The Triumphant (The Valiant #3)(15)

“Warn him about what?”

“I . . .” The frustration was palpable in her voice as she bleated, “I don’t know!”

“That’s not going to go over very well with him—”

“I only know he’s in danger.”

“He’s always in danger,” I said. “That’s what comes of making war with the world, Kass.”

In truth, I was feeling rather less than charitably inclined toward the great and noble general those days. My thoughts turned toward Cai and the arena where I would have to watch him risk his life on the morrow. But the bleak hopelessness in Kass’s eyes made me nod and promise.

“I’ll try,” I said. “The next time I get the chance to speak with Caesar, I’ll tell him to beware.”

Kass’s gaze had drifted over my shoulder, and she raised the cup to her lips absently, murmuring, “No . . . no you won’t. No one will. And it wouldn’t matter if you did . . .” Then she laughed a little, a sound like a wild animal, lost and afraid, and said, “My mother named me well, Fallon. Too well.”





V


I NEVER DID get the chance to ask Kassandra what she meant. I tossed and turned in my bed that night. When I finally did fall asleep, it seemed as though some of her propensity for nightmares had rubbed off. I found myself dream-wandering through the fragrant confines of Sorcha’s private garden back at the Ludus Achillea. I was faintly aware that I’d been there before, bathed in the same haze of moonlight, staring up at the statue of Minerva, the Roman goddess of war. The first time the statue had turned out to be my sister, dressed for battle beneath a cloak of iron feathers. This time I had trouble making out the features of the face beneath the brim of a helmet. I peered up at the shadowy figure as the moonlight grew brighter, redder . . .

I gasped and stumbled back when I saw that the face beneath the helmet belonged to Pontius Aquila. The Collector. My great enemy.

“Fallon . . .” His lips didn’t move, but his voice whisper-echoed in my ears. “Won’t you join my collection?”

He shifted aside the heavy black cloak he wore, and there, at his feet, I saw Tanis—once a student of the ludus, a talented archer, a sister gladiatrix . . . a girl I had betrayed and left behind. She knelt at his feet, soaked with rain and mud, looking just as she had the night we’d escaped from the ludus and I’d been forced to leave her behind. The mud on her cheeks was streaked with tear tracks, but she was smiling.

“Yes, Fallon,” she said. “Join us. We have a cage ready just for you . . .”

The scene shifted, and I found myself back in my cell in Tartarus. Pontius Aquila stood, smiling on the other side of the bars, holding a silver feather—the symbol of his twisted order, the Sons of Dis.

I woke up crying out denial in the darkness of my townhouse bedroom.



* * *



—

I was preoccupied enough with my nightmare the next morning that Elka had to stop me from stepping out into the path of an oncoming ox cart as we made our way through the center of town toward the Campus Martius, where we would meet up with Quintus.

I stumbled over the hem of my stola, shrugging off Elka’s hands, and made a pretense of my preoccupation being less about bad dreams and more about my mode of dress—which, in all fairness, was a distraction in itself. I had been allowed to stay behind in Rome and attend Cai’s gladiatorial performance on one condition: that I continue to dress like a proper female and leave my sword belt behind. Sorcha had insisted I start appreciating the civilized nature of Roman society and stop looking over my shoulder for daggers hidden beneath cloaks all the time.

“Swaddled again like a babe,” I grumbled, tugging at the material tangling around my legs as I walked. “And yet? I’ve never felt so naked while wearing so many clothes . . .”

“You should have strapped a knife to your thigh under your stola,” Elka said breezily, “like I did.”

“Ha. Sorcha would have known at a glance,” I said.

Elka cast an eye at me. “You’re probably right,” she said. “You’re never so awkward as when you’re traveling unequipped. You look a bit like a newborn foal that hasn’t quite figured out its legs yet.”

“Marvelous.”

“I still don’t know why she insisted. You think all these fine Roman ladies are weaponless?” Elka grinned, gesturing at the butterfly-bright array of women chatting and laughing as they made their way in twos and threes toward the gates of the Campus Martius. “Most of them wear hairpins longer and sharper than my dagger,” she said.

I knew, of course, that we were in little danger. Not with Kronos, the senior fight manager from the ludus, looming large behind us as we walked. He had accompanied us into the city and was heading off on Sorcha’s business as soon as he handed us over to Quint . . .

Who looked as though he’d taken extra care polishing his armor that day.

“Oh my,” I said, suddenly spotting him from a distance. “He’s very shiny.”

Elka pretended not to notice when he saw us and waved.

I bit my lip to keep from grinning as he shouldered his way through the crowds to get to us and resolved not to tease Elka. Too much. In truth, I was happy for her, even as I felt a little bit like I was intruding on their outing. But Elka had protested repeatedly (and a bit too loudly) that she was really only interested in watching the games—and maybe picking up a new spear technique or two. I decided to just enjoy myself and let the anticipation of seeing Cai again carry my mood.