Page 62 of Trial of Bronze and Blood
Marcus clears his throat—Cato doesn’t flinch.
“Are you ready for the Festival of Fanaleria?” he asks, opening his eyes and sitting up so he can get a better look at Marcus. “You’re a bit late, but it doesn’t take long for you to dress.”
“I don’t think we should go.” Marcus sits on the edge of Cato’s bed. “I followed Venatus Magister Blaise to the outskirts of the city today, where he’s meeting with Ambitus and someone from the Imperium to strategize for the first trial at this very moment.”
“And what does that have to do with tonight?”
A waiting servant enters to place a robe around Cato’s shouldersas he steps out of the bath, then leaves again. Marcus has become so accustomed to seeing Cato naked this way, he barely even notices anymore.
“It means that Notevole might not be safe anymore, especially not at night.”
Cato grasps his dark curls with a smaller strip of linen to dry them. “I’m not going to let them intimidate me, Marcus. We both know, if they’re going to attempt anything against me, it’s going to be in the arena.” He smiles knowingly. “Why do I feel like there’s another reason?”
Marcus stands, clearing his throat. “There isn’t. I’m simply concerned for your safety.”
Cato chuckles. “It’s okay to worry about her, Marcus.”
“It’snotokay to be worried about her.” He shakes his head. “I can’t have my attention split. Not now, when we’re a day away from the first trial.”
“Well, I give you permission to split your attention tonight. Just bring an extra guard for me, someone you trust.”
Marcus moves to leave, but Cato’s next words stop him. “I know you struggle doing things that make you happy, Marcus, but that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve them. Especially now, when any one of us could die in this gambit.”
Instead of replying, Marcus clenches his jaw. He wishes he could do as Cato asks, but it wouldn’t be right. If something happened to the king because of Marcus’s attention on Dru, he’d never forgive himself.
With no more words said between them, he leaves Cato to dress for the festival.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
DRUSILLA
Fire ignites the night sky.
It blazes from within the bronze fire baskets set up around the square, and spews from the mouths of fire breathers. It even arcs out of the Viverna’s mouth in the fountain across from the temple, drawing the apt attention of the Phaedrans. Dru must admit she’s enraptured by it too, though she knows it’s only a gimmick—a diversion meant to impress the Phaedrans.
Given their love for the dragon, the display could be a customary part of the Durevolian festival. But it feels less like a celebration of the ancient creatures and more like a farse.
Durevolian vendors and bacchants alike crowd the streets, unafraid of the flames or anything else the festival has to offer. Laughter rings through the swarming alleyways, drawing people out of their homes and the Phaedrans from their tents. Have the people of Anziano already forgotten the revolt that ended in death no more than a day ago? Or have they put that aside for tonight to pay tribute to the gods before the Valorem Blood Trials?
The Durevolians may hate the Imperium’s presence here, but at least they’re not giving up their traditions because of it.
It also provides the perfect opportunity to relieve the Phaedrans of their coin.
Vendors selling all sorts of wares line the square, some with cakes and pastries, the scent of baked dough and sugar causing her mouth to water. Others sell handmade jewelry, fine silks, toys, and masks. Children weave through the crowd, grasping wooden swords and horses, laughing and screaming. Dozens of people gather around the stalls—mostly Phaedrans from the looks of them—and walk away with new merchandise.
Good, bleed them for all they’ve got.
The Festival of Fanaleria began once the sun dipped below the horizon, though few filled the streets then. Now, the entire city appears to be in attendance. The visiting Phaedrans have been civil for the most part, much to Dru’s surprise. Though that’s more likely due to the masks everyone wears over the top halves of their faces, making it impossible to tell anyone apart. Her own gold-silk mask, formed from light beeswax, sits perfectly on her face. Silk ties hidden beneath her loose hair hold it aloft, so light she can barely feel them.
She presses her palms into her dress, provided by Cato as promised and which Sabina helped her into after their sparring session and a bath.
Pride swells inside Dru at Sabina’s progress. Despite its initial purpose being to expel her pent-up energy, the training will prove invaluable to Sabina. The moment Dru handed her the pole, she could tell the girl had never held a real weapon in her life. A wooden pole won’t kill anyone, but anything can be used as a weapon if wielded properly. And, at least now, she knows a few ways to defend herself should the opportunity arise.
Dru reaches behind her and brushes the hilt of her dagger, ensuring it remains secure. Only slightly more modest than the purple dress she wore to the religious ceremony, the one she wears tonight, sown from white silk the color of the sand on the beach, stays up by only one shoulder strap. The bursts of gold stitched intothe light fabric remind her of stars, nearly sparkling in the firelight. Two high slits stitched along each hip bone end at her upper thighs.
She left her hair loose in waves down her back, not wishing to draw too much attention to herself. Glancing around her, though, she sees she’s the only one among the rabblenottrying to hide themselves. Women’s dresses manage to be every color of the rainbow, with fascinating patterns stitched into them; the men wear tunics and outfits similar to what Cato and Marcus wore to the ceremony, in an array of hues to match.
Even their masks claim more extravagance than hers, some with jewels embedded into the silk and dyed birds’ feathers framing their faces.
