“Fallon?” Aeddan said, stopping to turn back, an irritated frown on his face. “What are you doing?”
Satisfying my curiosity, I supposed, was the easiest answer.
Listening to the whispers of the Morrigan was probably more truthful.
The room beyond the door was windowless and unfurnished, with high, wide double doors set into the opposite wall that must have led out to the main courtyard, if I remembered the layout of the house correctly. I’d certainly never seen them open, though. In fact, it felt as if this room had been kept shut up and locked tight for a long time. The air was oppressive, and it had the stuffy, close feeling of a vault.
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.