The Warrior Race Trilogy BoxSet

by T. C. Edge

  Merk smiled as he recalled the title, "Secrets of the Sand."

  It was a compendium of sorts, a collection of snippets, fun facts and forgotten details, not only about the arena, its history and formation, but the gladiators who fought within it. It was old, the sort of book that would be picked up for the purposes of trivia and little else, ignored by the masses but such a friend to some.

  And for Merk, it held a particular fondness.

  It was a birthday present, in an age gone by, given to his dear daughter, Attia, and read to her each night. Her interest in the games, not unusual among the youngsters of the city, began the day they met Polus, wending his way through the streets in his carriage after winning his bout upon the sand. He'd presented them with a generous smile that had lived long in Merk's memory, and inspired his little girl's interest in her father's hero, who she went on to take for her own.

  She was only eight at the time, but the macabre entertainment was seen as quite appropriate for girls of her age. It was, in fact, encouraged for parents to bring their kids to the arena, to give them a sight of blood and gore when they were young. It was thought such things would harden them to life's dreadful realities, and the sight of little boys and girls as young as three was quite common among the stands.

  So Merk fed his daughter's interest from that day on, reading her stories each night, many taken from the public libraries and several staying unreturned. One day, while browsing the stalls within the market of Ostia, he came upon a stand selling books. He had little money to his name, but couldn't miss the opportunity when he stumbled upon the gem. He bought the book, second or third hand he didn't know or care, and presented it to his dear child on her birthday the following week.

  The following days were busy with reading, as he recited all the facts and little tales found within. And Attia, of course, was thrilled when a passage about Polus arose, hidden away within a cluster of anecdotes somewhere near the back.

  Merk opened out the book now, the memory stirring, and a smile of mixed heartache and warm recollection built upon his face. The pages were so brittle as to risk falling apart, one corner of the library encroached upon by the damp. He carefully turned to the rear, and with a little searching, came upon the passage in question, written by a little known author and friend of Polus by name of Cicero M. Herma.

  Merk knew the man had written another, full account of Polus' true character, though the exact title now escaped him. It was a fascinating read, no doubt, though one he'd only discovered after his sweet girl had passed. He never did get the chance to read that one to her...

  But this he did, though it was only a short story. A tale of two men, growing up together, causing mischief and getting into trouble. Cicero, the thinker, and Polus the man of action, whose powers began to flourish as he grew into his teenage years, leading to great adventures and capers between the two.

  It spoke of a kind-hearted man, yet to be drawn into the world that would lead him to the sand. A man who was caring, and giving, and generous with both his time and his words. Who grew up in poverty, alongside Cicero, and helped care for him as a brother when he lost his own.

  They were the dearest of friends, and the closest of allies, yet Merk recalled that Cicero was largely forgotten when Polus disappeared, his telling of the man's true nature ignored. But he always believed him, his words carrying too much weight, too much emotion, to render them lies.

  With the book clasped gently in his hands, he picked up his cup and bottle and began working his way back towards the sitting room. His eyes continued to gaze over the passage as he went, each detail stirring to life and opening up like a flower in blossom. He'd read it to Attia so many times to have once had it memorised. All he needed was the lightest nudge to shift it from the dusty depths and return it to the light.

  He reached the sitting room to find Finn and Gwyn as he'd left them. The snoring was soothing, though Finn's mumblings had ceased. The old man set the bottle of wine to one side and took the cup in hand, relaxing into his armchair and setting the book to his lap.

  His mind was swimming with memories now, his beautiful daughter, so vibrant, so pure, dancing before him. He smiled, refusing to drift into melancholy and recalling her as she was, happy and bright and filled with the verve of youth.

  His eyes turned again to the passage, and he thought of the city as it was then. It was peaceful and prosperous, not sprawling as it had become. Southside was a safe place, and the swamps hadn't yet been so named. Families could wander, and children play, and the little thieving and crime that occurred was never enough to blight the streets and force the elderly and fearful to hide away.

  Merk was a young man when Polus was running amok, tempering any pickpocketing or boisterous behaviour with acts of kindness and generosity to balance the account. Merk wondered whether he'd seen him before, crossed paths with him when they were both young. He could well have done, many times before, and never known what the boy would become.

  He felt a connection to him, in some strange way. At another time, they might have been friends, Merk the one to pen his biography and not Cicero. But Merk was happy enough to call Polus his hero instead, a man he felt he knew well from all the things he'd read and heard.

  He knew, of course, about the many rumours. Those of death and murder. Of some secret life in Southside, hidden from prying eyes. Of banishment, which was a more official telling, and the one he chose to believe.

  What had become of him since, however, remained of interest to the old man, and he had always asserted that Polus remained alive and well, somewhere beyond the city. He could have gone further, of course, stretched his legs and wandered across the world, but Merk thought he knew the man better. He'd grown up in Neorome. It was the only place he ever knew. Something told Merk he'd wish to stay nearby.

  And as his thoughts sped away, seeking around the far edges of his memory, he recalled a theory he'd once had. A theory of Polus' whereabouts, now drawn back up by the passage before him. He looked over it once more, and buried among the text was a place, so fleetingly mentioned, where Cicero and Polus had once sought adventure. A secret place, away in the woods just a day's ride from the city.

  The woods were haunted, or so the people said, but Merk knew the truth. He'd been there, in fact, many times before when he was young and adventurous himself, and knew the rumours to be superstitious nonsense. It was nothing but a group of bandits, in truth, who once occupied the forest, robbing any merchant or tradesmen foolish enough to pass through. They did so in cloaks, their faces always hidden, using hallucinogenic concoctions to fool their prey and lure them into their traps.

  It was a short-sighted venture, really, causing people to believe in ghouls and ghosts and nasty things. If the people believed the woods were haunted, then no one would travel there anymore. At least, that's what Merk said to the others.

  After all, he was part of the gang that did all the stealing.

  It was a different Merk, prior to his time at sea, and was the forging of the very man who'd take to the ocean. The gang eventually disbanded, hunted by the authorities, and Merk knew he had a single choice - stay in Southside, and risk being caught, or venture onto the ocean and follow a different path.

  He never once believed he made the wrong decision.

  But still, the notion of these haunted woods remained, and ever since then the people had avoided the place. At least, all but the most brave and dauntless, wishing to prove their courage, most of them kids. And so it went that Polus and Cicero quested there, and according to the passage in front of Merk now, came back with no great stories to tell. It deserved a paragraph, but little more, but had always left a lasting impression within the old man.

  Because Merk, knowing the mind of Polus as he thought he did, imagined what he would do in his situation. If he had been banished, and sent into exile, and he wished to stay close enough to the city to watch over it, or even venture in on occasion, those woods would be just about perfect.

 
; Untouched, unvisited, and though not secret, the perfect hiding place.

  Merk smiled, remembering his old theory, and looked again on the two sleeping beauties.

  Maybe it was just the wine doing his thinking, but perhaps the old man should return to more adventurous ways.

  Maybe he should give these two something interesting to chew on.

  91

  "Oh for goodness sake, Claud, would you stop your fussing. I'm quite all right, I assure you."

  Dom was up and out of bed, the night a fitful one and his back in a terrible amount of pain. He was unwilling to admit it, but couldn't hide all the grimaces. His chief aid's eyes appeared to miss nothing, and his growing proclivity for mollycoddling was getting on Dom's already singed nerves.

  Both men were standing at the entrance to the yard, with the gladiators stationed outside. Kira was among them, though Dom hadn't forced it upon her. Rather, she'd told him that morning that she'd be better doing some light training that day. It was a small concession to Claudius, who'd continued to suggest she focus on her upcoming bout the following afternoon, as well as a useful way of shedding some nervous energy.

  Dom stretched his legs as the gladiators gathered, stepping towards them. His eyes turned specifically to Lee and Malvo. They stood, side by side, one tall and handsome, the other squat and rather brutish in appearance, yet both with flint in their eyes.

  "As you all know by now," Dom began, "the Imperial Games are being sped up due to the uprising in the south. Leewood, being my fifth seed, you shall be fighting against Lucius' fourth, by name of Steelhide. Malvo, you're my fourth, and so shall fight Lucius' fifth. His assigned gladiator name is Kraken. I shall do my very best to brief you on the journey to the stadium, and can only apologise..." He gulped, losing his way. Thoughts of Rufus flooded his mind. "...Um, apologise," he continued, "for the absence of Rufus. You deserve to be fully prepped, and I'm sorry that you haven't had the proper coaching..."

  Malvo stood straight, though still a near foot shorter than his companion.

  "No need to apologise, sir," he said, his military growl rumbling across the yard. "I am happy to fashion my own strategy, and Lee is the same. We shall do you proud within the arena."

  Lee looked a touch irritated to have been spoken for, though didn't say anything. Dom bowed his head in thanks, causing his back to flare and his expression to follow.

  "Right, well," he grimaced, "we'll talk things over on the way anyhow, and I'll have some time to spare for you down in the cells. So let's get to it, shall we?"

  "Yes, sir," cracked Malvo's voice. Lee looked at him and rolled his eyes.

  The two gladiators, Dom, and Claudius ventured across the yard. Through the gate, the carriage was awaiting, with Dom's usual cohort of mounted guards in attendance. Seemingly unperturbed my his master's frustration, Claudius took Dom aside for a word as Lee and Malvo climbed aboard, their ankles speedily fastened.

  "Master Domitian, I really must protest one final time about you going to Southside. It isn't safe, sir, not with the revolt."

  "Claud, I know you mean well, my old friend, but you must stop your blathering. I will be just fine, and don't mention my back. It's a little sore, yes, but my painkillers will see to that. Now please stop your whining before you set an ache to my head as well."

  He stepped away before Claudius could speak, leaving the white-haired servant to shake his head in failure and frustration. Dom knew full well his feelings on the matter, and was quite aware that a man like him, with stunted emotions and an almost sacred devotion to logic and reason, could see no true value in his jaunt to Southside.

  It was, yes, a dangerous affair no matter what Dom said, and would likely yield no result at all. But Dom felt the chance required the taking, and aside from the speculative nature of the endeavour, and the fact that, even if this Cicero was there, he'd unlikely be of any help, there was something else bubbling in Dom's mind: a simple feeling of curiosity at seeing just what was going on in Southside with his own eyes.

  He was, after all, financially supporting the revolt, and would rather like to see where that was getting him. The reports were favourable overall - mostly, the Imperial Guard were being given a rotten old time, and certain areas were swiftly grinding into battlegrounds - but it remained others doing much of the fighting, rather than the mercenaries Dom had hired.

  It was odd, really. Dom knew full well that pockets of dissenters had began accumulating pots of money to hire mercenaries themselves, and some might even be quite capable of fighting of their own accord. An irate mob, after all, could be a dangerous weapon unto itself. But regardless of that fact, the might and power of the Imperial Guard should, by all rights, be running them straight into the ground. The robustness of this uprising was quite the surprise, and Dom's people were hardly required to play their part.

  He climbed gingerly aboard the wagon, his grunts causing Lee to reach out and help him in. Both gladiators had heard what happened and knew full well not to get anywhere near his back, or ask questions that Dom was unlikely to want to field. Still, it appeared a simple, "Are you all right, sir?" from Malvo wasn't out of the question.

  "Fine, just fine," said Dom, not wishing to dwell. "Just a little family trouble. Now, onto your opponents. Let's talk it through."

  They did, though Dom's attempts to impersonate his trainer were rather feeble. Not only had he forgotten half of what Steelhide and Kraken could do, and what augmentations they had, but he'd spent no time at all in determining any sort of strategy that might aid his men in their contests. Any research he'd done had been for Kira. He'd forgotten that he had other flesh and blood warriors under his charge, and they needed his support as well.

  "Forgive me," he said, stopping short as he fumbled over Kraken's power set. "I'm being utterly useless, completely shameful." He could barely meet eyes with them. "These are your lives at stake, and I haven't done my duty to you. I'm terribly sorry. I truly am..."

  It wasn't becoming of such a man to speak in these terms to gladiators. They were, by the laws of Neorome, his slaves and property and his to do with as he pleased. Whatever he did to them was fair game. Simply failing to prep them for a fight was an infraction that no other lanista would give a second thought.

  It seemed the two men were aware of this arrangement. They gazed at him in silence with mouths slightly agape, amazed to see him fall from his high pedestal and come crashing down so low.

  But they saw only the figure who presented himself to them so infrequently, the man of superior manners and callous thought who'd snatched them from their lands and forced them to battle to the death.

  They had little knowledge of the real Dom. He was the man sat before them now.

  The journey went on in silence, and only on arrival did Dom assure them that he'd venture to the cells shortly to offer further guidance. It was Malvo once more who did the talking.

  "Um, that's OK, sir," he said. "We'll be fine without you."

  It wasn't intentionally rude, but was delivered in such a tone. Dom's reaction spoke volumes. He had been snubbed by a gladiator, a matter that might once have led to punitive measures. Now, all he did was nod and let them be taken off by the guards, grimacing once again as a shot of pain ran up his back.

  It hadn't been long enough since his last dose of pills, but he gulped down a couple anyway. For all the wondrous medicinal advances the city had made in recent years, countering pain wasn't one of them. They could sew you up nice and clean and speed your healing, but when it came to soothing the pain that followed, you wouldn't be so lucky. It would, in time, fade, but Dom felt quite sure that his back would never behave in quite the same way again.

  The palliative pills, however, did a partial job, if only as a placebo. Dom washed them down with a swig of water before straightening himself out, lifting his chin, and marching through the guarded entrance to the stadium, protected by a swarm of soldiers. His personal cohort left him there, set to wait around by the carriage for the afternoon. T
hey had been briefed on their trip to Southside later, and would spend the time determining safe passage and discussing their master's protection.

  When Dom reached the entrance to the royal gallery, he braced himself for the sideways glances and polite nods of sympathy he'd no doubt get. He drew an artificial smile to his face, stepped beneath the wide archway, and moved smoothly for his chair to his mother's left.

  She was already there, chatting casually with Lord Pontius and a small number of other nobles. They fawned around her, backs bent in respect, nodding and smiling and laughing where needed. Dom slipped in quietly and engaged with no one, though held himself well. All were aware of the troubles he'd seen lately, and would forgive him for turning up drunk, dishevelled, and quite unlike his usual, presentable self.

  But he refused to give in, and would play his role to completion. His arrival was noticed, and Vesper, mid-anecdote, turned her eyes towards him.

  "Ah, Domitian, you're here," she smiled. "You're well recovered then?"

  The nobles turned to him too. Chins dropped a little lower. Eyes fled to feet.

  "Yes, mother," said Dom. "A little pain, that's all. It's cleansing as I see it."

  "A good attitude, my boy. Very good indeed."

  "And how is your shoulder, mother?"

  "Oh, just fine, darling. It may leave a thin scar, but nothing to complain about. My body isn't what it used to be anyway. A scar won't be too damaging to my appearance!"

  She laughed, and the men around her followed in stilted fashion. It was an act on all parts. She was acting, they were acting, and so was Dom. It had become the regular state of affairs for anyone in Vesper's company.

  Her act, however, was to show good spirit that day. Dom's was equally so, to smile and ignore all that had gone before. To watch the games, drink some wine, and support his gladiators when they came out to fight.