by T. C. Edge
“All right, enough, get in line.” Rufus’ voice called everyone to order, and they quickly lined up, with the two new men joining the flanks.
“Raven, Leewood, you missed a good fun day yesterday,” the instructor went on with no hint of amusement on his face. Kira imagined that he really believed it. “But today will be even better.” He waved his arm over to one side, a rare shaded area of the yard, where sets of leather armour and robes of various colours were hanging up against the wall. “All have been customised to your frames, and will give you a good idea as to what you’ll be wearing in the games. Occasionally bouts will call for other types of dress, but most of you will die in these…”
The casualness with which he referenced their imminent death was telling. He perhaps meant to say ‘fight’ but wasn’t afraid to beat around the bush, calling it like it was. Up above, Kira noticed Dom on the balcony, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. He perhaps wasn’t quite so happy with Rufus’ reminder to his contenders that their days were very much numbered.
“Right, go get dressed. Each is listed with your names,” finished Rufus.
With the wind somewhat stolen from Kira’s barely fluttering sails, she moved with the troop to the wall, and searched out her combat suit. It wasn’t hard to find really. Hers and Gwyn’s were down one end, both smaller than the rest.
She was used to wearing armour, but not of this kind. What she wore back in Haven was modern, fitted with bulletproof interior lining and yet lightweight and mobile, allowing her to move freely and without restraint.
This was very different. First, she pulled on a leather breastplate and skirt that stopped just above the knee. They were dark brown, and brand new, smelling quite appealing to Kira’s sensitive nose. She also knew they’d be steaming hot under the sun.
Over the armour, she wore a red robe, pulled tight at the waist by a finely carved belt, with further leather bands covering her forearms and her legs hidden behind red trousers. She had boots of dark brown too, almost every inch of her now fully concealed and at least somewhat protected.
Looking upon the rest, she saw that their outfits were similar, but carried subtle differences based upon their shapes and colourings. Oom, for example, had some rugged embellishments on his clothes, horns sprouting from his shoulders pads, his arms uncovered and exposed, most likely to show off his gigantic muscles.
Finn’s outfit had some seafaring decoration on the breastplate, his robe coloured blue. Others had tones of green or orange or yellow to their clothes, giving reference to the sorts of places they were found; woodlands and open plains, arid desert and coastal beaches.
Kira knew that the claret of her look was due to her hair, and Dom’s aim was to create ‘characters’ among his troop in order to seduce the crowd.
And, of course, Shadow had been re-wreathed in black. Kira looked at him with a shudder of disappointment, his pale skin once more covered, his body cloaked again in the colour of oil. His aura had quickly returned. It didn’t forsake him for long.
Now fully dressed, they all returned to the centre of the yard, stepping out of the shade. The immediate blast of heat was an unpleasant reminder of the previous day’s exertions. Rufus had been spot on. Whatever they were all wearing yesterday, their current getup would be even worse. Tunic underneath, leather armour in the middle, and a robe on top was a triple-layered recipe for major discomfort.
“Master Domitian, what do you think?” Rufus called up to the lanista, ogling his acquisitions from the balcony.
“Excellent fits,” Dom said. “Remind me, Rufus, to give our tailor a generous tip.”
Kira’s forehead was already gathering sweat. The lure of the cool stone dungeon was growing stronger by the minute.
“Right, Rufus, you carry on,” called Dom. “I’ve got business to take care of. I’ll be back later on this afternoon.”
“Yes, Master Domitian,” said Rufus, switching back around and flashing his dark eyes upon his trainees with a strong measure of glee.
He smiled that big white smile of his, and looked down the line.
“You thought yesterday was bad…you ain’t seen nothing yet.”
18
It was a fine morning.
The sun was shining bright. The weather was warm. The streets were teeming with excited people, buoyant as the first weekend of the Imperial Games quickly approached.
It was, all in all, a great day to be alive. But not for Merk.
The old caretaker couldn’t match the excitement of those around him. Here, on land, he felt rather lost. He preferred the waves of water far more than the waves of people, smarming through the narrow and congested streets in Southside like rats in the sewer.
Living on the edge of the swamps wasn’t, Merk thought, much of an existence at all for a man of the seas. The air here was stale and stuffy and filled with the scent of all manner of bodily excretions. The cobbled streets were cracked and broken and littered with trash, accumulating in little piles at the side and going as far as to block off certain lanes.
The people were as unsavoury as the place. Feral kids ran amok, untamed by their slothful parents, thieving and causing all sorts of trouble. Merk would once have clipped them around the ear and given them a good talking to, but had given up on such bouts of bravery. These days, they amassed into such gangs as to render them rather dangerous, and with the city taking on a more violent air in recent years, talking down to the wrong child could quite easily see Merk losing another finger or two.
It didn’t always used to be this way. Years ago, even the swamps were better tended, and Southside wasn’t as poor and diseased as it was now. The rumours of Empress Vesper’s growing mania had only built during Merk’s regular excursions overseas, and even he couldn’t deny that her tightening grip on the city was strangling the poor folk.
He didn’t like to think that way, of course. Empress Vesper was Master Domitian’s mother, and for her to birth such a tremendous son, she couldn’t be all bad. Yet, the proof was growing a little too convincing for Merk to deny, and even he was starting to grumble internally about the city leader and her tunnel vision.
All that really gave him any form of joy right now was the idea of receiving his ticket to the games. Perhaps, he mused, Master Domitian might even pay a visit himself? He shook his head at the absurdity of the thought. Out on the seas, the old man had a direct line to the prince. Here, there was an entire city standing between them, the two men on very different ends of the social spectrum.
Even the games had begun to lose their lure for Merk in recent years, though. Try as he might, spending any time below decks with some of the combatants would sometimes make seeing them cut through, beheaded, impaled, and disposed of in all sorts of horrible ways a difficult experience. The more hardy warriors among them he didn’t tend to care for, but the younger pups, snatched from their homes, weren’t easy to watch die.
Of course, Merk didn’t place any blame at Master Domitian’s door for that. Oh no. He knew full well that the prince was only fulfilling the desires of his mother. Given his rather unique gift for sensing power signatures from afar, the prince was excellent at acquiring the strongest warriors for the arena.
Only Lucius, his bitter rival, was able to do the same. The rest of the lanistas and warrior-traders relied more on luck when gathering their contenders, and so it was no surprise, really, that Lucius and Master Domitian’s men were crowned champions year on year.
Though, the former had been on quite the run of late.
With the sun high in the sky, Merk wandered through the streets of Southside, seeking to move as far from the swamps as possible. His routine tended to be the same each day. He’d rise early, escaping the swamps before the gangs of kids awoke and started their day’s pestering, and begin heading north. There, he’d choose one of several squares he rather liked – all included fountains, which made a pleasant trickling sound that Merk found relaxing – and find a suitable place to sit.
He’d list
en to gossip, feed the pigeons, have a wander near the edge of the Tiber, seek out something affordable for lunch, and perhaps treat himself to an hour or two at the baths. There, more gossip would reach his ears – this was how Merk gathered most of his information – and he’d consider lending his tongue to the fray if he felt particularly strongly about an issue or topic being discussed.
He’d then find somewhere to enjoy a small glass of wine, usually around one of the squares he liked, and would occasionally, if in the mood, have another. Or several. Once the sun had fallen and he felt it safe to return home, he’d meander back and drop into bed. Alone. Always alone.
It was a routine that had served him well over the years, and one he was all set to fall back into having just returned from his latest voyage. So, that very morning, he’d already escaped the worst of Southside and had entered into its more affluent northern districts, relative to the swamps at least.
He’d reached the Tiber and enjoyed a stroll, though hadn’t fed the pigeons as there were too many people around for them to safely land. He’d found the baths to be similarly busy, the upcoming festival of death, known around these parts as ‘the warrior race’, drawing people from all over the region.
He’d even had to pay almost twice as much as usual for his lunch owing to the inflated prices. At this time of year, with all these people flocking to Neorome, vendors were prone to grow greedy.
So, while most people were having a fabulous day, Merk really wasn’t. This time of year was joyous for the masses, but the smiles and laughter and drunken tomfoolery that ruled the streets merely served to irritate him. And it reminded him, too, of just how empty his life beyond the sea really was.
Still, he kept to his routine and raised his chin high. The pigeons weren’t around, the prices were high, and the baths were full, but this wasn’t anything to be unexpected. He still had many taverns and drinking holes to choose from, and after the day he’d had, he was more than happy to pay through the nose for a drink if required.
So, off he set for his favourite square and his favourite popina - the local term for wine bars in the poorer districts. It just so happened that the square was near the Tiber, had an impressive fountain, and the popina in question was called ‘Domitian’s’. If anyone were to take Merk to task on it, he’d say it was purely coincidental, and that ‘Domitian’s wine bar’ served the best wine he could afford at the most reasonable prices.
The only problem was the statue that resided within the fountain, one he’d taken to ignoring. It was a figure of Empress Vesper, placed here during her younger years when she was rather dashing, and had recently been restored after having its left arm badly chipped by a drunk hurling rocks. Apparently, the person responsible had had his head chopped clean off a day or two later – Merk hadn’t been around to see, as he was out on the ocean at the time.
Still, the statue wasn’t the offensive thing. It was the fact that people would kneel and bow around it, worshipping her like she was some sort of goddess. As far as Merk was concerned, there was only one thing worth worshipping and that was the sea. A flesh and blood woman didn’t deserve such attention, no matter who she was.
As the thought came to Merk, he shoved it right aside. He’d heard of special soldiers about the streets whose single directive was to read minds and make sure no one was having negative thoughts about the empress. It was one thing not being able to speak out against her, but another entirely having your thoughts monitored.
Given Master Domitian’s telepathic gifts, Merk had some experience of people with such powers. He was aware, therefore, that a telepath could only read a mind whilst making eye contact. Without it, they could gauge general feelings and states of emotion, but not specific thoughts.
As such, he’d taken to avoiding eye contact with any guard he saw. That was becoming more difficult, however, with the numbers of them trawling the streets in order to keep the peace.
Arriving at Domitian’s, Merk wasn’t overly surprised to find the place busy. It was mid-afternoon, earlier than he’d usually venture to fetch his wine, but given the circumstances he thought ‘why not’. Moving inside, he rustled his way towards the scratched mahogany bar and waited to get served. Usually, he’d find a table outside and a waiter would come, but today it was too busy for that.
After a few minutes, he found himself face to face with a familiar bartender. They exchanged the usual pleasantries, covering the weather, crowds, state of business, and upcoming games, while the bartender poured Merk’s favourite vintage. With other customers to see to, the conversation ended and the old caretaker stepped outside, searching for a spot with a decent view of the square and a decent bit of shade.
He managed to find both, sidling up close to a group of similarly aged men to him who were in discussion about the favourites for the games this year. Merk always enjoyed it when he stumbled upon such conversations, given how he had personal experience of some of them. If he had to pick one, it would be the man Master Domitian named as Shadow. Though, he hadn’t yet caught up on the latest gossip about Lucius’ acquisitions.
He listened in intently, sipping on his wine and pretending to watch the crowd. It appeared that the men had seen both Lucius and Master Domitian’s batches taken through the city over the last week.
“It’ll be one of Lord Lucius’ men again this year, mark my words,” one man with a scrubby brown beard said. “He’s had the measure of our prince for years. Got a better nose for it I say.”
“Streak’s gotta end sooner or later,” croaked another, his beard long and white. “I say it’s Dom’s year.”
Merk bit his lip. He liked the support the man gave his master, but he didn’t like the fact he called him ‘Dom’. He was his prince, and should be termed as such. He took a gulp of wine.
“No, no no,” grumbled a third man, no beard this time, but plenty of greying hair. “It’s Lucky Lucius again, Stan’s right! He’s got his finest crop in years. There’s one, Tomahawk I think he’s called,” – the men sniggered at the name. Lucius was known for giving his gladiators funny names – “he’s got this mohawk, black as tar, right down the middle of his head. Dark-skinned boy, likes to throw axes…”
“Double meaning for his name then,” said the first man called Stan.
The third man with the long hair grunted his confusion.
Stan huffed. “You know nothin’ Bert. Tomahawk haircut, and tomahawk axes. That’s why Lucius gave him the name. Keep up, old man.”
“Old man?! You’re nearing a decade older than me you old goat.”
The men laughed. Merk raised a smile. It was the sort of banter he craved on occasion.
He sucked down more of his wine, his proximity to the conversation making him feel somewhat part of the group and thus speeding his rate of drinking.
“Heard of another,” Bert went on, “and saw him up close too. Big guy, lots of red hair and a big red beard. Er…Redmane think he’s called. Came from the frozen lands way, way up north. Has ice for eyes that one. He’s a good shout to win the race.”
The second man was shaking his head.
“Something to say, Pap?” asked Bert.
The man with the long white beard, Pap, nodded solemnly. He looked the eldest of them all, less shouty than the others.
“You want big?” he asked quietly. “How about this giant in Dom’s stock. He’s a whole lot bigger than your Redmane I’ll wager.”
“Big isn’t everything,” countered Bert. Stan nodded.
“Fast too as far as I hear it,” added Pap. “Strength and speed, lethal combo that.”
All the man agreed on that point. Merk wondered if they were going to mention Shadow, and considered joining the conversation and throwing his name into the ring. As he was about to, his courage abandoned him, and he took another sip of wine.
The men continued on, listing the various contenders they’d seen up close and regurgitating any other rumours they’d heard around the streets. Merk was so enjoying himself that he
soon found his cup empty, and quickly returned inside to fetch another.
Worried he might lose his spot, he fought his way to the front of the bar and managed to get served more promptly than he otherwise might. It was out of character for him to be that pushy, but he considered it a necessity, barging past a young man in order to get the bartenders attention and quickly leaving before he could be reprimanded for the act.
It was all in vain in the end. To his great disappointment, he returned outside to see that his spot had been claimed by another, the space within the shade at a premium. Feeling suddenly lost, he hovered for a moment under the fierce sun, searching for a suitable place to enjoy his wine, if not the conversation that, by the looks of things, appeared to be ongoing and in increasingly raucous fashion at that.
He grumbled to himself and enjoyed a long gulp as recompense. This day really wasn’t going as planned.
It was about to get a lot worse.
Unable to move too far from the popina, he hung around in the sun for a little while, occasionally getting in the way of the crowds as they floated through the square, seeking food and drink or arriving to look upon the fountain and statue at its centre. A glass and a half down, his mind was faltering just a little – Merk didn’t have the greatest constitution for alcohol, particularly on very hot days like this – and he looked upon the statue of the empress with a grumpy expression building on his face.
Spotting a few soldiers around, he quickly remembered himself, and drew back his thoughts. A smile gathered in place of the frown, and he turned his attention elsewhere. He noticed a guard watching him, face hidden in shadow behind his helmet. He dipped his eyes on instinct and began to whistle as he liked to do. When he glanced back up, he saw that the guard was now looking elsewhere.
He let out a sigh of relief, and imagined that city living really shouldn’t be this hazardous. And just as he was considering moving on, he felt a sudden shove at his back. His heart lurched, and he turned around. A young man stood before him, clearly a little inebriated and high on the celebrations. He pressed his hand into the old man’s chest.