by T. C. Edge
“Welcome,” he began, “to my ludus. Here, in this room, you will sleep and eat. Up there,” he pointed to a lofty window, “you will train. The heat may be new to you. The weapons may be too. But soon enough, you’ll get used to them. This is a school of sorts. A school for gladiators, for contenders. And I am your master.”
His smile brightened, before his hand stretched out to briefly explain the various components of the room. He finished on the cells at the rear.
“As you can see, this place is open, and well lit in the sunlight. The days are currently long, and the nights are often bright here too with the light of the moon and stars. You’ll find it far more pleasing here than on the boat. In this space, you will live together. I urge you, for your own good, to get along. Should you fail to do so, the cells at the back will be waiting.”
He turned his eyes to the giant, and then to the Stalker. Kira watched intently.
“Both of you had brawls with your cellmates on the ship,” he said to them. “That was understandable, given the circumstances, and all part of the testing process. The inured men - Raven and Leewood - are currently undergoing medical attention, but will return here soon enough. We expect them both to make full recoveries.”
Kira noted the names. She only knew Finn as of yet.
“Now, the chamber here is mixed gender as you can see,” continued Domitian. “We have Kira here, and Gwyn,” he said, guiding his hands over the two women.
Kira noted the other girl’s name, inspecting her briefly. She’d been lifted from her slumber by now, and looked weary and frightened, brown eyes twitching left and right upon the assembly and her surroundings.
“Under no circumstances are they to be, um, interfered with,” warned Domitian, setting his dark brown eyes with an authority and malice Kira hadn’t yet seen. So far, he’d appeared either jovial or bored or somewhere in between. “I can understand if some of you men come to blows, but touch the girls in a manner I don’t like, and you’ll lose whatever body part you used to do so. Do you understand me?”
The men stared. Some nodded. Those that didn’t were prodded forcefully by the guards until they did the same.
Domitian’s smile rose.
“Good. Now, feel free to get to know a little more about each other. We have Oom here, he’s the big man. And Shadow, cloaked in black. Who else? Ah, Finn, handsome boy from the coast…”
Kira stopped listening after she heard the name ‘Shadow’. She turned to the Stalker with a fierce glare and felt her fingers bunch and breathing temporarily halt. She only caught the end of Domitian’s monologue as he said the name ‘Malvo’, his hand pointing out a bald-headed soldier type who had sharp, narrow eyes and a squat frame that looked quite amusing standing next to Oom.
“Right,” concluded Domitian, clapping his hands. “The remainder of the day is your own. Your instructor, Rufus, will be down to speak with you in a little while. For now, just relax and get some rest. Do some mingling. You know, anything you want to pass the time. There’s water at the fountain there and rations will be brought to you. I’ll see you bright and early in the morning. And, don’t worry, more will be explained soon.”
Kira watched as the black-haired man lifted that incessant smile of his and then spun away and disappeared back up the stairs. Several of his guards followed. Several others stayed behind for a few moments, unchaining the prisoners one by one before moving up the stairs and locking the iron gate.
For a few drawn out seconds, the prisoners stood idly, unsure of what to do. There was a fierce tension in the air, eyes working hard as they kept a close watch on those around them. Gradually, bodies began to shift away, moving towards the walls, or escaping off into the private spaces through the narrow arches.
Gwyn scurried straight off like a rat, seeking solitude in the shadows. Oom swung his heavy frame towards the fountain and began confidently slurping on water. Malvo, head shining with sweat and body fitted with combat gear, marched off efficiently, stretching his limbs as he sought the shade. Others drifted around, seeking their own space, and within a bare minute, each had taken possession of their own territory.
But not Kira. She stood central, her eyes fixing on Shadow, the Stalker, her enemy from back home. In him she saw her war, her fight. She saw her rebel allies, and the very evil they faced. Here, on the far side of the world, he was all that she could see.
His icy eyes stared right back, face crafted of pale stone. Like all Stalkers, he had little emotion, the human need for joy and love and happiness taken from him, his mental state reconditioned to perceive only hate, anger, and a desire to serve his master.
She stared at him, and he stared at her, and for a long moment Kira began to prime herself for the fight. She fixed her feet, glanced to her surroundings in search of anything she might use as a weapon, and readied herself to attack.
And then she felt a hand reach out.
It took hold of her forearm, and she found Finn by her side again. He shook his head as he did before, and as before, those turquoise eyes withdrew her anger.
“You heard what Domitian said,” he whispered calmly. “It’s not worth it, Kira, not here. You’ll get your chance soon enough.”
Kira flashed her green eyes on the Stalker once more. He managed to draw up a small smile, his posture tall and upright and perfectly still. He didn’t move, or exit the space in the centre of the chamber. He just stood, and watched, and smiled in silence.
But gradually, Finn’s words settled in Kira’s head, and she knew better than to provoke the wrath of her captors. She took a final look at Shadow, before turning from him with a snarl. And with Finn alongside her, she retreated to the shade.
12
It was a glorious afternoon within the ludus. The sun was beating down. The prisoners were all settled. The training yard was shimmering, the sand and dust covering the earth eager to feel the drip of sweat and blood. What a day to return home.
Dom stood on the main balcony on the central wing above the square, a goblet of fine red wine in hand and his body scrubbed of the sea air and grime. He wore a pure white tunic of the finest material, a claret toga wrapped diagonally across his athletic frame, all set in place by a beautiful golden belt.
He drew in the air of the city he knew and loved, and let the warm afternoon breeze wash over him. How good it was to feel clean again. How good it was to be back home.
He smiled, and lifted a finger. It was all he needed to do to bring a servant forward, an ornate silver tray in hand, topped with glorious purple grapes, red apples, green pears, plums, oranges, and all manner of more exotic fruit. He picked out a few grapes and the servant withdrew, moving back into the shade to keep the fruit cool.
Dom stayed on the balcony for a while, watching the soldiers below as they stood in position, unwavering in their vigil. He enjoyed the feeling of security they gave when his training school was full. Should his contenders get out, he’d very much rely on their prowess and skill to keep him out of harm’s way. Dom was well aware that, right now, his prisoners probably didn’t like him much. He couldn’t, in good conscience, blame them for that.
As yet, he was a kidnapper and nothing more to them. A slaver forcing them to fight for him and the pleasure of the masses. A callous, heartless, foreign aristocrat who wished only to see them battle to the death. And, even with all that, he’d seen fit to keep them in the dark, pair them up and see what happened in tiny little, pitch black cells, tease and taunt them with the threat of torture merely to see how they’d react.
Yes, he could understand full well why they’d hate him. He was from a different world, and this was his job here in Neorome. And while he played up to it, and enjoyed much of it, it wasn’t something that he’d chosen. No, it was his specific abilities that gave him this role, his gifts of sensing power from afar and hunting the owners that made him the lanista, the proprietor of gladiators, that he was today.
Within the city, only Lucius, his rival, could match him in that regard. He
too shared the same gifts, and he too would travel the globe, seeking out the most powerful warriors he could find. Yet while Lucius was of noble birth, the son of some high Lord named Pontius, he didn’t have Dom’s mother. In that regard, if no other, Dom held a place of unmatched privilege.
Although, Dom rather considered it a curse.
He sighed at the thought and the good feeling drained out of him. She’d know by now that he had returned, and she’d be expecting a visit. He drew a few breaths and sunk the remainder of his wine to fetch some Dutch courage, before leaving the balcony and entering the large, open, and opulently furnished living space that he called home.
In his usual spot, his main attendant sat at a well-appointed desk to one side, arranging some files. He was Dom’s eyes, ears, and often his tongue too around here; as loyal a servant as he could hope for, and a man to keep him up to date with all of his required duties. And while he’d originally been appointed by his mother, Dom had grown to rather like him over the years, much like he had Merk.
“Right, Claud, I suppose I’d better go see my mother.” Dom’s inflection was one of obvious disappointment. He’d long given up trying to hide it in front of Claudius. By now, the white-haired old man was well aware of the difficulties within their relationship.
“Yes, Master Domitian,” came his perfectly balanced voice. It was deep and precise and went well with his finely tuned mind. Dom always considered that, had he been of higher birth, he’d be stationed at a far loftier post to fit his obvious intelligence.
He was, however, rather detached in his emotions, a common trait among servants like him. It was interesting, really. The city of Haven across the sea, where he’d acquired Kira and Shadow, worshipped men of his kind, and over there he’d have fit right into the ruling class of Savants. And here he was, a servant. Dom found that interesting indeed.
Claud stood from the desk and straightened out his robes before moving towards the stairs.
“I’ll arrange your carriage, sir,” he said as he went, disappearing off out of sight.
Dom refilled his goblet with a fresh dose of wine and gulped down the contents. It was a habit many of his contemporaries shared, although he’d be the first to admit he took it to an extreme that was close, at times, to alcoholism. Particularly at times like this.
Finishing the wine, he set the goblet down and meandered back onto the balcony. He saw Claud march out of the house, across the yard, and straight for the soldiers manning the main gate. He passed through and disappeared, moving beyond Dom’s residence and into the larger courtyard outside. He might have just told the guards downstairs, but Claud was a man who liked to do things himself.
A few minutes later, he reappeared, and sent his eyes up to the balcony where Dom stood. He nodded.
It was time to go.
Fifteen minutes later, Dom’s carriage was winding its way through the glorious white streets at the centre of Neorome, passing by grand arches, magnificent columns, sprawling markets, and sun-drenched squares.
He sat in the shade with Claud, searching through the fluttering curtains as his private force of personal guards trotted alongside. People watched as he passed, though showed less interest than when he was accompanied by his contenders. Seeing him cruising the streets was a common sight, especially for the wealthier residents of Eastside; the ‘right side’ of the Tiber, as the people called it.
Ahead, the central city plaza spread with all its most important municipal buildings, and aristocrats of the highest standing wandered about the grand square, retained within a set of spectacular circular walls fashioned from tightly packed pillars. The guards here were some of the finest in the city, those tasked with defending its heart, stationed at regular posts and ever watching in their bid to root out trouble.
But trouble rarely found its way here, not this close to the city’s core. Because at the end of the plaza, upon a rising hill, sat the grand palace that called home to the Empress Vesper, a magnificent structure of many parts, peppered with gardens and courtyards and halls, with little walkways that rose high on its flanks above the surrounding city, smelling of sweet pine and coloured with blossoms of pink and purple.
It was the most spectacular and exclusive place in the entire city, giving a 360-degree view of all it surveyed from the upper platforms and ramparts that lifted high into the sky. And yet, for Dom, it also held many memories of dread, memories of a childhood spent alongside a mother obsessed with the past, a mother hell-bend on seeing the greatness of the city renewed.
Dom filled his lungs with greater regularity as the carriage worked its way through the forum and towards the magnificent marble steps that led to the palace doors. Outside, guards in the finest armour stood with spears twice as tall as a man, wearing the regalia of the Empress’ Guard, the elite of the elite within the city’s military hierarchy.
Many had, in fact, been promoted from the games themselves, rewarded for their great feats by being invited to join the most exclusive band of warriors in the empire. Empress Vesper, obsessed with ancient history, was herself responsible for seeing the Colosseum rebuilt and renewed, renaming herself Vesper in the process. Dom was only too aware that his mother wasn’t born with the name.
He rolled his eyes at the thought.
She’d taken the name Vesper purely as homage to an ancient Emperor called Vespasian. It was he who conceived of the Colosseum in the first place, the ancient foundations of which still stood within its rehabilitated and improved form.
That was years ago, before Dom came into this world. Yet he’d heard the rumours at banquets and feasts, the whispers of a woman who’d grown lost to obsession, to a growing madness that had begun to engulf her.
That was the mother Dom knew. That was the woman the city feared.
With Claud at his flank, he climbed the marble steps and made for the grand doors. The Empress’ Guards at the door, also known among the people as the Imperial or Palace or Royal Guards – they had plenty of names - stood aside as Dom came, one of them tapping his spear against the thick wood. Immediately, the double doors parted at the middle, an attendant inside bowing his head as Dom passed. His only duty was to open and shut the door. A dull existence if ever there was one.
Even the view from the top of the steps would grow boring, Dom mused. And the view on the other side too. Still, having not seen it for several months, he looked upon the majestic hallway that appeared before him with an admiring eye, the interior of the palace more striking and grandiose in its adornments than any other place in the city.
Filled with several hundred rooms, some of which Dom had never even seen, the palace was a sprawling place where one could quite easily get lost. Some rooms were like this, high-ceilinged chambers that did little more than present passage to other areas of the palace. Others were far smaller, bedrooms and studies and libraries, and a range of rooms for dining and reclining and reading spread across its many floors.
Yet the theme of luxury and magnificence ran through them all, money gathered from trade and conquest poured into its furnishings. And meanwhile, places like the swamps and Southside fell into decay, the threat of disease seeming a distant concern for his mother, the great Empress of Neorome.
Dom swept the thought from his mind as he pressed on towards the main stairway. His conscience was his weakness, as he’d often been told. Men like him weren’t supposed to worry about the poor. It was a habit that was dying hard, a constant thorn in his side.
He reached the steps with Claud and straightened out his thoughts once more, his eyes sweeping across fine art, delicately carved tables and lamps, a carpet of deep maroon that was subject to regular, almost hourly attention to keep it clean.
Once, perhaps, he’d loved it here. Loved the smells and sights, the wonder of it all. Loved to go up to the highest balconies in his mother’s chambers and guide his eyes to the sprawling city as it stretched away across the rolling lands, changing and developing year on year according to his mother’s designs.
/>
But as his years had advanced, so had his dislike and distaste for these hallowed halls and rooms. As he’d grown older, his mother had grown less loving, more dogmatic, more committed to consolidating her grip on power. She was, Dom thought, far too influenced by her devotion to the past. And like the ancient emperors, she sought only to gain complete and absolute rule.
One of her methods of doing so had been to create the Imperial Games, the competition fought over a month-long period towards the end of the summer. It was a festival to celebrate strength and power, to showcase the sorts of people the world now contained. And Empress Vesper used it all to keep the people happy, to give them joy, to distract them from all the little problems that littered their lives.
And the people were like sheep. They bleated with wonder and excitement as the warriors stepped onto the sand. They grew as obsessed as their ruler by the sight of blood and gore; by the staggering feats of strength and power the exotic contenders would show them. They forgot their troubles, the calendar revolving around the games that grew to dominate their lives, capture their attention, demand their deference.
And across the streets of the city, the Imperial Games began to carry a different name. A name that the lower classes used during conversations in taverns and squares and gambling dens. A name that showed the games for what they really were: a fight for survival, a chance to showcase ones warrior credentials. And a name, too, that was synonymous with the culture of the people.
Because the games were, in the end, a race.
A race to survive. To be crowned warrior king. To stand above all others atop the steps and join a select group of people who could call themselves champions.
It was The Warrior Race.
13
The throne room in the imperial palace was a vast and open space. At times, it would be filled with chairs and people, ready to witness the signing of some imperial decree or to honour the woman who would hold the pen. But no, not now. Now it was empty save its primary occupant, and a small contingent of guards who rarely, if ever, left her side.