by T. C. Edge
“This girl, Kira,” she said. “Tell me about her.”
Dom smiled awkwardly, and took a sip of wine.
“Well, I got her in Haven,” he said. “She’s a warrior, has been all her life, and is part of the rebels over there.”
Vesper’s eyes showed complete disinterest. She waved her hand dismissively.
“Oh, that pathetic rebellion won’t go anywhere,” she said. “Haven is a city in the middle of a land of barbarians. No wonder she had eyes like she did…and looked at me like she did. I can’t have that. I won’t be disrespected. This girl doesn’t belong in the upper seedings.”
“But mother!” said Dom, perhaps too vociferously. He calmed his voice. “She’s…highly gifted. Don’t judge her on this display alone.”
Vesper looked upon Dom quietly, face etched in a growing disappointment. And a growing understanding.
“Don’t tell me you have a thing for the girl, Domitian.”
“No…not at all,” countered Dom defensively. “Ask Rufus, mother. He’s instructed her. He knows…”
“I don’t care what Rufus has to say,” she said plainly. “He has no bearing whatsoever on my opinion. Only Ares does in matters of combat, and even were he to announce that this rebel girl had tremendous talent and potential, it would NOT change my mind. I saw her eyes, Domitian. That knife was close to being flung. She will not be seeded at number three. You will lift the previous contenders up, and place the young boy from the coast in a higher position.”
“But…”
“But nothing,” she snapped. “That is my decision. I had hoped for this warrior girl to impress me today. But no, she is wild and untameable. I see that in her. She will get no easy ride here. And you, my son, will not give her any favourable treatment again. You have mingled with slave-girls before, and it is not becoming of a prince to do so!”
Her words brought with them a silence, one that hung in the air for some time after. Dom had no power to argue with her or change her mind. Her good mood and form had been dispelled. He had to tread lightly to avoid further igniting her ire.
Only when a suitable amount of time had passed did he speak. And though he asked the question, he already knew the answer.
“Where do you wish her to be placed, mother?” he asked quietly.
She lifted her chin, enjoying the total command and authority she employed.
“The girl will enter the cull,” she said. “If she’s as gifted as you believe, then let her prove it.”
She smiled, and turned her eyes back to the square. Her fingers lifted to the air, and clipped together. Immediately, Silia came running.
“I think I will have some wine, after all,” she said, with some odd, victorious flow to her voice. “Now come, Domitian…your final two seeds better impress me.”
26
There were many squalid places in the city. Places where rats would hardly even wish to tread. Places of festering disease, of morbid crime, of extreme depravity and vice. Within the swamps, such places existed, and Merk had seen them all.
Yet right now, he was seeing a place that put all others to shame. A place of unholy stink and gloom, of despair and fear and all-consuming misery. A place, in the end, where nightmares dwelled and death ruled. Where all inhabitants were set to die.
Merk had plenty of experience of prisons, of course, though always from the other side of the bars. Around the city, there were several of them, though none could have been as bad as this. Within the holding cell he currently found himself, there must have been another fifty men, squashed in like cattle in a pen.
And he’d been there now for several days.
Those days had been the worst of his life. He couldn’t rightly remember all of his days, of course – in fact, given his advanced years, much of his early life had now broken free of his memory bank – but he certainly couldn’t recall any as bad as these. And that said something, given how life in Southside on the edge of the swamps was so utterly repellent to him.
He was in Southside now, and there was a strange irony to that. Every time he returned from the seas it swallowed him back up. Now, it looked as though he’d never escape it.
The prison he was in, however, didn’t hold any answers for him. After being caught and entrapped by those guards, he was taken here on a count of treason against the empress. He thought for a little while that his head would find itself immediately on a spike, though that hadn’t been the case.
Instead, he’d been dragged through the street, hurled onto a cart, driven to this fetid cesspit near the swamps, and thrown in this subterranean cell. When he arrived, there were about twenty men with him. Even then he’d thought it a squeeze. Now, that number had almost doubled, and more were still coming.
He had, of course, been furiously trying to inform the guards of his affiliation with Prince Domitian, and that he hadn’t actually done anything wrong. At first, they merely laughed. Then, they got annoyed and slapped him around a little. By the time he arrived at the prison, his lip and left eyebrow were split, and his ribs badly bruised. He didn’t say another word after that.
After hurling him into the communal cell, the guards left. That was it. There were none on duty down there, and the only time anyone had come over the last few days was to either bring in more prisoners, or pass them some rations of food and water.
Though, to call them food and water was pushing it the little. The former was more like pig slop, and the latter looked as though it had run about ten miles down rusty drains before being emptied into a bucket. No cutlery was given to them, no bowls. They merely had to take it in turn to eat from the pots and drink from the buckets, using their hands for both.
And, that was to say nothing of the toilet facilities in the corner. It all gave Merk a new perspective on what Master Domitian’s contenders had to endure in the ship’s dungeons. At least there they had some space and some privacy. Here, there was neither.
The people in the cell were, however, rather different from what the old caretaker expected. He’d assumed such a rotten place would be fitted with a fine collection of grade A degenerates. Murderers, rapists, thugs and hooligans. In short, the sorts of people who wandered the streets of the swamps up above.
Yet, while there may have been a few that managed to meet Merk’s criteria, most appeared to be just, well, normal. They ranged in age, from young men just out of their teens, to old men with wrinkled faces and withering white hair, with most falling somewhere in the middle.
They looked frightened, confused, and cowed by the experience. And as the days had passed, Merk began to discover that all had been similarly treated as him, and some even worse. While he’d at least had a rumble in the square – a misdemeanour that could lead to some form of punishment, like the lash or a hefty fine – most hadn’t touched a soul.
But, what became clear was that all were there for the very same reason – they’d had negative thoughts about Empress Vesper. Not words necessarily; not calls for her head in the streets, denouncing her as some evil, crazed witch, or merely just negative comments about her methods of rule.
No, just thoughts. Thoughts that were, like with Merk, lured to their minds via some form of entrapment. The sting had worked on Merk, and it had clearly worked on others too. And now, here they all were awaiting their doom.
When the guards came, they did so with more frightened sheep for the pen. Some of the more manic inmates would call out for information, for them to be released. If the guards had time for a short workout, they’d gather up the offenders, drag them beyond the cell, and beat them as they did Merk. The injured parties learned quickly to stay silent, but new people were always coming. And their voices weren’t to be so quickly subdued.
Suffice to say, the guards got plenty of exercise during those few days and nights. And Merk, though still praying for some intervention from Master Domitian, soon began to lose hope.
No, his master didn’t know he was here. And, if he did, would he be able to do anything a
bout it? Would he even care? The charge of treason against Empress Vesper carried the sentence of death. It wasn’t likely that Master Domitian would interfere with such a thing, not even with his own mother. And certainly not for an old man like Merk, who knew, in his more sober moments, that the prince didn’t really care about him. Not properly at least.
He was, in the end, just another servant to the man. Just one of many, and barely worth a second thought. He didn’t blame the prince for that, of course. It was just the format of their relationship. For Merk, serving Master Domitian gave him great purpose and pride. For the prince, Merk was merely an old man to endure during long voyages at sea. And that was just fine by him.
So, in that cell, all hope begin to wane, receding into the depths. All who’d been there more than a day or two soon realised this was it. The new faces that came quickly drew the same conclusion.
This world, this city, wasn’t fair. And all of them had been dealt a bad hand.
Yet, among such company, it wasn’t quite so bad for the caretaker. He was old. Old enough to have lived long and free, to have experienced many places and people. He’d had a wife and family for a time. He’d lived on the oceans and given his eyes a taste of some truly wondrous sights.
And, above all, he’d had the honour of serving the Prince of Neorome, a young man who, Merk thought, would go on to become a fine ruler.
Yes, he’d had some happy years, enough to be content with his life. But here, he was surrounded by young men who’d seen too few winters. Who were too young to have felt the love of a good woman, to have raised a child and seen them grow.
Too young to have lived a full life.
Too young to die.
27
The night before the start of the games, the city was awash with celebration.
In every square, down every street, parties and events were being held to call a start to the most joyous month of the year, the people infected by a febrile energy as the hours passed and the start of the Imperial Games grew so tantalisingly near.
None were more grand than the celebration in the imperial plaza, surrounded by its striking, circular walls and leading towards the splendid palace at its head. Here, all the aristocrats, nobles, and lords from across the city would gather to eat, drink, and rejoice. Musicians, dancers, and other performers would put on a great show, and men and women would debate the contenders and set wagers to their favourites.
Yet, the main attraction wasn’t the setting, or the singers, of the stunning dancers, but the gladiators themselves. Here, along the flanks of the plaza, they were all on display in varying states of undress, some only lightly draped in sparse apparel and others fully outfitted in their armour and combat gear.
At one end, Dom’s contenders were situated, each of them standing upon their own small podium and surrounded by the many tables filled with food and fine wine. On the other side of the forum, Lucius’ troop dotted the sprawling space, with other gladiators owned by other lanistas also completing the display.
It was an opportunity for the nobles of the city to get up close and personal with the men and women set to fan the flames of excitement through the city, to entertain them and give them a grand old show. They could see their rippling physiques and jaws carved of stone, their cold, staring eyes and scarred skin. They could see for themselves whether the favourites lived up to their tags on appearance alone, and set bets and wagers if they so wished.
It was an exciting time for them all. The wine and music and powerful warriors on show made for the most talked about night of the year. And while most loved it, it was an evening that Dom only ever endured.
He didn’t enjoy the pandering. His job was to tout his contenders, draw up interest, defend them if he needed to or overpraise them if they were being ignored. He would mingle among the crowd of sycophants, speaking in such glowing terms about each and every one of his troop, trying his best to force their wallets into the light and secure their patronage.
Really, he never thought such a thing becoming of a prince, and his only solace was the fact that Lucius felt the same. Neither enjoyed the process, and only really wanted to get on with the games and set their gladiators loose. Yet, it was a necessary part of the games in securing more money for the city, if not for themselves, and as lanistas it was their job to hawk and peddle their men.
It was Dom’s job, too, to display his contenders in whatever manner he thought best. His personal preference would always be to dress them in their combat gear, though that wasn’t often the best course of action for the masses. Flesh, he had discovered, could be highly effective in attracting the crowds, and so he would often unveil them and set them up on their podiums in little more than loincloths.
Finn, Dom knew, had a fine frame. As a handsome young boy, with his golden locks and blue eyes, he was the sort to draw attention for his aesthetic look alone. And, now that he’d been forced to push him up into the fifth seeding position, he had that as a selling point too.
He was set quite centrally, his tanned and toned midsection on show, his hair arranged by some of his more stylistically gifted servants. He looked quite striking under the lights, like an ancient Greek God: Finn, the warrior from the sea, with the power to manipulate matter. Dom had even considered giving him a ceremonial trident, and dressing him up like Poseidon, but thought better of it in the end.
Others were similarly de-clothed, though none of the men were as pleasing to the eye as Finn. He had Oom in the animal pelts and skins he arrived in, though slightly modified to show off his gigantic arms and legs. He would be a major hit here and in the arena, Dom knew.
Leewood was a handsome man too, rugged and lightly bearded and with flowing brown hair, and was thus dressed quite sparingly. Even Malvo, squat though he was, had a sort of brutal shape, his limbs and midsection fitted with thick muscle, that would interest some of the crowd.
Shadow, however, Dom decided to keep mysterious. His facial expression never seemed to deviate too far from ‘furious’, and that night he’d perfected the look. He didn’t appear to enjoy the limelight very much at all, and simply spent the entire evening just staring forward, draped in black, barely even moving an inch.
In the end, some gladiators took to the public quite well, and others absolutely hated it. Occasionally, he’d spot smiling faces among his men, and the other contenders dotted around the plaza, and imagine that they were born for the limelight. Others would look awkward all evening, body language poor and posture protective and self-conscious. Obviously, those who were dressed so frugally had it harder, though Dom tended to buy into the theory that good looking people were generally more happy than most to exhibit their well-honed frames.
For all those he had on show, however, Dom’s focus rarely ventured too far from Kira. With the low seeding forced upon her by his mother, Dom had been required to put her in a less central position. Yet, she still managed to garner plenty of attention anyway, owing to an aesthetic that was highly unusual among these parts.
The combination of vibrant, bright red hair, shining green eyes, and an athletic, lithe and finely curved frame, made Kira quite the star of the night. Dom had chosen to show her off in a fairly sparse outfit if only to offset the lower seeding and give her more attention. After all, she deserved it, and having the crowd behind you could often take you a long way.
Yet, her glare appeared to be just as intense as Shadow’s for much of that evening, and Dom understood just why. The previous night, after his mother’s perusal of his stock, Dom had sent Rufus down to the cells to give the contenders feedback on their performances. He did this only if seedings were altered, and on this occasion they had been.
Finn, pushed up to five, and Kira sent to the bottom of the pile. It was a turnaround that Dom certainly hadn’t seen coming, and one he didn’t want to follow through with. But that was his life. If his mother gave orders, he had to follow them. Around here, her word was law.
According to Rufus, Kira had barely reacted to t
he news. Her performance in front of Vesper had caused something in her to temporarily snap, Dom was well aware of that. She’d lost it for a moment, and that had been fatal. And now…now she was to enter the cull.
And the cull was a bloodbath.
He sighed and turned now to Kira, standing stiff and upright on her podium, emerald eyes so clear even from this distance. Around her, a number of people were looking on with interest, conducting their own inspections. They weren’t, of course, allowed to touch her, or even speak to her. This was purely a display of the physical form, another of the many customs that had been reborn from the ancient days. Here, the sight of a strong man or beautiful woman was to be admired.
And, Dom thought, Kira was certainly the latter.
He wandered a little nearer, smiling as he went and engaging briefly with the nobles and lords and ladies of Neorome. And ahead, seated in her throne at the base of the steps to the palace, he saw his mother sitting proudly and dressed in her full regalia. There was a line to one side of her, all waiting their turn to greet her, bowing and genuflecting like all good sycophants should.
Dom rolled his eyes at the sight, and the look of pride on his mother’s face. She seemed to feed on their fear more than ever these days, her mind continuing to grow unstable and ever more dangerous with each passing moon. Dom looked at her these days so differently to before. Rarely did he see his mother. Now, she was little more than a stranger.
He turned his gaze from her and across the plaza, and his eyes took in the forms of other warriors. He’d had little opportunity that night to do anything more than tout his own men, though had stolen a few moments, here and there, to peruse what Lucius had to offer.
It was, of course, almost impossible to determine much from how a person looked. Unlike the fawning masses, who were often so bowed by physical strength and appearance, Dom knew better. And even knowing of a contender’s powers and feats wasn’t enough to accurately assess their path through the games. The seedings, after all, were one thing. Fighting in the arena was another entirely.