“We must accept our misfortune,” Gracchus answered. “Our sudden need to summon the Borderlands was regrettable, but no one could have foreseen it. It had to be done because of the Shashidan cohorts that were approaching. I admit that the timing could not have been worse, and had we been permitted to leave the Borderlands dormant, Xanthus would have certainly delivered theJin’Sai into our hands. But what’s done is done. Sadly, the azure pass was an amazing opportunity that will likely never come again. We made the best of it that we could. But with the pass gone, just as we cannot threaten Eutracia, those in Eutracia cannot threaten us. And Crysenium and its traitorous Envoys have been destroyed. So it would seem that theJin’Sai lost as much as we. The stalemate persists.”
Vespasian thought for a moment. “Directly after the games, I will call for a meeting of the Suffragat,” he ordered. “We must discuss this turn of events. I will not tolerate another failure.”
“I understand, Highness,” Gracchus answered. “And although it grieves me to mention it, there is another urgent matter that we must face. The latest treasury count-”
“I am aware of the treasury count!” Vespasian snapped. Trying to calm himself, he sighed and gave Gracchus a hard look. “ThePon Q’tar does little else but whine about it! Do you think I wanted to pay for these games with public funds? But what other choice did we have?”
He angrily rubbed his brow. “I’m sorry, Gracchus,” he said. “It seems that I’ve heard all the bad news I can stomach for now. But you’re right about one thing. I doubt that the crowd will be willing to wait much longer. The last thing that we need is another citywide riot on our hands.”
As Gracchus nodded and returned to his seat, Vespasian looked at the Games Master and clapped his hands. At once the man walked toward the edge of the box and swiveled another gilded sign. When the crowd saw the centurions again unlock the Gates of Life and hurry through, they stood and shouted, their rising clamor quickly becoming deafening.
Persephone turned to look at Vespasian. Normally at the start of the games her husband showed the same eager excitement as the mob, but now he only looked concerned. She did her best to give him a reassuring smile.
Below, the customary processional sounds rang out. The massive Gates of Life swung open, and dozens of Imperial Order horse-drawn chariots charged into the arena. Driven by accomplished centurions, they began speeding around the arena wall in opposite directions, narrowly missing one another for the amusement of the crowd. Following the chariots, a large band of Imperial Order musicians entered, dressed in their finest uniforms and beating on drums and blowing into trumpets, fifes, and flutes.
Today’s killings were special. Seeing the usual lot of common criminals ruthlessly butchered always held great amusement for the Rustannicans of Ellistium. But watching Shashidan fighters taken fresh from the battlefield and forced to fight to the death held a special appeal. By watching the Shashidans die in the arena, the crowd could share in the legions’ victories. Vespasian knew that this united his countrymen like nothing else, and so he too welcomed the coming slaughter.
Trying to forget his troubles, Vespasian took up that day’s handbill and read it. As usual, the Shashidan prisoners of war possessing low military rank would be killed first. Because of their relative unimportance, they would be creatively tortured and murdered without the right of combat. These first killings served to whet the crowd’s appetite for the fighting that would follow later in the day.
As he read further, what the emperor saw on the handbill stunned him. No wonder the crowd was in such a heated frenzy! More than three thousand Shashidan fighters were slated to die during the first act of the games alone. He had never seen such a huge number. Looking angrily out toward the arena, Vespasian shook his head.
“What troubles you?” Lucius asked.
“Look at these tallies,” Vespasian answered. “They’re far too high! Although I do not object to the way skeens die, I must protest this terrible waste! Most of these slaves should have been branded for sale at auction! Imagine the tax revenue they would have provided to the treasury! Did you know about this?”
Lucius’ expression darkened. “I assumed that thePon Q’tar had informed you, as usual, of the number before the handbills were printed.”
For the second time that day, anger roiled up inside Vespasian. “Apparently the lead cleric didn’t see fit to inform his emperor,” he growled. He glanced over at Gracchus, then back to Lucius again.
“I have called for an emergency meeting of the Suffragat to take place directly after the games,” he said quietly to his friend. “We have much to discuss. I plan to dress down those willful clerics-especially Gracchus. And I want an audience when I do it, so that my words cannot be misconstrued. For such a supposedly learned mystic, Gracchus sometimes possesses an amazingly short memory. But mark my words-before this day ends he will experience my displeasure.” Vespasian sat back in his chair, scowling.
Lucius took a long sip of wine, then smiled. “So be it,” he said. “In the meantime, I suggest that you not let the tail wag the dog.”
Vespasian nodded. “I couldn’t agree more.” As he considered his friend’s words, a plan started forming in his mind.
Just then more oiled slave boys and girls in loincloths entered the box. Each one carried an elaborate gold tray laden with jewelry, which they presented for the emperor and empress’s perusal.
After looking over one tray, Vespasian declined. He glanced over at Lucius. “Spoils from the Twenty-third’s recent campaign?” he asked.
Before answering, Lucius watched Persephone select a diamond and sapphire ring. Smiling, she slipped it onto the little finger of her right hand.
“Yes,” the First Tribune answered. “They sacked many Shashidan towns before the Borderlands were activated.”
“How much raw gold was brought home?”
Lucius shook his head. “Not enough to make an appreciable difference,” he answered. Understanding, Vespasian returned his attention to the arena.
As the chariots charged dangerously around the inner walls, the musicians played and the acrobats leaped and whirled. Vespasian quickly ordered the Games Master back to his side and held up the handbill.
“There are far too many slaves marked for execution, you idiot!” He raised his voice to be sure that Gracchus and the otherPon Q’tar members heard him. “Have you gone mad, you ignorant son of a street whore? I want the women, children, and one-third of the healthiest men spared for sale at auction on the new moon!” Finished, he lowered the handbill and calmly returned his gaze to the arena without bothering to turn and look at Gracchus.
The Games Master simply stood there, stupefied. Such a huge last-minute change in the program was unprecedented. He turned to look open-mouthed at Gracchus, but the lead cleric seemed strangely unperturbed.
With a shaking hand, the Games Master nervously wiped the sweat from his brow. He had no wish to become a pawn in a dispute between the two most powerful men in Rustannica. But Vespasian had given him a direct order, and he had no choice. Swallowing hard, he looked back at his emperor.
“It will be as you command, Sire,” he said.
The Games Master also knew that this immense and unexpected change in the program would have to be handled personally. He would not be able to communicate this new order to the arena centurions by signal. He would have to go down there himself. His greatest fear was how the audience would react when they learned that the first-act killings had been so severely curtailed. Surely the clever emperor had some way to make it up to the crowd, he reasoned.
Just as the Games Master turned to run down to the Gates of Life, Vespasian again surprised him by reaching out and grabbing his wrist.
Calling on the craft, Vespasian augmented the strength in his arm and violently spun the man around to face him. The pain in Gaius’ shoulder was excruciating. Vespasian drew the Games Master so close that their faces almost touched. Then he looked over at Lucius.
“Tel
l me, First Tribune, was this huge group of captured Shashidans first discovered by Blood Stalkers?” he asked.
“They were,” Lucius answered.
“And are those stalkers quartered here at the coliseum?” Vespasian asked.
Lucius nodded. “As you know, we must keep them caged when they are not deployed or they would rampage through the streets, killing every Shashidan skeen they could find. The one hundred stalkers assigned to the Twenty-third Legion are locked up below the arena floor. And as your highness also knows, after the huge number of captives was taken, I ordered the entire Twenty-third back to Ellistium. They had been on constant campaign for more than two years and they deserved a visit home.”
Vespasian smiled. “Good,” he said. “Then we will do something else today that the crowd won’t expect. We will publicly honor the stalkers by watching them do what they do best.”
When he glared back at the Games Master, Vespasian could see the astonishment in the man’s eyes.
“Force one hundred Shashidan skeens into the arena at a time,” Vespasian ordered. “Bring no females, for we need them for procreation. Then I want fifty of the Twenty-third’s Blood Stalkers turned loose on them. When the first group of skeens is dead you will bring in one hundred more, and so on. See to it that all the skeens are armed. I doubt that we will lose many stalkers, and it will add to the flavor of the first act. Tell the stalkers that they are not to start the bloodletting until they erect their legion standards and form ranks before my box.”
The Games Master couldn’t believe his ears. Before today, stalkers had never been allowed participation in the games. Although they remained partly human, they were also products of the craft and largely uncontrollable by anyone except an experienced magic practitioner.
“I understand, Sire,” Gaius finally answered. “It will be as you order.”
Vespasian finally released his grip on the man’s wrist. “Good,” he said. “See to it at once. And have the crowd informed of the program changes their emperor has made.”
Vespasian didn’t need to tell the slave twice. As fast as his legs could carry him, Gaius left the emperor’s private box and hurried toward the arena floor.
Seated among his fellow clerics, Gracchus smiled as he heard Vespasian give the unexpected orders about the skeens and the Blood Stalkers. Well done, he thought. I couldn’t have produced a cleverer countermove myself.
Benedik Pryam, one of Gracchus’ most trusted fellow mystics, sat beside the lead cleric. Casually grasping the shoulder folds of his white and burgundy robe with one hand, he leaned closer. The look on his face was not reassuring.
“Sometimes you push the Blood Royal too hard!” he protested under his breath. “We all agree that he should be continually tested so that he learns how to deal with unexpected pressure-we have done so since the day that he was born. And I agree that such tactics have made him into the strongest and most beloved ruler that the empire has ever seen. But when you defy him in public-and before the entire coliseum audience, no less-you go too far! Hemust have the continued respect of the mob if he is to conquer Shashida for us!”
Smiling, Gracchus turned to look at his friend. Despite his great age, Benedik remained an attractive, vigorous man, because the time enchantments had been granted to him when he had passed only fifty Seasons of New Life. His dark eyes were sharp, and he had a full head of iron-gray hair that he kept cropped close.
“Worried about our young prodigy, are you?” Gracchus asked, as he popped a grape into his mouth. “Don’t concern yourself unnecessarily, my old friend. He is everything that we could have asked for and more. If I’m right, this unexpected order of his will do nothing but further embed him into the public’s heart. Vespasian knows what Rustannica is. It’s the mob, pure and simple. They will soon love him even more for the unprecedented spectacle that he is about to grant them.”
“Be careful, Gracchus,” Benedik pressed, “lest this monster that we have created get out of hand.” But Gracchus only smiled and turned his gaze back to the arena.
As he waited for the news about the change in the program to reach the crowd, Lucius also found himself curious about Vespasian’s motives. After taking another sip of wine, the First Tribune turned to look at his emperor.
“What are you playing at?” he whispered. “Blood Stalkers in the arena? That’s a first, even for you.”
“My guess is that Gracchus planned to take full credit for the huge number of slaves who were to be killed today,” Vespasian answered quietly, “even though he is not personally paying for them. I intend not only to spare most of the slaves and sell them, but to upstage that old cleric and steal his thunder at the same time. I’ll give the mob something the likes of which they have never seen. We’re about to see how Gracchus enjoys having the tables turned.”
“And not a day too soon, I might add,” Lucius whispered with a smile. “I know that he is your and Persephone’s mentor. But he is also your servant, and he sometimes forgets his place. This is not the first time he has openly defied you. He taunts you, but for what reason, I do not know.”
Persephone sat back in her chair, waiting for the arrival of the Shashidan prisoners and Blood Stalkers. She knew what Blood Stalkers were, and she was eager to see them in action. Stalkers were captured Shashidan mystics who had been transformed by the craft to serve the Rustannican Empire. The transformation from Shashidan prisoner of war into Blood Stalker changed the captured Shashidans into something less than human. Their sole purpose in life became one of detecting and destroying other Shashidans possessing endowed, right-leaning blood. They also made for excellent legion scouts. It was said that the Coven of Sorceresses used them to great effect in their war against the Vigors wizards that took place several centuries ago on Eutracia. It had been long assumed that Failee-the late Coven’s mistress-found the needed forestallment calculations to create Blood Stalkers in the Vagaries Scrolls. Rustannican mystics, however, had possessed the formulas for much longer.
By now more slaves were scurrying around the arena wall, shouting out the changes in the program. Just as Vespasian had expected, the crowd first quieted as they absorbed the news, but almost immediately they became more eager than before. Many started stamping their feet and calling out Vespasian’s name in appreciation of their emperor’s cleverness.
Just then a shrill bugle call rang out, ordering the chariots, musicians, and slaves to hurry back through the Gates of Life. As the tension in the coliseum mounted, the massive gates closed for a moment. When they opened again, the crowd came to its feet, and its thunderous roar could be heard in the farthest reaches of Ellistium.
The first group of one hundred male skeens was being prodded into the arena by Imperial centurions holding brightly lit torches. If a skeen hesitated he was immediately burned. To the crowd’s delight, this happened dozens of times. The smell of burned flesh started drifting its way up into the stands, to the spectators’ uproarious approval.
The skeens wore only white loincloths, and their skin was oiled to highlight their bodies for the crowd. Just as Vespasian had ordered, they were armed; some held short swords and shields, others brandished tridents and nets. As they neared the center of the arena they huddled together and stared in wide-eyed terror at the towering stands.
Their jobs done, the centurions retreated through the Gates of Life and locked the iron doors behind them. As the crowd stamped and shouted, the privileged few who were able to command the craft to augment their hearing soon heard the sounds of clanking chains.
An iron trap door in the arena floor slowly opened, revealing stone steps leading into the darkness of the coliseum’s subterranean workings. Then, one by one, fifty of the Blood Stalkers attached to the Twenty-third Legion walked up the steps and into the light. Like the skeens, they had never been in the arena before, so they too looked around in bewilderment.
When all the stalkers had surfaced, the trap door closed. Leaning forward on her throne, Persephone regarded the stalkers
. She had to admit that they were the most gruesome beings she had ever seen.
At first glance they seemed too large to be men, though they had two legs and two arms like men. Their elongated heads held bloodshot eyes, but there were no noses, only slits in the skin where a man’s nostrils would be. On each side of their bald heads lay elongated ears that ended in ragged points of skin. A white fang protruded down from each corner of their mouths. Lathered drool ran from their mouths to their chins and slithered down their hairy chests in long white strings. Their only clothing was fringed leather warriors’ skirts, which did little to hide the misshapen male genitals beneath them. Dried excrement clung to the backs of their legs, and each of their elongated fingers and toes ended in a sharp talon. Each stalker wore a collection of dried eyeballs hung around its neck on a leather string-Shashidan war trophies, Persephone assumed.
Each Blood Stalker was armed with a terrible battle-axe the like of which the empress had never seen. The long black helves were randomly patterned with dried blood, and each was crowned with a human skull. From each of the skull’s temples a shiny silver axe blade extended outward at right angles. The sunlight filtering through the coliseum’s red canopies glinted off the axes’ highly polished edges.
Besides their battle axes, two of the stalkers carried the familiar standards of the Twenty-third Legion. The standards were sumptuous red flags, hung vertically from golden crossbars secured at the tops of long golden staffs. Atop each staff sat a magnificent golden eagle, its wings outstretched in triumph. The flag itself bore the gold-embroidered image of a great bear, the mascot of the mighty Twenty-third. Beneath the bear appeared the number XXIII, also embroidered in gold. At a signal from one of the stalkers, the monsters formed ranks, and the two standard-bearers among them plunged the golden staffs into the sand, allowing the red flags to wave in the breeze for all to see.
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