The Defiant

  Or a shrine . . .

  As I stepped inside I saw that, all along one wall, there were rows of sculpted alabaster faces resting in metal sconces. I’d heard of the Roman practice of creating funerary masks of the dead, and I supposed that was what this was. The faces had been placed in front of lit lamps, and the delicate, translucent stone transformed the lamp flames into the soft, eerie glow that lit the room.

  “They worship their ancestors,” I remembered Aeddan saying to me on the ship. When he’d tried to warn me about Senator Varro. About Cai . . .

  On the opposite wall, there was a breathtaking display of ceremonial armor and weaponry. Polished to gleaming, the breastplate and helmet reflected the light as if the armor itself was made of molten gold. It must have belonged to Senator Varro, I thought. Of course it had. He’d been a celebrated general in his soldiering days, and this room must have been a sacred place to him. A place where he could pray to his gods. Thank them for his victories.

  Pledge to them his sacrifices . . .

  Suddenly, my blood ran cold.

  In a recessed alcove at the far end of the room, there was another lamp. A single, wavering flame that illuminated what seemed to be an altar stone. And on top of the stone, there stood a set of scales. In one of the scale dishes, there lay a single feather, wrought in gleaming silver.

  The scar on my arm tingled, and I heard Aeddan’s sharp intake of breath as my own voice strangled in my throat. He knew, just as well as I did, what we’d found. Senator Decimus Fulvius Varro—Cai’s beloved father—was one of the Sons of Dis. Kassandra had been right all along. And no one had believed her. Almost no one.

  “Go,” I managed in a croaked whisper. “Aeddan . . . find Cai. Bring him here—hurry—he needs to see this . . .”

  “Fallon—”

  I turned on him. “You were right,” I snarled. “Is that what you want to hear, Aeddan? That you were right about Varro? You were. I was blind. I was foolish. And now we are in great danger. So go! Find Cai and bring him here! Before it’s too late . . .”

  Aeddan hesitated for an instant. Then he spun on his heel and stalked from the room without another word. I turned back, moving toward the altar as if drawn to it by some unseen force. The scar on my arm burned with a sharp, searing sensation as I reached out my hand and touched the empty dish of the scale. It bobbed gently up and down, and even in the uncertain light, I could see the stains of old blood that marred its polished surface.

  The sight of such a thing, the unassailable proof that Kassandra had been right all along—that his father was one of the Sons of Dis—would break Cai’s heart. But I needed him to believe me beyond any doubt. Because, without the evidence of the scales right in front of me, I don’t know that I would have believed it myself.

  “Now, Fallon,” Varro’s voice interrupted my horrified thoughts. “It isn’t polite to enter rooms you aren’t invited into.”

  I closed my eyes and swallowed thickly, fear churning suddenly in my stomach. When I turned around, I almost didn’t recognize the man who stood before me. In the dimly lit room, his face was as stark and carved as one of the masks that hung on the wall. His eyes, always so keen, so kind, were black.

  “It’s all been a lie,” I said, my voice a grating rasp. “All of it, from the beginning, hasn’t it? You were never on your way to Brundisium. There was no trade delegation. You knew about the attack Pontius Aquila had planned on the ludus. You are one of the Sons of Dis.”

  “Well, yes.” Varro spread his hands wide, smiling modestly. “Their leader, actually. Pontius Aquila will tell you he is, but Aquila is really nothing more than a useful, tractable puppet. He believes fiercely in his dark gods, and I find it very convenient to let him. He thinks you are some kind of divine instrument.” He chuckled. “I simply happen to think you are a marvelous weapon. One that I intend to use most effectively against that would-be dictator Caesar, thanks—in part—to the audaciousness of you and your friends. And my own dear son.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Oh, come now. This challenge tournament you’ve all so industriously conjured into existence?” He shut the door behind him and walked toward me. “Brilliant. I had thought only to capture Caesar’s prized ludus while his back was turned. It was to be a mostly private injury to him. Now, because of you, dear Fallon, I can add very public insult to it. And no one will ever be able to say that it was me.”

  “I will.”

  “Oh, dear child.” He shook his head, smiling indulgently. “You won’t live long enough to do any such thing.” His gaze drifted toward the wall of faces, and his expression became thoughtful. “But you can rest easy in your afterlife knowing that you were instrumental in crushing the spirit of the monster who would defile the Republic with his whore Aegyptian queen. The Republic my ancestors fought and died for.”

  “I think you vastly overestimate my importance, Senator.” I took a step away from the altar. “I’m just a lowly gladiatrix.”

  “You’re Caesar’s lowly gladiatrix,” Varro said. “That’s the difference. For all the man is a monster, he’s one with a mighty heart. It’s made him strong. But it’s also his greatest weakness. You see, Caesar cares deeply for those people he considers ‘his.’ And you, by a clever trick of the Fates, are one of those. I had a long conversation with him after the Triumphs, in fact, about how he sees the spirit of his dear dead daughter in you. You, his Victrix, the glorious symbol of his Triumphs.”

  When he reached the altar, he plucked up the feather from the scales and held it carefully between two fingers, turning it so it could catch the lamplight.

  “You’re a remarkable young woman, Fallon,” he continued, as if we were having a pleasant discussion about something as meaningless as the weather. “And Caesar is not the only one you’ve beguiled with your—admittedly barbaric—charms.” He put a hand to his heart. “I too feel such kinship with you. Affection, even. Perhaps not in the same realm as the hopeless yearning my son bears for you, but I almost feel you are the daughter of my heart, Fallon. Not Caesar’s. Perhaps, when you are dead, I will honor your passing with a mask in this very room.”

  He gestured with the silver feather to the wall of ghostly faces, and a shudder of revulsion ran through my entire body. Then he turned and held the feather out, pointed at me, as if it were a dagger. He took another step toward me when, suddenly, the ebony door swung open, and I almost gasped with relief as Cai stepped into the shrine room. Quint and Antonia were with him. Antonia was wearing her crescent blade strapped to her arm.

  “Step away, Father,” Cai said. “Please . . .”

  “Caius—”

  “Now!”

  The rasp of scabbards as Cai drew his double blades was enough to make the senator close his mouth and take a single step backward, away from me. But a dangerous anger flared in his eyes as he glared at his decurion son.

  “Fallon,” Cai said, “come to me.”

  I walked backward in the direction of Cai’s voice, not taking my eyes off his father. I was almost there when the double doors leading to the courtyard burst open and a wash of blinding daylight flooded the room, accompanied by seven men in the armor and regalia of the city vigiles.

  With Aeddan at their head.

  “Your carriage driver is waiting, my lord Varro,” he said to Cai’s father, with a deferential bow.

  “Ever the snake,” I said, glaring at Aeddan as if I could set him on fire with my eyes.

  He met my gaze unflinchingly and shrugged. “At least I’m consistent.”

  “Thank you, Aeddan,” Varro said. “You are a loyal Son of Dis, and you will be rewarded.”

  Cai took a step forward. “Father—”

  “No, Caius!” Varro silenced him with a slash of his hand through the air. “I will brook no further opposition from you. This isn’t a game, boy, and you have no idea what’s at stake. You don’t
understand—I know that—but one day soon you will come to realize I’m doing this for the Republic. For you, my son.”

  “I’m not your son,” Cai said, his face twisted with conflicting emotions—grief, disappointment, betrayal . . . love. “Not anymore. You’ve forfeited the right to address me as such.”

  Varro’s mouth disappeared into a hard line, and the planes of his handsome face twisted into a bitter grimace. “The girl is not to be harmed,” he said to Aeddan and the vigiles. “My son . . . is not to be killed. The others, I do not care what happens to them.”

  Aeddan nodded and unsheathed the sword that hung at his hip. His mouth turned up in a smile, but his eyes remained cold. “And the ludus challenge?” he asked.

  “Must go on as planned.” Varro was adamant. “See to it that you get her there and in costume and ready to perform.”

  “I won’t lose,” I said.

  “Yes, my dear, you will.” He gazed at me with an expression of bleak satisfaction. “I’m sure you think your abilities are at their peak, but it’s amazing the subtle, barely discernible diminishing in one’s muscle strength that occurs when one has consumed small amounts of hemlock in wine over the course of several nights. I think that, when the time comes and the cornua horn sounds to start the fight, you’ll find that your strength is not what it was. Your reflexes, just that fraction of a second slower. Your eyesight, just a touch blurry . . . Oh yes, you will lose. And with that defeat, so go all of Caesar’s victories. That stain will stick to him like tar. And it will spread. And the mob will turn on him.”

  Aeddan’s face remained impassive as his eyes locked with mine.

  “I’ll leave your tainted heart for Pontius Aquila to feast upon.” Senator Varro smiled at me, an expression of pure malice. “Perhaps, if I’m very lucky, the spirit of the hemlock will rid me of him as well.”

  Then the leader of the Sons of Dis cast one last, bleak look back at his son before he turned and stalked through the double doors, the folds of his purple-striped robes billowing in his wake. Aeddan closed the doors behind him, plunging the room back into a sepulchral gloom, and the vigiles Varro had left behind—all hard-bitten men by the looks of them, probably veterans of the legion—fanned out in a loose circle around us.

  Wordlessly, Cai handed me one of his swords, and stepped up to flank me. Quint stepped up on the other side. Antonia started to hum a little under her breath in anticipation of the coming fight and turned to guard my back, her crescent-blade weapon reflecting fire all along its edge.

  But we were outnumbered two to one. At least, I thought so.

  The sound of hoofbeats and the creak of Varro’s carriage wheels in the courtyard grew faint, disappearing into the distance. Aeddan stood by the doors, listening, and then turned his attention back to the room. I tightened my grip on the hilt of my sword as he strode across the marble-tiled floor . . . through the circle of vigiles . . . to take up a defensive stance between me and Quint. I saw him share a glance with Cai.

  “He’s gone,” Aeddan said.

  “Good,” Cai answered, the rasp of iron in his tone. “Then let’s get this over with so we can be on our way as well.”

  One of the vigiles—the most scarred, battle-worn one—snarled in Aeddan’s direction. “You treacherous scum,” he said. “The Sons of Dis will have your heart out for this.”

  “I doubt it,” Aeddan said. “And they wouldn’t find it palatable if they did.”

  Then there was no more time for talk.

  The vigile’s snarl turned to a grunt of exertion as he launched himself into an attack, aiming for Aeddan’s shoulder. Aeddan ducked, and I darted in with a slash of my blade that drew an arc of blood from the fleshy part of the attacker’s sword arm. But I wasn’t fast enough to evade the punch he aimed at my head without even pausing to acknowledge the wound I’d dealt him. His knuckles caught me a glancing blow to my chin, and I reeled back, off balance and cursing.

  When he came at me again with a second punch, I didn’t bother to duck. I just blocked the blow with my sword. He didn’t have time to scream in pain before I circled my blade through the air and lunged forward, burying the point in his chest. He fell back, and I yanked my sword from between his ribs, kicking away his slumping corpse.

  As I regrouped for another attacker, I saw Antonia put her crescent blade to good use. The man she used it on didn’t even know that his throat had been opened up before he was on the floor, staring empty-eyed up at the ceiling. Quint saw it happen too, and offered a grunt of approval. Then he turned and dispatched his own attacker. The remaining vigiles fought grimly, but they proved no real match for two trained legionnaires and three angry gladiators.

  Soon, the room was quiet. Still.

  Red.

  The blood pooled beneath our feet, seeping from the mortal wounds of the seven dead vigiles. I stood there, catching my wind, when Cai turned to Antonia.

  “Find Neferet,” he said. “Hurry—and tell her to bring her satchel!”

  I blinked at him. None of us was injured.

  “I don’t think it’ll do them any good,” I said, gesturing at the bodies of the vigiles on the floor.

  “It’s not for them. It’s for you,” Cai said, grabbing me by the shoulders and making me look at him. “Perhaps we’re not too late . . .”

  “Too late for what?”

  “The hemlock.”

  “Cai—”

  “Aeddan, find something she can sit down on.”

  Aeddan heaved at the marble altar, tipping it over on its side. It fell heavily, and the scales and feather hit the floor with a crash.

  “Cai! Aeddan—stop!” I shrugged out of Cai’s grip as he tried to make me sit. “Antonia, stay here!”

  They froze, all of them staring at me as if I might shatter.

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  Antonia frowned. “But the hemlock—”

  “I didn’t drink any hemlock.” I snorted. “The senator’s physician sent a cup of wine to my room every night to help me sleep. But I had such terrible dreams the first night, I just kept pouring the stuff out the window.”

  Cai looked at me. “You didn’t drink the wine.”

  I shrugged. “I didn’t want to seem rude.”

  He laughed and hugged me fiercely.

  “I’ve decided I’ll stick to good old Prydain beer,” I said, my voice muffled by his chest. “You Romans put too many strange things in your drink.”

  Cai let go of me, grinning. “All right,” he said. “We’ll celebrate with a great foaming vat of the stuff when this is all over, but now it’s past time we left this place.”

  He moved swiftly to the single door that led back out into the house and cracked it open, checking to see if there were any of the domus slaves about. It seemed the way was clear.

  “Wipe the blood from your sandals on that one’s cloak,” he said, pointing to one of the dead vigiles. “Let’s go.”

  Before we left the room, I put a hand on his arm. “Cai? I’m sorry about your father,” I said.

  “No.” He shook his head, but I could see the anger—and the heartbreak—in his gaze. “I’m the one who should be sorry, Fallon. I should have believed Kass. And I damned well should have told you of her suspicions. Instead, I let my love for my father blind me, and I led us all into danger. Aeddan was right.”

  I glanced at Aeddan, who looked back at me, a grim vindication in his eyes.

  “You knew he knew?”

  “He came to me when we first arrived here. I didn’t want to listen at first. But he was right.” Cai nodded at him. “And loyal. He sent for me first before going to get those thug Sons of Dis just now.” He looked back at the dead men on the floor. “I’m just glad I was with Antonia when he found me—she’s a walking weapon.”

  Antonia threw him a casual salute with her nonweaponized hand as she finished
cleaning the blood from her crescent blade.

  “At any rate,” he continued, “so long as my father thinks Aeddan is still loyal to their order, then that’s an advantage we have. He might be able to get close to Aquila, and that might prove useful.”

  The thought of getting anywhere near Pontius Aquila sent a chill through me, but he was right. And I owed Aeddan an apology when everything was said and done. Several, perhaps.

  Cai slipped out through the ebony door into the corridor beyond and we followed him as he ran, heading in the direction of the stables, where the rest of my fellow gladiatrices waited with horses saddled and a gilded war chariot hitched up and at the ready. Elka grinned as she held out a full kit of armor that was an exact duplicate of the ceremonial Victrix gear I’d worn during Caesar’s Triumphs.

  “Charon’s doing?” I asked.

  She nodded. “The man has definite connections in the artisans’ guilds.”

  Then she and Gratia helped me armor up. There would be no mistaking who I was as we rode through the city and north on the Via Clodia. All the way to the gates of the Ludus Achillea. Our destination, and our destiny.

  As we rode, we fanned out in a V formation: Victrix in her chariot, followed by two wild-geese wings of fellow warriors, mounted on noble steeds, helmet crests tossing, cloaks flowing out behind us, weapons and armor gleaming. We presented a magnificent spectacle, worthy of the marble frieze that graced the main gates of the ludus, as we rode through the crowds that had lined the city streets, expecting us.

  They parted before our horses like long grass before a storm gale.

  And they were cheering.

  Cai had the reins of my chariot and he drove, bareheaded and standing tall, his face set in a stern expression. I rode bareheaded too, standing behind him with my feet braced wide. I carried my helmet in the crook of my arm and left my hair unbound to stream behind me. The crowd recognized me instantly from my victories and threw laurel sheafs beneath the hooves of my chariot ponies. Some of them recognized Cai as the handsome young decurion who’d leaped the barrier to sweep me off my feet in a passionate kiss after my Triumphal win. If they’d thought before that the Achillea gladiatrices were rebels after the fashion of Spartacus—an unruly band to be feared and hated—that impression vanished in that instant. I could feel it.