The Valiant

by Lesley Livingston

  Unsurprisingly, sleep eluded me utterly.

  Instead, I lay on my cot tossing restlessly and contemplating the sharp turn my life had just taken. As outlandish as it seemed, as bizarrely coincidental, my long-dead sister not only lived, she lived in a palatial house not more than a stone’s throw from my cold, cramped cell. After seven long years.

  I sat up with a start.

  Caius Varro’s mystery, at least, was solved: my sword.

  Charon had kept my sword, the blade that bore my sister’s triple-raven mark, and I suddenly understood he’d kept it because he’d recognized it—and me. That was what the slave master had meant when he’d said the trunk was the key to both our fortunes: his fortune, my fate. He must have known who the “Lady Achillea” really was, which meant he’d known that he could likely sell me to her for a royal ransom.

  My thoughts turned then to Virico, my royal father. After our mother had died birthing me, Sorcha had become the shining light in his world. And when she’d died—no, when she’d disappeared—that flame had been snuffed out forever. My brave, handsome father had lived as a broken man ever since. I could only wonder what my abduction had done to him.

  And it was all her fault.

  The anger toward Virico that I’d kept alive in my heart, like a glowing ember, flared brightly. Only now, its heat was directed toward Sorcha. Seething, I threw off my blanket, swinging my bare feet to the cold stone floor. The back of my neck was damp with sweat, and I felt like there was a fire burning deep inside my skull. I dressed and threw on my long woolen cloak, pulling the hood up over my hair. Then I quietly opened the door to my cell and slipped out into the corridor, padding swiftly toward the archway that led out into the practice yard, where the flower garlands still swayed between the extinguished torches.

  Unlike what I’d been told about most men’s ludi, especially the ones that had a high ratio of criminals-turned-gladiators, we had guards at the Ludus Achillea but no locks on the cell doors—not in the barracks, at least. I knew that there were other cells, down near the stables, that did have bars and locks, for the rare occasion that a student merited extreme punishment, but I’d not known any of the girls to spend even a single night in them in the time I had been there. My sister ran a well-mannered academy.

  Still, that didn’t exactly mean that wandering the academy grounds in the deep of the night was encouraged. But I wasn’t on any midnight kitchen raid, and I didn’t plan on getting caught by the guards. Cold anger washed over me like winter rain as I padded swiftly down the deserted corridor and out onto the grounds of the compound. As I neared the guesthouse, I could hear men’s voices, but I turned down a different path.

  A fist of apprehension closed around my heart as I set off across the practice arena and slipped through a breezeway, into the outer yard, heading toward the massive wooden gates that opened out onto Lake Sabatinus, where the charioteers would race their carts. The gates were carved with scenes of women fighting in various settings—against each other, against wild beasts, on horseback and in chariots, throwing spears and shooting arrows—and they stood open.

  Out on the lake, the Aegyptian queen’s barge was moored to the ludus pier. The bow and stern of the elegant watercraft were carved like bundles of reeds tied together and painted in red and gold and blue. I could hear women’s laughter drifting from the large tent pitched in the middle of the broad deck. I started down the beach toward where the dock jutted out past the gleaming line of white foam of the water’s edge.

  For a brief, fanciful moment, I imagined that Nyx would suddenly appear in her chariot to chase me down the strand and crush me under hooves and iron-rimmed wheels.

  Of course, she didn’t. But there was someone else there, standing on the landward side of the pier. I squinted and saw it was Thalestris, and I saw that she was armed. I didn’t think there was any way the grim fight mistress would let me near my sister tonight. But when she saw me approaching, Thalestris seemed to hesitate a moment. Then she loped up the gangplank and ducked into the tent. I waited on the beach, wondering. Guards armed with short, powerful-looking bows stood on the deck, fore and aft of the tent, watching me with stern gazes.

  After a few moments, Thalestris reappeared and beckoned me with a curt wave of her hand. The mist lay heavy on the dark mirror of the Sabatinus, and the only sound was the lapping of wavelets on the barge as I stepped aboard. The white-and-gold fabric of the tent pavilion billowed gently in a bare hint of breeze off the shrouded waters of the lake.

  Silently, Thalestris ushered me into the tent and left me there.

  Inside, as my eyes adjusted to the dim light of hanging oil lamps and a gently glowing brazier, I could make out two figures reclining opposite each other on Roman couches. My sister and Cleopatra, queen of Aegypt. Up close, I saw that she bore little resemblance to any of the people I’d already met who claimed descent from that fabled land. Of course, I remembered hearing that it was because she was actually more Greek than anything. I’d also heard her called ugly and awkward, but I thought she was beautiful in a strange, compelling way. An overlong nose and eyes that were huge beneath strong, arching brows gave her a feline quality, and her face was framed by a helmet of thick-twisted braids held in place with gold and turquoise beads. Her dress was made of layers of sheer, pleated linen that floated out around her exquisitely.

  She gazed at me with a frank, open curiosity, and I wasn’t sure how to react in that moment. When I’d been the daughter of Virico, king of the Cantii, I’d occasionally been called upon to play gracious hostess to a gang of unruly Celt chieftains, but this? I almost forgot about Sorcha for a moment. I was intently aware, suddenly, of my unbrushed hair and the creases in the tunic I wore.

  And the iron collar around my neck.

  Nervously, I looked over to the woman whose features were as familiar to me as my own. My sister had barely aged.

  “You’ve grown,” she said by way of greeting.

  “It’s been a long time since you left us.” My voice sounded weirdly strangled to my ears. “I was just a little girl.”

  “You were hardly that.” Her gazed roamed over me, but her face remained impassive.

  I felt my heart thudding in my chest and was overwhelmed with the urge to run to her and throw my arms around her, weeping with the joy of having found her again. My brave, beautiful sister. I quashed the impulse mercilessly.

  “I’m surprised you remember what I looked like at all,” I said instead. “Do you even remember my name?”

  “Don’t act the wounded child,” she said. She turned back to Cleopatra. “Majesty, I am sorry for this one’s intrusion—and her behavior.”

  “Oh no.” Cleopatra held up a hand. “No need to apologize, believe me. I’m well acquainted with the . . . frictions, shall we say, that can arise between siblings. Especially sisters.”

  “Your majesty is too gracious.”

  “Not at all.” She waved her hand. “I am honored to bear witness to a family reunion. Please, forget I’m even here.” She grinned, a slightly feral expression, and winked at me.

  I remembered having heard gossip among the ludus girls that Cleopatra’s sister, Arsinoe, had tried—unsuccessfully—to wrest control of the Aegyptian throne from her. Cleopatra had wanted her killed, but Caesar had other, perhaps crueler ideas. He spared Arsinoe so that he could trot her out like a trained animal in a victory parade of his captive enemies during his upcoming Triumphs.

  Clearly, Sorcha had told the queen who I was and how I’d come to be at the ludus. And yet she hadn’t seen fit to reveal herself to me before the ceremony. “Why?”

  The word tore from my lips. Sorcha frowned at me.

  “Why didn’t you tell me before now?” I tried to keep my voice steady. “Before just . . . just appearing in front of me—in front of everyone—like that! I’ve been living here in a cell all this time, and it never even occurred to you to l
et me know that you were still alive? That you owned me?”

  At this, my sister had the good manners to grow flushed and look away. “You know nothing of the why of things, Fallon,” she muttered.

  “You’re right,” I spat. “I only know I’ve grown up thinking my beloved sister was dead.”

  “She is. I am not the girl you knew.”

  “No. I suspect not. I’m sure Father would agree.”

  I saw the fingers of Sorcha’s right hand clench. “He is well?”

  “He lives.”

  “I’m glad—”

  “Broken and heartsick, as he’s been for years.”

  The clenched hand again. Sorcha and my father had been so close. I knew it was cruel of me to say such things, but I was hurt. And angry.

  “I never wanted that,” Sorcha said quietly. “And I certainly never wanted this.”

  “What?”

  “You.” Her eyes flicked back to my face, and her gaze was searing. “Here.”

  The words felt like a slap in the face—hard and sharp and stinging. “Then why did you buy me?” I asked, furious with myself at the way my voice broke. “Why bring me here?”

  “Well, it certainly wasn’t because of how you fought at the auction!” she said sharply. “I thought I taught you better than that. That Alesian would have cut you in two in another moment if it hadn’t been for Elka stepping in to save your hide!”

  We glared across the tent at each other. The whole argument suddenly felt like a moment plucked from my childhood when I’d once again done something dangerous or foolish. Or simply not good enough.

  “I brought you here to keep you safe,” she said. “Because you were somehow foolish enough to be taken by slavers and lucky enough that one of them was Charon. I had to keep you from being sold into a situation a hundred times more dangerous. But to do that, I put the fate of every other girl in this ludus at risk.”

  “I don’t have the faintest idea what you mean.”

  “I don’t expect you to.” With a huff, she pushed herself up off her couch and strode over to a side table that held a wine jug and goblets. She sloshed a generous measure of dark red wine into one of the goblets and took a long drink before turning back to me. “You’re not in Durovernum anymore, Fallon. You’re here. And there’s not a damned thing either of us can do about it. You belong to this ludus now, and that means you belong to Caesar, and if any of the other lanistas knew who you were, they wouldn’t hesitate to hurt you to get to me. I can’t be your sister here.”

  “Or anywhere, it seems.”

  She glanced at me sharply.

  “Does he know who I am?” I asked sullenly. “Your lord and master, the mighty Caesar?”

  Sorcha glanced sideways at Cleopatra, who’d remained silent throughout our entire exchange. I belatedly remembered that the foreign queen was Caesar’s consort, but she remained unruffled by my rudeness. She plucked a grape from the bunch on the plate in front of her and popped it into her mouth, her grin never wavering. She seemed to be enjoying herself.

  “He does not know who you are or why I bought you.” Sorcha put her goblet down hard enough to rattle the other dishes on the low table. “No one does beyond the three of us here and Charon, whose silence on the matter I paid for handsomely. Here, you’re just another gladiatrix, and if the goddess is good, no one will ever know the difference.”

  “Surely Caesar must wonder at the price you paid for me,” I said.

  “I manage this academy on his behalf, and I’ve yet to give him cause for complaint. And even though your contract is made out in his name, it wasn’t his money.”

  I blinked at her. “What?”

  “I didn’t spend Caesar’s money.” She looked at me, her gaze unnerving in the growing light. “It was mine.”

  “Well, obviously this life had been very good to you. I can see why you never came home—”

  “I fought for every sestersii tooth and claw. I saved everything I won, and I was going to buy the Ludus Achillea outright. I would still operate it under Caesar’s name, but any girl who fought for me would do so as a free person. No more slaves. I had already pleaded my case to Caesar, and he was agreeable, so long as I had the money.”

  I stared at her. “I didn’t think a woman in Rome could take that kind of control over her own fate,” I said.

  Cleopatra leaned in. “That’s exactly what your sister said when I first suggested she buy the ludus years ago. And truthfully, there are those who would tell you it is so. Crusty old power-mad patricians who balk at giving any kind of power to the ‘weaker’ sex. But Caesar, for all he is called tyrant, is a man who will listen to reason if it’s to his ultimate advantage. Even—sometimes especially—when it comes from the lips of a woman. It’s why some of the senators fear him—and hate me.”

  “Her Majesty has been a great friend to me during my time in Rome,” Sorcha said, nodding at the queen.

  Cleopatra shrugged. “A woman ought to be able to chart her own course in life.”

  “Which is exactly what I was doing”—Sorcha turned to glower at me—“before I had to open my coffers to spill such an exorbitant amount of money on you, little sister.” She sighed. “I was almost there. Now it will take me years, if ever, to gather that sum again. I can no longer fight in the games. Not with a dim eye and a weak arm.”

  “What happened?” I silently cursed myself for asking the question. I didn’t want to care, but she was still my sister.

  She paused, her expression unreadable, and for a moment I thought she wouldn’t answer. But eventually she said, “I attempted the Morrigan’s Flight during a pageant.”

  I sucked in a breath, imagining the moment vividly.

  “I fell, of course,” she continued. “It’s an impossible feat. The chariot wheel clipped my shoulder and ran over my helmet, leaving me with this.” She waved a hand at the scar on the left side of her face.

  I fought an absurd urge to tell Sorcha about my own successful—mostly successful—attempt at the same maneuver, as if I were still a little girl trying to impress her older sister.

  “It ended my days in the arena. And there’s not one girl in the ranks who could draw the kind of purses I did in my day.” Her frustration was palpable, like the close, crackling feeling on your skin before a storm. “I even had the papers drawn up so that if I died, the ludus would pass unencumbered to Thalestris so that she could continue my legacy and keep the gladiatrices safe. And free.”

  “Papers?” I frowned.

  “A contract. Signed and witnessed and legally binding.”

  I’d heard of such things, but it seemed a very silly way to do things. Vellum could burn, papyrus could tear. What in the world was wrong with a good solid blood oath?

  “Romans and their contracts.” I shook my head, angry and confused that Sorcha had stooped to such nonsense. “Bits of parchment and scribbling—”

  “Yes.” Sorcha was adamant. “And every bit as binding to them as a blood oath is to you and me. Don’t you see? Freedom, Fallon. That’s the only thing that’s ever mattered. It’s why we fought the Romans on our own soil. It’s why Arviragus laid waste to his own lands. And if I have to fight now with silver coins and ink and paper instead of a sword to win freedom for me and mine, I will still do it with a warrior’s heart.”

  “Why didn’t you come to me when I first got here?” I asked quietly. “Was it because you didn’t think I was worthy?”

  “No. I stayed away because . . .” She turned her face from me, and the light from the glowing brazier washed her profile in fire. “Because I feared you wouldn’t think I was.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. Sorcha had never been anything but worthy in my mind, up until that night.

  “I know you think that what we do here is somehow less honorable than the kind of fighting our clans do back home,” she continued
. “But it’s not, Fallon. The world is a great deal wider than the fields and forests around Durovernum. You think the royal war band was more honorable than the men and women who fight and die on the sands of the arena? Back there we fought over stolen cattle and slighted pride. Here, I’m fighting for family. For a sisterhood. For you.”

  Suddenly her eyes narrowed, and she shot to her feet. Before I could react, she reached out and snatched the black feather that I’d forgotten was still tied in my hair.

  “Where did this come from?” she asked, holding it up between us.

  “A bird, I should think.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “I found it on my pillow one night when I returned to my cell from the baths,” I said. “The same night I saw a dead crow at the feet of the Minerva statue.”

  I watched, astonished, as all the blood drained from my sister’s face. She tore the ebony quill from my braid and snapped it in two, throwing it into the flames of her brazier. A thread of black smoke rose from it, and a faint acrid stink wafted through the tent.

  “Fallon, all these years, you’ve thought me dead. It would be for the best if you continued to think of me that way. You cannot—you must not—tell anyone who you are.”

  For a moment, it seemed to me as if my sister was abandoning me all over again. But then I saw the look in her eyes and saw that wasn’t what this was about. An uneasy shiver ran up my spine at the look in her eyes. It reminded me of when one of the chariot horses would spook at something only their animal senses could perceive. I remembered the conversation I’d had with Cai—about ravens and omens—and I wondered if the feather curling to ash in the brazier hadn’t been some kind of portent. A warning, maybe, or a threat.