The Triumphant (The Valiant #3)(14)

The praetorian didn’t miss.

His big, meaty hand clamped down brutally on her bare arm, and he plucked her from the chariot like a fisherman prying a limpet from the keel of his boat—with great difficulty. Kass clung to the chariot rail with surprising strength and tenacity. Long enough for Caesar to notice he had an unexpected passenger. I was close enough to see the barest flicker of recognition in his eyes before the guard hauled Kass back and Caesar turned away, his face once more impassive, expressionless as one of his statues, and the chariot moved on.

Behind the chariot, Calpurnia rode in a garlanded cart with some of her women, and I caught a glimpse of her face as she passed. Her eyes were wide and fixed on Kassandra, and her mouth was drawn in a tight, fearful line. Beside me on the ground, beneath the praetorian’s knee, Kass thrashed and cried out, screaming words I couldn’t understand over the commotion, still reaching in the direction of the departing chariot as the guard lifted his sword.

“No!” I cried, and stepped over her, reaching to catch his wrist and straining to ward off the blow. The press of the crowd hadn’t allowed him to get any kind of momentum into his backswing, and so I was able to block his arm, barely. Beneath the brim of his helmet, I saw his brow crease in anger and his eyes focus on my face. The snarl twisting his lips faltered and faded, and I felt some of the tension leave his arm as he frowned down at me.

“Victrix?” the guard said.

I nodded frantically in relief—he must have recognized me as Caesar’s creature—and said, “Yes . . . yes! And this is my friend—she’s not well, please don’t hurt her . . . She’s a priestess in the temple!”

He backed off, appearing to suddenly notice the pale yellow stola she wore. I reached for Kassandra, who seemed utterly unaware that I was even standing over her in that moment. There were flecks of foam at the corners of her mouth, and her pupils were so wide her eyes looked black. Her skin was ashen, pale as alabaster, and the veins in her temples and at the sides of her neck shone purple beneath. Her gaze was still fixed upon Caesar’s back.

“Beware the war god Mars, Caesar!” she cried, her voice cracking, skirling upward like the warning shriek of a songbird when an eagle attacks its nest. “He will have blood for blood . . . for Rome!”

“What in the name of Hades is she on about?” the guard barked at me. “Is that some kind of threat?”

But Kass had subsided into muttering and shaking her head. Her plain, pretty face was twisted in anguish. “So many blades . . . so much blood . . .”

I gathered her close to me, my arm around her shoulders, and tried to help her stand, but she was dead weight. It felt as if she had lost control of her body . . . and maybe, I thought, her mind. I remembered back to the days when we’d been in hiding after escaping the ludus and Pontius Aquila. Kassandra had sought out Cai to tell him of his father’s treachery. He hadn’t believed her, and she’d refused to divulge the secret to anyone else. All I’d known at that time was that she’d been distraught, telling me of the terrible dreams she’d been having: dreams of blood and fire, and the republic in turmoil.

At the time, Kassandra had been more than just a brothel slave. She’d been an informant for Caesar, gathering secrets from her elite clientele that she would then pass on to the consul. Pillow talk—gossip, boasts, rumors, and lies, mostly—but every now and then something true, useful, or devastating. A dangerous, wearying business on top of the everyday perils she’d negotiated in her “real” work. I’d seen the effects it had had on her. I looked down into her pale, drawn face and wondered if I was seeing them now.

“Kass,” I murmured into her ear. “You have to stand up. Help me get you somewhere safe . . .”

The praetorian guard took momentary pity on her and helped haul Kass to her feet. I draped her arm across my shoulders and thanked him as he frowned and turned away, sheathing his gladius and hurrying to join back up with Caesar’s procession. I breathed a sigh of relief and hurried Kass off the main street, finding a little courtyard in front of a run-down taberna where I could sit her down.

“A cup of wine,” I told the keeper when he approached us, eyeing Kass warily. “And bread.” I reached into the little purse at my belt and pulled out a coin, slapping it down on the table and ignoring his scowl. “White wine—not red!” I called after him as he disappeared through the taberna doors.

The color was slowly returning to Kass’s cheeks, and her eyes had lost their cloudy, unfocused aspect. She groaned and put a hand to her head. When the wine arrived, she took a small sip and made a face, pushing the cup away. At least I knew by her distaste that she’d come back to her senses—I could smell the cheap mustiness of the drink from where I sat.

“Fallon?” She blinked up at me. “Where . . .”

“You fainted,” I said. “During the procession.”

She frowned, peering at me, and then closed her eyes with a sigh. “I did it again, didn’t I? What did I say this time?”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to tell her. Mostly because I hadn’t really understood her ravings myself. “Something about blades and blood and a war god. Coming for Caesar . . .”

I thought she might faint again.

“Fallon . . . you have to tell him.” She gripped my arm, but there was not strength in her fingers. “You have to warn Caesar!”