“Ajani took care of her already,” I said as he strode over to Elka’s cot.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Heron grumbled, peeling back the layers of linen bandages with a brisk efficiency that somehow didn’t even draw a flinch from Elka, who actually managed to roll an eye at me. Heron muttered to himself and unstoppered the little clay pot and sniffed at the salve. Then he stood without opening the satchel. “Whatever Ajani salved the wounds with, I want her to make me up a batch.” He glanced back at Elka. “I’d say she’ll sustain no lasting damage that would keep her from the arena. Alternatively”—he shot Sorcha with a disapproving stare—“you could simply refrain from flogging the academy’s assets.”
Then he was out the door and gone.
Sorcha stared after him, unfazed by the rebuke.
“Told you I’d be fine,” Elka mumbled, turning her face back into the pillow. Within a few moments, she was gently snoring.
I shook my head and turned back to Sorcha.
“Why are you soaking wet?” she asked.
I ignored the question and glared at her silently.
“What’s that face for?”
“You had Elka beaten.”
“Yes.” She nodded. “I did.”
“But not Nyx? Did you really believe her story about a midnight kitchen raid?”
“Of course not,” Sorcha said. “But it gave me an excuse not to whip her out of commission. As of this morning, I thought she was my only contender for the Victory role in the Triumphs.”
“Sorcha—”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Plead for me to reinstate you as a contender.”
I bit my lip in anguish.
“Because I already have.” She sighed. “I discussed it with Thalestris, and she convinced me I was overreacting. Of course, I should have both you and Nyx thrown in irons and hung from the rafters for the stunt you pulled last night, but I really don’t relish informing Caesar of the appalling lack of discipline at his ludus. Now that you’ve returned unscathed, I’ll send you both to his villa so he can make his choice between the two of you—Minerva help the poor man!—and call it a day.”
I could barely contain the excitement I felt. But I was still angry—with Sorcha, but mostly with Nyx—over Elka’s punishment.
“I’ll win the Victory role,” I said. “But I still want Nyx to pay for what she did. She took me to that place on purpose so I’d wind up in trouble.”
“Leave Nyx be,” Sorcha said and put a hand on my shoulder. “Vengeance is never the right path to take, Fallon, no matter where you think it might lead. If I were you, I’d let Nyx think she’s gotten away with something. She hasn’t. And though it saddens me to say it, because she’s been dear to my heart these many years, she will get what’s coming to her. The Morrigan watches over you and will see to it, as she sees to all things.”
I fleetingly considered telling Sorcha about what had really happened in the house on the Caelian Hill and just how much trouble I’d actually encountered at the Domus Corvinus. About Aeddan and Pontius Aquila and the so-called Sons of Dis who worshipped death itself in the catacombs. It was the prudent thing to do—especially if Aquila had really turned his sick, covetous gaze my way. But Sorcha had only just reinstated me in the Victory competition, and if she thought I truly was in peril, she would defy Caesar himself and send me packing back to the ludus, no matter what, to keep me safe. After it was all over I would tell her, I promised silently.
But would the Morrigan protect me? I wondered. I was beginning to think that perhaps my goddess just watched. Watched and waited to see what kind of trouble I could get myself into next.
XXVIII
I CAN TRUTHFULLY SAY THAT, in private, Gaius Julius Caesar was nothing like what I’d expected. I attended Caesar the next day at his private estate on the west bank of the River Tiber, escorted there on horseback by Decurion Caius Varro and a handful of his men, along with my rival for the Triumph, Nyx. It was a near-silent ride. She stonily refused even to make eye contact and Cai kept a respectful distance from us both. But in the few, brief moments when I caught his eye, I could see the warmth of encouragement in his gaze.
I also couldn’t help but notice the great care Nyx had taken with her appearance. As Caesar’s gladiatrices, we were both in full fighting kit, weapons and armor polished to shining, but Nyx was also wearing smoky circles of kohl around her eyes and a crimson stain on her lips. And the tunic beneath her armored skirt was a handsbreath shorter than mine. If she hoped to seduce Caesar—actually seduce him, rather than in the way Arviragus had counseled me—then I suppose she was to be commended for the effort.