The Divine Comedy || bloodlines

On Day One

ARIANA

August, eleven years old

MONA CASSIA LIKED TO SAY that Ariana Guerriera was born with a sword in her mouth. There was not a legionnaire so grand in her studies, so dutiful in the slaughter, as was the daughter of destruction and carnage. She is the best there is—the best there has ever been or will be. Mona would rest her hand on the gold of Ariana's shoulder guard as the words left her mouth, and the burgeoning disciple would straighten her back and correct her stance like a sunflower curving towards the sun.

Of course, it was an unexpected rise to prestige and prominence. A daughter of Bellona did not cause many an eyebrow to raise, for the war goddess had delegates every generation. Some rose to praetors or stopped at centurions, retiring their names into obscurity. No one among the legion, among the senators, had any notion of grandeur for a six-year-old runaway, English foreign on her tongue, who wielded a dagger made of bronze.

In the haze of her recollection, Ariana knew she had stood before the legion at their evening muster. It had been a small stage, a platform made of wooden planks at the head of the dining hall, but it was enough to look just over the heads of every helmet and spear. A girl had come forward, draped in gold and blue, and proclaimed that she was Mona Cassia, youngest of the line, and she would take on this child. She was born into the second family, granted the gift of apprentices, and Ariana was to be her second.

The first was Jason Grace.

It was only in the years to come that Ariana realized she had been placed on a pedestal—she was being compared to a prince, a son of skies and storm, and the legion suddenly saluted to the possibilities. The cohort of the fifth, highest upon high, welcomed her with open arms.

Training began at dawn the next day, the rise of Apollo and his chariot, and time unfurled like an unbound parchment which escaped without her notice. Armed up to the teeth, Ariana had claimed mastery over each blade she'd ever grasped.

The only rival she had, the only contestant who could cause her to grit her teeth and raise a flag, was Jason Grace.

According to the medics, the boy was a year her junior—his date of birth could not be divined—and Mona Cassia agreed with their assessment. Jason had been given to the wolf at two years of age, and he had arrived at Camp Jupiter in the company of Isolde Briar just months later. In the time that passed, Isolde had risen to praetor and Jason had trained for eight years of his life.

It is natural for you to be on the back foot against him. Mona had sat next to Ariana as she spoke, weaving bandages around her arm. Profusely and instinctively, Jason had apologized for causing her pain. Ariana didn't think he was all that sorry; he had won first blood—the victory of the gladiator games went to him. He was the promised son of Jupiter, and the gods laid favor at his feet. Why would he apologize for that? He is the Lightning Lord's heir; he has been here longer. I would be far more surprised if you emerged unscathed.

Ariana knew only small details of Mona's accolades—she had graduated from the legion at nineteen, serving as senator and representative for her family ever since. She had been a centurion of the fifth, daughter of the law goddess Egeria. In the myths, if Ariana recalled, Egeria had passed on great wisdom and counsel to one of Rome's first kings. She tried to remind herself of the story every time she felt herself slipping into doubt, wondering why Mona had chosen her, but tonight doubt was the tide that took you out to sea with no way to claw back home.

But what happens if I never beat him? Ariana had closed her eyes as she asked it, unable to look the possibility in its eye. He wins, and he'll keep winning.

That's the difference between you both—and, similarly, the reason he won't triumph forever. Mona had tilted Ariana's chin towards her, peeled her eyes open in the dark barracks. The rich man has everything to lose, but he knows not know what he wants. The beggar, however? These men will claw tooth and nail for desire, and they no not own a sheath for their swords.

As if it were a sudden rash, Ariana could feel where the leather rested against her thigh. With a free hand, keeping still the arm being patched, the bronze dagger slipped free from her scabbard and lifted to her face. In the dusk reflection, she could see her dusty face, edges of Mona's black hair and golden diadem, and the echo of the moon from behind.

You still wield that? Mona asked, running a finger across the edge. I thought Ajax told you to rid yourself of it.

It was true; the augur had taken one look at the blade and gone pale, stumbling back against the altar of Jupiter's temple. He had not articulated what was wrong with it, though Ariana had noticed others glancing at her weapon in suspicion before, and simply insisted it be thrown in the Little Tiber.

Mona and Jason had even walked with her to the gates of the camp, and Ariana had knelt before the rushing waters. She had known she would never part with it, of course. Faking a splash with a riverbed rock, Ariana had shoved the blade up her sleeve and said no more of it.

Over the years, many times Ariana had imagined herself speaking of the boy in Charleston. She saw him every time she looked at Jason and Octavian, the augur's apprentice, and his blue eyes lingered in theirs. It was even worse when she saw the praetor and Octavian's brother, Lucius, who must've been the same age as her savior. Still, she had not been able to force the words and speak of old vulnerabilities. The dagger had been a parting gift, a symbol of trust, and Ariana had no intention of saying goodbye to the boy who had started her path here.

This is the way I want to remember him, Ariana thought. This is how he will be preserved, crystallized in amber.

Though Ariana said nothing, Mona seemed to pick up on the message Ariana had wished to convey. She curved strands of hair behind Ariana's ear and tapped on the bed behind her. The rest of your cohort will be back from muster soon. I suggest you sleep and find a better way to hide that blade.

That night, Ariana was awake until almost the sun's rise. She leaned against the headboard of her bunk, tracing the tired lines under her eyes and the small scars across her neck, collar, and jaw. The months would pass, and Ariana would soon find herself in the same position—only, now, she had more scrapes and scratches to her name. These were proof of her burgeoning victories, of the waning of one power and the waxing of another.

In less than an hour, Ariana was to have her first meeting with the senate of New Rome. She had heard of their affairs from Mona, but she had never been there to see their faces and bodies donned with togas. Though the council needed to approve, Ariana knew of Isolde's intention for the quest. She and Bryce Lawrence had ventured beyond the camp before, but this was to be Ariana and Jason's first. Despite the cardinal rule of three, Isolde thought Ariana and Jason the more important factor. Every augur who had seen them promised the same—together, they would redefine Rome and pave a path to glory. Failure should come only in their separation.

With the death of their first centurion, two contestants reigned in the fifth cohort. Ariana knew that she had to prove herself on this quest and be the one to retrieve the Sibylline Books of prophecy. If she didn't, the rewards would go to Jason. He would rise, and she would fall and never have the strength to get up again. She would not be reduced to a shadow.

Ariana lowered the dagger from her eyes, fixing its hilt between her knuckles. There was a knock at the barracks door; it was probably Mona or Alex or Camila, come to check up on her. They would wish her well, perhaps say a prayer to her mother for victory. Aut vincere aut mori. Conquer or die.

Even if she never saw him again, Luke would accept nothing less.