The Valiant

  I had changed into a simple tunic and trousers so that I could ride, and we traveled at a pleasantly languid pace, just Cai and me. I couldn’t help smiling. At midday, halfway to Lake Sabatinus and the academy, Cai led us off the road to a shaded hollow carved out of a hillside by a little tumbling waterfall. We dismounted and sat upon the grass, and Cai unpacked a lunch of cheese, pickled eggs, bread, and wine. I sat with my arms wrapped around my knees and watched him spread our meal out on a square of white linen.

  I sipped from the cup Cai passed me. “He wasn’t anything like I expected,” I said, my mind still reeling from my sparring match that afternoon. “Caesar, I mean. And yet . . .”

  “Yet he was?”

  I frowned and nodded. “I guess I just didn’t expect that I would like him.”

  Cai paused in lifting his cup to his lips. Sunlight and green shadow dappled his face, and I wanted to run my fingers through his tousled hair.

  “He’s very likable,” Cai said eventually, leaning back on one elbow in the grass. “Unless you’re at war with him. A lot of people are.”

  “I know that well enough,” I said.

  “I don’t just mean tribes and nations. I mean right here in Rome. And after the Triumphs, you’ll be seen as Caesar’s creature, you know.”

  I laughed. “Assuming I survive long enough!”

  I’d meant it as a joke. Cai didn’t take it for one. He put his cup down on the grass and rolled back up to kneel in front of me, his expression deadly serious. For a moment I thought he was angry with me.

  “You still don’t want me in the arena,” I said. “Do you?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I was wrong about that—about you. I should have given you more credit, Fallon. I’ve watched you in every single fight in the circuit. After your first one with that madwoman—”

  “She wasn’t a madwoman.”

  “Well, she fought like one.” Cai smiled before growing serious again. “But that’s not my point. Or maybe it is. The thing that the Fury was . . . was the Fury. And I didn’t think you could be like her. I didn’t think you should be.”

  I looked away. “Maybe you were right.”

  “No.” He shook his head emphatically, and there was a strange, feverish intensity burning in his eyes. “I wasn’t. Fallon, I have watched you get yourself in and out of scraps for months now. I’ve watched you fall down, get pushed down, and even throw yourself at the ground at times! And every time—every single time—you’ve hauled yourself back up to your feet, and you’ve stood straighter, stronger, and as more of the thing that you are. And that is a gladiatrix. A fighter. A warrior. And a damned good one.”

  He reached for me, his long fingers closing gently on my bare shoulders and sending a shiver through me.

  “If I’d taken you away from that,” he said, “if you’d let me take you away from that, I don’t know what you would have become. But this is what you are—who you are. Who I love.”

  His mouth was nectar-sweet as he kissed me, and we fell back together into the soft, cool grass beside the stream. Even though Cai had just told me he loved me for the gladiatrix I’d become, I thought to myself in that moment that it was a very near thing. Caesar could have easily chosen Nyx to carry his honor into the Circus Maximus for his Triumph. He could have cast me in disgrace from his marble halls that day as unworthy. He could have ordered me sold or turned out into the streets. He hadn’t. Instead, I had bargained successfully with Julius Caesar. He’d bestowed the highest honor ever to grace a gladiatrix upon me.

  And that hadn’t even been the best part of my day.

  Cai loved me.

  My journey from Durovernum to Rome had seen me plummet to the depths of despair. But then I’d found my sister. I’d found Cai. I had become a part of a family that I truly cared about. And I knew what I had to do to keep all of those bright, beautiful things from vanishing like smoke on a breeze. I had to win the Triumph, woo the crowd, and send Nyx crashing down in defeat.

  XXIX

  “IF YOU’RE NOT a worthy adversary, Fallon, you’re target practice.”

  My sister’s words echoed in my mind as I stood swaying, drenched in sweat, soaking in the sounds of braying war horns and the howling crowd. Bloodlust, thick and tangible, rolled like a heat wave over the arena sands.

  Target practice.

  The words she’d said to me so long ago Sorcha had repeated that morning as I’d readied myself for the arena. “Remember,” she’d said, “keep moving. You’re either a weapon or a target. Don’t be someone else’s target practice. Make them yours.”

  I had grinned and told her that she was going to have to come up with a few new sayings. That I’d known that one by heart for many years. I’d half expected her to tell me not to be such a brat, but she just hugged me and helped me with my weapons.

  And then she’d said, “Win the crowd, little sister.”

  “I will.”

  I hated the fact that Caesar had decreed I should wear special armor that he’d had made for the occasion. I would have much rather worn the armor Charon and Cai had commissioned for me—it fit far better. This new armor was too loose, made evident by the fact that the point of a sword had already found its way between the side buckles under my arm. The wound wasn’t deep, but I could feel the blood running down my rib cage, past my hip. But Caesar’s shining armor was all part of the show. I was no ordinary gladiatrix on that day. I was Victory.

  And Victory, in the eyes of Romans, had to look like Rome, like her legions.

  Only fancier and showing more leg.

  The whole spectacle was like that. The Roman side was entirely too shiny and, in my opinion, rather too pretty—with the notable exception of Damya, with her dragon-scale armor and fearsome, bulging muscles—and I’d never seen an actual Celt dressed as outlandishly as the tattered, feather-bedecked fighters from the Ludus Amazona we were up against. The games masters had decorated the arena with massive gilded eagles and billowing cloth to mimic ship sails at one end. On the other end, they’d erected towering, fearsome wicker statues made to look like the horned and demonically deformed wicked “gods” of the backwater barbarians. I would have been offended, but I barely noticed the trappings the moment after I entered the arena and the fight began.

  It wasn’t really the battle for Prydain, and I wasn’t really Fallon.

  I was Victory.

  Which means I have to win this fight, I thought grimly.

  The Ludus Achillea gladiatrices had already fought their way through the front ranks of the Amazona “Celts” when a peal of war horns sounded in the air. I sent my sparring opponent sprawling into the dust with a backhand swipe from the flat of my blade and turned to face the new threat. There was a rush of fresh warriors through the archway at the end of the Circus Maximus—along with chariots and fresh archers—but still no sight of Nyx.

  I scanned the fighters and saw she wasn’t there. Even in a helmet or one of the outlandish costumes, I would have known her. It seemed the games masters were holding off on the appearance of the Briton war goddess, the fearsome Morrigan. But I did recognize another familiar figure in the crowd among the ranks of the Briton princes they sent at us. Mandobracius, the notoriously savage gladiator with his raven-feathered helmet and woad tattoos, led the charge.

  “Aeddan,” I whispered through clenched teeth.

  I ran straight for him, dodging other engagements as I pelted across the sands. In the back of my mind, I could hear his brother’s voice, distorted by fog and echo, from that horrible night. Aeddan saw me coming and raced to engage me. The visor on my crested helmet covered my face from the brim to beneath my cheekbones. He wouldn’t know who I was—to him, I was just another warrior, just another life to cut short, like Mael or Ajax.

  The fact that I was female wouldn’t spare me, I knew.

  I was Cantii. He was Trinovante. Our women
had always fought and died alongside our men.

  The twin swords Aeddan wielded flashed, throwing sunlight into my eyes, dazzling me. I’d almost forgotten that he’d fought dimachaeri style that night at the Domus Corvinus. I’d never realized that it was a skill that ran in the family. Aeddan was good—almost as good as Mael had been—forcing me to block a frenzy of blows with the kind of genius born of sheer desperation. My luck held, but it wouldn’t hold long. He knew how to fight me. He might even have known how to beat me.

  But not today, I thought. Today, I am Victory.

  When his next attack came, I feinted to one side and spun low to come at him with an upward dual thrust of my swords. He twisted like a viper to evade, whirling away in the instant before my blades hit home. It gave me a moment to breathe—but only a moment. All around us, the other combatants fought in knots of twos and threes. From all sides, ranks of archers fired volleys of arrows when the ferocity of individual duels waned, just to keep things lively.

  When Aeddan came at me again, I backed away and stumbled. I fell onto my back, cursing. That should have been the end of me. But my tumble caused him to overshoot his mark, and his blades sank harmlessly into the sand next to me. Rocking onto my shoulders, I launched myself forward in an arc, landing in a crouch. Driven by the energy of the crowd, I ran recklessly toward him, chasing him backward with hewing strokes and howling like a Fury for his blood.

  I ducked under his double slashes, which sheared a chunk of bristles off the horsehair crest on my helmet, and dodged around his left flank. I landed a blow with my sword on his shoulder as I swept past. It was enough to gouge a scar in his thick leather armor and shift him off balance. It also gave me time to catch my breath, or so I thought—

  “Fallon, MOVE!” I heard Elka scream.

  “Lugh’s teeth!” I swore and dove wildly out of the way as a spear pierced the ground right where I’d been standing only a moment before.

  “Pay attention, you fool!” I muttered through a clenched jaw and dragged my focus back to the fight—just in time to see Aeddan charging toward me in a dead run, his two swords flashing. I slammed my own blades back into their sheaths and plucked Aeddan’s spear out of the ground. Wielding it like a staff, I swept it overhead and blocked the blows he rained down on me. Suddenly, a volley of flaming arrows arced overhead, trailing dark crimson smoke. We fought dead center in the arena, right in the thick of it, and Aeddan flinched as one of the arrows punched into the ground beside him.

  I took advantage of the moment, ducked low, and rammed the butt of my spear into his side. The breath left his lungs in a whoof as he stumbled sideways, and I followed up with a series of swift, vicious jabs. One of them bit into the large, hard muscle of his thigh, below the edge of the armored skirt he wore. Not deep, but painful. Aeddan’s leg went sideways, out from under him, and he fell heavily to his knees.

  The crowd cheered madly.

  I raised my blades high up over my head, muscles tensed for the killing blow. Aeddan stared up at me through the grill of his helmet visor, but all he could see was the gilded Victory mask that hid my face. He had no idea whom he was fighting, but I didn’t have that luxury. I stared down into his gray eyes and lowered my swords. Confusion mingled with the pain in his gaze as I reached up and snapped open the buckle on my leather chinstrap, lifting the helmet and visor off my head. My hair fell down around my cheeks, damp and sticky with sweat, and the air was cool on my face.

  Aeddan let out a choked gasp as he realized who he had been fighting.

  The world seemed to spiral out and away from us.

  Time stood still . . .

  The world crashed back down on me, and the walls of the Circus Maximus closed in. I was losing the crowd—I could feel their mood souring against me—and I felt a swell of panic. It didn’t matter anymore if the spectacle had been intended as pure pageantry. The mob smelled blood, and would have it. I raised my swords again, and Aeddan went stone-still, staring up at me. The hurt in his eyes washed away, and a calm acceptance took its place, almost as if he had been waiting for this moment.

  And I couldn’t do it.

  High up in the stands, I saw Caesar stand beneath the crimson canopy and take a step forward. He lifted his arm high, fist clenched. His brow was creased in an angry frown beneath the laurel crown he wore, and my stomach clenched in an icy knot.

  The crowd fell silent and held their breath.

  This was not the way the spectacle was supposed to end.

  And then the war horns sounded a third time, louder and harsher, a strident battle call. Aeddan and I both looked over to see the iron grate at the mouth of a cavernous archway grinding upward. Through it rode a nightmare.

  The Morrigan made her entrance onto the field of the battle of Britannia in a chariot black as despair.

  Standing on the deck of the chariot behind her driver, Nyx was impressive and terrifying to behold, costumed in black armor with a long cloak tiered and tattered to resemble wings flowing from her shoulders. Her face and limbs were painted with garish blue designs, and her eyes were ringed in thick black kohl. And they were fixed on me.

  Her teeth bared in an animal grimace, she suddenly lunged forward and yanked her chariot driver up by the shoulders. She flung the driver from the chariot, seizing the reins herself. With a howl, she drew a whip from her belt and lashed the black horses madly, steering the war cart straight at me and Aeddan, who still lay sprawled on the ground at my feet.

  “Daughter . . .” The voice of the goddess shuddered through my mind like thunder—and suddenly I found myself grinning savagely. The Morrigan had not forsaken me. She wasn’t against me.

  The true Morrigan had shown herself to lead me to victory.

  “Get up!” I snapped at Aeddan, sheathing my swords and thrusting out a hand to help him stand.

  “Fallon, what—”

  “You’re going to prove to me that I didn’t make a mistake by not killing you just now.” I hauled him to his feet, ignoring the sting from the flesh wound under my armor. “You’re going to help me show these people what it means to be a warrior from the Island of the Mighty!”

  Not fifteen feet away from Aeddan and me, one of the swift, light chariots stood bereft of its driver, hitched to a pair of ghost-gray horses. I grabbed for Aeddan’s wrist and ran, dragging him with me. Nyx’s own chariot was almost on top of us.

  “Come on!” I shouted. “Move!”

  I heard cries of outrage as the crowd realized that we weren’t waiting for Caesar to render judgment. I certainly wasn’t. The mood of the mob was balanced on the edge of a knife—and I knew in that moment that was just where I wanted them. With Aeddan’s help, I would take their outrage and turn it into wild exultation.

  “You’d better pray to all the gods that you’re even half the chariot driver Mael was,” I said, grabbing the reins. I leaped up onto the chariot deck and tossed them to Aeddan and snarled, “Now drive for all you’re worth!”

  There was an answering gleam in his eyes, and he wrapped the reins around his hands, braced his feet, and shouted, “Hyah!” to the sleek ponies. They bolted into a gallop as he slapped the reins on their rumps.

  The crowd roared at the sheer recklessness. Aeddan steered so that we would pass within arm’s length of Nyx’s chariot on our right. I shifted over and braced myself, drawing a sword with one hand and gripping the chariot rail with the other for balance.

  Nyx’s whip cracked, and I ducked instinctively. I wasn’t quite fast enough, but neither was she. The wasp-kiss of the whip left a crimson welt on my upper arm. At the same time, I struck at Nyx’s shoulder with my blade and drew blood. Our chariots were so close that the wheel hubs screeched as they scraped against each other. Then we were past, thundering toward a group of fighters who scattered out of our careening path. I glanced back to see that Nyx was already driving into a hard pivot. Her mouth was open wide, and she was
screaming curses. She was the best charioteer the Ludus Achillea had, the best I’d ever seen.

  And she was on us again in a flash.

  Thrashing her horses mercilessly, Nyx caught up with us and rammed her chariot against ours, almost knocking me off the deck. With only one hand on the reins, she slashed at me with a gladius drawn from a sheath at her belt, and I slashed back. There was no finesse to our mad duel, no technique. It was all down to whoever landed the first lucky blow.

  The crowd gasped and shrieked in salacious horror.

  The chariot wheel hubs sparked, grating against each other. The horses screamed and fought the traces. In the distance, near the end of the arena, where the chariot track curved and doubled back, I saw Elka’s familiar blonde braids—and the sunlight glinting off the head of her oath-gift spear.

  “Aeddan!” I shouted. “Drive straight! Straight!”

  “There’s a wall straight ahead!” he shouted back. He tried to haul the horses to the left but Nyx headed us off. She was hemming us in with her chariot, trying to drive us in the direction of the wall—exactly where I’d just told him to go. Because, yes, there was a wall, and if we hit it, we’d crash and very likely die. But between us and the wall, there was Elka—and her spear.

  “Do it!” I shouted again. “Hold . . . hold . . . now! Veer sharp!”

  Aeddan fought with the reins, sawing the bits into the horses’ mouths as we hurtled toward the arena wall. I heard Aeddan cursing loudly with the effort. And then, suddenly, the beasts gave in, leaning into the turn so sharply that our chariot went up on one wheel and almost flipped onto its side.