The Valiant (The Valiant #1)(40)
“Achillea offers a sky-high price, well beyond the means of the other bidders, and that seals the deal right there. For a pair of unknown, unqualified, potential gladiatrixes.” The Decurion’s clear hazel gaze bored into me, unblinking. “So tell me: What am I missing?”
“I’m flattered you think so very highly of me.”
He ignored my sarcasm. “It’s your sword, isn’t it?” he asked. “How did a lowly thrall come by a blade like that?”
I shot to my feet. “How dare you assume I was always a lowly thrall!”
He grinned—a wily expression—and said, “So I was right.” He leaned forward on the bench, as if to get a closer look at me. “I guessed as much after we spoke at Massilia and I said you didn’t talk like a slave. You’re freeborn, aren’t you?”
“Of course I’m freeborn,” I snapped. “I’m the daughter of a king!”
My words hung in the air between us. For a moment, I thought he might scoff at me for making such an unbelievable claim. But instead, his gaze darkened and his grin disappeared.
“Surely you’re joking?” he asked.
“What if I am? What do you care if I’m a queen in my own land or a cowherd?”
“Because you’re not in your own land anymore,” he said. “This is Rome. Treachery and opportunism and backstabbing run in her veins like lifeblood, and if you’ve never had to live your life constantly looking over your shoulder, then you have no idea how dangerous it can be. The Lady Achillea is a close friend of Caesar’s. And when Caesar isn’t off in other lands making war, he’s here in Rome making enemies. It’s my job to make sure those enemies can’t use the few friends he has against him.”
“What has any of this to do with me?”
“I don’t know. Yet. But the mark on that blade clearly meant something to the Lanista, and Charon knew it would. I’d like to know what that something is.”
“Then you’ll have to ask them,” I said. “All I know is that it’s the symbol of my goddess—sacred to the warriors of my tribe. There is power in the mark. Perhaps the Lanista recognized that.”
“I suppose that’s true,” he said, frowning in thought. “Your people aren’t the only ones who think of ravens as omens. Although most Romans would consider them bad ones.”
I thought about the dead bird and the bloody feather someone had left in my room. I’d thought it was just a prank at the time, but now I wondered if I shouldn’t tell the Decurion about it. I knew more than he did just how powerful a symbol the raven was—and how dangerous. But no—how could there possibly be a connection between my sword and the feather?
And, at any rate, the crimson plume of the Decurion’s very Roman helmet stirred in the breeze and reminded me that he belonged to the legions that had invaded my home. He was the enemy of my people. He was not my friend.
“If the Lanista thinks you’re worth keeping out of Pontius Aquila’s collection, then you’re worth keeping safe,” the Decurion continued. “The Ludus Achillea is Caesar’s, remember? He owns it—and everything and everyone in it—and it’s worth a lot of money. And, as much as some people might think the gladiatoral games are nothing more than a decadent indulgence to keep the mob distracted and mollified, there’s more to it than that. There are rivalries that run generations old, and deep divides both politically and philosophically among the Republic’s elite. There are those in the senate who whisper of Caesar’s increasing power. Of his superior airs. They say he’s been tainted by the Aegyptian queen, Cleopatra. That she’s convinced him he should be treated as a god, not a man. An emperor rather than Rome’s chief consul.”
“So? I still don’t understand what any of this has to do with me.”
“Caesar’s perceived arrogance has caused a great deal of resentment among his peers in the senate. But the plebs—the common people—adore him.” He looked at me. “They love him for just such things as, well, you. Or, rather, what you might become in time. Caesar’s games are the best. His fighters, the best. His upcoming Quadruple Triumphs are his gift to the people of Rome, a massive celebration such as this city has never seen. They are meant to cement his popularity in such a way that the senate will never be able to cast him down—not without risking the wrath of the mob. That’s how important Caesar’s gladiators are to him. Now do you understand?”
I did. Or, at least, I thought I did.
Someone called Caius’s name, and he glanced over his shoulder to where another legionnaire approached, leading a pair of horses. “I have to go,” he said.
“Before you do,” I said, “tell me this: You could have just asked Charon about the sword mark the next time you saw him. Why did you seek me out instead?”
He was silent for a long moment, staring at me, and I wondered if he would give me an answer. Then he said, “I was curious about you.”
“Why?”
“On the ship, I saw something in you.”
I raised an eyebrow at him. “And that was?”
“The absolute need to fight. To be free. That’s something I can understand.”
I wasn’t so sure he could.
“Some years ago,” he continued, “there was a revolt. A gang of slaves—gladiators, in fact—rose up and challenged the might of the Republic. They fought the legions for a very long time, and they very nearly won. But it took one man—a man named Spartacus—to ignite the spark that turned to flame. I’ve always admired him, even though he went against everything I’m supposed to fight for as a soldier of Rome. I thought, on the ship, that I saw that same kind of ember glowing in your eyes. I suppose I wanted to see if it was still there.”