Page 130

That fear fills me now as these Peerless stand around me, a mass of serpentine gold. Whispering. Hissing. Deadly as sin.

Snow on the ground crunches under my heavy boots. I bend down as the Sovereign speaks. She tells of honor and tradition, how martial duels mark the greatness of our race. So she makes an exception for the day. We may duel beyond the gaming grounds. This blood-feud must be put to rest here, now, in front of the august of our race. So confident is she in her newest Olympic Knight. But why wouldn’t she be? He’s killed me before.

“Unlike the cowards of Old, we settle flesh to flesh. Bone to bone. Blood to blood. No politico throws millions to slaughter for vendettas. Vendettas die in the Bleeding Place. Virtute et armis,“ the Sovereign recites.

By valor and arms. No doubt, she has already spoken to her advisors. They will say I am outmatched. That Cassius is the better swordsman. It never would have gone this far if she wasn’t assured a beneficial outcome.

“As it was with our ancestors, it is now, to the death,” she declares. “Are there any contentions?”

I hoped for this.

Neither Cassius nor I say a thing.

“Then today, res, non verba.“ Actions, not words.

I speak with my master before stepping into the center of the circle that now forms as Browns cart away the tables from the snowy plain. Pliny hovers beside Augustus. As do Leto, Tactus, Victra, and the great Praetors of Mars. So many famous faces, so many warriors and politicians. The Jackal stands farther away, shorter than the rest, impassive, speaking to no one.

“Is this spectacle for me? For vanity? For love?” Augustus asks as I stand before him. His eyes dig into me, trying to find meaning. I can’t help but glance over at Mustang. Even now, she draws me from my task.

“You’re so young,” he nearly whispers. “What they tell you in the storybooks is wrong; love does not survive things like this. Not the love of my daughter, at least.” He pauses, reflecting. “Her soul is like her mother’s.”

“I don’t do it for love, my lord.”

“No?”

“No.” I bow my head to him and rem

ember Matteo’s highLingo. “The duty of the son is to the father’s glory. Is it not?” I fall to a knee.

“You are not my son.”

“No. The Bellona killed him. Your firstborn son, Claudius, was all a man could hope for—a son better and wiser than his father. So let me make you a present of their favorite son’s head. Enough quibbling. Enough of their politics. Blood for blood.”

“My lord, Julian was one thing. But Cassius …” Pliny tries.

Augustus ignores him.

“I weep for your blessing,” I say, pressing my master. “How long will you keep the Sovereign’s favor? A month? A year? Two? Soon she will replace you with the Bellona. Look how she favors Cassius. Look how she steals your child. Look how the other goes the way of a Silver. Your heirs are depleted. Your time as ArchGovernor will end. And it should. For you are not a man fit to be ArchGovernor of Mars. You are a man fit to be king of it.”

His eyes flash. “We have no kings.”

“Because none have dared craft themselves a crown,” I say. “Let this be the first step. Spit in the Sovereign’s eye. Make me the sword of your family.”

I pull a knife from my boot and make a quick cut beneath my eye. The blood falls like teardrops. This is an old blessing, from the iron ancestors, the Conquerors. And it will chill those who see it—a relic of a bygone, harder age. It is a Mars blessing. One of iron and blood. Of the raging ships that burned the famed Royal British Armada above Earth’s North Pole, and dashed the fastkillers from the land of the Rising Sun amid the asteroid belt. My master’s eyes ignite like dormant coals, slowly, then all at once.

I have him.

“I give my blessing freely. What you do, do in my honor.” He leans toward me. “Rise, goldenborn. Rise, ironmade.” Augustus touches his finger to the blood and then presses the mark beneath his own eye. “Rise, Man of Mars, and take with you my wrath.”

I rise to whispers. This is no simple squabble now between boys. It is the battle of houses. Champion against champion.

“Hic sunt leones,” he says, tilting his head—part challenge, part benediction. Here be lions. His house’s motto. What a vain swine of a man. He knows my desperation to stay in his good graces. He knows he stands playing with matches on a powder keg. Yet his eyes glitter lustfully, hungering for blood and the promise of power as I hunger for air.

“Hic sunt leones,” I echo.