The Triumphant (The Valiant #3)(28)

“The blood on your hands. On our hands. The fact that we’ve ended lives. In and out of the arena, justified or . . . not. I suppose. The fact that this”—she waved at the space in the room where we’d just fought—“becomes so ingrained that it’s no longer second nature. It’s first. We fought for the right to fight. And now what?”

“Are you saying you want to leave the ludus?” I asked her, feeling a small, cold knot tighten in my stomach.

I needn’t have worried. Elka cocked an eyebrow at me.

“And leave you to fend for yourself?” she said with a snort. “I wouldn’t be able to live with the guilt.”

A wave of actual relief washed over me. We sat, perching together on the edge of the marble fountain and cheerfully insulting each other for a few more moments until a man dressed in a purple-striped senatorial toga made his way toward us, listing like a ship in rough seas, with a cup of wine in one hand and a silver pitcher, sloshing liquid onto his sandals, in the other. The wine had flushed his cheeks and forehead crimson, and his watery brown eyes had a glassy sheen. His bleary gaze drifted from me to Elka and back to me again, and he leaned forward, reeking of wine and sour spices.

“Are there any more like you back home?” he said, an avaricious leer twisting his features, enunciating his words as if he thought we might be so barbarous as to barely be able to understand Latin. “Perhaps Caesar should mount another expedition to your wild island home and bring us back a whole bevy of beauties the likes of you . . .”

I did my best to ignore him, staring instead into the middle distance of the courtyard over the senator’s shoulder, and let Elka answer for me.

“You wouldn’t want that,” she said airily. “Where she comes from, the men are prettier than the women and have longer hair. You might find yourself courting a strapping Cantii lad by accident.”

I stifled a grin as the man’s leer collapsed into a befuddled expression and he shrugged his drooping toga back up his shoulder. Then he turned and, with ponderous dignity, wandered back inside the domus to look for easier pickings elsewhere. I watched him go, shaking my head. Of course, Elka had a point. The men of Prydain were notably peacocks—dressing themselves in fine, flamboyant clothes, embellished with gold and silver adornments. I remembered too, with a fond, faded sadness, Maelgwyn Ironhand, the boy I’d once loved, with his beautiful face and long black hair and deep eyes . . .

But then I remembered something else. I remembered Yoreth the gladiator’s words from the day before, at the Ludus Flaminius: “You may not remember where you come from, princess,” he said. “But your new friends do. The Romans have not forgotten Prydain. One day they will return there. One day soon.”

I shivered at the thought. But suddenly, my shiver turned to a shudder of outright horror. In the shadows beneath a cluster of manicured olive trees, I caught sight of a familiar profile in the midst of a small crowd of party guests—the dark eyes and severe, hawkish nose of Pontius Aquila. I must have gasped audibly, because suddenly Elka was shaking me by the shoulder, turning me to face her.

“What’s the matter with you?” she demanded. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Is it your wound—”

“A-Aquila . . . he—” I stammered “H-he’s here!”

“What? Where?” Her head swiveled around, eyes scanning every face. When she turned back to me, her frown had deepened. “I don’t see him anywhere.”

“There!” I pushed past her, pointing to where I’d seen that hated, unmistakable visage. “He’s right . . .” But he wasn’t. There was no one now beneath those trees. Just a statue of the goddess Juno, smiling blandly, a stone pomegranate held in one hand. “I saw him!” I said. “I . . .”

Elka shook her head. “You’re jumping at shadows.”

“I’m—”

“Still not over what happened with that maniac.” She offered me a small, sympathetic smile. “Not really.”

Sympathy from Elka, I thought. I must be in dire shape. But I still craned my head, looking at every single group of revelers standing or sitting anywhere in view.

“Not that I would ever blame you,” Elka continued. “I don’t think any of the girls from the ludus are over it, but you have more cause than the rest of us.”

“I’m fine.”

“Well, no. You’re not, but . . .”

I glared at her, but she just shrugged.

“My room at the townhouse is right next to yours, remember?” she said. “I heard your nightmare through the wall, little fox.”

“I . . .” I shook my head, muttering, “It was just a dream.”

“Here’s hoping.” She reached out a hand to pat my shoulder.

“I don’t believe in dreams, Elka.” I rolled my eyes at her. “I’m not Kassandra.”

“Who’s a Kassandra, now?” Marc Antony asked, navigating his way carefully between a pair of stone urns overflowing with fragrant blooms, three goblets balanced between his long fingers. He offered us two and lifted the third in a toast. “To your continued robust health,” he said. “Wonderful performance, ladies.”

“Thank you, Lord Antony,” I said, taking a sip.

“You’re most welcome.” He grinned his customary grin. “So . . . who’s a Kassandra, then? Did someone bet a fortune on your bout coming up a draw? I, for one, wagered on you, my dear.” He winked at Elka.