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I join Atlas on the chariot. He rides as my daggershadow, a place of honor, and trust. Two things he has not earned in my eyes. But Kalindora is too sick to stand where she ought. “He’s a good man, Flavinius,” he drawls. “Be a shame to waste him.”
“Is that a warning?” I ask.
“Advice, rather.” He glances at Glirastes on the horse next to Rhone’s. “It seems you heed the wrong men.”
“I know how to handle Atalantia.”
“That would make you the first.”
I lean past Atlas and press a DNA scanner on the side of the chariot. There’s a thrum as the reinforced pulseShield flickers into place, distorting the world around, and encasing the entirety of the passenger compartment with enough shielding to take a direct hit from a pilum missile.
Atlas chuckles. “A promising start.”
* * *
—
Trumpets signal the beginning of the Triumph. A blind White girl walks ahead of my chariot with a flaming torch. With an old White guiding her, she finds her way to the crimson curtain that hides us from the crowd. She pushes the torch into the wool. Flames lick upward. When they have consumed all but the topmost remnants of the curtain, my charioteer snaps the reins and the chariot rolls forward.
We are swallowed by noise. A street cleared of rubble bisects a sea of humanity for four kilometers until the street bends to the right. Millions roar on the ground, on the rooftops. Trumpets blast. Bells clatter on horses. The sound washes over me as we ride forward. An honor guard lines the parade route. Not Votum or Ash Legions.
I feel the chill of the past.
The Praetorians have returned. Thousands of purple-and-black-clad men and women stand with their rifles shouldered. I glance back at Rhone. He smiles and bellows. “Praetorians!”
“Ad lucem!”
“Lune!”
“INVICTUS!”
They have returned from their disbandment by the thousands.
The Fear Knight’s voice is barely a whisper. “Poor choice, young man. Poor choice.”
I miss the desert. It was simpler there.
The route is twelve kilometers long, exactly the length of Silenius’s first Triumph on the Via Triumphia
from Hyperion to the Citadel. After ten minutes, I am exhausted from sensory overload. Flowers cascade, children rush from the crowd to bedeck the honored with floral wreaths of mountain flowers. The Battlecry of the Lightbringer echoes through the city. Verse after drunken verse. Military ships hover with snipers to cover the rooftops for signs of terrorists or agitators. Despite the best efforts of Society forces to round up all the enemy at the spaceport, it’s inevitable that thousands more will have melted into the city.
A Triumph in this climate is as good as a death sentence. And we all remember Darrow’s fated day. But how could I refuse Atalantia?
Of course, there are snipers. Shots slam into the pulseShield over us, and send response teams swarming over rooftops. I almost pity the shooters. With each shot, I wonder if it is Darrow’s men or Atalantia’s or someone else’s. Who knows?
The procession carries through the heart of the city and comes to a halt at the Mound of Votum. The statue of Helios still lies fallow in the sea.
High upon the steps of the great palace, Atalantia waits, surrounded by the Two Hundred heads of the prominent remaining houses. The brooding Falthe killers, vile Asmodeus au Carthii, and Cicero au Votum are all there. The Carthii tap their feet in resentment, as if they have better things to do. The Votum beam at me. I saved their city from extermination. And now they see a chance to escape from under Atalantia’s thumb.
“Remember you are but a mortal,” Atlas whispers into my ear.
I hop down from the chariot. “As are we all.”
He frowns as I ascend the steps toward Atalantia. Ajax looms behind her amongst her officers and Olympic Knights.
She smiles in lovely fashion.
Behind that smile is so much malice. She wonders, just as the crowd and the Praetorians and the soldiers wonder, when we come face-to-face, will I kneel?
