38. Marcus
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
MARCUS
T oday, all but two of the competitors in the Valorem Blood Trials will die. And Marcus is going to do everything in his power to make certain Dru and Cato are the ones left standing.
The morning sun beats down on Marcus’s neck as he stands outside the Durevolian entrance to the arena. He planned to wait for Dru and Cato, but when he saw they weren’t in their rooms, he figured they must’ve come down early. Although he’s a little disappointed that Dru didn’t wait for him.
It’s going to be hot today. They’ll have to keep the sweat off their hands to maintain the grip on their spears and shields, perhaps use the dirt in the arena to coat them. His gladiator armor weighs a bit heavier on him in the heat too, but he’s grateful for the protection it offers.
The arena looms around him, casting long shadows from the angle of the sun. He takes a deep breath. This will be the last time I enter the Ammaliare arena. He steps inside to look for Dru and Cato—when someone places a hand on his arm.
He turns, finding Sabina. She’s panting, her gold eyes wet and red-rimmed like she’s been crying. His stomach sinks. Something’s wrong.
“Praetor Marcus, I couldn’t stop them.”
“Stop who?” he demands, gaze flitting across her to look for anything out of place. “What happened?”
Sabina releases a sob. “They took her—they took Dru.”
Wrath instantly ignites in his blood, boiling over.
“Where?” he growls.
Tears chart a path down her ruddy cheeks. “I don’t know.”
Before he can tear the entire country apart looking for her, Valente and another guard—Baldassare—run up to him, hands poised on the hilts of their swords.
Valente speaks first. “Praetor, we can’t find the king.”
Fuck. “What do you mean you can’t find him?”
Baldassare stands at attention. “He’s not in his chambers, or anywhere else in the palace.”
“Deodamnatus,” Marcus swears. “You two, with me. Sabina, back to the palace.”
She raises her chin. “I won’t leave without making sure Dru’s safe.”
I don’t have time for this. “And I’m ordering you to go. If this ends like I think it will, I want you as far away from this arena as possible.”
He turns back to his men. “Valente, your sword.” Marcus’s most trusted guard unsheathes his blade and hands it over without question.
Leaving Sabina there, he takes the stairs two at a time up to the balcony level, his men at his heels.
He glances out through the openings, finding the crowd has filled every available space in the arena, the last stragglers taking their seats.
Do the Durevolians realize their king might die today?
That, if he does, there will be consequences beyond their imaginings?
Although none of that matters if the king turns out to be missing.
The Imperium wouldn’t be reckless enough to assassinate Cato outside the arena, and not allowing him to participate defeats the purpose of killing him and ending his monarchy in his own trials. Something worse is at work here.
Sprinting through the emptying corridors, he stops outside the legatus’s balcony.
Gripping Valente’s sword in his hand, he barges inside. Ambitus’s own men don’t have time to react before Marcus places the blade at the ambassador’s throat. The sharp edge bites into his skin, drawing a bead of blood.
“Where are they?” Marcus demands between his teeth.
Legatus Ambitus has the gall to chuckle, despite the blade poised at his throat, one small movement away from slicing him open.
“It’s all part of the game, praetor.”
Marcus glances around the balcony, not seeing Venatus Magister Blaise anywhere. The only other bodies in the room are Ambitus’s guards, their swords pointed at him from nearly every angle.
“I’m going to give you a choice, Marcus Scaevola,” Ambitus says evenly. “Either let this trial play out as intended and accept the outcome, or watch your king and your love die without a chance to defend themselves.”
Marcus flexes his grip on the sword and his arm begins to tremble—not from the weight of the blade, but at the thought of not giving Dru and Cato a chance to survive when he’s the one who’s supposed to die today. Not them.
Slowly removing the blade from the legatus’s neck and stepping away, he hands the sword back to Val. Ambitus’s men sheathe their own swords in return.
“If you’ve hurt them in any way?—”
Ambitus stands and regards him, his remorseless expression cut with malice. “What can you possibly do to me when you’ll be down there with the rest of the riffraff?”
Marcus’s nostrils flare, almost wishing he still had the sword in his grasp. “I can throw a spear farther than you’ve ever seen.”
Without waiting for a response, he pivots on his heel and hurries down to the area entrance, anger and fear propelling him. He picks up a shield and spear from their respective crates, then regards his men.
“Go find Regina Vedova Alessandra and protect her at all costs. She’s likely on her way here already from the temple after her morning prayer—take her back to the palace and don’t let her leave your sight.”
They nod and hurry off, leaving Marcus to join the other remaining competitors.
Sweat born from nerves drips down his face and pools under his arms. He’s not sure what Ambitus has done with Dru and Cato, but at the very least, it sounds like they’re still alive.
I should’ve expected some sort of trick.
The drum beats once and the murmuring crowd goes silent.
“Phaedrans, Durevolians, it is time for the final Valorem Blood Trial: gladiator combat, where the last of the competitors will fight to the death until one Phaedran and one Durevolian claim victory,” Ambitus booms, and the crowd cheers. Marcus swallows down the bile in his throat.
“Given how unique these particular blood trials are, we thought we’d surprise you with a twist.”
At his command, the floor of the arena cranks open, revealing the top of a rounded stone pilar rising from below.
Dru and Cato, and a few others, soon come into view, each with metal irons clamped tight around their wrists, leaving them utterly helpless.
Horror consumes him, his jaw clenching from the unfairness of it all.
He’s not alone. The crowd boos, their dissent palpable. Even the Phaedrans don’t appear to think this is very fair. But he only has eyes for Dru, and for Cato directly beside her.
He grips the spear tight, physically stopping himself from going out there and setting them both free right now. The only thing staying his hand is the certainty that Ambitus will keep to his word, giving him no choice but to wait until the fighting starts.
Two drum beats, and then: “Competitors, please enter the arena.”