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This place is a labyrinth.
I know that’s why they chose it, because if things end up as a shoot-out – with the police or each other – an Imperator would be able to retreat into this warren of tunnels and rooms. The minotaur licking his wounds – half man, half bull, all trickery and violence.
I taste blood on my tongue.
We must be close.
Our passage opens into a small antechamber, lit by flames from torches set in the walls like a medieval dungeon. There’s only one door, standing open, with another guard positioned outside. He’s turned away from us as he speaks with someone already behind the door. “You’re late,” he says as he hears us approaching. “You’d better get inside before…”
His eyes bug out as he sees us. “Who the fuck are you? You can’t—”
He doesn’t speak again.
Blood splatters the front of my dress as I yank the knife from his body and wipe it down. I’ve chosen my outfit with care to appeal to the sacredness of the occasion – a deep, rich imperial purple, my father’s favorite color. It cinches at my waist and drapes into intricate folds. Now it’s decorated with blood. Behind me, Noah’s horns scrape the wall as he drags the body out of sight.
I’ve only got a couple of knives left, but we have bullets enough for everything that must be done.
Inside, the edges of the room are covered with long curtains, hiding the cold bricks of the old warehouse and making the vast space feel more homely and sacred. We duck into the folds of the curtains. The boys spread out around me, covering me from all angles.
I peer out of the fabric. In the center of the room is a round table, lit by a ring of candles strung from an iron chandelier above. Around the outside of the table stands a row of bodyguards – two for each Imperator and tribune. They eye each other with suspicion. Only Imperators and their tribunes sit at the table. Nero is there with a shaved man I don’t recognize. Nero laughs heartily as he slaps Constantine Dio on the shoulder. To Dio’s left is a woman with midnight skin and eyes like hellfire. She twirls a jewel-handled blade between long, flame-tipped fingers.
Across from them both, Antony sits bolt-upright in his chair, the seat beside him conspicuously empty.
I knew I’d see him here, but the reality of it sends a jolt down my spine. My gaze flicks to the woman’s knife. Constantine trains killers, and if this woman is his tribune, then she is deadly.
Finally, the chatting dies down and Constantine suggests they begin. Wait staff in starched white shirts circle the table, presenting the main course and refilling wine glasses. I picture those white shirts soaked with blood, and for a moment I waver.
Is this truly what I want?
Too late now.
From somewhere in the room, a horn sounds, eerie in the dark space. Everyone at the table stands. Two waiters emerge from the shadows, struggling under the weight of a large cage, inside of which is a small piglet oinking in protest. They set the pig down in front of Constantine. He removes a dagger from the inside pocket of his jacket. I recognize the knife because it used to sit on a shelf in my father’s office – it’s made of bronze with a wide, curved blade and a handle inlaid with the image of the goddess Diana. With no fuss or fanfare, Dio reaches into the cage and slits the pig’s throat.
He is a killer for hire, after all.
Constantine grips the carcass, draining its blood into a metal bowl. When this is done, he clicks his fingers and the waiters drag the animal away again. Constantine raises the bowl to the heavens, utters a short prayer in Latin for the gods to smile upon their enterprise, and brings the bowl to his lips.
He drinks from the still-warm blood.
The bowl is passed around the room, with all the Imperators and tribunes taking their turn to drink. This done, the bowl is set into a cross in the center of the table. Everyone takes their seats. Nero picks up his knife and fork and begins to loudly chew his food.
“We number only two,” Nero says with his mouth full of food. He reaches across the table, his fork poised to capture Brutus’ portion of the roast veal.
Antony reaches across and stabs the meat before Nero can get to it. With his eyes fixed on Nero, Antony slides the meat onto his own plate and cuts it, slowly and deliberately.
“Brutus isn’t coming tonight. I’ve looked everywhere, all his usual haunts, but he’s disappeared,” Antony says. I see what he’s doing. He wants to be seen as loyal, a faithful dog – it’s the only way they’ll allow someone not family by blood to take over – if they think he’s malleable. “No one has heard from him in a couple of months, not since he fled from a threat to his life.”
Nero eyes him with hunger in his eyes – a jackal picking over the bones.
“This threat…” Nero leans forward. “Tell us what you know.”
“It’s not business for the Triumvirate.” Antony’s eyes flash. “I took care of it.”
“Clearly not, as Brutus isn’t with us.”
Antony places the last bite of meat in his mouth. He chews slowly, then wipes his face with the corner of his napkin. “That’s what we need to discuss. The August family needs a new leader. I’m here to offer myself up as Imperator.”
“You’re not blood.” Nero shakes his head sadly, as if he wishes things were different. “You can’t take the oath.”
