39. Drusilla #2
“Stop this madness,” he demands. The arena refuses to quiet, until more soldiers fill the stairs of each row, hands firm on the hilts of their swords. I didn’t realize they’d brought so many here with them. Fear turns in her stomach.
“There was no cause for the Durevolian competitors to attack innocent Phaedran soldiers trying to keep the peace.”
“No cause?” Dru asks, while Marcus wonders, “Peace?”
“Because of this, the Durevolians involved must suffer the consequences of their actions. Drop your weapons and face your crimes.”
The Phaedran soldiers pick up their fallen swords and force the competitors without weapons to their knees. Those with spears glance at one another and continue to stand, but for how much longer?
“Stop!” Cato yells. Spinning around, Dru finds him beside the stone pillar. Blood drips down his face and chest, though she can’t be sure if it’s his or another competitor’s.
“You don’t want them, Ambitus,” he calls out. “You want me.”
“Cato, don’t,” Marcus mumbles under his breath.
Dru doesn’t understand what’s happening. “What the fuck is he doing? ”
“Something he shouldn’t. Something that was meant to be a last resort not a bargaining chip.”
Marcus must be talking about the plan Cato alluded to earlier, but she’s smart enough not to ask about the details right now.
“How do we stop him?” she asks.
“We can’t,” Marcus states tightly.
Cato continues, “I offer myself in place of these men and women—my people—in exchange for their freedom.”
Ambitus considers this for a moment. “And what form do you wish your sacrifice to take?”
Fucking snake. Where’s the honor in that?
“Trial by single combat, with a combatant of your choosing,” Cato says, and Dru gasps. Cato’s decent with a sword, but not enough to challenge a skilled fighter. “If I win, you will leave these shores and never return.”
“And if you lose?”
Cato’s expression doesn’t change. “I have drafted a document with a plan in place to transfer power peacefully.”
“No,” Dru breathes. “He can’t do this.”
She looks over at Marcus, whose jaw pops from clenching it so hard. “He already has.”
Ambitus nods. “I accept these terms.”
“And who will be your challenger?” Cato calls out. “Given most of your great warriors are dead.”
“I will be the challenger.”
Dru stops breathing at the sound of the voice behind her. It can’t be.
Slowly turning, she watches the bard enter the arena, a Gladius sword in each hand.
No sound comes out of her mouth, despite a hundred nasty words for him flying around in her head. Bastard, traitor, fucking spy.
He approaches the two of them, regarding Marcus specifically.
“I knew you were a rat,” Marcus says, seething.
The bard watches him, his features relaxed. “And yet you did nothing about it.”
“A mistake I won’t make again.”
The bard maintains his composure. “You won’t get the chance. You sealed your own fate and the fate of your king by not checking in with the Faithless more often.”
“Faithless?” Dru wonders, ears ringing. “You’re not Faithless—you can’t be. Where’s your tattoo?”
He doesn’t do her the decency of looking at her. “Hidden, where it should be.”
“Even if you are Faithless, the Three would never allow this,” Marcus argues.
“Yes, well, if you’d bothered to write any time in the last year, then you would’ve known the old leaders were ousted, and a new one rose to power. He sent me here to make sure you followed through on your orders to kill King Cato.”
Kill King Cato? Dru glances at Marcus, the truth of his purpose in Anziano—and subsequently her own—turning his gaze downcast. She can’t believe he never told her.
That he allowed her to think she was here under orders from the Faithless to help Cato win the blood trials, no matter how misguided the true orders are.
Probably because he assumed you’d be loyal to the Faithless, and not to him; that you’d get him killed over disobeying those orders.
“The last time I was given orders, it was from the Three,” Dru says.
The bard sighs, finally gracing her with his attention. “I’ll admit, Drusilla, I’m disappointed. You’re somewhat of a legend among the trainees, but it seems you’ve gone soft.”
He pushes past them, heading for Cato.
Surprise and hurt flicker across the king’s gaze. “After I gave you food and wine and a place to stay, after you spied for me, drank with me, and saved my mother’s life… Why?”
“Because I had to do everything I could to get you to trust me. Because, unlike Marcus, I follow orders.” He offers the hilt of one of his swords to Cato. “Also unlike Marcus, I’m an expert swordsman.”
Without warning, the bard lunges for Cato, who barely gets his sword up in time to block him.
Cato remains on the defense at first, the bard coming at him with a strength and determination that surprises Dru. She never would’ve guessed the bard an expert in anything, but he managed to fool them all so easily.
He’s right, I have gone soft—despite everything telling me otherwise, I trusted him .
The crowd has gone silent, not one person chanting for the destruction of the Imperium now that the fate of their country hinges on the outcome of this single fight. The king and the bard exchange blows back and forth, each clang of the swords eating away at Dru’s patience.
Finally, Cato gains the advantage when he parries the next attack, pushing the bard’s sword out of the way and swinging for his midsection. The bard jumps back, the tip of the blade slicing through the fabric of his tunic.
It only seems to calm the traitor; he drops his shoulders and loosens his arms, waiting for Cato to come at him again.
When he does, Cato strikes, arcing to the left—the bard easily knocks it down, forcing the tip of Cato’s blade to scrape against the ground.
Cato leaps back, only narrowly avoiding the bard’s lazy upward swipe. He’s playing with him.
Circling each other, sweat pours down Cato’s face, mixing with the caked-on blood. His chest heaves, and his feet drag on the ground.
“He’s not going to make it,” Dru says softly.
Marcus doesn’t disagree.
Having caught his breath, Cato lunges forward again.
The bard blocks him down once more, but Cato immediately comes after him, not giving him a moment’s rest. They exchange blow after blow, forcing the bard to put in some effort.
Dru shakes her head. It won’t be enough, not with Cato expending all this energy.
The bard bats Cato down again, hard enough that his dominant knee wobbles.
Seeing his opportunity, the bard lifts his sword above his head.
Finally, an opening for Cato . Regaining his composure, Cato lunges.
But the bard blocks the move with his sword, holding Cato’s in place.
Lifting his foot, the bard kicks Cato just above his groin and pushes off, forcing him to stumble back and nearly fall.
Taking advantage, the bard surges forward; Cato barely gets his sword up in time, but it doesn’t matter. The bard effortlessly pushes his sword to the side and plunges forward, making contact.
Cato drops his sword and falls to the ground, the bard’s sword stuck through his gut, right beneath his breastplate.
“No!” she screams, running to him as the bastard pulls his blade from Cato’s flesh with a squelch. The bard raises his sword in victory, met with only the screams and cries of the Durevolians.
Dru falls to the ground at Cato’s side, taking his face in her hands. Shock slashes along his dark blue eyes and his brow, blood gushing from his wound and soaking the dirt in crimson.
Chest heaving in unreleased sobs, she pushes his dark hair back from his sweat-slick face, her heart breaking inside her chest. Marcus kneels down on his other side, grasping Cato’s hand in his.
The king’s glassy eyes shift to Marcus, his next words strangled. “Do you have it with you?”
Marcus nods. “I do.”
“Tell her”—he chokes—“so she won’t be surprised when you announce it… to the entire arena.”
“Announce what?” Dru asks as Marcus pulls a folded slip of paper from the small pocket on his belt.
“This document claims you and Cato were married in secret by the Tredici high priestess, making you Queen of Anziano. It also names an heir.” Marcus’s gaze strays to the place below her stomach.
Bile rising up her throat, she turns to Cato. “Why?”
Cato’s smile wavers. “I loved you, you know. In my own way. The way one loves a sister or a close friend. You’re the only one besides Marcus I can trust my kingdom with who isn’t family.”
Tears well in her eyes, her chest tight. “And this supposed heir?”
His breath becomes labored. “Despite me naming you… as successor by marriage… they could’ve decided to kill you anyway. But if you’re pregnant?—”
“I haven’t been here long enough to get pregnant,” she argues.
Cato laughs, coughing up blood. Crimson spatters on his cheeks and runs down the side of his mouth. Dru wipes it away, only to smear it.
“Most men… especially men in power… are too stupid… to know that,” he explains, wheezing. “They’ll accept it… for now.”
She takes an unsteady breath. “Cato, I can’t be queen.”
He reaches blindly for her hand, and she grasps his with both of hers. “You can… and you will. My mother… will help you.” He coughs again, more blood gurgling up his throat. “I’m… sorry I’ve left you both… with such a mess. I know… you’ll do right… by me… by my people.”
Before Dru can think of how to answer, his last breath leaves his chest. Deep red stains his dark skin as the last bit of life leaves his eyes, and then he’s gone.
No.
Anger and sorrow fight for a place inside her heart, a sob clawing up her throat as her lip trembles. She stays at his side, one hand grasping his lifeless one, the other brushing over his eyes to close them.
Marcus, however, climbs to his feet, unfolding the vital piece of paper, hands trembling slightly.
“The king is dead.”
At that statement, the Durevolians left in the crowd cry out in shared agony.
Marcus holds up a hand to quiet them, speaking loud enough for the entire arena to hear.
“As part of the peaceful transfer of power agreed to prior to the outcome of this combat, I hold in my hands a document signed in the king’s own hand, detailing the transfer of power of his kingdom”—he gestures at Dru—“to Drusilla Valerius, Queen of Anziano and mother to his unborn heir.”
The crowd collectively gasps. And though Dru hasn’t recovered from Cato’s death and can’t wrap her head around why he chose her, she knows his death will mean nothing if she doesn’t follow through with his plan.
Getting to her feet and placing a blood-stained hand over her empty womb, she leans into the gutting loss she feels.
Mutterings spatter across the arena, but Ambitus holds up a hand.
“That woman is a servant.” He glances down at his ledger. “A one Sabina Cantu, cousin to King Cato.”
“Drusilla took the place of Sabina without your knowledge in order to protect her,” Marcus explains.
Dru watches Ambitus’s face turn red from where she stands. A sick sense of satisfaction battles against the sorrow inside her.
“This changes nothing,” Ambitus says after a moment, deep irritation underscoring his words. “Control of Anziano will go to the Imperium.”
“Not if you want to hold to your terms with Cato,” Marcus argues.
Dru nearly smiles—the people of Anziano will make a peaceful transfer of power impossible if the Imperium doesn’t stay true to what Ambitus and Cato agreed to.
“You accepted the term that Cato drafted a document with a plan in place to transfer power, but you did not ask him to specify to whom that power would go.”
Ambitus’s lip curls.
“Fine,” he says between his teeth. “But you will not take part in this transfer, Marcus.”
The bard walks toward Marcus, manacles taken from one of the Phaedran soldiers swinging lazily from his grasp. Marcus hands Dru the paper while she stands there, feet rooted to the ground, as the bard clamps the metal in place around his wrists.
Ambitus speaks over the dissenting crowd. “Under the authority of the Phaedran Imperium, for refusing to follow orders, you, Marcus Scaevola, are arrested for treason. You will stand trial at the Imperium capital of Phaedra and, if found guilty, be put to death.”
Dru’s mouth opens in horror, unable to take a proper breath. Stellae, this can’t be happening.
The bard kicks the back of Marcus’s legs, and he falls to his knees, breaking Dru from her standstill.
She hurries over, kneeling before him. His gaze searches hers, a myriad of emotions passing between them. If she weren’t bound to Anziano by the piece of paper in her hand, she’d offer to take his place right now.
Not caring how this makes either of them look, she places her hand over his heart. His eyes deepen with unsaid words, brow softening.
She presses her fingers into his chest. “Wherever you go, I will find you,” she promises.
“No, don’t come after me,” he bites out. “I’m as good as dead, and you will be too if they catch you. You’ll be safe in Anziano.” His gaze shifts toward the bard. “Though you can no longer trust the Faithless.”
“No one will be safe in Anziano. Marcus?—”
“Do as I ask. Please.” His eyes beg her to see reason.
She wants to rage against his damned wishes. But he’ll only try to stop her. If she gives in, he’ll believe her.
Closing her eyes, she nods and hangs her head, tears carving down her cheeks.
Leaning forward, he presses his forehead against hers. Not for too long, otherwise people might call into question her marriage to Cato in the name of love, as the letter infers. But enough to say goodbye.
“Enough of that,” the bard barks.
Pulling Marcus up by his armor, he shoves him in the direction of the exit. Dru gets unsteadily to her feet, watching him go as her heart breaks. He glances back at her but the bard pushes him harder this time, so he turns forward until he passes the Phaedran soldiers and out of sight.
She watches the spot longer than she should, even while the heartbroken crowd files silently out of the arena. Standing beside Cato’s body in the last place she saw Marcus, she doesn’t move until someone grabs her arms and squeezes.
Bleary-eyed, she finds Sabina standing in front of her.
“The Imperium wants to speak with you about your relationship with Cato and the legitimacy of the marriage,” she tells her softly.
Dru doesn’t react beyond allowing Sabina and her own feet to guide her out of the arena and up the path to the palace.
To take her place as Queen of Anziano.