the blasphemous sacerdos until he opens his mouth.
“I suggest killing the man who tried to assassinate Regina Vedova, and soon. Legatus Ambitus will do far worse to him if you leave him alive tonight.”
Instead of divulging to Matteo that the assassin is too valuable for him to die yet, Marcus says, “I’m not going to take advice from a man who failed to kill their own intended victim.”
Sacerdos Matteo doesn’t respond.
Rage continues to race through his veins as they make their way to the palace in silence. Everything in him wants to fatally stab the sacerdos and leave him to bleed out in the street. But he can’t. Not when he’s a welcome guest of Cato’s and a Phaedran holy man.
Like he told the sacerdos, Marcus refuses to be the reason the Imperium wages war against Anziano.
Climbing the steps to the outskirts of the olive grove, he finds two of his men on horseback waiting for them. Nico dismounts and places a set of irons around Sacerdos Matteo’s wrists. He doesn’t struggle as Nico helps him onto his horse, and then gets into position behind him so he can’t escape .
Sacerdos Matteo juts out his chin. “You’re going to regret this. The Imperium won’t take kindly to you exiling their holy man.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Marcus concedes. “I have no doubt I’m going to regret not killing you the moment I found you in the tabernae. You’ll do well to remember my mercy.”
He regards Nico. “Take him to the bridge and leave him there. He can find his own way to Phaedra.”
Watching them until they pass through the olive grove and meet with the main road out of Anziano, he catches up to the bard and Alessandra as they enter the palace.
The physician passes them, his head down. Marcus fights the urge to stop him and ask how Dru is, or to go straight to her room. But not until he tells Cato what happened.
He finds the king floating on his back in the pool with his eyes closed. Having not changed out of his attire from the arena, he taints the water with blood and dirt and oils.
“Already back from your ill-fated attempt at revenge, Marcus?” Cato asks, keeping his eyes shut. “Dru told me.”
Marcus crouches at the pool’s edge. “I took my small bit of revenge and threw the Imperium’s sacerdos out of Anziano. But your mother was nearly assassinated.”
Cato’s eyes wrench open, and he flails in the water, sputtering. “Che cazzo, what do you mean she was nearly assassinated ? Where is she?”
Marcus points behind him, where she’s in deep conversation with the bard.
“She’s unharmed, if not a little shaken.”
Cato’s dark blue gaze sparks. “What happened?”
Marcus recounts for him what transpired at the tabernae: how he went to the temple first to find Sacerdos Matteo and Alessandra followed him; how he confronted the sacerdos for trying to kill Dru; how some Phaedran threatened to murder her and the bard hit him over the head with his lute before he could .
“I owe Jove a great debt,” Cato mutters, watching the bard converse with his mother. “A debt I can never repay.”
Marcus doesn’t speak aloud how deep his distrust of the bard has run since meeting him, though he certainly hasn’t tried to hide it.
But he also knows he let his anger at the sacerdos get the best of him when he should’ve been protecting Alessandra.
He made revenge his priority, and she nearly paid for his mistake with her life.
“He certainly put himself in my good graces, especially after I shirked my duties to stay at her side in the name of vengeance.”
Cato doesn’t take his eyes off his mother. “I understand why you did it, but it can’t happen again.”
Marcus nods. “I completely agree.”
“I’m sure you saw the physician leave?” Cato asks after a moment.
“I did,” Marcus answers carefully. “How is she?”
“Healing. But he gave her enough sedative to last her through the night.”
Imagining her lying there, unconscious, Marcus’s chest aches. “Was it that bad?”
“After he sewed her up, she asked him to burn the wounds.” Marcus sucks in a breath, but Cato holds up a hand. “We both fought her on it, but she reasoned she’d be no good to herself or me if the stitches on her wounds opened up in the middle of the race or during the gladiator fight.”
Marcus swallows, wishing he’d been there for her instead of taking her revenge into his hands. But at least the sacerdos is out of Anziano. He can’t hurt her here.
“I would’ve done the same thing,” Marcus admits after a moment.
“She’ll be all right,” Cato assures him, climbing out of the pool. “And so will my mother now that she’s staying here.”
“Does she get a choice?”
Seriousness envelops Cato, deadening his eyes. “No. She doesn’t.”