The Triumphant (The Valiant #3)(37)
“She did. And that’s a debt I can never repay,” I said, feeling a deep ache in the center of my chest, like it had only just happened. “For her sake if nothing else, I could have forgiven Yoreth his tribe. I could even have forgiven him the lie about belonging to my father’s war band—dishonorable as it was.”
Elka’s frown deepened. “What then?”
I checked around the corner of the building where we stood to see if Cai had reappeared from scouting. The street was empty still. “Do you remember the first gladiator that turned against Cai in the arena yesterday?” I asked.
“Ahh . . .” The uncertainty and confusion cleared from Elka’s blue eyes before I even had to clarify further. “One and the same?”
I nodded. “I recognized the tattoo on his arm.”
At that, she laughed. “Poor idiot thing!” she said. “All that ‘kindred tribal’ nonsense to win your sympathies and he never even had a chance!”
She wasn’t wrong. Coritani, Catuvellauni, Gaul, or Greek. I honestly couldn’t have cared less where and who Yoreth had come from. But he’d put Caius Varro’s life at risk. And for that?
Yoreth could rot.
In that moment, Cai and Acheron returned from scouting ahead and Quint appeared from behind. They all had the same thing to report. Nothing. We could have walked through the streets of Rome whistling and no one would have called the tune. Because no one was there to hear it. Even the beggars and the prostitutes had gone to ground. There wasn’t so much as a cutpurse to be seen. It was eerie. Ominous.
We hurried unchallenged and unchecked in a tight group through the winding streets. We kept to the shadows and the alleys between buildings as much as possible. Because as much as it seemed like it, we weren’t the only living souls left in an empty city. And sooner or later . . .
Sooner, it was.
I hissed and drew back into the mouth of the alley, waving frantically for Cai and the others to stay behind me. At a glance, I’d counted nine of them—black tunics and thick-muscled builds honed on the arena sands, all of them bristling with weapons. It was the same bunch of gladiators that had spirited Brutus and his fellow conspirators away from the Theatrum Pompeii in the moments after the assassination.
“Brutus and Aquila’s thugs,” I whispered. “They’re heavily armed and outnumber us. We have to find another way.”
“There is no other way.” Cai eased his way around the corner just far enough to see our impediment. “That’s the road that leads to the Porta Flaminia just beyond the temple of Vulcan—the building with the red pillars—and it’s the only one. If we try to make it to another gate out of the city, we’ll be at least another hour.”
“What do we do now?” Elka asked.
Cai heaved a frustrated breath “We’re going to have to—”
“Go,” Acheron said, stepping forward. “I’ll lead them in the other direction and then double back.”
I shook my head. “No. Acheron, you don’t—”
“You gave me my freedom,” he said, holding up a hand to forestall my objections. “You didn’t have to turn that key. You could have left me there with the others, but you didn’t. And that’s not something I’m likely to forget. My dear old mother used to say that one should always take the chance in life to pay back a done deed in kind, Victrix. Let me do this.”
“There’s too many of them to fight on your own.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, bending down to check that the laces on his sandals were tightly tied. “I’ve no burning death wish—especially not now I’m free. Trust me. I know these streets well. I’ll be careful, but I’ll give them a reason to chase me.”
Cai and I exchanged a glance, and then he turned and held out his arm. Acheron clasped his wrist. “Meet us just outside the Flaminian Gate,” he said. “We’ll wait. But we won’t wait long.”
“You won’t have to. Stay here until I draw them off, and then go.”
“How in Hades is he going to draw them into a chase?” Quint wondered.
He didn’t have to wonder long. Moments after he’d bolted from the alley, we heard Acheron screaming, “Murderers! Assassins! Caesar’s blood drips from your blades! Citizens—come quick! I’ve found them!”
And then we heard distant swearing and a barked shout of response: “Catch that idiot and shut him up! He’ll bring the whole city down on us!”
Then the sound of running feet—hobnailed sandals and leather soles slapping on cobbles—fading into the distance, as Acheron led them on a merry chase away from the Porta Flaminia. After a lengthy silence, I peered cautiously around the corner. The Sons of Dis were gone. The gates stood open in the distance. The road beyond would take us away from Rome. And the Morrigan alone knew if I would ever see the inside of these city walls again.
Outside the gates of the Porta Flaminia, there was a line of picketed, saddled horses left unattended at a legion posting station. Normally reserved for army couriers on official business, the fact that they’d been left there for the taking was a clear indicator of the chaos to come. About half the legions were loyal to Caesar, half—maybe more, maybe less—to the Optimate faction he’d been warring against. If the army command chain didn’t receive a clear directive from the generals or the senate—and soon—the Republic really did stand in danger of tearing itself apart. But the untended horses were, at the least, a blessing for us. We mounted up and were on the verge of heading north toward the Via Clodia when Acheron came pelting through the gates. Alone. Unfollowed, as far as I could tell.