The Triumphant (The Valiant #3)(27)

Elka mirrored my grimace. “You first, little fox,” she said.

And then, all of a sudden, it was as if our private arena vanished and the party crowd faded back into existence, surrounding us, holding their collective breath. I blinked at Elka and realized that the battle rage had faded, not just from my eyes but hers too.

The corner of her mouth twitched upward.

“Together then,” I said.

A silent count of three . . . and we both dropped our weapons, which clattered to the floor. I stepped back, limbs tingling from the exertion . . . and was horrified to see that there was a gaping tear in Elka’s stola—right across her abdomen—and two thin crimson lines, beading blood.

When I could tear my gaze from what I’d done, I saw that Elka was staring at the left side of my rib cage, where my stola was just as torn . . . and I sported a single gash. A bit deeper, a bit bloodier. Both could have been killing wounds—hers and mine—if we’d put only a fraction more effort into it.

No one else seemed to notice, though. Between us, the ragged edges of Octavia’s torn scarf trailed from our ankles along the polished marble floor. I reached down to pull the knot free and, wincing, glanced over to where Caesar’s niece stood, rapt. For a moment she was frozen, wide-eyed . . . and then she started to clap wildly.

Elka and I exchanged a relieved glance.

The rest of the place erupted in wine-fueled applause and delighted laughter. I couldn’t help thinking how Aeddan had killed Ajax the gladiator at a dinner party just like this one. Only not just like this one. Because—at that dinner party—if he hadn’t, Ajax would have killed him.

Elka and I bowed ourselves politely out of the room as coins were traded for wagers won and lost on the contest. A slave ran to fetch us bandages and a basin to wash away the blood. Without saying much, we helped each other dress our wounds and redrape our stolas to cover as much of the damage as we could and then headed back out to the main room.

Elka went to fetch us wine.

“I owe you a scarf, Lady Octavia,” I said when she came over to me.

“Don’t be silly.” She waved away the matter. “I have a hundred of the things. I owe you an apology.”

“I don’t understand.”

She slipped an arm through mine and drew me out into the courtyard, where the air was soft and perfumed and the stars overhead were like bright eyes winking down at us. “I thought my uncle Gaius was being ridiculous,” she said, “when he told me all those years ago that he was going to put girls in the arena.”

“Did you not think women strong enough?” I asked. “Or brave enough?”

She laughed. “Not exactly,” she said, shaking her head. “I suppose I didn’t think we were honest enough.”

“Honest?”

“I suppose you’d have to have been born into a Roman high house to understand what I mean,” she said. “It’s just that . . . the women in my family? We’ve always fought. And strategized and mobilized and waged secret battles that have won and lost whole empires. But with words. With well-spent money. Behind closed doors and in whispers, using weapons that are . . . well . . . just as sharp as yours, perhaps, but not as clean. For all the violence of the way you fight, it seems less vicious, somehow.”

I wondered about that. If Octavia would feel the same way if she knew just how close I’d come to actually hurting my best friend just then. But I kept those thoughts to myself. From the way she made it sound, an equestrian Roman woman wouldn’t think twice about having a friend assassinated if circumstances warranted it. Maybe that was the real difference: whether or not you held the knife yourself when you did your killing.

“I just wanted to tell you that I understand now what Uncle Gaius saw in you,” she said.

I glanced around at the glittering contingent of partygoers. “I’m not sure this is exactly what he saw in me, lady,” I said, grinning ruefully. Then I glanced down and lifted an edge of my gown marred with a spot of blood. “This, maybe . . .”

Octavia smiled at me and reached to tuck the bit of fabric artfully into my belt, hiding the stain. “Well,” she said. “Even though this isn’t precisely the life my uncle—or you, if you’d been given a say—would have chosen, I still think you should be very proud.”

“Thank you, lady,” I said, with a deferential nod.

She excused herself then, and I went to go find Elka so I could apologize. Because, in spite of what Octavia had said, I didn’t feel very proud in that moment.

I found Elka near a fountain in the courtyard, gazing up into the star-strewn night, lost in a moment of contemplation. And, as I expected, my dear Varini friend refused to accept the apology.

“I keep telling you. You’ve been wanting to kill me ever since the moment we met,” she said with a languid eyeroll. “Admit it.”

“Was that the same moment that you’ve been wanting to kill me ever since?” I asked.

“Probably the moment right after.” She shrugged. “I do think I started it.”

“You really did.”

We grinned and punched each other’s shoulders, but then Elka grew serious for a moment. “I was just thinking,” she said, a faint frown creasing her brow. “It changes you, doesn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”