The Defiant

  I let go of her, and she pulled her palla back up over her head, hiding her face once more from the eyes of Rome. Junius let her back out through the gate, and I stood there for a long moment after she was gone, a confused knot of emotion sitting heavy in my chest. Was there more between Cai and Kass than I had guessed? I shook my head. No. He would have told me.

  Would he? Really?

  I had to believe that he would.

  When I turned to go back inside, I saw Aeddan standing in the shadows of an alcove, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and a stony expression on his face. He was close enough to have probably heard the entire exchange between Kassandra and Cai, and I waited for him to say something. But he didn’t.

  He just pushed himself away from the wall and walked away from me, shaking his head.

  • • •

  Later that evening I couldn’t find Cai. He’d been a walking thundercloud ever since his encounter with Kass. Quint had told me that he’d gone back out into the city to continue making arrangements for our impending departure. I wasn’t sure I believed him. But I trusted Cai. I trusted Kass, for that matter, too. Neither of them, I firmly believed, would ever do anything to hurt me, and if they had something to work out between the two of them, then I would leave them to it.

  To take my mind off that possibility, I found myself later that night ruminating with Elka on the things Kass had said about the state of the Republic, and about what she’d already told Cai about the Optimates and the Populares and the secret power struggles that took place in the shadows of those two factions. I could hardly discount Pontius Aquila and his handful of depraved followers—I’d seen them with my own eyes—but was it really possible, I wondered, for such practices to be as widespread as Kassandra seemed to think they were? For such men to have influence over the power behind Rome herself? Even Caesar, I knew, had once been a high priest in the strange and secretive Order of Jupiter, but I still had difficulty reconciling the strategist with the mystic.

  Elka, of course, had theories based on her own tribe’s struggles for dominance.

  “Men have always drawn power from death,” she said, keeping her voice to a low murmur as she stirred the embers of the brazier between us. “And not just the death of their enemies. Sometimes the death of friends. My tribe—the Varini, and others like them—in times of trouble, they would take the war captives out into the forest and return home without them. When I was a girl, I came across what was left of one of those captives when I got lost one day gathering wood. He’d been blood-eagled. Split open and strung up between the branches of a tree as an offering to our gods and a warning to our enemies.” She shrugged and reached for a mug of ale. “Sometimes, when there were no captives, they’d take one of our own. An ‘honor,’ it was called. And don’t tell me that you Celts never do similar things. I know that you do.”

  It was true. The druiddyn, the spiritual leaders of my tribe, sacrificed men to the bogs to propitiate the gods. The warriors of the tribes took the heads of their enemies as war trophies. I’d heard tales that some—the Catuvellauni, mostly—even hung them from the rafters and on the doorposts of their houses as talismans of power. My father, to my knowledge, had never done such a thing. And he hadn’t ever allowed it from his war band.

  And maybe that’s why he failed on the field of battle, I thought. Maybe that’s why he was a weak king . . .

  What if there truly was power—real power—to be found in the death of others? Or was it just the way small men made themselves feel larger? I thought about the Morrigan and the demands she made of her faithful, and I wondered. What if, one day, the goddess demanded that kind of sacrifice from me? The life of another for something as base as political gain?

  She wouldn’t do that, I argued silently. Would she?

  Not even here, in Rome? Not even if it meant gaining power over Romans and their gods? I honestly didn’t know. But the thought was enough to give me a chill on my skin that even the fire’s warmth couldn’t banish.

  • • •

  Word came the next morning—finally—that we had a ship. Cai gave me the news himself, and I noticed that his brooding mood had seemingly lifted overnight. My own foreboding vanished too, in a freshening wind of fierce anticipation. We would leave Arviragus’s prison house that very day, at dusk.

  “I’d like to come with you.”

  I jumped down from the back of the wagon Cai and I had been loading with gear and stood staring up into Arviragus’s bearded face, not knowing quite how to respond.

  “That is, if you think you could use an old warrior,” he said.

  “Uh . . .”

  Until that moment, it hadn’t even occurred to me that he’d want to come with us. But there was a naked apprehension in his gaze—I think he was actually afraid we’d leave him behind—and I didn’t know what to say. True, since we’d descended on his prison home, I’d only seen him drunk once or twice—and not dead drunk or raving drunk or sick drunk—but he certainly wasn’t the warrior he had been all those years ago. Not close to it. And he didn’t exactly cut the most inconspicuous figure. It would be risky even getting all of us to the docks and aboard ship without the vigiles catching wind as it was.

  “You are somewhat . . . recognizable, lord.” Cai delicately voiced at least that much of what I was thinking.

  The look on Arviragus’s face broke my heart when he nodded and began to turn away, shoulders slumping. I reached out a hand, but Junius had heard the exchange and came over to us.

  “I think I can help with that,” he said.

  Arviragus peered at him suspiciously.

  “I’ve my soldier’s shaving kit and a stash of civilian garb in my trunk,” he said. “The tunic’ll be a mite tight and the cloak a mite short, but if you stoop and keep your head down, you won’t look like the thundering great backwater barbarian you are. Come on.”

  I watched them walk back into the cell where Arviragus had spent the last seven years of his life. Where he would spend who knows how many more until his great heart gave up beating and his soul escaped, finally, to the halls of the valorous dead in the Blessed Isles of the afterlife. If we left him there.

  Cai was watching him too.

  “You don’t think this is a good idea,” I said.

  “His hands shake.”

  I lifted my arm and held out my hand, fingers splayed wide. “So do mine.”

  Cai took my hand in his. “Your strength will return.”

  “So will his.”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  Then it didn’t, I thought. And Arviragus the legend became Arviragus the liability. But I knew I’d already made my decision. “I’m not leaving him behind,” I said. “Like I left Tanis and the others . . .”

  “You said it yourself, Fallon.” He smiled at me gently. “That was only a tactical retreat.”

  “Right.” I nodded. “And Arviragus is a masterful tactician. His experience could come in handy.”

  I knew I was concocting the thinnest of rationalizations for bringing him along, but I didn’t care. Arviragus had earned my faith in him. And if that faith was misplaced, then . . . what? Was I willing to risk the fates of many for the benefit of one who’d had his chance at glory a long time ago? Whose name was already, forever, a shining silver thread woven into every bard’s tapestry of songs? I wondered what Sorcha would do if our situations were reversed.

  Would she risk my life to save his?

  I already knew the answer before I even asked the question: Yes.

  And the Morrigan alone could judge the rightness of it.

  Right or wrong, Arviragus was a sight to see when he reappeared, shorn of his tangled mane and beard, and dressed in a plain tunic and cloak. Even Cai looked twice, a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. Arviragus could have almost passed for any merchant or a farmer from the provinces come to Rome to trad
e. Nothing could completely hide his warrior’s carriage, but I hoped that it would simply make men avoid eye contact, thinking him an ex-soldier or mercenary.

  Mostly, I just hoped he would keep his hood up, and his drink down.

  “Will you come with us, Junius?” he asked his longtime jailer. Seeing as how there would be nothing left to guard after he was gone.

  “I’ve been hovering over you for the better part of the last seven years,” Junius snorted. “You’d think you’d be glad to see the back of me. No, I’ll stay here. My relief isn’t scheduled to take over for another week. That’ll give me time to think of something to tell him. Probably that you drank yourself to death and I had to bury you in the yard.”

  “He’ll believe that.”

  “Oh, aye. And keep it a secret, because he wants his legion pension.”

  The two men clasped each other by the wrists.

  “Goodbye, old friend,” Junius said.

  “Farewell, old enemy,” Arviragus growled.

  My heart swelled a bit at the straightness of his spine and the flickering fire I could see kindled to life somewhere deep behind his eyes.

  X

  THE CLOAK LEANDER had found for me was a shapeless, featureless thing with a deep hood—useful for conveying anonymity, which I desperately needed. As Caesar’s vaunted Victrix, I’d been seen by at least half of the citizens of Rome on more than one occasion, and there was a good chance someone would recognize me if I went about in the streets bareheaded.

  And not just me.

  We had to tie Elka’s long blonde braids up and hide them beneath a drab shawl she wore over her head. We hid Ajani’s distinctive features beneath a veil. The other girls were likewise disguised, and Cai and Quint both had to stow their legion gear in a trunk and dress in garb befitting merchants, hoping no one would scrutinize their military-short haircuts.

  We made our way down to the docks on the River Tiber in pairs and small groups and, once there, used the cover of the merchant stalls and the constant, crowded flow of foot traffic to our best advantage, boarding the craft Cai had procured at inconspicuous intervals. The vessel was a low-slung, dragon-prowed affair with a tattered, faded sail that looked as though it had once belonged to some less-than-prosperous northern raiders. Its side rails were festooned with the ragged-edged sea-bleached shields of its former shipmates, and it looked thoroughly disreputable and barely seaworthy. I suspected that no one would think to look twice for a gaggle of fugitive gladiatrices sailing aboard her.

  Still, I would breathe a sigh of relief only once we’d made our way past the docks of the port city of Ostia, with wind filling the sails and the boat bounding through the waves of the Mare Nostrum, heading west toward Corsica. And, I prayed to the Morrigan, my sister.

  We’d agreed before setting out that Elka, Ajani, and Gratia would each take a couple of the newer girls. Elka, her tattered palla pulled up over her head, walked bent over like a crone, accompanied by Devana and Nephele. The disguise gave Elka an excuse to lean heavily on a “walking stick”—a long wooden staff that, in her hands, was almost as lethal as her customary bladed spear. Just in case she and her charges ran into any trouble.

  Ajani took Kore and Thalassa and had to hide the small bow Leander had found for her beneath the heavy veils she wore. It was a cheaply made thing, almost a child’s toy, but it was accompanied by two full quivers of arrows. Ajani had spent days oiling the bow and sharpening the arrows, gently straightening every single shaft over a brazier so they would fly as true as her aim.

  Gratia, accompanied by Vorya and Anat, went unequipped. In a street brawl, her bare hands would probably be just as effective as anything else, I reasoned. Whatever other weapons we’d amassed, the girls hid them in boots or packs or under wraps. It wasn’t hard—we were still light on arms all around, and what we’d been able to scrounge were mostly long knives and short swords. I counted myself extremely fortunate, under the circumstances, that I had my oath swords, strapped to my hips under my cloak.

  The day grew long and I fidgeted with the hilt of one blade, leg muscles cramping from stillness, as Meriel crouched beside me in the shadows of a cloth merchant’s stall. She carried only a thin-bladed dagger tucked away in her boot, and I desperately hoped she wouldn’t have the opportunity to use it. Because whoever she bloodied with that blade would have to be less than her arm’s length away. I shifted uneasily at the prospect of a fight. We’d been lucky so far. Over the course of the last hour or so, as the sun sank toward the hills across the river, she and I had waited.

  I glanced back toward the wharf. It was close to deserted now, save for a few late cargo porters and a scattering of gulls searching for scraps. I looked to the ship but couldn’t see Cai or Quint in the prow yet. At irregular intervals, one of them—both still dressed like merchants—would appear standing in the prow of the docked boat, and that would be a signal for one of our little groups to make their way onboard. The bustle of the wharves, even that late in the day, helped mask the activity. Our little bands of travelers blended into the crowds, only to disappear up the gangplank onto the ship, where they stayed out of sight.

  Meriel and I were the last, waiting out of sight in the gathering purple shadows as dusk gave way to a deeper dark and the first stars pricked their holes in the fabric of the sky. Antonia and Neferet, along with Leander and Arviragus, had gone aboard not long before. Now the wharf traffic was almost down to nothing, and it wouldn’t be long.

  Meriel nudged my shoulder. “There’s our signal.”

  “Let’s go.”

  We were so close. A spear’s throw—less—when they came out from between the pillars of the merchant’s guild pavilion. A half dozen vigiles, all bristling with armor and waiting, clearly, for me to show before they made their move. We’d walked right into a trap.

  “That one!” one of them shouted, pointing at me. “It’s her!”

  We ran, Meriel turning the air as blue as her tattoos with curses. “I’m useless with only this bloody cheese knife!” she exclaimed, brandishing the little blade she carried as her only weapon.

  Within a stone’s throw of the ship, three more vigiles stepped out from behind a stack of crates—blocking the way between the gangplank and us. Between freedom and us. Meriel skittered to a halt and turned to me, eyes white-rimmed. I drew my swords and offered her one.

  She reached to take it—and then lunged past me, shouting, “Never mind!”

  “Meriel!”

  “Better idea!”

  The docks were full of ships and boats and all manner of associated paraphernalia, including fishing gear. A neat stack of it: crab pots, nets, and a bundle of fishing spears. In the arena, Meriel fought retiarius-style, with a trident and net. The spear she snatched up had only two tines instead of the three, and the net was hung with bits of seaweed, but I don’t think she cared in the moment. She turned to jam her shoulder up against mine, and together, we faced the advancing vigiles.

  As constables of Rome, the vigiles were tough and they were brutal, an effective force in keeping the peace in the city. But when they fought, they fought like thugs. A few of the senior officers were legion-trained, but the majority of the men who patrolled the actual streets, navigating the treacherous rivalries of the district merchant guilds and their gangs of enforcers, were simple brawlers. Big, strong, they outweighed and outmuscled us.

  And two of them went down like sacks of grain the instant they attacked.

  I didn’t have time to think about how it felt to have to wrench my sword out of human flesh again, twisting as I did to avoid slipping in the hot, red rush of blood that followed, painting the cobbles beneath my sandals. I only thought about the lives of the girls on the boat behind me. Of Sorcha waiting for rescue . . .

  “Fallon!”

  Meriel shouted and I ducked without thinking, slamming my knee painfully onto the ground and rolling over onto
my back. The setting sun flashed red on the blade descending in an arc toward my head. I thrust out an arm to block the coming blow but suddenly the sword was gone, caught in the barbs of Meriel’s fish spear and swept aside. The blade flew through the air, and its wielder cursed and lurched after to retrieve it.

  I sucked in a breath and scrambled clear of the melee, gasping a thanks for the save. Meriel grunted in response and grasped my wrist to drag me up to my feet.

  “Down, Meriel!”

  I shouldered her aside and slashed my swords overhead as the vigile behind her raised an axe over his head, screaming as he swung the weapon back for a killing blow. He screamed louder when he realized that he no longer had an axe—or an arm—to swing.

  Another constable, maybe twenty paces ahead, hauled up short at the sight of his armless fellow, the look of fleeting horror on his face swiftly replaced by one of scorching fury. He brandished a short curved sword and charged at me. I braced for the impact of his blow, but it never landed. Instead, an arrow grazed past my ear and pierced his shoulder. The missile came from the direction of the docks—someone on the ship must have realized we hadn’t made it aboard yet and come up on deck to see the commotion—and it slammed into the vigile, spinning him around in a grotesque dance before he fell to the wharf, howling in pain. If Ajani’d had her proper bow, I thought, he wouldn’t be howling. He’d be dead.

  Three more arrows flew in rapid succession, two of them striking flesh, and in a matter of moments, the circle of constables that had been advancing on me and Meriel had scattered in all directions. That earned us a respite to take cover behind a stack of empty wooden fowl crates. We crouched there, side by side, both of us gripping bloodied weapons and gasping for breath. I peered between the slats of a crate to see if I could assess our situation. The vigiles’ numbers had dwindled, but an alarum had been sounded somewhere, and the faint hope that Meriel and I would both make it to the gangplank unscathed suddenly vanished with the last light of the sun beyond the horizon.