by Rachel Ford
Trygve leaped upward, driving his sword deep into the serpent. He felt the blade hesitate, for a fraction of a second, as it made purchase on the scales, and then bit through, finding the path of least resistance into flesh. It went deeper, deeper, until it was buried up to the hilt. He heard the snake shriek, but its velocity was too great to be arrested all of a sudden by pain. The blade split its tail, cutting clean through from the point of puncture to the tip.
The crowd roared, and the sand under Trygve’s feet ran greenish-yellow with the reptile’s blood. The stench was repulsive, but not as repulsive as the raging hiss that issued from the snake.
Now, the snow leopard was long forgotten. Its golden eyes gleamed with a murderous fury only for the man. Flecks of blood sprayed around the arena as it circled back.
“Run,” the Southerner commanded. “You’re too close.”
He was right. The serpent’s attention was fixed on Trygve, and its writhing, undulating form seemed to cover ground even faster than before. The Northman took to his heels, but the sound of scales skating across sand – a kind of humming squeak – was so near he thought he could feel his blood curdling in his veins. A hiss followed, and it was so close that he had the impression that he had one, or perhaps two, strides left before he died.
Trygve wasn’t going to die with his back to a foe. He turned, his feet skidding in the sand behind him. Lifting his sword to ward off the incoming strike, he screamed, “Valhalla!”
Cassia gasped. They looked, in a way, like toys spread across a table – little figurines, so distant, so small. No wonder people could watch their murder with relative equanimity; from the stands they seemed unreal, down there in the arena.
And yet they were real enough. The dune snake, cutting across the sand intent on its revenge; and the man about to fall to the beast’s vengeance. She clasped a hand over her mouth to stop a scream. She wanted to put an end to it, to command it. But these were not men of reason battling before her who could obey such an order. There would be only one end to this fight: death, either of the gladiators or the snake.
So she watched in silence as the beast closed in on the Northman, and as the Northman’s snow leopard raced to his master’s rescue. She watched too as the Bull, now out of his bulky armor, ran to intercept the serpent. Three forms, three tiny figures, moved around the beast.
It was the Northman who stopped moving first. He’d turned, poised, ready for a fight. A slaughter.
The crowd seemed to feel her anxiety, for the stillness was disturbed by troubled murmurs. Faustus, though, only shifted with expectation in his seat, rapt eyes on the floor below.
The snake drew back to strike. Its jaws stretched wide, its fangs glistened in the sunlight. Cassia almost closed her eyes as it darted forward.
Almost, but a movement at the same moment caught her attention. The Bull had closed the distance, and was, now, no more than a step away from the dune snake. Its head, its parted jaws, went for the Northman in a flash of gleaming scales, razor-sharp teeth, and flapping tongue. The gladiator dove at the same time, the glint of a silver blade preceding him as he collided with the snake.
The Northman, meanwhile, seemed to have realized the turning of his luck, and darted away to sidestep the swinging jaws. He turned as quickly, bringing his own blade to rest on the opposite side of the Bull’s. Each were planted in the snake’s neck, behind its head.
The creature started to writhe, to scream and flail. Tullius was shaken off, but the Northman held fast, wrenching his blade deeper into the monster’s flesh with each movement. Tullius returned to his feet and resumed his own butchery on the other side.
Now, it was the dune snake Cassia pitied. Its murderous intent had gone. For the moment anyway, it thrashed about only to be free, to rid itself of its tormenters. But this was not to be. The gladiators had fixed their swords deep in the flesh of its neck, and every attempt at moving upward, at rising above the source of its injuries, only deepened and elongated the cuts in its flesh.
Then, all at once, she heard a kind of popping sound, and a spasm shook the snake. Its head seemed to convulse, its body shake and tremble. Then it grew limp, and finally still.
The snow leopard had returned to its master’s side, and the two men withdrew their blades. They were facing each other, having wound up together on the leftmost side of the serpent.
The Northman, she saw, was shaking – from exhaustion, nerves, or the pair she could not say. She heard his voice over the hushed crowd. “A good fight, Southman.”
“Likewise,” Tullius the Bull answered.
They seemed to hesitate, and she could feel the tension of the moment even here in the stands. A moment ago, they had been brothers in arms. Now their mutual foe was gone, and they were once again rivals.
Trygve Ingensen moved first. It was a slow, deliberate raise of his sword arm, and Tullius stepped back quickly. But the blade wasn’t intended for him. Trygve raised it above his head and thrust it into the sand. Then, his sword behind him, he advanced toward the other gladiator, palm outstretched.
Tullius seemed as confused as she was, until the Northman said, “You saved my life, Southman. I’ll not cross blades with someone who saved my life.”
The Bull hesitated, then repeated the gesture. They clasped hands in a brisk, blood-soaked handshake, their two swords set by. Now, at last, the crowd found its voice. Rapturous cheers split the morning. Chants of “The Bull” and “Northman” rose high. Cassia found the tension of her mind slipping away in the form of a laugh, high and nervous.
Of the entire audience, it seemed only her husband and Otho were not pleased. The first had turned a kind of crimson red, and the second watched his master with anxious eyes. Faustus caught his eye and nodded a second time. Otho was on his feet, gesturing to his men below.
Cassia’s laugh died, and again she wondered what evil her husband had in store. Her anxious fidgeting was answered by the sound of a gate opening.
The people in the far stands saw it before she did, from her vantage. A rise of disapprobation sounded: a chorus of boos and jeers, hisses and calls of injustice. Then she saw what earned their indignation.
Three desert scorpions ambled into view, the black of their carapaces shining in the sunlight. The two gladiators saw it, too, for they were retrieving their blades. The crowd’s voices continued to rise.
Beside her, Faustus’ expression hardened, and in front of her, Otho shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The mood of the fickle crowd – for the moment – had turned against them. Cassia knew her husband well enough to know that he would not care for that. He craved the adulation of the masses more than any gladiator, more than any thespian. Of that, she was convinced.
The fight, meanwhile, commenced. The Northman’s snow leopard had approached the trio of scorpions, his hackles raised, his teeth bared. The spectators were quieting now, and among the stray voices she could hear fierce growls. She could hear the clacking of pincers, as the lead arachnid opened and closed the chelae of his foremost appendages in a threatening fashion.
The snow leopard seemed at once frightened, and five times as ferocious as she had ever seen him before, as if fear had driven him to a kind of animalistic bravado. His fur had raised so that he was larger, much larger, than usual, and he paced in a quick run before the creatures.
The Northman said something – she could not tell what – and for a moment, his feline glanced back. But it did not leave its self-appointed post.
The larger scorpion, the one who assumed lead of the other two, advanced. It moved with a speed belied by its squat body. It moved for the snow leopard.
Now the men advanced too, led by the Northerner. Tullius hesitated for half a second then followed his new ally. At this, the pair of scorpions who had so far hung back followed their leader.
Cassia felt herself chewing nervously at her thumb. There was something hideous and barbarous in the idea of pitting men against those armored forms gliding over the sand. It seemed, in the
moment, more generally hideous than the spectacle of the arenas was wont to be. The jointed forms, the undulating tails, the many legs, the beady eyes and shining carapaces of these creatures was terrifying on a visceral level. It was one thing to send a man to his death against another man. But against such manner of beings?
Like the snow leopard below, she could feel the hair at the nape of her neck stand on end in fear. Her stomach roiled, and for a long moment she thought she would be sick.
Chapter Six
Trygve moved for Gunnar. His cat was spooked – he could tell it in the movement of his body, in the quick, almost panicked step of his trot. There were no such monsters in the North. He could only imagine what they seemed to the snow leopard.
Behind him, Tullius was saying, “You must stab them, Northman. That’s the only thing that’ll pierce those carapaces. The edge of the blade will not do it. And stay clear of their stingers.”
Gunnar was circling the largest of the monsters or had been at least. Their roles had rather suddenly reversed, with the scorpion taking up the chase. Trygve intercepted them about midway through a round of pursuit.
He got a good look at the scorpion, now, at the chelicerae that parted menacingly, at the pincers flashing at the ready, and at the tail hovering for a strike. More, even than the sand snake, this thing inspired terror in him. The snake’s scales seemed by comparison to this armored beast’s gleaming carapace flimsy. There had been but one serpent; whereas, here there were three. The other two were following their leader and would be upon them before long.
Trygve raised his blade as he reached Gunnar’s side. He ached from head to toe, but in his mind, there was a weariness, a lethargy, too. He wanted to crawl back into his cell and sleep, to turn his back on the entire proceeding and its attendant madness. He wanted to return home, to the normalcy of the North, even if it meant death. It would be a death he understood at least.
Not a death in the heat, in the sand, covered in the blood of strange and foul things. He would die a man, not a meal for desert vermin.
But he could not crawl back to that dirty hole, to sleep among the sweat and blood of the week before. So he stood his ground. The beast did not halt. His own voice reached his ears, a faraway battle cry.
He watched the monster. Its claws were nearest him. But there was something in the subtle tension of its tail, in the constant movement of its pincers. The movement seemed to him a feint, to draw his eyes forward when they should instead be back. He was almost taken in, but in a moment returned his gaze to the tail.
It was not a second too soon. Fast as the crack of a whip, it had flashed backward; and now it careened toward him, stinger drawn back to strike as it reached flesh. He swiped at the tail with his blade. Tullius’ words rang in his ears. The edge of the blade will not do it. The Bull was right.
Even here, on one of the thinnest parts of the scorpion’s body, its armor deflected the sharp edge. But he’d struck with a good deal of energy, and the creature shrieked. More importantly, the force of his swing diverted the stinger, like a bat swatting away a ball.
Now the scorpion turned its pincers to more than menacing. It reached for the man with one, and then the other. Gunnar was screeching beside him, moving as if to pounce with each strike, but thinking better of it. For his own part, Trygve was only just more collected. He sidestepped what he could and warded off with his blade what he could not.
The other scorpions were closer now, and he felt his desperation rise. Again, the tail flashed. The Northman raised his sword in defense, but a flash of steel and the brush of a body to his side caught him off guard.
It was Tullius. The Bull had reached his side sometime during the commotion, and now was lunging for the giant arachnid. Trygve struggled to put aside his surprise, to return his head to the fight.
The tail, its venomous stinger ready to do its appointed evil, had changed course mid strike. Now it was headed for the man that hurtled through the air. So were the pincers.
Trygve remembered Tullius’ instructions, and this time he jabbed rather than struck. He’d leaped off his feet to do it and propelled the tip of his blade into the second to last junction of the scorpion’s tail. For a fraction of a second, it resisted. Then, the blade found purchase between the armored joints. It cut through as easily as a knife parting butter.
The creature shrieked again, this time with more fury and energy. Its stinger struck once, and again, and again, at the blade. But it hit only metal. And then Trygve wrenched his sword to one side and then the other; and the tail ceased its moving.
It seemed minutes had passed to the Northman, but it had all been done in moments. While he’d been disabling the stinger, Tullius’ uninterrupted leap had landed. With the full force of the man’s weight and strength, his blade bit into the scorpion’s back. His aim had been good. He came down between two segments of the abdomen, and the sword cut all the way through until Trygve could see the tip of it reaching out from the other side, beneath the beast.
It turned and writhed and screamed. It flung its now useless tail madly, it pinched at the air. But in a minute, Tullius had finished his work. It was dead.
The pair of remaining scorpions, meanwhile, had reached them. There was no hesitation to their movements, now. Trygve moved away from Tullius to give him time to complete the job and get his bearings. Gunnar followed his master.
It was everything the Northman could do to avoid getting skewered by a stinger. The scorpions seemed to realize the danger that came with not sedating the humans, so they lunged again and again. Trygve batted them away and ducked and dodged. One passed within an inch of his face.
The thought struck him absently, almost disinterestedly, as it might have if he were a spectator observing the fight, that the stinger was no larger than a sewing needle. It was odd, he thought, for a grown man to cower before such a little weapon. It was odd that he feared it more than the pincers – pincers that might have crushed his bones, if they got hold of him.
He felt again the kind of lethargy of mind coming over him. He felt the heat of the day. He was aware that he was thirsty – desperately thirsty – for a drink of water. Or a mug of something stronger.
A tail flickered past his face in a blur of movement, and he started back to reality. At the same time, he heard Gunnar yelp.
Cassia caught her breath, and the crowd gasped with her, as the snow leopard went down. He’d been stung, and after a shudder collapsed. Even above the noise, she heard the Northman rage – something incoherent, some expression of violent anger.
The fight moved very quickly after that, and for half a moment after it finished, she was left stunned in her seat processing what had just occurred.
The Northman leaped for the beast who had injured his snow leopard even as it retracted its tail. The other scorpion made for Trygve, and Tullius went for it. A flashing of steel, the glint of carapaces, the high voices of man and beast, and a flurry of movement; and then it was done. Tullius had slain a second scorpion, and the Northman the other.
Now the Northern gladiator went for his snow leopard, who lay in a heap in the dirt. He examined him, shaking it seemed to her. Tullius went to his side and said something, too low to be understood.
Trygve rose, leaving the beast and returning to the scorpion. Its body was limp, its once taut tail laying in the dirt. Loosing a scream, the Northman attacked the tail once, then again, and again. She thought at first it was a frenzy of rage, a kind of vengeance. But when after the third strike he stooped to retrieve something, she understood what she saw. He’d cut off the stinger, the weapon that had injured his pet, like a kind of morbid trophy.
He returned to the snow leopard, and Tullius stood by watching.
Cassia rose now. She heard her husband’s voice. “What are you doing, love?” She pulled her arm away from his hand, the one that raised to catch her quickly, to draw her back before she was spotted.
She went to the side of her box, ignoring Otho too as he said, “Empr
ess, what are you doing? Allow me.”
“Gladiators,” she called. Her voice was high and seemed thin by comparison to the officiator’s. She spoke quickly, though, before she could be interrupted. “Congratulations. You have prosecuted your victory with honor and concluded the games in memorable fashion. You are free, now.”
The crowd cheered, seeming not to mind, or to realize, that she was ending the spectacle early.
“To honor your fight, your courage, I release you – all those who have fought in The Remembrance, who have honored Stella with their blood and sweat – from your contracts of service, should you wish to be free.” A collective gasp of pleasure, then another cheer rose from the crowd. The arena masters would have a different reaction, she was sure. But she didn’t particularly care.
The Northman seemed not to have heard. He was bent over his feline still, his head bowed. There had been – was still – something, something so broken and desperate, in that scene that the profits of merchants of blood could not interest her.
She collected her thoughts. “The feast will proceed as planned.” The cheers grew louder. “May the gods and goddesses smile forever on Stella!”
Chapter Seven
“You lived, Northman.” Rufus’ tone conveyed surprise, but he made a good effort to moderate it. His eyes widened, though, as he saw the burden slung over Trygve’s shoulder. “The beast – is he…hurt?
Trygve glowered into the dark cell. “He’s been poisoned,” he said. “By one of those damned scorpions.”
“Ah. Well, he’ll live then, at least.”
“Will he?” Trygve wanted to believe him, but Gunnar seemed barely to be drawing breath. “You’re sure?”
“Of course. I’ve treated men and beasts who have been stung before. He’ll be dead to the world for hours. Ten, twelve, even fifteen. But he’ll wake up and be right as rain when it’s all done.”