The Defiant (The Valiant #2)(21)

All Tully had time for was a moment of surprise before he sank to his knees and toppled forward motionless onto the ground. The look on Cai’s face as he slowly got to his feet spoke murder. He glared at the man who stood framed by the archway that led to the main house, draped in a toga of indigo-dyed wool.

On the ludus circuit, he was known as the Collector, for his rapacious drive to own only the best fighters. I knew him as the leader of the Sons of Dis, a depraved and cultish secret society dedicated to the sacrificial worship of a god of the Underworld. The rest of the Republic, blissfully ignorant, knew him as the respected citizen and politician, Tribune of the Plebs, Pontius Aquila.

Heron and Kronos, along with the domestic staff, were nearest to him as he came forward. They gaped at the Tribune in disbelief as he strolled at a languid pace into the chaos of the courtyard, looking as if he owned the place.

We were about to learn, to our horror, that he did.

“It pains me,” Aquila said, in a voice loud enough to be heard by all, “the circumstances that dictate the manner in which I must now present myself to you.”

“And what manner is that?” Heron asked.

“This ludus,” Aquila continued, “is an extremely valuable asset to the Republic. A treasured facility wherein you”—he gestured to the ragged, angry gathering of gladiatrices—“who should be joyful servants of the citizens of Rome, have learned and honed your craft. Rome needs you, ladies. Rome treasures your ongoing contribution to her vital and vibrant culture. You are to be safeguarded. But you have clearly been led astray and therefore must also be instructed in the errors of your ways . . . and rehabilitated accordingly.”

“What in Hades are you talking about?” Kronos snarled. “What errors?”

Aquila regarded him with a studied expression of mild disdain. “Why, this rebellion, of course.”

“Rebellion?” Heron was aghast. “Are you mad?”

“Have a care, physician,” Aquila warned, glaring at Heron down the length of his nose. “It is clear to me that there has been an attempted revolt at this ludus.” He gestured at the lot of us standing there in sleeping shifts and bare feet, weaponless, defenseless . . . vulnerable. If this was his idea of a revolt, it was the furthest thing from the meaning of the word as I’d learned it.

And where in the wide world was Sorcha to refute such a ridiculous claim? I felt a sharp twist of fear in my guts and tried to tell myself the blood on the floor of her quarters didn’t mean what I thought it might . . .

“I am here to tell you,” he continued, as if we weren’t all staring at him like he was speaking Germanic, “in no uncertain terms that the Republic will brook no Spartacus-inspired rebellion. The Servile Wars are still fresh in the memories of loyal Romans and will not be repeated as long as there is breath in my body.”

The look on Kronos’s face told me that he would cheerfully arrange for that not to be an issue if he could. “What exactly brought you out this way, Tribune?” he asked, barely leashing the anger in his voice.

“A simple errand to escort my own fine warriors home in the wake of their performance at Cleopatra’s naumachia.”

His mouth twisted as he spoke the Aegyptian queen’s name, as though he tasted something bitter on his tongue. And how convenient, I thought, that he just happened to have a contingent of archers with him for his “simple errand.”

“Fortuitous, really.” Aquila shrugged. “I thank the gods they were here, and able to help quell this shameful uprising.” His expression turned stern and stony. “Now, in the wake of the untimely demise of she who was Lanista of this ludus—”

The twist of fear tightened into a knot in my stomach.

“You’re lying,” I said, choking on the words that came out of my mouth. “She’s not dead. She can’t be! You’re lying—”

“And what reason would I have to lie to you?” he said coldly. “Do you see the Lanista here among you?”

He spread his hands wide and turned in a slow circle, as if waiting for my sister to step out of the shadows. When she didn’t, he shrugged and dropped his hands to his sides.

“Were the Lady Achillea alive,” he continued, “I can assure you, I would be most happy to have her taken into custody for her obvious dereliction in the management of noble Caesar’s facility.” The word “noble” bent under the weight of Aquila’s sneer. “But only the gods themselves know when—or even if—the Consul will return from the field, and so, in the interim . . .” He paused, seemingly for dramatic effect. “. . . I, Pontius Aquila, take due and rightful ownership of this facility and all those who reside within it. On behalf of the Republic, of course.”

“You can’t do that!” I cried.

“Who’s to stop me?” he asked. “You?”

Sorcha . . .

But I had seen the blood in her wrecked scriptorium.

I glanced around wildly at the other girls, at the ludus trainers, at Heron, silently pleading for any one of them to tell me they’d seen my sister. That she was alive. Hurt, maybe. Hidden. But alive! Face after face told me the same thing. Everyone standing there knew Sorcha and knew that if there was even a single breath left in her body she would have been there. Fighting for us. That she never would have let this happen in the first place. All I saw in the eyes of my friends was the terrible realization that it had happened. And Sorcha wasn’t there.