The Triumphant (The Valiant #3)(40)
I turned away from Elka, unable to answer. Across the courtyard, I saw Sennefer backing out the doorway of Cleopatra’s quarters, his hands raised in a placating gesture. I heard the slam of the door and saw his shoulders slump, and I remembered suddenly the conversation I’d had with the queen’s chief steward the last time I’d seen him, when he’d led me down to the boat the queen had given me on the night we’d retaken the ludus from Aquila.
“If the great general topples,” he’d said, “then Cleopatra will have no friend here in the land of the Romans. They hate women. They hate powerful women. They hate her, most of all.”
He’d been expecting this day to come all along. I wondered if Cleopatra had. Up until that moment, I’d only thought of getting her somewhere safe. But I suddenly realized there was nowhere safe. Nowhere within the bounds of the Republic, at least. Not for her. Maybe not for any of us. I looked around at the faces of those gathered there: my sister, Kronos, Elka, Charon and Quint, Cai . . .
All of them stood there, waiting to hear what I would say.
Even Sorcha deferred to me in that moment in a way that she never had before. We’d come so far together in such a short time—since that day when she’d bought me at a slave auction for far too much money, so she could save my life. Now it was my turn to try to save someone else’s.
“We can’t just abandon the ludus and run,” I said. “If we must go—and I know, I’m sorry, Elka, but we must—we can’t just all scatter to the ends of the world like leaves on the wind. I say we do it on our own terms. And I say we do it for a worthy cause.”
“And that would be?”
“Saving Cleopatra.”
Sorcha’s eyes went wide, her glance darting out to the garden, to where Sennefer had taken up a position squatting on his haunches, his voluminous striped robes tucked around him and the naked blade of a curved sword resting across his knees, outside the queen’s door.
“They’ll kill her if they get their hands on her,” I said. “Just like they killed Caesar. Unless we protect her. All of us, together.”
Elka’s frown disappeared, and she took a deep breath and nodded. “Well, there’s nothing more to argue beyond that then, is there?” she said, the matter—to her mind—decided beyond doubt. “I’ll help round up the others.”
My sister’s gaze drifted around the room, taking in all of us, one by one, and then settled on Charon’s face.
He nodded before she uttered a word and said, “Cosa. Less than two days’ journey if we push it. There will be ships there that will take us to Alexandria.”
“Are any of those ships yours?” I asked him.
“No,” he said. “But there will be traders there I know. We’ll ask for passage.”
“And if they say no?” I said.
“We’ll ask again. Less politely.”
Sorcha nodded at me and Elka. “Gather the girls,” she said. “Tell them to pack essentials only. But we travel equipped. We leave at first light, before sunrise.”
“And the ludus itself?” I asked, a painfully tight knot in my throat.
“Burn it. Burn it to the ground,” she said, and swept past me out of the room.
XI
AFTER ELKA AND I told the others what was happening and to get what sleep they could before the coming morn, I went to seek out Cleopatra before I retired to my own bed one last time. By then, I knew, Sorcha would’ve told the queen what had happened to her lord, but I still felt the need to speak to her myself. I was the one who’d seen it happen. I owed it to Cleopatra to speak to her directly. And I dreaded having to do it. I think, in truth, I half expected her to put a knife in my guts for not having been able to stop Caesar’s murderers from doing the same to him. I’m not sure I would have blamed her.
I found Cleopatra still in the guest quarters Sorcha kept for her. I knew she was in there because, outside, Sennefer remained squatting by the door in the darkness with his sword. And because, inside, I could hear the sound of things shattering.
The queen’s chief steward and I exchanged wordless glances as I pushed open the door and stepped carefully over the threshold. A dozen lamps were lit, throwing enough light for me to see the room and its lone occupant clearly. The sight of the queen of Aegypt in mourning was shocking—not at all what I was expecting. I suppose I should have been used to that where Cleopatra was concerned. I had, of course, expected passionate emotions from her. Just not the particular manner in which she chose to express them. I’d expected her—with her flair for dramatics—to be overcome with grief, perhaps tearing at her hair or rending her garments. But Cleopatra was the furthest thing from distraught. Instead, she stood in the middle of the room: regal, composed . . . and methodically picking up every breakable item within arm’s reach, one at a time, only to hurl whatever it was at the far wall.
There was already a substantial pile of glass and pottery shards at the base of the mural painted there, which bore the stains of a multitude of cosmetic pigments and the wine of, I guessed, several amphorae. I watched silently for a moment as she went about her business, calmly wreaking material carnage, until finally she sensed my presence.
She turned to look over her shoulder, beckoning me to enter with a wave of her hand, and I bit my cheek at the sight of her face. Cleopatra’s expression remained utterly impassive, but the thick black lines of kohl that were always so meticulously and artfully applied around her lovely eyes had mixed with tears and run in dark rivulets down her face, spattering the front of the elegant linen sheath she wore with ugly black blots. I shivered, remembering the dripping paint of the grotesque eyes on the practice dummy in the arena.