The Triumphant (The Valiant #3)(38)

He was flushed and gasping for breath but actually seemed to be enjoying himself. I wondered how long he’d really been locked up in the Ludus Flaminius. It seemed that, to him, breathing free air—even while being chased by murderous thugs—was a rare and glorious gift from the gods.

It made me glad of my decision to free him from his ludus cell.

“Told you . . . I could lose them . . .” he huffed. “Led them back . . . toward the center of town. And straight into the beginnings of an angry mob . . . They’ll be lucky to get free of that lot with arms and legs still attached.”

Quint frowned. “A mob?”

Acheron nodded, straightening up. “It’s starting. The hornets in the nest are beginning to buzz. Saw a few vigiles poking about too.”

“But you’re sure you lost them all,” I said. “The gladiators.”

“Yeah.” He wiped his forearm across his brow and took the reins of the horse Cai had kept waiting for him. “They’re none too bright. Had ’em running in circles . . .” As he grabbed the saddle pommel to hoist himself up, something shiny fell from his tunic, chiming metallically on the ground.

I stared at the thing in horror as Acheron bent to retrieve it.

“One of them dropped this,” he said, and held up a slender feather, wrought in pure silver, with an edge sharp as a dagger blade. It gleamed in the dull gray afternoon light and struck instant terror in my heart.

“Throw it away,” I said, recoiling as if the thing was cursed. It probably was. “Get rid of it, now.”

Acheron looked back and forth between me and Cai in confusion. I felt the scar on my arm—the one Pontius Aquila had carved with just such a feather—blaze with phantom pain.

“It’s a symbol of the Sons of Dis,” Cai said, his lip curling in an angry sneer. “Used in their twisted rites.”

“Those were—wait. They actually exist?” Acheron gaped at him. “The Sons of Dis? I thought they were a myth—”

“Get rid of it,” I snapped. The image of the defiled practice dummies from the theatrum was still horribly fresh in my mind. A myth? No. The Sons of Dis were terrifyingly real. Prowling the streets of Rome . . . hunting.

“Uh. Could I maybe just . . . tuck it away?” Acheron slid the feather into a fold of his tunic. “I mean, it’s pure silver, and I left my last purse of winnings back in my cell . . .”

“Fine.” I took a deep breath and told myself to relax. It wasn’t as if the feather would magically lead them to us here outside the city walls. It didn’t need to. They already knew, ultimately, where to find us. “Just . . . keep the damned thing out of my sight.”

“Of course, Victrix,” he said, nodding in my direction. “And my apologies. I would never mean to upset you.”

“It’s all right,” I said, and tried to muster a smile. “And you can call me Fallon, Acheron.”

“Of course.”

“Now let’s get out of here.”

I put my heels to my horse, and we galloped away from the city as the sun began his slow descent into the west. The moon would rise that night on a world without Caesar.



* * *



—

The Ludus Achillea sentries had seen the dust of our rapid approach miles out from their posts up on the wall and were waiting for us, no doubt wondering what in the world the matter was.

“Open the gate!” I shouted as soon as I thought they would hear me over the pounding of our horses’ hooves on the dirt road.

I saw one of them disappear, and then the massive wood-and-iron doors swung ponderously open just before we reached them. We thundered through, into the courtyard, and I pulled my mount up to a rearing stop, leaping from his back and calling to Cai and the others over my shoulder.

“Close it and set the bar,” I said. “Tell the watch to keep a keen eye out. I’ll go find Sorcha . . .”

I burst through the doors of Sorcha’s house, calling for her, but the place seemed empty. I rushed from room to room, wondering where her servants were, and then I heard laughter coming from the garden courtyard. Before I got there, Sorcha swept through the archway, wine goblets in her hands, smiling over her shoulder at someone outside. When she turned and saw me, her mouth opened in surprise.

“Fallon!” she exclaimed. “What—”

“He’s dead!” I blurted. “Sorcha . . . Caesar’s dead!”

She froze. The goblets shattered on the mosaic beneath her feet.

We stood there, staring at each other, and I couldn’t even think of how to tell her what had happened. It was like Caesar’s torn and bloodied body lay on the floor between us and I couldn’t step around it.

But then I heard a sound—a convulsive intake of breath—and we both turned to see Cleopatra standing there. Her kohl-rimmed eyes were huge in her face, but the rest of her looked tiny. Childlike. I’d never thought of her as small before. The lapis and carnelian stones set in the necklace around her throat winked in the lamplight as she struggled for a breath.

“Your Highness—”

“You’ll excuse me, Sorcha,” she said abruptly, turning to Sennefer, her chief steward, who was suddenly at her side as if he’d sensed he was needed. “I . . . excuse me.”