Page 49 of Trial of Bronze and Blood
As they glide through the crowd of Durevolians and Phaedrans alike, all eyes follow them. Some in reverence, some in malice. But Marcus leads them out nonetheless, guiding them back to the palace.
A few more people crowd the city center now, though there’s still no sign of the market. On the other side of the square, a fountain featuring a different depiction of the Viverna spews water from its open maw. Children try to catch the sparkling droplets with their hands, giggling.
Alessandra comes up beside Dru. She moves surprisingly fast for her age and apparent illness. “What do you think of Marcus?” she asks softly.
“I don’t think of Marcus,” she bites out. She glances up at him anyway, unable to help herself. His attentive gaze rests on the buildings, checking for signs of trouble, while Cato’s guards do the same. His hair has loosened in the heat of the day, and the muscles in his arms strain against his shirt.
“Yes, you do,” the woman says bluntly. “He’s a good man.”
Dru takes a breath. “That’s one thing he has always been and will always be.”
“Good. And what do you think of Anziano? Of Notevole?”
“You have a beautiful country, regina vedova. It’s remarkable how you’ve been able to keep the Imperium out for so long.” A pair of Durevolians smile at Alessandra as they pass. “And your people love you.”
Alessandra peers up longingly at the palace, a spectacle from town shining in the sun on a cloudless day. “This country has never belonged to me, nor to my husband or son. It belongs to itself.”
Her cane keeps them company, tapping gently on the cobblestone to mark her steps. It’s a wonder she needs one at all, but Dru knows nothing about what ails her.
Except this. “You miss him—your husband.”
A painful smile pricks at her lips. “Every day. The grief eats away at me from the inside as if it has teeth.” She grabs Dru’s hand, surprising her, and lowers her voice. “Don’t let the Imperium take my son from me too.”
She squeezes her hand. “I’ll do everything in my power. I promise.”
Alessandra squeezes back a bit too tight.
“I know you will.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MARCUS
“Ambitus, thank you for coming,” Cato announces.
Marcus stands slightly behind Cato seated on his throne, clenching his hands behind his back to restrain himself from choking the life out of the Imperium ambassador. The man’s obsession with placing Anziano under Imperium rule—likely so he can get the promotion he has yet to secure since he first began his post here a few years ago—has overshadowed all of Cato’s reign, as well as the end of his father’s.
The Phaedran’s constant hunger for power will eventually weaken them in Marcus’s eyes, but, for now, they remain a constant threat to Anziano.
The harsh sun bleeds through the green leaves of the palm trees, casting shade over them, as birds twitter happily nearby. The weight of what’s about to happen overshadows their joy.
Ambitus picks at something beneath his fingernails, appearing bored by it all. “The pleasure’s all mine, Sovrano Cato Draghi. Dowager Queen Alessandra Draghi.”
At Ambitus’s side stands the venatus magister, Blaise. He and Marcus have met before, but under vastly different circumstances.He’s surprised Blaise hasn’t approached him yet, offering to pay him to keep his many indiscretions a secret. The few Marcus is aware of would be more than enough to oust him from his post. But Marcus would rather have an enemy he holds something over than an enemy he doesn’t know.
Except he nearly stabbed Blaise in the neck when he took Dru’s hand and kissed it at breakfast. Knowing Dru can handle him herself didn’t help Marcus barely contain the rage he felt when she flinched at the gesture. If Cato hadn’t intervened, Marcus would have, and it wouldn’t have been as gentle.
The legatus next directs his attention to Marcus. He looks ridiculous in his full military garb, especially when Marcus knows full well he’s never killed a man with his own two hands—never swung the axe or pulled the lever that ends the lives of the people he condemns to death.
“Marcus Scaevola,” he offers. “Praetor to the king.”
Ambitus gives him a long look before moving on. Marcus takes a calculated breath to slow his thundering pulse.
“Jove, the bard,” their guest offers next. “I’m just here as the entertainment.”
Ambitus raises his brow but says nothing in response. Honestly, Marcus has no idea why Cato has chosen the bard, of all people, to spy on the Phaedrans. Perhaps he found a kindred spirit in him, though that feels like an insult to kindred spirits.
“To business, then.” Cato sits back in his throne, feigning composure. The slight tremble in his hands proves otherwise, but he tempers it quickly.
