It was a reasonable assessment. The Emperor's arrogance was legendary, his belief in his divine right to rule absolute. But still, the uneasy feeling persisted.
"Now," Mira continued, "let's review the positions and timing."
For the next hour, we went over the details of the planned demonstration—who would be stationed where, the sequence of events, contingency plans if imperial guards reacted more aggressively than anticipated. I listened carefully, committing the information to memory while part of my mind continued to gnaw at the question of imperial foreknowledge.
When the meeting finally broke, people began to filter out in small groups, careful not to leave all at once and draw attention. I remained seated, nursing the dregs of my ale, Antonius a solid presence beside me.
"You're troubled," he observed once most of the others had departed.
I glanced at him, then across the room where Tarshi and Livia were speaking with Kalen in low, intense voices. "This doesn't feel right," I admitted.
"The plan?"
"All of it. The location change. The increased patrols. The expectation that the Emperor will still attend despite everything that's happening." I shook my head. "It feels like we're missing something important."
Antonius considered this, his massive hands wrapped around a tankard that looked like a child's cup in his grasp. "You think we're walking into a trap."
It wasn't a question, but I nodded anyway. "I think it's a possibility we need to consider more seriously than we have been."
"Have you spoken to Kalen about these concerns?"
"Tried to. He's convinced the Emperor's pride will override his caution."
"And you disagree."
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "I don't know. Maybe Kalen's right. But what if he isn't? What if the Emperor knows exactly what we're planning and is allowing it to happen so he can make an example of us?"
Antonius's expression darkened. "A public execution of resistance members would certainly send a message."
"Exactly. And with the festival drawing crowds from across the city, including families with children..." I trailed off, the implications too grim to voice fully.
Antonius was silent for a long moment, his gaze drifting to where Livia stood. There was something in his expression—a softening, a subtle shift I might have missed if I hadn't been watching him closely.
"You're concerned for her," he said quietly, nodding toward Livia.
I followed his gaze. "For all of them. But yes, for her especially."
"You care for her." Again, not a question.
"We have history," I admitted. "Complicated history."
Antonius nodded, his eyes still on Livia. "She's... unusual. I've never met anyone quite like her."
Something in his tone made me look at him more carefully. "No, I suppose you haven't."
He must have sensed my scrutiny because he turned back to me, his expression once again impassive. "Tarshi mentioned something interesting the other day. About her relationship with a noble at the academy. And a gladiator named Septimus."
My eyebrows rose. "Did he now?"
"He said she's... open to having more than one man in her life." Antonius took a careful sip of his ale, his tone deliberately casual. "Is that common in the Empire?"
I couldn't help the small smile that tugged at my lips. So that was the direction of his thoughts. "Not common, no. But Livia has never concerned herself much with what's common or expected."
"And her men don't mind sharing her?"
I considered how to answer. My own complicated feelings for Livia—the history we shared, the bond that remained despite everything—were private. But I found I didn't mind discussing it with Antonius. There was something solid about him, something trustworthy that invited confidence.
"It's not about sharing," I said finally. "It's about accepting that she has enough love for more than one person, and that each relationship fulfils different needs." I shrugged. "At least, that's how she explained it to me."
