His father would not have approved of his desire for vengeance. But Caelan no longer listened to conscience. Only free men untouched by tragedy could afford to be merciful. He had seen what ideals brought. He wanted none of them.
Ubin hurriedly poured the last of the oil on Caelan’s hair, sleeking its long shagginess back. He looked Caelan over and grinned, revealing several gaps in his teeth.
“Now you look like a proper barbarian,” he said in approval. He ran his fingertips along the thin scar on Caelan’s left jaw. “Good boy. Good boy.”
Revulsion made Caelan jerk away, but with the handlers coming for more lots, Ubin was too distracted to retaliate. He darted off, fussing to an auction official who ignored him.
The next lot shambled by with chains clanking on their ankles, and in spite of himself Caelan stepped near the bars to stare.
These half-dozen brutes were of a caliber he’d never seen before. A collective aah murmured through the pens. Even the most restless men grew suddenly quiet as the six marched by.
Clad only in loincloths, shaved of all body hair, and oiled, they were perfectly matched in height and weight, each possessing impressive pectorals and deeply ridged serratus muscles. They had fearsome scars puckering their hides to tell of battles they had survived. Their hair was cropped close to their skulls, and one man had but a singleeye.
Unlike the others who had preened and picked fights, these men were extremely quiet. But their awareness was like that of wolves—wary, predatory, and supremely dangerous. Just looking at them sent a chill through Caelan. For the first time, he realized what a true killer looked like.
“Champion team,” murmured a man in the next pen. “See the gold belts they wear? Champions.”
But they hadn’t won their freedom. Caelan turned his back to them. “If they’re so good, why are they in the auction?”
“You mean they should be in a special sale.” The man with all the information nodded and spat. “Aye. The best are usually traded privately, not dragged down here like us.” He grinned. “The gossip is they’re Lord Vymaltin’s own hand-picked team.”
“So?”
The man sneered, but he answered. “Lord Vymaltin has been dismissed from court. No longer an ambassador. His house is up for sale too, with his house slaves.”
The man paused and glanced around before edging closer. “Word is Prince Tirhin has come to buy these fighters. Maybe he’ll buy us as well.”
Caelan snorted. “And maybe not.”
But Ubin suddenly reappeared at the pen, rattling the gate impatiently and gesturing for an auction attendant to unlock it.
Ubin reached in to seize Caelan’s arm. “Come, come!” he said urgently. “Hurry. This is our chance.”
Dubious, Caelan thought Ubin would only get himself thrown out of the auction altogether. Dealers had first chance at the block. By trying to jump ahead of turn, Ubin could ruin everything. Caelan started to tell him as much, but then he held his tongue. Advice from a slave was seldom well received, especially when an owner was hell-bent on a course of action.
So Caelan let himself be pushed down the aisle between the pens, stumbling on his leg chains, and ducked beneath a low archway only to find himself in a high-walled enclosure.
Bidders sat on stone benches high above the selling floor, holding fans with numbers painted on them. Slaves and attendants surrounded them. Hard-faced men in leather who must have been trainers were walking around Vymaltin’s team, pinching muscle layers, checking teeth, and making notes on small scraps of parchment.
An auction official blocked Ubin’s path, glaring with outrage. “Independent lots are sold at the end of the day.”
“Good sir,” Ubin began with his most obsequious smile. He slipped the man a bribe, and the official walked off with a shrug.
Ubin shoved Caelan forward, positioning him not quite on the block with the others, but close enough to be clearly seen.
The trainers finished their inspection, and the bidding opened. Just the sound of it awakened a tumult of hurtful memories in Caelan. He tried not to listen, tried not to let the shame seize him.
But the bidding was quick and lively. The prices caught Caelan’s interest and he glanced up at the gallery, curious to see which bidder was the prince. Sunlight shone down into the well of the auction ring and made him squint. He glimpsed a figure in a rich blue tunic whose lazy hand flick raised the bid every time.
Compressing his lips, Caelan lowered his gaze. He didn’t care whether a prince or a common man bought him, as long as he got his chance.
The bidding closed with a final bang of the gavel, and an attendant shout from the crowd.
“Sold, to Prince Tirhin!” the auctioneer said triumphantly. “For two thousand ducats.”
“Now,” Ubin said in Caelan’s ear, giving him a push. “Get on the block. Quickly, boy. Quickly. You’re the next lot.”
Caelan walked forward, although the team was still on the block. Ubin gave him a harder shove that sent him stumbling inadvertently into the back of the last man in line.
Swearing, the gladiator whirled with a vicious swing of his fist.
He moved faster than any man Caelan had ever seen, faster than thought.
Startled, Caelan reacted instinctively, shifting to one side. The gladiator’s fist missed him and crashed into Ubin’s jaw.
The old man fell as though pole-axed.
Astonished silence dropped over the crowd; then a babble of voices and questions rose in a tumult.
Caelan ignored all of it, keeping a wary eye on the gladiator who was still glaring at him.
Trainers and handlers rushed up with whips and spears to separate them, but a clear voice called out, “Let them spar!”
The auctioneer wilted on his podium, but with visible resignation gestured for the space to be cleared.
Handlers unchained the last gladiator from the line, although he retained his leg shackles. The rest of the team was moved out and secured in the pens for sold goods. Men dragged the still-unconscious Ubin out of the way.
Caelan found himself breathing too fast, feeling suddenly alone and vulnerable as he faced the brute, who had begun to smile slowly and viciously. The man’s eyes held absolutely nothing but a flat sort of pleasure.
He would enjoy killing Caelan, and he had training and efficiency on his side.
“Weapons?” asked the auctioneer.
“No weapons,” said the trainer, who wore a dark blue chevron embroidered on his leather jerkin. His gaze shifted appraisingly from Caelan to the gladiator. “Quick sparring,” he ordered. “Move!”
The gladiator reacted to the instructions by dropping to a half-crouch and circling Caelan, who nervously circled with him.
The chains on his feet were a problem. Caelan tripped himself and stumbled. Instantly the gladiator seized the moment and lunged.
It was like being rushed by a charging bull. Caelan had an overwhelming impression of size and strength. Fear gripped him, but he had faced worse in the past. Steeling himself, he managed to recover his balance in time to dodge at the last second.
The gladiator’s lethal fists missed him, and the man’s surprise was revealed in the lines of his shoulders as he skidded to a halt and swung around. Cheering went up, and bets began to be laid among the crowd.
Sweat poured into Caelan’s eyes. He shifted lightly on the balls of his feet, his tattered amulet bag thumping against his chest, every sense painfully alert. He could fight with his fists, but his common sense told him he wouldn’t have a chance against this man. All he could do was to keep dodging and pray he didn’t trip.
This time when the gladiator charged, Caelan was ready for him. Only the man feinted one way, then shifted back. Caelan twisted desperately, too late to save himself from his mistake. A fist slammed into his ribs like a hammer blow.
Caelan grunted as the wind was driven from him. He went down hard, fighting off a rush of blackness. The man loomed over him, but Caelan reached desperately for se
verance just as a mighty kick connected with his side. He felt a rib snap, but severance blocked the pain.
Rolling, Caelan regained his feet just in time to avoid another blow. From a great distance he heard the crowd’s amazement, but he was floating now in the coldness of separation. The gladiator didn’t waste time on surprise of his own. A shift in his eyes warned Caelan, and Caelan surged in straight at the man, getting close enough to touch that mighty chest with his palm before he leapt back.
Using sevaisin, the joining, he learned what the gladiator’s strategy was and moved to anticipate the gladiator’s next attack.
This time he got in a dirty kick to the man’s groin, half- connecting even as the gladiator caught his heel and flipped him upside down.
Caelan was rolling before he hit the ground. The gladiator didn’t even come close to him that time. Regaining his feet, Caelan crouched, letting the coldness carry him farther and farther from any awareness save his opponent.
“Stop!”
The command came sharply, cutting across the battle haze. The gladiator, breathing hard and slick with sweat, paused immediately. It took longer for Caelan to adjust. He dropped abruptly out of severance and bit off a sharp gasp of pain. The broken rib felt like a knife stabbing him with every breath.
He refocused his gaze and realized the trainer’s hand was gripping his shoulder. The man tipped back his head and checked his eyes, then forced a thumb into his mouth and felt of his teeth.
“How old?” the trainer asked him in Lingua.
Caelan glanced around for Ubin, but the old man was nowhere in sight. “I am one and twenty,” he said.
A commotion from the crowd made him look, and even the trainer swung around quickly and bowed.
The prince appeared, oblivious to the stares and talk. He was perhaps a decade older than Caelan, slim and upright, with black hair and a narrow, very precisely trimmed chinstrap beard and mustache. A handsome man, this prince of the empire. He wore a linen tunic dyed a vibrant shade of blue, and sleek hose of patterned cloth. A modern dueling sword—thin and almost dainty had it not also been a deadly weapon—swung at his side, and his hands were strong and well shaped. A large square-cut sapphire glowed in his left ear.
He stared up at Caelan with one dark brow arching in visible admiration. “Impressive,” he said without preamble. “This young giant moves quicker than thought itself. Quicker than his size should allow. Who owns him? What is his provenance?”
The auction officials stirred about and dragged forth a shaken Ubin, still fuzzy-eyed and confused.
“No provenance, sir,” the trainer said with scorn. “Anyone can see he’s green-trained, if that. A rower, by the look of his muscles.”
“Yes,” the prince murmured. “Rowers who are properly rotated develop the bodies of gods, and this one has a face to match.”
Caelan eyed him warily. Excessive compliments could indicate the kind of interest he didn’t like. Caelan had been sold to the galleys in the first place because he spurned his first owner.
The trainer snorted. “A Traulander by the look of him, and Traulanders don’t fight.”
Prince Tirhin’s gaze ran over Caelan. “This one would, if he knew how. There’s plenty of spirit in those blue eyes. Now, I just paid top price for a team of champion fighters, and the man got in only two strikes against this one. Either I have wasted my money, or this boy has potential. What say you, trainer?”
The trainer shook his head. “I don’t like the looks of him, sir. And who has the time to train him from the ground up, with season starting in two months?”
“That is your problem,” Prince Tirhin said. He stepped closer to Caelan and smiled. “Well, lad? Have you spirit enough to fight under my colors?”
Caelan felt hope and satisfaction rising in him. He kept his eyes lowered respectfully to hide what he felt. “Yes, master,” he said quietly.
“A dodger,” the trainer grumbled, still frowning. “Could be the mark of a coward, when it comes to the pinch. All the fancy footwork in the world won’t make a man fight if he hasn’t the heart.”
The prince’s smile widened. “Then he’ll be good practice fodder for the others. Buy him.”
The trainer bowed. “Yes, sir.”
As the prince walked away, Ubin lifted his hands in the air and crowed. “A prince has bought my slave. I am doubly honored. I am a rich man.” Gloating openly, he grinned up at Caelan and clapped him on the shoulder. “Good boy. Good boy! Hah, you’ll do fine now. Pampered on a rich man’s team. Fed well and trained daily. Yes, yes.”
An answering grin spread across Caelan’s face.
The trainer, however, counted out twenty ducats into Ubin’s palm, and even as Ubin’s mouth opened to protest, the auctioned snatched two of the coins for his commission.
“But, sir,” Ubin sputtered wildly, “only twenty—”
“He grateful for that,” the trainer said with a sneer and set his hand on Caelan’s broken rib.
The pain was instant and grinding. Caelan winced and sank to one knee.
“Damaged goods go cheaply in this ring,” the trainersaid. With a laugh, he hauled Caelan to his feet and shoved him forward.
Ubin trotted beside them, still protesting. The trainer cut him off sharply. “Begone, old fool! Your former slave hasn’t made any team I’m training. He’ll go to the common arena, and if he survives that hellhole, we’ll think about using him next season.”
Consternation filled Caelan. He couldn’t stop himself from looking back in protest. “But the prince said—”
“The prince has already forgotten your existence.” The trainer shoved him through the archway into the maze of holding pens beyond. “Now step lively!”
Chapter Eighteen
AT DUSK THE delivery wagon paused at a guarded checkpoint, then rolled through tall, spiked gates into a compound filled chiefly with low barracks-like buildings. The wagon stopped before a towering, octagonal-shaped building. Torches set into brackets flamed brightly on either side of the entrance.
A man appeared there, short and heavyset, with bullish shoulders that strained against his jerkin. His head was shaved bald and gleamed with oil in the ruddy torchlight. A dagger hung from his belt, and in his free hand he carried a short club fitted with varying lengths of knotted rope.
Climbing down from the wagon with the others, Caelan found himself eying the weapon warily. He knew what a cattail club was. He’d felt the vicious marks of one on his back more than once, and he never wanted to be punished that way again.
“Get in line!” A guard passed among the new fighters quickly, pushing and shoving them into a straggly row.
The bald man walked along them, his dark liquid eyes making a rapid inspection. When he came to Caelan, he paused and frowned.
“This man is sick.”
The driver from the auction spat and handed over a paper. “Injured while sparring on the block for one of the customers. It’s marked, here, see?”
“Ah.” The bald man held his torch higher while he peered at the paper. “Bought cheap enough.” Then he loosed a low whistle. “Bought by the prince!”
He gave Caelan a second look, doubt more evident in his face than before. Grudgingly he nodded. “That’ll be noted, and you’ll get the better food the prince always specifies. Well, well. He hasn’t sent anyone to me to be trained in months. Not since he hired that fancy private trainer.”
Still nodding, he inked a mark on the paper and handed it back to the driver. “All accounted for. Drive on.”
The wagon turned laboriously and headed out the gates, its slatted sides rattling. The darkness swallowed it, and soon even the tired plodding hoofbeats faded from hearing.
The bald man stepped back and glared at the line of fighters. “Welcome to the common arena,” he said in a gruff, no-nonsense voice. “Otherwise known as the hellhole. Those of you who are veterans, don’t think you’ll have it easy here. This is Imperia, and our arena is like no other in the world. As for
you green ones, if you don’t know one end of a sword from the other, you have two months to learn before season starts. After that, you’ll fight or you’ll die. It’s that simple. I’m Orlo. My word is law. Disobey me, and you’ll find there are worse things than death. Am I clear?”
No man answered.
Orlo squinted at them and finally nodded. “Guards! Take them to the delousing tank, then quarters.”
The guards were wary, armed to the teeth, and quick. They shoved the men forward with shouts and oaths designed to confuse and intimidate.
Thinking only of food and a pile of straw for sleep, Caelan followed at the end of the line a little slower than the others. He had his elbow pressed against his aching side for support, and he was almost tempted to ask for some etherd root to chew on to ease the pain. But he dared not make any request until he knew what manner of rules existed here.
Just as he passed Orlo, the trainer swung the cattail club viciously across Caelan’s bare back. The blow drove him to his knees, and the pain from his rib robbed him of breath. His scream lay smothered in his throat, and for a blinding moment he was awash in crimson and sickly gray. His back burned as though on fire, and he thought he might never breathe again.
Orlo circled around in front of him and gripped his hair to pull up his head. “Are you mute, you big bastard?” he growled.
Tears and sweat streamed down Caelan’s face. Somehow he found enough pride to answer. “No,” he said through his teeth.
“Get up!”
Clamping his jaw, Caelan managed to stagger to his feet. He was a full head and shoulders taller than Orlo, but it was the shorter man who had the advantage.
“The arena is no place for cowards,” Orlo said.
“I’m no coward—”
“Shut up!” Orlo raised the club again, and Caelan flinched back. Grinning, Orlo slowly lowered his hand.
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