“Heisat fault,dominus.”
Glirastes is at work hunched over a holomolder in his workshop when we enter. He shades out his work when he hears our footsteps. “Lysander, whatever are you doing here? I thought you were at the opening gala?”
“I thought I might skip it,” I say and flop down on a couch.
“What? Don’t be ridiculous. You have allies to foster.”
“I can’t be too overeager. Cicero will charm them, Horatia will reassure them. I must be a rare sight. Anyway, I wanted to celebrate this evening with a true friend. Without a wall of black and purple.” He searches for my Praetorians. “I left them on the ship. Even Kyber.”
He is immensely pleased, yet gives a little shudder. “That whisper makes my skin crawl. But really, Lysander. You can’t afford to insult your guests. Wait…what did you mean? Celebrate?”
I smile. “There’s news from Apollonius. News you’ll never believe.”
8
DARROW
The Hanging Coliseum
Grizzled Grays in Rathpurple shove Cassius and I down the throat of the famed tunnel known as Flamma’s Gullet. The tunnel is aptly named. Like food, thousands of gladiators have traveled through the tunnel to the arena for Carthii-sponsored consumption. Veins of blood-hued minerals wind through the pale stone walls and floor. Through some strange art, the veins writhe to form the antique silhouettes of famous gladiators from the Carthii’s favorite blood sports. Alongside them writhe beasts. Pegasuses, griffins, manticore, and carvelings too esoteric for my rudimentary education to name. Pax would know. He’s the one who likes to read.
Cassius does not look well. It’s the first I’ve seen him since we were captured two days ago. His nose is broken and his right eye blackened. He grins at me as he limps along favoring his ribs. Of course his hair is still coiled and lustrous and he didn’t lose any teeth. He brandishes his smile at me as if we were drunks stumbling our way to a Pearl club. “Did he ever even have Sevro?” Cassius asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Must have been a trap from the get. Hopefully our insurance is still in order,” he says. I grunt in reply. He frowns at me. “You know. You might be the only man who grows fatter after two days of captivity.”
It’s true. I did gain weight. “They fed me,” I admit.
“They fed you?”
“Cheer up. At least you don’t have to fight Apollonius.”
“What did they feed you?”
“Salmon. Rice. Greens. Roast beef. Complex carbs. Protein. You know.”
“Roast beef?”
“Yeah.”
“Roast beef? I had to suck water from a rusted pipe, and no, that’s not a euphemism.”
A Gray belts him in his right ear. “Blackcloak. Count your blessings we aren’t dragoons. Praetorian Guard would pump you with time sludge and flay you lidless.”
“Horrid,” Cassius mutters.
The Gray’s accent is Martian, like all the Grays I’ve met so far. Strange. Not Thessalonican, where Apollonius is from. More specifically, this one’s from Yorkton, or thereabouts. I feel a pang for home. Conventionally Grays from Yorkton would have served House Augustus. Another Gray spits on Cassius and kicks his legs out. Cassius smiles back at them as he stands. They may hate me, but Cassius disgusts them in a way only a man who has worn the Olympic cloak and betrayed it can. Blackcloaks seldom live long or die well.
The tunnel broadens into daylight and the most spectacular arena of the Core. The Hanging Coliseum. I blink into the natural sunlight. The sight is staggering.
Beneath a grand transparent dome that looks down on Venus, a sandy fighting floor stretches toward a perimeter wall thick with blooming vines and poisonous thorns. A sea of Gray legionnaires roars from the stands. Above that sea wag the purple banners of house Valii-Rath and the standards of legions—some of which are for legions that I once destroyed but have now been resurrected. Above that columns, carved with the faces of centaurs and satyrs reach toward the dome. Beyond that lies the planet Venus with its aquamarine seas, rain-forest continents, and white-sand archipelagos. I feel upside down. The overall effect of the sight would have given the boy from Lykos crippling vertigo.
Today, what stuns me is the sheer number of soldiers.
“I thought you said he only had a handful of men,” Cassius says.
“He did. Seems the Martian exiles have found a man they think can take them home.”
