When we reached Caesar’s sprawling villa, Cai turned us over to his praetorian guard. Nyx was the first to take her audience, and I was left to wander the gardens under the watchful eye of the guard. The air was fragrant with the sweet smells of cedar trees and flowers. And my hands were sweat-slick on the hilts of my swords.
I paced back and forth, arguing with myself over my chosen course of action. Then, when it was finally my turn, I took a deep breath, fighting against the terror that swept me head to foot. I was about to meet Gaius Julius Caesar: conqueror, commander, master strategist . . .
A man.
He’s just a man. Not a god.
He breathes and bruises and bleeds just like any other man.
And at that moment, he was sitting in a beam of sunlight, reading a vellum scroll. Caesar was slender, tall but not towering, with fine hair combed forward to flatter a high forehead and a mild blue gaze. He was handsome in a sharp-featured kind of way, and strong. His lean physique did nothing to conceal the corded muscles of his forearms and the breadth of his shoulders—but he did not look like a man who had conquered the world and slaughtered hundreds of thousands. There was no dried blood beneath his manicured nails, and his teeth, straight and white, did not drip blood. There were no Gaulish chieftains’ heads hanging from the pillars of his audience chamber. Instead the room was pleasant—breezy, full of sunlight, sparsely decorated, and smelling faintly of juniper.
I was almost disappointed. Arviragus’s prison was more mythic than this.
There was, of course, one mythic aspect to the room: Cleopatra. Just as I remembered her from our first meeting with Sorcha, she commanded respect and admiration—and even a certain breathless kind of awe—on sight. She reclined elegantly on a couch next to Caesar’s chair and gave no indication that she and I had ever met. And I suspected, just from the way Caesar’s gaze lingered on her face when he occasionally glanced up from reading, that he was hopelessly in love with her—which was something else I hadn’t expected from him: a human heart. But that, I hoped, was exactly what drove the man more than anything else. And I planned to use that to my best advantage.
Before my interview, Sorcha had once again cautioned me against revealing my identity as her sister. Caesar had been good to her, she said, but that did not mean he wouldn’t use a familial connection against her if he ever found it necessary. Family, she’d said, was the greatest strength—and the greatest weakness—one could have. I aimed to prove Sorcha’s theory right.
To that end, I did something that I never thought I’d do.
I willingly bent my knee and bowed my head before Julius Caesar.
The silence stretched out in the room, broken only by the creak of armor from the praetorian guard who stood near the back wall. He was far enough away that, for a fleeting instant, I imagined I could cross the distance and have my blades in Caesar’s chest before they could cut me down. Retribution for the assault on my land, the humiliation of my father and Arviragus . . . I would die the instant afterward on the point of the guard’s blade, but it would be a noble, useful, good death. Instead of spilling my blood out in some silly game played before mobs and madmen. Wasn’t that worth it? Wasn’t that the truest kind of freedom?
And what of Sorcha? What of your sisters at the ludus?
What of their freedom?
I stayed where I was, stone-still and staring at the floor. It seemed like I would stay like that forever, until finally I heard the vellum scroll snap shut and Caesar seemed to notice that he had a visitor.
“Please,” he said mildly. “Do get up.”
I rose and stood, uncertain of what to do. Sorcha had assured me that Caesar would set the protocol for the interview as it happened. She had said there was no use preparing for what was to come because whatever it was would be unexpected. So far she was right.
“Ah, Fallon,” he said, his gaze placid and appraising all at once. “My Lanista, the Lady Achillea, tells me that you grew up in Britain.”
“Prydain, my lord,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow, and I winced internally. Had I just corrected Gaius Julius Caesar?
“Your pardon, great Caesar—”
“Not at all.” He waved away my apology. “Perhaps I am the one who should apologize for my inability to make my tongue obey the shape of your native language.”
I saw Cleopatra hide a smile behind her hand.
“You’re very gracious, my lord,” I said and lowered my gaze to the tiled floor in an attempt to appear docile.
“I can be.” Caesar gestured to an attending slave. “Get the girl a chair and a cup of wine.”
The slave produced the amenities as if by sleight of hand, hovering until I’d sat and sipped, and then retiring silently to his place by the door.
“Now,” Caesar continued, “my question, Fallon, is this: Do you remember the days when Rome came to the shores of your home?”
I nodded. “I remember well, my lord.”
“And what are your memories of those days?” he asked.