"We can't help you," Afya says to the Scholars. "I will not bring down the Martials' wrath upon my Tribe."
"They're killing everyone," one of the women says. "No survivors, miss. They're even killing Scholar prisoners, massacring them in their cells--"
It is as if the earth at my feet has dropped away. "What?" I push past Keenan and Afya. "What did you say about Scholar prisoners?"
"The Martials are butchering them." The woman turns to me. "Every single prisoner. From Serra to Silas to our city, Estium, fifty miles west of here. Antium is next, we hear, and after that, Kauf. That woman--the Mask, the one they call the Commandant--she's killing them all."
XXVIII: Helene
"What are you going to do about Captain Sergius?" Harper asks as we make for Antium's Black Guard barracks. "Some of the Gens on Marcus's list are allied with Gens Sergia. He has heavy support within the Black Guard."
"It's nothing a few whippings won't fix."
"You can't whip them all. What will you do if there is open dissent?"
"They can bend to my will, Harper, or I can break them. It's not complicated."
"Don't be stupid, Shrike." The anger in his voice surprises me, and when I glance at him, his green eyes flash. "There are two hundred of them and two of us. If they turn on us en masse, we're dead. Why else wouldn't Marcus just order them to take out his enemies himself? He knows he might not be able to control the Black Guard. He can't risk them directly defying him. But he can risk them defying you. The Commandant must have put him up to it. If you fail, then you're dead. Which is exactly what she wants."
"And what you want too."
"Why would I tell you any of this if I wanted you dead?"
"Bleeding skies, I don't know, Harper. Why do you do anything? You don't make sense. You never have." I frown in irritation. "I don't have time for this. I need to figure out how I'm going to get to the Paters of ten of the best-guarded Gens in the Empire."
Harper is about to retort, but we've reached the barracks, a great, square building built around a training field. Most of the men within play dice or cards, cups of ale beside them. I clench my teeth in disgust. The old Blood Shrike is gone for a few weeks and discipline has already gone to the hells.
As I pass through the field, some of the men eye me curiously. Others give me blatant once-overs that make me want to rip their eyes out. Most just seem angry.
"We take out Sergius," I say quietly. "And his closest allies."
"Force won't work," Harper murmurs. "You need to outwit them. You need secrets."
"Secrets are a snake's way of doing business."
"And snakes survive," Harper says. "The old Blood Shrike traded in secrets--it's why he was so valuable to Gens Taia."
"I don't know any secrets, Harper." But even as I say it, I realize it's not true. Sergius, for instance. His son talked about many things that he probably shouldn't have. Rumors at Blackcliff spread quickly. If anything that Sergius the younger said was true . . .
"I can deal with his allies," Harper says. "I'll get help from the other Plebeians in the Guard. But we need to move swiftly."
"Get it done," I say. "I'll speak with Sergius."
I find the captain with his feet up in the barracks mess hall, his cronies gathered around him.
"Sergius." I don't comment on the fact that he doesn't stand. "I must solicit your opinion on something. Privately." I turn my back and make for the Blood Shrike's quarters, seething when he doesn't follow immediately.
"Captain," I begin when he finally walks into my quarters, but he interrupts.
"Miss Aquilla," he says, and I practically choke on my own saliva. I haven't been addressed as Miss Aquilla since I was about six.
"Before you ask for advice or favors," he goes on, "let me explain something. You'll never control the Black Guard. At best, you'll be a pretty figurehead. So whatever orders that Plebeian dog of an Emperor gave you--"
"How's your wife?" I hadn't planned to be so direct, but if he's going to be a dog, then I'll have to crawl down to his level until I get him on a leash.
"My wife knows her place," Sergius says warily.
"Unlike you," I say, "sleeping with her sister. And her cousin. How many bastards do you have running around now? Six? Seven?"
"If you're trying to blackmail me"--the sneer on Sergius's face is practiced--"it won't work. My wife knows of my women and my bastards. She smiles and does her duty. You should do the same: Put on a dress, marry for the good of your Gens, and produce heirs. In fact, I have a son--"
Yes, you cretin. I know your son. Cadet Sergius hates his father. I wish someone would just tell her, the boy once said of his mother. She could tell Grandfather. He'd kick my ass of a father out into the cold.
"Maybe your wife does know." I smile at Sergius. "Or maybe you've kept your dalliances a secret and learning of them would devastate her. Maybe she would tell her father, who, in rage at the insult, would offer her shelter and withdraw the money that funds your crumbling Illustrian estate. You can't very well be Pater of Gens Sergia with no money, can you, Lieutenant Sergius?"
"That's Captain Sergius!"
"You've just been demoted."
Sergius first turns white, then an unusual shade of purple. When the shock drains from his face, it's replaced by a helpless rage that I find quite satisfying.
He straightens his back, salutes, and, in a tone suitable to addressing a superior officer, speaks. "Blood Shrike," he says. "How may I serve you?"
Once Sergius is barking my orders to his toadies, the rest of the Black Guard fall into line, albeit reluctantly. An hour after walking into the commander's quarters, I am in the Black Guard war room, planning the attack.
"Five teams with thirty men each." I point to five Gens on the list. "I want Paters, Maters, and children older than thirteen in chains and waiting at Cardium Rock by dawn. Younger children are to remain under armed guard. Get in and out quietly, and keep it clean."
"What about the other five Gens?" Lieutenant Sergius says. "Gens Rufia and its allies?"
I know Pater Rufius. He's a typical Illustrian with typical prejudices. And he was once a friend to my father. According to Father's missives, Pater Rufius has attempted to pull Gens Aquilla into his traitorous coalition a dozen times already.
"Leave them to me."
*
The dress I wear is white, gold, and supremely uncomfortable--probably because I haven't worn one since I was a four-year-old forced to participate in a wedding. I should have put one on sooner--the expression on Hannah's face alone, like she's swallowed a live snake--would have been worth it.
"You look beautiful," Livvy whispers as we file into the dining room. "Those idiots will never see it coming. But only"--she gives me a warning look, her blue eyes wide--"if you rein yourself in. Pater Rufius is smart, even if he is foul. He'll be suspicious."
"Pinch me if you see me doing anything stupid." I finally notice the room, and my jaw drops. My mother has outdone herself, laying the table with snow-white china and long, clear vases of winter roses. Creamy tapers bathe the room in a welcoming glow, and a white whistling thrush sings sweetly from a cage in the corner.
Hannah follows Livvy and me into the room. Her dress is similar to mine, and her hair is done up in a mass of icy curls. She wears a small gold circlet atop--a not-so-subtle nod to her approaching nuptials.
"This won't work," she says. "I don't understand why you don't just take your guards, sneak into the traitors' houses, and kill them all. Isn't that what you're good at?"
"I didn't want to get blood on my dress," I say dryly.
To my surprise, Hannah cracks a smile and then quickly raises a hand to her face to hide it.
My heart lifts, and I find that I am grinning back at her, just like when we shared a joke as girls. But a second later, she scowls. "Skies only know what everyone will say when they learn we invited them here only to trap them."
She steps away from me, and my temper snaps. Does she think I want
to do this?
"You can't marry Marcus and expect to avoid getting blood on your hands, sister," I hiss at her. "Might as well get into the habit of it."
"Stop it, both of you." Livvy looks between us as, outside the dining room, the front door opens and Father greets our guests. "Remember who the actual enemy is."
Seconds later, Father enters, trailing a group of Illustrian men, each flanked by a dozen bodyguards. They secure every inch, from the windows to the table to the drapes--before allowing their Paters to file in.
The head of Gens Rufia leads, his yellow-and-purple silk robes straining against his paunch. A portly man, gone to seed after leaving the military, but still sly as a hyena. When he spots me, his hand goes to the sword at his waist--a sword I doubt he remembers how to use, judging from those flaccid arms.
"Pater Aquillus," he brays. "What is the meaning of this?"
My father glances at me with an expression of surprise. He is so sincere that for a second, even I'm fooled.