28. Marcus
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
MARCUS
B reathing in the earthy scent of hay, Marcus looks out as the sun rises over the Scabroso Mountains.
He watches their sharp forms illuminate as he takes stock of his life’s choices in the comfort of the royal stables.
Situated deep inside the olive grove opposite the palace, it’s calmest here in the morning, before most riders have risen for the day.
Cato’s horse resides here with his, as well as the horse Dru will ride in the trial tomorrow.
All of the King’s Guard, including Marcus, keep their horses lodged here; he has a guard stationed outside now, ensuring no one attempts sabotage for tomorrow’s trial.
He turns and places his hand on the muzzle of his own beast, Leale. She’s been good to him these past few years after the horse he rode here from the Faithless passed away.
Marcus would’ve ridden Leale to Nusquam to find Dru, but he needed to remain conspicuous, and riding in with a war horse on the eve of battle between the Imperium and their most recent conquest—something Cato’s Imperium spies learned of days before—would’ve only called attention to him.
Luckily, he caught a ride with a shipment of silk being couriered through Nusquam that afternoon, giving him time to figure out where Dru and Ovi might stop.
“We have to do well tomorrow, Leale,” Marcus whispers to her before glancing over at Cato’s horse beside him. “You too, Veloce.”
The horses huff in agreement.
“We will all need to be brave,” he murmurs softly.
His mind goes to where it always does: Dru.
The further along they get in the trials, the more anxious he becomes.
Dru’s held her own, and so has Cato—according to Alessandra, he valiantly fought off a skilled knife-fighter from the Mediaterra of the Imperium after making it out of the maze.
But he worries the sacerdos won’t be the only person to come after Dru purposefully. Next time, she might not be so lucky.
“Marcus?”
“There you are.” Marcus turns. “I appreciate you coming.”
“I couldn’t deny an order from the praetor,” the bard yawns, lute slung over his back, his hair and clothes askew. His constant existence of appearing disheveled never ceases. “But I’m curious what this is about. And why we’re in the royal stables so early in the morning.”
“I came to check on my horse before the race tomorrow.” He sighs, swallowing his pride. “And I wanted to thank you. For what you did at the tabernae.”
The bard tucks his chin. “I did what anyone else would’ve done.”
“I’ve seen enough of the continent to know that’s not true.”
The bard steps inside the stables but doesn’t say anything, staring sightlessly at the horses in their stalls.
“I feel as if I have no right to ask after yesterday, but what are you still doing in Anziano?” Marcus wonders after a moment. “There’s a lot more money to be made in Phaedra. Why stay?”
The bard reaches for one of the horses; the beast turns away from him, huffing. “You might find this hard to believe, but I’m not liked by many in the Imperium, even those of my own trade. No, especially those of my own trade. ”
“I believe it,” Marcus mutters. “But Cato likes to keep you around. To spy for him.”
The bard nods. “And it’s good to be in the favor of a king.”
“It’s good to be in favor with the Imperium too,” Marcus argues, a last-ditch effort to get him to admit he’s not who he says he is. “And someone like you could do both.”
He shrugs. “I have no allegiance to either—I’m merely a servant to my own whims.”
Enough of this. Marcus strides up to the bard. He towers over him enough to appear menacing.
“I can’t repay you for what you’ve done for Alessandra, for Cato, for Anziano. But if I’ve learned you have anything to do with the Imperium’s influence in these trials, I will personally rip you apart with my bare hands, and no one will stop me.”
The bard doesn’t flinch, a playful glint in his hazel-green eyes. “You’re an intimidating man, Marcus. I wouldn’t dare cross you.”
Studying him, he finds no weakness in his claim. “Good.”
He walks past him and out of the stables, hoping he’s right to place his trust in the bard.
Not a single soul passes him as he strides across the olive grove in the direction of the arena.
Anziano doesn’t suffer from much crime, and it’s often solved with fines or lashings.
On the occasion someone does something worse and a verdict from the king on their punishment is required, they keep them in a holding cell beneath the arena.
When he enters the barracks, most of the competitors have already risen for the day, eating breakfast and conversing with one another. Marcus doesn’t pay them any mind, and they spare him barely a glance in return.
At the far end of the barracks, past the messy cots in their divided spaces and the stench of wine and piss, he approaches the metal bars of the holding cell. Squinting into the torchlight, he looks for the failed assassin, finding him asleep on a pile of hay.
“Good morning,” he calls out. “I hope you’re ready to tell me who gave you the order to murder the regina vedova. ”
He doesn’t stir.
Of course he’s not amiable. Marcus takes out the key from around his belt and places it in the lock. But he doesn’t need it—the cell swings open with a groan. Peering closer, he sees it’s been tampered with, the metal hacked at with some sort of weapon.
Merda .
He strides over to the prisoner, finding him face-down on the straw.
Crimson soaks his clothes and bleeds into the golden hay, the smell of iron and shit a pungent concoction.
Turning him over, Marcus cringes. He’s completely unrecognizable: dozens of oozing stab wounds mar his body, his face, his neck.
His black eyes hang wide open, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling.
The sacerdos warned me this would happen. Which only serves to prove the Imperium was behind the attempt on Alessandra’s life. Marcus didn’t even need to torture the man to get that information.
He trudges back up to the palace, sending one of his guards to take care of the body.
Although no one has died in that cell as long as he’s been praetor, he finds it impossible to feel any sort of remorse.
This man’s situation, however, did mirror that of the Durevolian man Cato killed in the first trial, in which the Imperium was also unsuccessful.
If you’re going to brutally murder someone who tried to kill the mother of the king of Anziano, at least be discreet about it and get rid of the body. Or make a spectacle of them. Murdering him and leaving him in a holding cell proves no point except to reveal guilt.
Inside the palace walls, he finds Alessandra seated on her stool beside her son’s empty throne.
Exhaustion weighs down her shoulders, sleeplessness smudged beneath her bloodshot eyes.
He’s unsurprised she found little sleep last night after what happened, but her body will be even weaker because of it.
“Regina Vedova, I’m glad to see you’re up.”
She looks up at him but doesn’t truly see him, her mind clearly elsewhere. “Do you remember the day they crowned Cato king?”
He comes to stand in front of her and places a hand on Cato’s throne, speaking softly. “Of course, it’s the only time I’ve seen you cry.”
“It wasn’t out of happiness for him or sadness for my husband,” she admits. “I was— am —terrified for my son. I truly think he would’ve allowed you to be his proxy were his father still alive. But as soon as he passed, it was as if Cato had to prove his worth. To himself. To everyone else.”
“I should’ve tried harder to be his proxy,” Marcus confesses, saying it aloud for the first time.
She shakes her head. “No, he would’ve insisted on doing it. None could sway him—not even me, his own mother.”
He places a hand on her arm. “He’ll come out of this alive, Alessandra. I’ll make sure of it.”
She pats his hand. “You can’t be sure of anything, Marcus. And I don’t expect you to be. I know you’ll do all you can, but sometimes the gods have other plans.”
“Mother,” Cato calls out as he exits his chambers. “I’m glad you’re awake. I’ll have breakfast sent out.”
Alessandra beckons Marcus closer, and he takes a knee beside her so she can speak in his ear. “Protect my son as best you can in the final two trials, but protect yourself as well. There’s more to fear than mere death.”