Danon stood closest, gripping his bony elbows as if he might fall apart if he let go. Cassia and Ilena were gathered on one side of the table with Seneca, the old woman from upstairs. Their strained stares flicked from Madoc and Elias to the two men in clean, white togas standing beside the door. One of them, a guard, was nearly as tall as Madoc, and built like the bricks he could undoubtedly crush with a flex of his fist.
The other was Madoc’s father.
The senate’s master of taxation and organizer of off-book street fights. The man who had kicked Madoc out at five years old for being Undivine.
“Ah, good. Just the young men I wanted to see.” Petros Aurelius dabbed at a line of sweat that carried the black powder he wore in his hair down his jaw. His paunch stretched over his belt, a sign that he could afford to live in excess, and his cheeks were flushed. “Leave the door open. It’s as hot as a sauna in here.”
Panic needled through Madoc’s skin. What was Petros doing here? Taxes weren’t due until the end of the month. And what did he mean,Just the young men I wanted to see? He didn’t even know who Madoc was. He’d been to this house many times over the years on his collection circuit and hadn’t once spared Madoc a second glance. Madoc had figured he’d either forgotten his own son or didn’t care that Madoc had survived.
At first, that indifference had been worse than Petros’s hate, butover time it had cured Madoc’s shame. If he meant nothing to his father, his father would mean nothing to him.
With a nod from Petros, the guard edged past his master and began sweeping through the main room, looking in jars, then tossing them to the ground, tearing aside the woven mats on the chairs. The space was so tight, he nearly knocked over the table on his way past.
“What’s going on?” Elias asked as a flash of white darted around them and latched onto Madoc’s legs. Madoc lifted Ava into his arms, blowing out a shaky breath as her small hands wound tightly behind his neck.
“There’s been a misunderstanding,” Ilena said. “Petros heard a rumor that you boys had been stealing, but I assured him that wasn’t the case.” Elias’s mother was slender and could fit under Madoc’s arm, but she was the fiercest woman he’d ever known, and when her pointed gaze landed on him, he knew he’d better play along.
“Hardly a rumor,” Petros said. “You know I run the amateur matches at the South Gate fishing port, don’t you? A little hobby of mine to keep people entertained.” He nodded to the guard. “Search the bedrooms.”
Madoc’s stomach dropped as the guard shoved past Cassia, entering the room she shared with Ilena and Ava. Petros didn’t run just the fights. The poor districts were filled with his other business ventures: bathhouses, seedy taverns, and cheap brothels. Half the South Gate district belonged to him, and the other half paid their dues for the right to live there.
His amateur matches collected enough coin to replace thedilapidated homes in the stonemasons’ quarter. Instead, it went into Petros’s pocket and paid off fighters like Fentus, who were sure to win.
It was a shame when they didn’t.
“I’ve heard of it,” Madoc said, out of the corner of his eye catching Elias twitching. From the bedroom came a crash, as if the pallet they slept on had been tossed against the wall.
Petros smiled tightly. “Then perhaps you know of the Quarry Bull. He’s been raking in quite a purse these past months. Four matches he’s beaten my best fighters.”
“We don’t know anyone named the Bull, we told you,” said Cassia. Her dark hair was pulled back in a knot, showing the angry crimson of her cheeks.
“Easy, my dear,” said Seneca. “There’s no need for disrespect.”
Petros smiled.
“There’s little use denying it, girl. I have eyes everywhere.” Petros sighed, stepping closer to Madoc. “The Bull, as he’s called, ran off with last night’s take. I’d very much like to discuss that with him.”
Ava gave a quiet wince, telling Madoc that he was squeezing her too tightly. He loosened his grip, trying to look casual.
“How can we help?” Elias asked.
Petros chuckled, glancing at Elias’s dirty tunic. “You can tell me where to find the young man who fights with mortar stains on his clothes, who’s built like he’s spent long days hauling rocks with the strength of his back, not his geoeia.”
It didn’t matter how tall Madoc had become, or how many years had passed. When Petros narrowed his beady gaze on him, he wanted to disappear.
He hadn’t been careful enough. Few Divine did manual jobs, not when they could use their power to make more money.
Petros knew they’d been fighting. That they’d been winning. As much as Madoc had longed to confront his father, to own that he had been the one to take the winnings, he had not seen it playing out like this, with his family and Seneca standing watch.
“There’s no money here, dominus,” said the guard, resuming his place at Petros’s side.
Madoc’s pulse beat between his temples. He wanted these men out of this house, far away from the Metaxas. He wanted to forget the anger, and the pain, and the memories he’d locked so deep inside that he could almost pretend they weren’t a part of him. But theywerea part of him, and now with each breath the past dug its claws deeper into his lungs.
You don’t belong here. You’re a disappointment to any god.
Elias laughed weakly. “I don’t know anything about that. We’re stonemasons, not fighters.”
“There you have it,” said Ilena. “Now, if you—”
