30. Marcus
CHAPTER THIRTY
MARCUS
“ C an I interest you in a good time, Praetor?”
Marcus glances up at the proprietor of the brothel across the road from the ballo.
Dru and Sabina must’ve gotten in without issue because he watched them go inside and they have yet to come out.
She’s older than the other women here, with fine clothes and long graying hair, but she bears it well.
Very well, as he recalls, though it’s been two years at least since his single dalliance with her.
“Thank you, but no.” He nods at the butcher shop through the open window. “I’m on duty.”
“For one servant and a visiting Phaedran?” she asks sweetly. “Seems like a lot of trouble to go to.”
He stiffens. “You’ve always been observant, Antonella.”
She smiles, her red lips parting to reveal perfect teeth. “I wouldn’t be where I am now if I wasn’t.”
When he doesn’t respond, she nods and moves on. “Can I get you another drink, then?”
“I’ll stick with this one, thanks.” He takes a small sip of it and looks out the window again .
“You seem different,” she comments after a moment. “Still burdened, but in a way you weren’t before.”
Stellae, just leave me alone.
“The praetor to the king is always burdened with something.”
She clicks her tongue. “No, something’s changed from the last time you were here.”
“Many things have changed since the last time I was here,” he nearly growls, ashamed for giving in to some of his baser wants. “Anziano wasn’t hosting the Valorem Blood Trials, for one.”
He glances around the brothel, not noting any Phaedrans. Though that doesn’t mean there aren’t any.
“You don’t have to tell me about it?—”
“Something we agree on,” he mutters.
“—but you seem more content than before. Less restless. That’s all.”
Because of Dru. He wants to say it aloud, but he doesn’t want to share his past with Antonella. Not when they’ve known each other intimately, when she’s seen him at his weakest.
He’s about to ask her to leave him to his duties when the distinct rhythm of chanting reaches his ears. Peering back out the window, he can’t see anything, but the sound of the repeated words grows closer. And angrier.
Tossing a pair of coins on the table, he rushes out of the brothel’s tabernae without another word to Antonella.
With the sun directly overhead, he throws his arm across his forehead to block out the worst of it.
The sun’s glare doesn’t stop him from seeing the incensed crowd of Durevolians marching down the street and heading this way.
A few carry spears with them, some grasp swords and wooden shields—but they’re all yelling the same thing:
“Morte all’Imperium! Morte all’Imperium! Morte all’Imperium!”
Thinking quick, he makes a run for the butcher’s shop. The mob is far enough away that he can still get Dru and Sabina out if he hurries. He throws the door open and heads directly for the back. Luckily, the shop is empty, except for the butcher behind the counter.
“Sangue,” he says breathlessly.
The old man shakes his head. “Sorry, Praetor Marcus, I can’t let you in.”
Marcus heads for the cloth he imagines leads to the ballo, but the man steps in front of him. Impatience pulls at his nerves, his hands clenching into fists.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Marcus says through his teeth. “But I will if you don’t move. A mob is coming this way, and they might turn violent.”
Fear widens the old man’s eyes as he considers this, then nods. “There’s another way out.”
Marcus gestures forward. “Lead the way.”
Once they’ve made it through the short passage, the butcher yanks open the door. Music and laughter fill Marcus’s ears; upon the two men entering, however, it immediately stops.
The butcher cups his hands around his mouth. “Disperdere!”
Marcus watches as the partygoers instantly panic, running into one another. Their voices raise in a high cacophony of worry and fear, unsure of where to go. He looks around for Dru and Sabina but doesn’t see them.
A woman at the back of the room opposite the butcher’s shop starts waving her hands. “This way, through the flower shop.”
They all rush over to her like a flowing river in spring, but Marcus doesn’t care about any of them except for Dru and Sabina. Searching the crowd again, he spots what looks like Dru’s dark locks on the other side of the courtyard.
“Dru!” he calls out, not caring if he sounds desperate. She doesn’t turn.
“Merda,” he swears, unable to find a way over to her.
“Marcus,” a familiar voice murmurs, and he finds Sabina and Dru standing beside him.
Relief floods him, washing away the panic threatening to overtake him.
“We need to get out of here. There’s a mob of armed Durevolian dissenters in the streets.”
Despite Dru’s glassy eyes and the sweet smell of Nettare on her breath, she nods in understanding, taking Sabina’s hand. Marcus grabs Dru’s hand—she squeezes it tight in return, warm and reassuring, and he swallows hard at the contact.
Following the last of the women out through the flower shop, they hold fast to each other.
They turn down the street outside the shop to head back toward the palace, when they’re met with another group of angry Durevolians, chanting their war cry.
They don’t seem to be hurting anyone or destroying any property, but he doesn’t want to take the chance that he’ll be recognized as the praetor.
The mob may be anti-Imperium, but that doesn’t mean they’re pro-monarchy.
Not when that same monarchy opened the door to allow the Imperium in.
“Come on,” he grunts, dragging them across the street and into a deep alcove between homes.
Once they’re hidden, Sabina releases Dru’s hand, pacing to the end and looking up at the sky.
Marcus, however, doesn’t let go of Dru—and she doesn’t let go of him.
Facing away from the street, he leans his body against the wall to block them as the mob walks by, concentrating on keeping them hidden.
Dru’s thumb brushes the inside of his palm, near his wrist. He glances down to find her staring at their clasped hands.
Even with the mob at their backs, he’s reminded of when he had her pinned against the olive tree of the tabernae in Nusquam.
They hadn’t seen each other in six years, and though they could’ve been attacked by either Namican or Phaedran soldiers at any moment, all he wanted to do was take her in his arms.
That feeling never left him.
“Well, this is familiar,” Dru murmurs, reading his mind as she peers up at him through her dark lashes. The faint perfume of Nettare wafts up from her breath, and his eyes rake over her loosened hair, the soft skin of her exposed shoulders, the deep gold of her eyes, her lips.
“Are you drunk?” he asks, trying and failing to ignore the warmth spreading through him at her proximity.
One side of her lips tips up. “Only a little.”
“We need to get you something to eat,” he says, allowing himself to lean into her.
Sabina clears her throat, her words nervous and barely slurred. “I don’t think this is the right time to be flirting.”
Marcus blinks, extricating his hand from Dru’s grasp. “Right.”
He glances over his shoulder to find that the mob has moved on. “Let’s go.”
The silence deafens their walk back to the palace. Everyone else has returned to their homes while the mob roams the streets, making them the only souls brave enough to be out. He’s going to have to station more men throughout the city, especially near the temple.
“Why today?” Dru asks. “Of all days?”
“I’m not sure,” he admits as they pass the temple and start up the stairs to the palace. “Durevolians died in the trial yesterday, but so did a similar number of Phaedrans.”
“I thought the Durevolians were proud of their traditions.”
“Not all of them are, it seems.” Marcus sighs as they reach the top of the steps. “It doesn’t help that the old king has allowed the Imperium to integrate themselves into it. The people were bound to rebel.”
“This is what I get for letting loose for once in my life,” Sabina grumbles.
“It wasn’t all bad,” Dru tells her, throwing an arm around her shoulder. Marcus stifles a grin. “One time, I was deep inside a brothel when it got raided by the Imperium. I would’ve gotten arrested if not for the secret exit into the mountain pass. ”
“I’m guessing a brothel was Ovi’s idea?” Marcus asks without thinking, instantly regretting it.
He glances back at Dru to find her smile gone. Merda. He doesn’t bring it up again, and neither does Sabina, too caught up in herself.
Marcus finds the king in deep conversation with his mother as soon as he enters through the palace doors.
“Cato, we’ve got a problem.”
“I know.” Cato meets them in front of his throne. “Valente came by to make me aware of the mob. I’m glad to see you’re all unharmed.”
“Had you heard nothing about this, Marcus?” Alessandra asks. “A whisper, even?”
He thinks about what Valente told him the other morning, about secret meetings. He wishes he’d put more stock in it, even if there wasn’t enough information to go on.
“There have been rumblings of trial resisters for weeks now, but I had nothing but rumors to go on. Not until the lottery. And I was certain the Phaedran soldiers made enough of a point they wouldn’t try again.”
“There were a lot more of them today than at the lottery,” Dru offers in his defense. “That was a few malcontents. This was a rebellion. Someone must be organizing them.”
“Did they hurt anyone?” Cato asks. “Or destroy anything?”
“Not as far as I could tell.”
Cato sighs. “Station more men across town, but otherwise, let the Phaedrans deal with them.”
Marcus bows his head as Dru places her arm around Sabina’s shoulders again.
They walk over to the pool and take off their sandals, dipping their legs in.
Dru speaks to Sabina softly, quietly; the girl nods, a tear sliding down her cheek.
Anger simmers inside him at what could’ve happened if the mob decided to turn violent.
If he hadn’t been there to get them out.
“The Phaedrans will only be here a few more days,” Cato cuts into his thoughts. “Then they’ll be a distant memory. ”
That’s unlikely , Marcus thinks, but Alessandra speaks first.
“That’s unrealistic, Cato.”
The king turns to his mother. “What do you mean?”
She taps her cane on the floor. “I did not raise you to be this na?ve. The Phaedrans have come here to sink their influence into Anziano, and they won’t hesitate to put down a small mob of dissenters—your people—if it means maintaining control.”
“They promised Father they would leave after the trials are over,” Cato argues, though his voice is small. Smaller than Marcus has ever heard it.
Alessandra sighs, getting to her feet. “Believe what you will. They’re going to take what they want either way.” She regards Marcus. “Please bring me back to the temple.”
Cato stands. “No, mother—you’re staying here tonight. I won’t hear a word about it.”
Alessandra purses her lips. “Very well.” Then she walks off to the chambers Cato keeps ready for her and shuts the door behind her.
Cato scrunches his forehead with his ringed fingers. “I’m afraid you ended up bringing Drusilla into the belly of the beast instead of keeping her away from it.”
“It can’t be as bad as all that,” Marcus says, lowering his voice.
“We won’t know until the Imperium makes a true move for the throne, but if they do,” he sighs, “there’s nothing we can do to stop them.”
They stand together in silence until Dru extricates herself from Sabina and walks up to them.
“How is she?” Cato asks.
Dru tucks a piece of hair behind her ear that came loose from her braid. “A little shaken up, but I think she’s glad she went.”
Cato’s gaze looks far away. “I’ve always wondered what that place was like. But I’m not allowed in.”
Dru crosses her arms. “You can’t tell me you’re jealous. The ballo is the one place women get to be themselves without the eyes of men following them. ”
He raises a brow. “Fair point.”
Dru leans a hip against Cato’s throne. “Should we be worried about this mob?”
Marcus and Cato share a look. They both know the mob is a threat, but with their ire pointed at the Imperium, there’s no reason to stop them. And showing any might from their king might turn the tide against them too.
“One way or another, it’ll die out,” Marcus says finally.
“Maybe.” She presses her thumb hard into her other palm—a tic he recognizes from some of their harder days training at the Faithless.
“Nervous for tomorrow?” Marcus asks.
She shifts her hands behind her back. “Yes and no. I’m a decent rider, but I’ve never competed in an actual race before.”
“I wouldn’t worry about placing,” Marcus says, then regards Cato. “The same goes for you.”
Cato opens his mouth, but Dru asks first. “Why not?”
“Because this race has no rules. Even weapons are allowed, except for long-range ones. And with the Imperium out to get you, it’s not worth the risk.”
“Whatever happened to the sacerdos?” Dru asks.
Marcus straightens. “I exiled him.”
After a moment, Dru nods once. “Thank you.”
“And what about you?” Cato looks pointedly at Marcus. “They came for me, the sacerdos came for Dru—why can’t you be next?”
Marcus crosses his arms. “I can handle myself.”
Cato turns to Dru. “Did he just insult us?”
She crosses her arms. “I believe he did.”
“All I’m asking is for you to be careful, both of you.” Marcus heads for the table to see if there’s anything left to eat, ending the discussion.
“And all we’re asking,” Cato says quietly as he comes up beside him, “is that you do the same for yourself. ”
“My duty is to protect you,” Marcus argues. “Anything else is secondary.”
Cato cocks his head. “You’re honestly trying to tell me that protecting her is secondary.”
Marcus glances around Cato to find Dru staring out the window at the sea.
The afternoon breeze flutters along the deep brown wisps of her hair as she closes her eyes.
Her dark green backless dress gently clings to her form.
The wounds on her arms appear to be healing quicker than he imagined, though they’re still angry and red.
Marcus should’ve given the sacerdos those same lacerations before he left, as a physical reminder of what will happen if he ever returns to Anziano.
Marcus swallows. “It has to be. She’s more than capable.”
“I’ve been riding horses since I was a boy and was always the fastest,” Cato argues. “Can Dru say the same?”
Marcus sighs softly. “It wasn’t a priority in her training, no.”
“Then I think you know what you have to do.”
Marcus doesn’t take his eyes off Dru, knowing Cato’s right.