The Valiant (The Valiant #1)(65)

Arviragus had been right: The role of Victory carried with it the promise of a substantial purse, but it had never even occurred to me that I would find a pure use for filthy Roman sestersii.

Sorcha had taken me to see the Arverni king so that she could show me one truth. But the Morrigan, I suspected, had sent me there so that Arviragus could teach me another. The hazy fog of an idea began to take solid shape in my mind. There was a chance, however slim, that I could redeem myself in the eyes of the goddess and my sister and make something worthwhile out of the whole great mess I had made for myself.

I remembered how Sorcha had bargained with Julius Caesar, and I thought that maybe—just maybe—there was more than one way to deal with a demon.





XXIII



THE DAY BEFORE we were due to begin the journey that would take us to our first destination on the circuit tour, Kronos knocked on the door of my quarters and told me that I had a visitor waiting for me in the small garden courtyard. Before I could ask him who it was, he’d gone. But I could think of only one person it might be.

Caius.

As much as my heart skipped a beat at the mere thought, I wasn’t sure I was up to another argument with him, and so I almost didn’t go. But I did, and when I stepped into the cool tree-shaded yard, I was surprised to see that my visitor wasn’t Cai but Charon the slave trader.

To say I was surprised would have been an understatement.

My former captor, the man who’d stolen me from my home and then sold me into slavery, sat on a marble bench beneath the branches of a fig tree, carving one of the ripe purple fruits into slices. He popped a slice into his mouth and stood when I approached, a smile lighting his face. He cut another slice of fig and wordlessly offered it to me on the blade of the knife.

I took it and sat on the bench facing him.

“Gladiatrix,” he said. “It’s good to see you again.”

I regarded the slave master coolly. “Is it?”

He laughed softly. “You are her very mirror, Fallon.”

“Whose?”

“Your sister. Sorcha.” He reached for another fig from a low-hanging bough. “She was extraordinary in her arena days, and I understand you’re following closely in her footsteps.”

“Who told you that?”

“Caius Varro. Your sparring partner.” Charon grinned at me. “His father, the senator, entertained me at his domus in the capital two nights ago. I politely inquired as to why the lad was wincing with every breath.”

“I see.” I bit into the sweet flesh of the fig and tried to keep my expression neutral.

“He seems to believe that you’re not very happy with him at the moment,” he said. “Pity, seeing as how Caius just received orders that he’s to escort Caesar’s gladiatrix corps on the circuit tour. You’re going to be seeing a lot of each other.”

There was that skip of my heartbeat again.

“I have something for you, gladiatrix.” Charon reached under the bench and hauled out a large wooden box. “I know the Lady Achillea gifted you with dimachaeri swords—”

I rolled my eyes at him. “One of which she got from you, yes.”

“But I also know that you haven’t the means to equip yourself with anything else.” He glanced at me as he lifted the box onto the bench between us, and his dark eyes glittered. “On the circuit, you’ll be fighting against other gladiatrices who’ve already won purses—enough in some cases to kit themselves out head to toe with the best weapons and armor money can buy.”

I frowned. It was true. In my time training for the games at the ludus, it had been made abundantly clear to me that skill was one thing. Showmanship was another. I could fight like the goddess Minerva and perform with all the flourish of the bull-vaulting acrobats I’d heard tales of, but if I didn’t look the part, I wouldn’t win the crowd. And winning the crowd had become a fierce motivator for me, ever since my visit with Arviragus. I remembered the king’s words. It wasn’t enough to simply win the fight; I had to win their hearts.

I glanced down at the crude leather wrist bracers I’d crafted for myself.

“I don’t need charity,” I muttered.

“Not charity, patronage.” Charon lifted the lid from the box. “My patronage.”

He smiled and handed me a set of greaves—bronze shin guards—that were beautiful and made for someone just my size. But that wasn’t all. The greaves were matched with a pair of bronze wrist bracers, again sized for my wrists. But the real surprise came when Charon drew forth a magnificent breastplate, embossed with subtle patterns that echoed the knotted, swirling designs of my own tribe. It was studded with bronze fittings in the same style as the greaves and bracers.

I couldn’t contain the gasp of delight that escaped my lips as I reached out and took the breastplate from his hands. My pride warred with my gratitude—and my relief—but only for a moment. Wearing such a thing, I would rival not just Minerva but the Morrigan herself! I held it up in front of me and was surprised to find that it looked as though it would fit me like a second skin.

I looked up at Charon from under raised eyebrows.

“How did you manage to get the proportions so accurate?” I asked.

“Ah, yes, well, I asked Cai for his help.” The slave master cleared his throat. “He made a best guess, I suppose.”