Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [154]
"They're fine." I swallowed. "Worried. I miss them, too."
We blinked at one another, drunk and damp-eyed.
"No tears!" Gilot said adamantly. He wagged a finger at me. "You said, no more tears." Leaning forward, he proposed a toast. "To her ladyship," he murmured. "Let us three salute them. To Phèdre nó Delaunay, the Comtesse de Montrève, and her consort, Messire Joscelin Verreuil, heroes of the fair realm of Terre d'Ange." He raised his winecup. "May we aspire to be no less than them!"
We cheered while the other patrons watched, bemused and indifferent.
I set my lips to the rim of the winecup. The memory of my encounter with Phèdre the morning after Valerian House surfaced, abrupt and vivid. I felt again the startled leap of her pulse, the dark ache of yearning. The shock of desire, the bile rising.
I pushed the memory away. Here in Tiberium, everything would be different. I would seek to master my own desires. I would study what it meant to be good, until I could live at ease in my own skin.
"May we aspire to no less," I whispered, and drank.
* * *
Chapter Thirty-Two
The following day, I met with Master Piero and his students at the foot of the Capitoline Hill beneath the shadow of Tarquin Rock.
It was an inhospitable place, for the southern face of the hill was a sheer cliff. One could see nothing of the hill's summit, where the famous temple to the triad of Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva was perched; only barren ground broken into boulders and stony outcroppings. There was no shade, and in the late-morning sunlight it was already unbearably hot. Despite the blazing sun, there was a dark sense about the place that made me ill at ease.
We all disported ourselves and listened to Master Piero speak.
"There is blood on these rocks," he began. One of Lucius Tadius' companions sprang up with a curse, glancing at the boulder on which he'd been sitting, then sitting sheepishly when he found it clean and dry. "Ancient blood," the Master continued, then pointed toward the summit. "And there is blood above them."
He went on to tell the tale of how many centuries ago, one of Tiberium's Sacred Virgins, a priestess of Vesta, betrayed the city and opened its gates to the conquering Sabinites. Sporting bracelets of gold, they promised to reward her with that which they bore on their arms; but instead of rewarding her with gold, they crushed her to death with the heavy shields they carried.
"She was buried atop the hill," Master Piero finished. "And when Tiberians regained the city and established their republic, they used this place to execute traitors, casting them from Tarquin Rock to their deaths."
I shuddered, imaging their broken bodies and wondering if there were old bones strewn among the rocks. No wonder it felt dark here. Lucius looked pale and grave.
Master Piero smiled genially at us. "So," he said. "Let us discuss the nature of betrayal. What is worse? To betray one's city? To betray one's gods? To betray one's family? To betray one's oath? To betray those virtues one holds to be true and good?"
Despite the heat, his questions loosened tongues and the discussion ranged freely. I sat and listened, sweat trickling beneath my hair. No two students made the same argument. Some of the arguments wandered into tangents. If it was worse to betray one's gods, was it due to the nature of the betrayal or because of divine retribution to follow? If it was worse to betray one's virtues, which virtues were those? Some argued for loyalty, while others countered with the possibility that loyalty might be betrayed in the service of a higher good.
"What do you say, Imriel nó Montrève?" Master Piero asked unexpectedly. "Surely you must know aught of betrayal, with all your country has suffered since your birth. Let us hear from a D'Angeline perspective. What is the worst thing one might betray?"
I gazed at him, his image wavering in the mounting heat, and understood that he had chosen this topic to test me. Gritting my teeth, I answered. "Love, Master."
A few students chuckled, mocking