by Joel Ohman
The noise from the stunned crowd began to increase in intensity. Shouts of “Venator! Venator!” broke out.
“What the—” Hank said, drawing up short with Orson, an expression of wonder on his face. “You’re riding—”
“The crowd is calling you a venator,” Orson interrupted. “They clearly think you’re a gladiator who can tame wild beasts and perform tricks.” He looked over his shoulder at a posse of armed men steadily advancing toward them, clearly intent on shortcutting this deviation from the opening ceremony.
The lanther, already weak from the head blows sustained, was exhausting its energy reserves, beginning to acquiesce to Charley’s demands. Easing up on the reins, Charley used his knees to guide the lanther, now prowling in nervous circles, still not happy with the idea that it was being controlled by a large creature perched on its back and out of its reach.
Charley looked from the low-Score children, now retreating into a tunnel amidst the confusion, to the approaching men. His eyes narrowed as his gaze continued to Emperor Titus, still watching intently from his perch. “If they want a trick, I’ll give them a trick.” He turned, holding up a manacled hand. “Grigor, a little help, please?” Grigor obliged, nodding to Orson to keep the lanther occupied while he snapped the chains off both manacles, while allowing Charley to keep a careful grip on the chains encircling his newly minted feline steed.
Charley grimaced. “Well, here goes.” With one hand grasping both reins, he leaned over and hefted from the ground the javelin intended for Orson. Groaning, the owner rolled over, and whined. “Hey, that’s mine!”
Orson looked down, then up. “Can you believe this guy?” And then kicked him soundly in the ribs. “Put a lid on it, and why don’t you watch and learn how to throw a javelin while you’re at it?” He looked at Charley. “This better be good.”
Still trying to get the hang of directing the lanther with just his knees and one hand on the reins, Charley tugged with all his might to restrain the beast’s capering. “Let’s go!” he yelled, kicking the beast with both heels.
Suddenly, the lanther took off toward the royal box at the north end of the amphitheater—directly at Emperor Titus. The spectators screamed their approval, some throwing flagons of drink and even coins into the air in exuberance. The muscles of the lanther’s back bunched and rippled as Charley strained to hold on. They quickly approached the lower terrace area, directly in line with Emperor Titus.
Compressing his knees tightly, Charley sagged to one side, Mongol style, and lifted the javelin above his head for the best angle. Torquing his hips, he threw the javelin with all his might, aimed square at the forehead of Emperor Titus. Sliding off the still-charging lanther, he rolled in the dust like tumbleweed, before coming to a stop against the arena wall.
He missed. The hit wasn’t even close.
The javelin quivered in the wall, embedded in a crack of stone underneath a pilaster far to the right of the emperor’s well-coiffed head. He knew it was an impossible shot, but Charley had wanted to send a message.
The wall brought Charley to a stop, but an eight-foot stone wall proved no obstacle for a lanther used to leaping straight up into even taller tree branches. The lanther, still confused but now free of its rider, bounded over the wall with ease. The first few rows contained seating for what looked to be important officials and wealthy businesspeople. As one, they shrieked in terror, clamoring over each other to escape its bone-crunching teeth.
The lanther almost completed the job that Charley had begun. It made its way up five rows before impaling itself on the outstretched spears of the emperor’s personal guard detail. It took its final breath at the emperor’s feet. Dead, along with Charley’s future.
Charley looked up, eyes traveling from the lanther, in a pool of blood slowly spooling outward, to sandaled toes, a long billowing robe of Palatinate purple, and finally, up to Emperor Titus’s face. His expression held a look of shrewd calculation, his eyes ignoring the dead beast at his feet—instead, riveted on Charley.
“I think you got his attention,” Orson said.
“Um, I’ll say.” Hank was still chained to Orson, and he turned to look at Charley. “I’m not so sure it’s all that smart for us to be standing here next to you, though. No offense, Charley.”
Charley licked his lips, the dryness of his mouth finally receding. “None taken.”
Grigor trundled up, swinging his club in the sort of expert yet carefree way that made Charley glad Grigor was his friend. “He won’t kill any of us, not now, not publicly. The crowd loves us too much.” He extended his club. “Look.”
Charley turned to see scores of coins, more than he could count, showering down on the arena floor around them.
“Looks like we just made Ian a bunch of money,” Hank said, but not before scooping up a handful of coins and circumspectly attempting to stuff them in his pocket.
“Speaking of the devil,” Orson said, turning toward one of the tunnel openings.
“All part of the show, all part of the show!” Ian and his cadre of men ran out to collect his property, both in coin and in slave. His men feverishly scooped up the coins, while at the same time beating away any of the competitors who attempted to stake their own claim to the flashes of silver speckling the arena floor.
Ian ran up, face flushed and out of breath. “Quickly now, into the tunnel! Let’s go—this way!”
Charley looked Ian up and down slowly before speaking. “In case you haven’t noticed—I’m not chained anymore.” He took a step toward Ian, eyes unblinking.
“You fool!” Ian spat. “I’m the only prayer you have of getting out of here alive. But fine, have it your way. It will actually look better to the emperor anyway, make him still seem in control—which he actually still is, in case you haven’t noticed.” Ian nodded his head slightly to three men close by his side.
They rushed forward. Only then did Charley notice they were wearing masks. They pulled out canisters from their utility belts and sprayed a mist of fumes that smelled very much like the sticky sweetness of the Bramble.
Charley slumped forward, hitting the ground with a thud.
His last thought was sluggish, but it came with a sickly smile that quirked the corners of his mouth up, even as his head lolled forward and his eyes slowly closed. There had been something in the emperor’s face, something beside the sly cunning. There had been something that, even as he drifted into a fuzzy sleep, gave Charley the slightest bit of hope that they might be able to take down the person who had sentenced innocent children to death. What he’d seen on the emperor’s face surprised him. It seemed to be respect, or at least something very much like appreciation, a recognition of sorts.
The emperor clearly loved the theater of it all. Well, if he wanted a show, Charley would give it to him.
CHAPTER 9
Racing Equality
When Charley awoke, back in Ian’s safe house—or, at least, a house as safe as possible for someone who had attempted an assassination of the emperor could be—the first thing he thought about was the lanther. He didn’t regret throwing the javelin at Emperor Titus, and, if given the chance, he would do it again. The emperor deserved to die, but the lanther—Charley was finding that the demarcation between animal and monster was beginning to blur.
As he slowly woke, Charley’s mind worked on overdrive to resolve the morning’s questions: What was the difference between an animal and a monster? Or even a man and a monster, for that matter? The lanther, at first nothing to Charley but a monster to be vanquished, had morphed within mere minutes into simply an animal that he could ride. Dangerous? Yes. A monster? He wasn’t so sure. And as for the difference between a man and a monster—he needed only to look into the crafty eyes of Emperor Titus, watching placidly as little children were sentenced to death by wild beasts, to now know for certain that the most dangerous monsters in the amphitheater weren�
��t crawling, biting, and roaring in the arena.
They were sitting in the stands.
***
Helga and Janice were the type of women who took it as an insult if a man opened the door for them. Introductions last night before the opening ceremony had made it very clear to Sandy that their team of four was not going to take any guff from the testosterone-drenched warriors in the Venatio. Anything less than total female-led domination would be a failure.
If Marta was the solid, passionate yet practical, matronly sort who just so happened to handle a broadsword better than most men, then the duo of Helga and Janice were her mirror image. Purple, spiky hair made Helga look like a hedgehog conceived on psychedelics, and Janice had more metal adorning her body than Hephaestus’ workshop, her wit the only thing sharper than the multiple-bladed weapons she always wore.
Sandy shuffled her feet, swaying slowly from side to side in the narrow tunnel. They were a dangerous team, there was no denying that, but from what Sandy had been told anything could happen. And the unexpected already had: more than just Marta wanted the emperor dead; the word was that someone had already made an attempt on his life yesterday before the all-women’s team had their time in the arena. The would-be assassin had thrown a javelin right into his royal box, throwing the opening-ceremony festivities into disarray and postponing their entrance into the arena until today.
Helga looked back over her shoulder, her athletic figure standing in repose at the mouth of the tunnel against the harsh light of the arena. “They’re almost done sorting everything out with that chimpanzelle that escaped. They’re keeping everyone preoccupied with more prize balls.” Marta had explained earlier that Titus, in a clever bit of showmanship, would release prize balls filled with coins, wine, and other gifts into the crowd. “Get ready, we should be going out shortly.”
Marta sidled up to Sandy, whispering in her ear. “Your high-Score friends tried to beat us to the punch. Word is that it was Charley who botched the assassination attempt last night.”
Sandy’s eyes widened momentarily, but she knew she shouldn’t really be surprised. “Is he—”
“He’s fine, they’re all fine. The crowd loved them, that’s all that matters in the arena. If I were only interested in money, I would have kept those four; they might even be worth the hassle. But—” She spoke out loud now, for the benefit of Helga and Janice. “We will be the ones to win the Venatio. We are the first all-female team, don’t forget that. This is an important day: everyone will be watching us when we enter the arena.”
Janice snorted, speaking under her breath: “We’re gonna get lots of attention alright, but not because anyone expects us to win; we’re just another spectacle.”
“Don’t mind her.” Helga parted lips as purple as her hair and smiled at Sandy. “She’s just nervous.”
“No more nervous than you in an eggplant-canning factory,” Janice said, tweaking one of Helga’s purple spikes playfully.
Marta ignored their banter and nodded for Sandy to move closer to the tunnel opening, the light from the arena filtering into the damp, dark passageway. “We’re almost up, get ready.”
Helga looked over her shoulder. “I hope you’re ready for some chariot racing.” She motioned to Sandy. “Let’s go, it’s time.”
Sandy followed Helga’s spiky silhouette out of the dark tunnel and into the blinding light of the arena.
She looked up and her breath caught in her throat. Marta was right: everyone, truly everyone, seemed to be looking at the four women as they walked in.
Marta lifted her head high and strode proudly in the direction of a line of gleaming chariots. Behind teeth that flashed as bright as the chariots’ shine, Marta whispered instructions. “It’s all about the crowd; make them love you.” She lifted both hands high in the air in an acknowledgment of the audience. Swiftly, she then drew her broadsword, lifting it to catch the beaming rays of the sun, which prompted a noticeable rise in the decibel level.
Janice twirled her blades in a fancy pirouette of intricate footwork and flawless technique, all while continuing to stride confidently to the chariots, arriving with a bow. The spectators roared their approval. Sandy could tell that the crowd was already pretty inebriated with the wine and chemical cocktails being aggressively touted. If this was already the state of the crowd around noon, Sandy shuddered to think of what they would be like as the day progressed.
Helga retracted a staff from the sheath on her back and dashed forward, stopping abruptly to flip herself head over heel and stick the landing with a sharp crack of her staff on the ground, miming an attack on an invisible opponent. Her shadow-combat theatrics were met with an enthusiastic mix of applause and not a few catcalls and proposals of marriage—not to mention other proposals of the more indelicate variety.
Helga’s face didn’t change, but Sandy heard her murmur to herself. “Pigs. How many men who could pull off that move would get treated this way?”
Marta, Janice, and Helga turned to look at Sandy. They were almost to the row of chariots, and all Sandy had managed to do was to walk out into the arena without tripping over her own feet. She wiped her palms against her pant legs. “I guess that’s not enough, though,” she said quietly, before catching herself. She shook her head: talking out loud to herself was something she only ever did when mind-numbingly nervous.
Marta hissed under her still-smiling teeth. “Do something! They’re expecting it now—you can’t be the only one not to do something; don’t be the boring one!”
Sandy stiffened. The boring one? She thought of Charley: if he could start a revolution in Meritropolis and make an assassination attempt on the emperor of Meritorium, then it was about time she stopped living in his shadow. Maybe Marta was right: today was an important day.
She took in her surroundings. Then Sandy squared her shoulders, thrust her chin in the air, and panned her gaze across the crowd until she found what she was looking for: a large container, gossamer thin, and fastened to one of the balustrades above the top balcony of the amphitheater. Swaying gently in the breeze, it looked like a sac of fish eggs high above the heads of the seated spectators. Except, in place of fish eggs, the contents were prize balls, each made of the same transparent, plastic-like material that was engineered to burst upon impact and shower the recipient with its contents. On arrival in the arena, she had seen a worker, closely guarded, responsible for tugging on the long pull cord attached to the bottom of the sac. It looked like the balls were set to float on the wind into the crowd below. Sandy hoped she was right.
Acutely aware of the spectators’ eyes on her, she reached over her shoulder with a flourish and drew an arrow for her bow. A murmur passed through the crowd. They were uneasy, not just with her lack of theatrics, but with the threat her arrow posed.
“What are you doing?” Marta hissed.
Sandy turned her bow upward, sighting on the translucent pouch of prize balls that glimmered blue-green, the sunrays rippling across its swollen protuberance. The noise from the crowd intensified, some of them figuring out her intended target.
She closed one eye, leaned her head down to her shoulder, and calmed her racing heart with a slow exhale. The arrow wanted to fly, so she let it.
It flew true, swooping upward with a rush, until the last moment, when an unfortunate gust of wind buoyed it off course, slowing its momentum just enough to flip it sideways and blunt its impact. It had hit, but not hard enough to puncture. The crowd groaned in unison.
Hurriedly, Sandy released two more arrows in quick succession, this time aiming for the slender tendrils at the peak of the sac that connected it to the ornamental parapet on the balcony above. At this point, every eye in the audience, even those in the royal box and on the arena floor, watched Sandy’s efforts with intense interest.
The two arrows whistled upward, borne to the shining heavens above, seeking freedom from the constraints of earth.
Reaching the peak of their trajectory, they seemed to float, motionless, before slivering their way into the top of the sac’s connecting threads. Sandy exhaled the breath she had been holding, each arrow couldn’t have hit in a better position. She didn’t want to waste any more arrows, so now the outcome would be determined by the wind.
A tendril snapped, sending the bulging sac listing drunkenly to one side. The crowd below lifted their hands up into the air greedily. The remaining tendril, sagging and stretching under the additional weight, reached its breaking point.
With a snap, the sac fell on the ravenous crowd.
Sandy watched, eyes wide, as the spectators pounced on it. Slashing, tearing, and ripping, both into the bulbous sac, and each other, the crowd deteriorated into a foaming, frothing frenzy. They were wild grizzlies descending on roe, each desperate to slake their covetous lust for possessions and delicacies.
Within moments, there were injuries and bloodshed. In an abrupt reversal, the contestants in the arena watched openmouthed as the spectators in the stands fomented into a roiling battleground.
“Disgusting, isn’t it?” Helga asked.
“Makes you wonder who the real animals are in here,” Sandy said, eyes still glued to the stands. A man swung a flagon of wine, hammering it onto the shoulder of another man with a slosh that sent both drink and coins raining and hailing into the air.
“I think it’s pretty obvious,” Janice said.
Marta motioned to the three of them. “Let’s go, quickly now, while everyone’s preoccupied. Here’s our chance to have our pick of the chariots.”
Pulling her eyes away from the crowd, Sandy turned to the line of chariots. “They all look the same to me—not that I know anything about chariot racing.”
“This one doesn’t look all that great to me,” Marta said with a sly grin, flipping out a dagger from her belt and carving deep divots into the axle that sat beneath the carriage platform. Continuing down the line, under the pretense of seeking a better vantage point from which to see the crowd, Marta continued her sabotage. “That should do it.” She surreptitiously slipped her dagger back into her belt and pointed to a chariot in the middle of the pack. “Here we go: this is the one.”