The Valiant (The Valiant #1)(75)

“I know it wasn’t you,” I said, raking a hand through my hair. “Elka already vouched for you.”

Nyx glanced at Elka, who shrugged.

“I just wonder who it was and what they think they’re trying to prove.”

“If I knew, I’d tell you.”

At that, Elka snorted.

“I would.” Nyx crossed her arms. “Look, I know I’m not nice. But I don’t resort to dirty tricks, and I don’t respect anyone who does. I fight hard and I fight well, and sometimes it’s hard for me to admit when somebody else does too.” She looked at me through narrowed eyes. “The Fury? I don’t know that I could’ve beaten her.”

“I’m not sure I did.”

“You did. It was a good fight. An honorable fight.” Nyx took another step into the room, her expression turning rueful. “I mean it. And for the first time since I’ve been at the ludus, I have someone pushing me to be a better fighter. Even if it kills me to admit it . . . I’ve needed that.” She held out her hand. “We can still be rivals, but I want us to be friends too.”

I hesitated. How would Nyx react if I told her that she no longer had to compete against me—that Sorcha was withdrawing me from the Victory challenge? I decided, considering everything she’d just said, that it might not be the right moment to enlighten her.

I stood and clasped Nyx’s wrist.

She smiled and said, “Good. Listen, I have a patron here in Rome, a wealthy equestrian lady. She sent me word of revels taking place tonight.”

“Revels?”

“A party. A big one. Very lavish, very exclusive, full of other rich patricians looking to spend money on pretty young fighters.”

“I already have a patron,” I said, careful not to name Charon.

“I noticed.” Nyx pointed at Elka. “But you don’t. And you could do better than Ajani’s castoffs.”

Elka lifted a shoulder. “I’m not fussy.”

Nyx turned to me. “Come on, Fallon. We’re all on edge after today. We deserve a bit of fun!”

I raised an eyebrow at her. “Did the Lanista gave you permission to go?”

She grinned. Wickedly.

I felt an answering grin spread across my face.

The domus we were lodged in was similar to the ludus compound in that we weren’t locked into our sleeping cells at night. But neither were we exactly free to wander the streets of Rome at will, and getting caught doing so would, I was sure, bear consequences. Nyx didn’t seem to think it would be a problem.

“It’ll be fun,” she said.

“I’ll go if Elka does,” I said.

Elka blinked at me, but Nyx just grinned.

“Fine by me,” she said. “I invited Lydia too. She could use some new kit, and she knows how to behave around men. But you have to be quick and change. Put on something nice. Fancy. Meet me down by the laundry scullery as soon as you can. Don’t get caught. And don’t tell any of the other girls!”

And then she was gone.

I plucked at the hem of my plain tunic. “Something nice?”

“Fancy?” Elka was dressed the same way as I was.

Reluctantly, I flipped open the lid of my trunk. In one corner, beneath the heavy cloak Ajani had given me on my first night at the ludus, there was a small folded pile of shimmery fabric: the costume Charon’s women had dressed me in for the slave auction. As I gazed at the thing, the memory of that day—it seemed like a thousand more had passed since—came rushing back, washing over me like an incoming tide.

“You kept yours too?” Elka said wryly.

I laughed at her expression. “Is this a very bad idea?”

“You know we’re slaves, ja?” she said plainly. “If anyone catches us out, they’ll think we’re running. We’ll be flogged.”

“This is a very bad idea.”

And yet neither of us was about to back out. Sorcha could try and keep me safe from death, but she couldn’t keep me from living my life. And if I wasn’t competing for Victory, it wasn’t as if I had anything to lose. A reckless thrill surged in my heart at the thought of disobeying her, and it must have shown in the expression on my face.

Elka sighed. “I’ll go get dressed.”

I undid my braid and combed out the waves of my hair so it hung loosely over my shoulders. Then I slipped into my auction dress and fastened the shoulder brooches, belting the ensemble with a pretty fringed scarf someone had thrown me from the stands after one of my winning bouts on the circuit.

Elka and I met Nyx down by the scullery, and Lydia was with her. Nyx was dressed in an elegant pale yellow stola that fastened with silver brooches at her shoulders and left her toned arms bare. Her long black hair was dressed off her face with silver combs. Lydia wore blue, a necklace of amber beads, and an abundance of eye paint. We were all cloaked and hooded, and I was trembling with apprehension and excitement.

Nyx inserted a key into the big iron lock on the wooden door that led out to a back alley. I didn’t ask where she got it, but it wasn’t hard to guess. I’d noticed a handsome young kitchen slave making eyes at her when we’d first arrived, and Nyx was nothing if not resourceful. Again, that much was evident by the skin of wine she produced from beneath the folds of her cloak. Threading the narrow streets, we headed toward the Caelian Hill, where Rome’s wealthy patrician families had built many lavish residences that looked far more like palaces than houses.