The Triumphant (The Valiant #3)(39)
In a flurry of striped linen and jangling bracelets, Sennefer swooped down on his mistress, wrapped her in the protective cocoon of his flowing robes, and whisked her through the archway to the gardens. Wordlessly, they swept past Cai and Elka, who’d followed in my wake while Quint and Acheron had stayed in the yard.
“I’m sorry,” I said to Sorcha. “I didn’t see the queen there when I . . .”
She shook her head. “No,” she said. “It’s not your fault. Fallon—what in the name of the Morrigan has happened? Was there an accident?”
I could see in her eyes that she knew there hadn’t been. But I also knew that, whatever she imagined had happened to Caesar, it wasn’t anywhere near as bad as the truth of it. I didn’t even know where to begin, so Cai stepped forward and told her the bald facts of the assassination as he knew them. As he did so, Charon came in from the garden to join us. His dark eyes focused on Cai, unblinking, as he waited for him to finish, and then he asked, “What state was the capital in when you left?”
“Quiet,” Cai said. “Streets empty, windows and doors shuttered and locked. They wouldn’t even show themselves to take away the body. The vigiles have gone to ground, and the legions are hunkered in their barracks, likely trying to decide whose side they’re on. I think everyone else is too damned afraid to leave their houses. But it won’t stay that way for long.”
Suddenly Kronos came striding in, covered in sweat and road dust. “It didn’t,” he said. “That was an uneasy peace short-lived.” He nodded at me, deep relief in his eyes. “I’m damned glad you’re safe.”
“You too,” I said.
“They hadn’t shut the gates?” Cai asked.
Kronos shook his head. “No one around to give the order. I imagine they have now, or will soon. But for who knows how long.”
So Aquila and his people could still be a threat, I thought.
“An impromptu memorial was gathering momentum as I left the city,” Kronos continued. “A handful of slaves from Caesar’s own house finally came and took the body away. But before I left, there was a mob brewing in the Forum, and certain senators”—he spat the word—“decided, in their collective wisdom, to send that treacherous, weak-kneed fool Brutus out to gentle them.”
“But he was one of the assassins!” I exclaimed.
“That he was.” Kronos spat in disgust. “But he pleaded with the crowd, telling them what they did was all for the love of Rome. To save the poor downtrodden plebs from the ravages of a self-proclaimed emperor and tyrant.”
“Did they listen?” Sorcha asked.
“Oh, aye,” Kronos grunted, a narrow grin twisting his mouth. “Right up until the moment Marc Antony entreated for a chance to speak too.”
Charon grunted in grim amusement, as if he suspected what had happened next, and said, “And?”
“He’s a sorcerer, that one.” Kronos shook his head. “Under the guise of praising Caesar’s murderers, he managed to whip the crowd into a frenzy against them.”
That didn’t actually surprise me. Back home, there were bards who could speak a tale that, under the pretense of “honoring” a chief or a freeman, would drip poison from a honeyed tongue in order to exact another man’s revenge. I thought about how sly Antony had been at the party and did not doubt he could give any one of those bards a stiff challenge.
“And the conspirators?” Cai asked.
“Most of ’em—the ones he mentioned by name, at least—are running for their lives or hiding behind high walls. If they’ve any sense. The crowd had already taken to building bonfires and throwing rocks.”
“And Aquila?” I asked.
“No sign of him that I could see.” Kronos shrugged.
“He’s like the runt of the pack that hangs back while the other jackals bring down the lion,” Cai said, “then sneaks in to steal the choicest piece of meat and runs away unnoticed.”
“He’s gone to gather other jackals,” I said directly to Sorcha. Then I took a breath and told them all about the mutilated practice dummies we’d seen in the Theatrum Pompeii. When I was finished, I turned back to my sister. Her lips were pressed together in a thin, bloodless line. “They were Aquila’s men, with Aquila’s grievances. He’ll take his revenge out on the ludus. You know it. He’ll lay siege to this place if he has to. And in the chaos and the void left in Caesar’s wake, there will be no one to come to our aid. “
She nodded. “We don’t have much time. Gather the girls.”
I hesitated. Unwilling, suddenly, to take that step.
Elka looked back and forth between the two of us. “What are we going to do?” she asked, frowning. “You’re not actually thinking of leaving the ludus again, are you?” She turned to me. “Are we?”
The walls of the Ludus Achillea were high and hard to climb. But they wouldn’t hold forever. And if we were caught behind them, without Caesar, Aquila could afford to be patient. The thought of it hit me like a fist to my heart. After everything that had happened—everything we’d all fought so very hard for—the home we’d built was nothing more than sticks and stones standing in the way of a deluge. Without Caesar’s protection . . . we would be swept away.