The Valiant (The Valiant #1)(87)

“Ah, Fallon,” he said, his gaze placid and appraising all at once. “My Lanista, the Lady Achillea, tells me that you grew up in Britain.”

“Prydain, my lord,” I said.

He raised an eyebrow, and I winced internally. Had I just corrected Gaius Julius Caesar?

“Your pardon, great Caesar—”

“Not at all.” He waved away my apology. “Perhaps I am the one who should apologize for my inability to make my tongue obey the shape of your native language.”

I saw Cleopatra hide a smile behind her hand.

“You’re very gracious, my lord,” I said and lowered my gaze to the tiled floor in an attempt to appear docile.

“I can be.” Caesar gestured to an attending slave. “Get the girl a chair and a cup of wine.”

The slave produced the amenities as if by sleight of hand, hovering until I’d sat and sipped, and then retiring silently to his place by the door.

“Now,” Caesar continued, “my question, Fallon, is this: Do you remember the days when Rome came to the shores of your home?”

I nodded. “I remember well, my lord.”

“And what are your memories of those days?” he asked.

“I remember running through the fields with my friends, racing to the tops of the cliffs so we could look down on the soldiers as they marched,” I said. “I remember the sun shining brightly on their armor. They dazzled me, like the gods themselves had come to our land.”

Caesar leaned forward. “You must have been very young,” he said. “Were you frightened?”

Frightened? I thought. No. Angered. Spitting mad and wanting to fetch my wooden sword so that I could take on the whole lot of you filthy invaders single-handed.

Caesar must have read my thoughts in the expression on my face. Cleopatra’s grin spread into a full, white-toothed smile.

“No!” Caesar chuckled. “No, she was not! Look at that, my queen . . .” He got up to pour me more wine himself, even though I’d barely touched what was in the delicate goblet I held in white-knuckled fingers. “I can see that you were the furthest thing from frightened. Probably ran back home and got your own toy sword.”

“So please you, lord, that’s exactly what I did,” I said, taking another sip of wine. “You still won.”

At that, he laughed again. Heartily.

“Indeed I did, Fallon,” he said. “It’s what I do.” He leaned one elbow on the carved arm of his chair and rubbed his chin, regarding me.

“Barring that long-ago occasion, my lord”—I lifted my gaze to meet his directly—“I also win.”

Cleopatra went still, watching Caesar as he watched me.

After a long moment that tested the breaking point of my nerves, he smoothed a fold of his purple-striped toga and said, “Would you win for me?”

“I already have, Caesar,” I said and took another sip to prepare for the sheer audacity of what I was about to do. “The Ludus Achillea is yours. I am yours. My victories, also yours.”

He nodded, as if that was the right answer. I suppose it was.

“This pleases me. The Britannia Spectacle is neither the largest nor the grandest spectacle of the Triumphs,” he said. “But it is the one that means the most to me, the one nearest to my heart. When I was on campaign in—forgive me—Britain, I lost someone very, very dear to me.”

My pulse hammered in my ears. This was my chance, my opening.

“And so did I, mighty Caesar.” I put the goblet down on a little table and stood. “And it was your fault.”

Caesar went completely still. I held my breath . . . and then drew my swords. The reaction was instantaneous. The praetorian guard was across the room in the blink of an eye, blade drawn and ready to defend Caesar. And there was another blade pressed to my throat, held by the slave stationed by the door. It seemed he was more than just a simple houseboy.

I lifted my arms slowly and held my swords out away from my body, dangling them harmlessly from my fingertips, but my eyes never wavered from Caesar’s face. Neither he nor Cleopatra had moved.

“I am the second daughter of Virico Lugotorix, king of the Cantii tribe of the Island of the Mighty,” I said, knife at my throat biting against my windpipe with each word. “My sister was Sorcha ferch Virico, warrior of the Cantii. You took her away from me and gave her the name of Lady Achillea.”

Caesar’s eyes narrowed slightly—his only reaction.

“These swords were a gift from her. You watched her bestow them on the night of my oath taking. One of them, she carried with her when you took her from my home. The other, I carried myself, on the night the slaver Charon took me.”

Caesar murmured something to the guard and motioned the slave back toward the door. The cold pressure of the blade eased away from my throat, and I gulped at the air. The praetorian guard moved off to one side but kept his gladius unsheathed. The realization that I would never have succeeded in assassinating Caesar washed over me. It almost felt like relief.

The one thing I’d thought I wanted all my life was suddenly so unimportant in the face of the thing I was about to ask for. “I want my sister back. Will you help me?”

“What would you have me do?” Caesar asked slowly.

“Grant me the role of Victory and let me fight for you.”