by T. C. Edge
"I'd say it's unlikely," said Merk. "I haven't seen one around, and televisions are rare in Neorome. It's not in keeping with the ancient style our esteemed Empress so favours."
"But there are big screens around aren't there?"
"Indeed, through necessity. She needs the people to be able to watch the games, and most can't get tickets to the Colosseum. They tend to gather in squares to watch instead, adding to the festivities and that sense of 'community,'" said Merk, making quotation signs with his fingers. "Ever she tries to distract people with the warrior race."
Gwyn's spirit was waning.
"Well, I'll have a look around anyway. If not, maybe there's a public square nearby that we can go to?"
Merk's reaction was immediate and unequivocal. "Absolutely not! No one will step foot outside this house. Understand?!"
He looked to his younger charges. Gwyn rolled her eyes and nodded reluctantly. Finn was looking elsewhere.
"Well...I'll go look anyway," whispered Gwyn, wandering off on her travels.
She returned soon after with a sullen face and slumped onto a sofa. A cloud of dust belched up from the cushions and surrounded her, leading to a short bout of coughing.
"No luck then?" asked Merk, suppressing a smile.
Gwyn grunted something inaudible.
"Well, I guess we'll have to make do with books then," said Merk. "There's a fairly well stocked library that's just begging to be explored. If I know Master Domitian like I think I do, he'll have plenty of fascinating works on history and culture in there for you uneducated wretches to gorge on. Now how does that sound."
His words did nothing but inspire a disaffected silence. Merk was quite used to dealing with surly gladiators, so didn't let it put him off.
"Well, you'll come around sooner or later. Sit here and stew if you want. I'm going to do some reading."
He stood and wandered off towards the library and adjoining office.
87
Within the forum, the colours were of black and dark grey.
It wasn't the sky that held the hue. There were no clouds to speak of, save the occasional wisp of white that drifted across the hot sun, quickly burned away. It wasn't the shade of the courtyard, nor the pillars or buildings that surrounded it, all pristine white and cream, shining magnificently in the crisp morning air.
No, it was the dress of the nobles that bore the colour, their robes that day not of wondrous reds and blues and greens, but the stark and miserable blacks and greys that spoke of the event that was about to occur.
It was the usual form to dress as such when punishments were administered to the aristocracy. Not so with the lowly folk, of course. When a simple commoner was to be punished in some square or plaza around the city, or even within the arena itself, the nobility would see no reason to dull their attire. Often, in fact, such punishments were deemed as celebrations, leading to quite the opposite, and only those closely related to the accused might witness the sentence with the suitable dress to match the occasion.
Yet, when it came to their own, all lords and ladies would observe the traditional code, draping themselves in the mourning wear to set a sombre mood to the affair. They would bow their heads as the penalty began, and stay silent until it was over. There would be no taunts or jeers, no verbal outpouring. The penalty would be served, and then forgotten. And regular service would resume.
That day, at the end of the second week of the Imperial Games that had, quite unusually, seen so little fighting, it was the Prince of Neorome who was set before the peerage. He stood to one side of a small stage, erected for the occasion, as all business within the plaza went on a short hiatus to let his sentence be carried out.
Upon the stage was a simple wooden pole, stuck right through its heart. Its extremity was tarnished by flecks of stained blood that spoke of those who had gone before. Beside it, a man of grizzly countenance stood in a cloak as black as tar, his lips curled down in a perpetual snarl, his eyes like those of sharks, lifeless and dull. Dom had seen the man many times before, though never from this vantage. His real name wasn't known to the Prince, but his unofficial title was.
'Dominus Doloris', the people called him - 'The Master of Pain'.
His demeanour was understandable, given his role, and many of the recent sightings of severed heads on spikes and bodies hanging from arches were down to him. He was a master executioner and torturer, and feared across the city. Dom had never expected it to be him to carry out the whipping. A man of such high birth would expect a more gentle wielder of the lash under any normal circumstances. But these circumstances were far from regular.
The plaza was filled and ready, and within the audience stood Vesper, tormenter-in-chief, and the true bearer of the whip. With Ares by her side, and a cohort of Imperial Guards surrounding her, she watched proceedings with barely an expression at all. Dom had determined not to make eye contact with her, nor show his anxiety at what he was about to suffer. He would remain stoic and composed to the last, and would set his mind elsewhere. His thoughts would remain on happier things, and the ten strikes would draw no reaction.
Yet his mother, ever capable of getting under his skin, had a surprise waiting to throw him off his guard. Stepping to the stage, his hands were fastened to the wooden pole, and his toga, the usual white and unlike those of the gathered throng, was drawn down to his waist and away from his shoulder, revealing his tanned and firmly muscled back.
The Master of Pain stepped away a short distance, and the sound of his whip, warming up against the wooden boards, flashed once, then twice, sending a shivering snap echoing through the air. Then, as Dom maintained the control of his breath and prepared to feel the sting, his mother's voice lifted.
"We all know why we're here this morning," she called out, not required to raise her voice given the suffocating silence. It crept through the air, seeping into every ear like poison. "Not yet two days past, an attempt was made against my life by a man under Prince Domitian's charge. This vile, reprehensible creature was thwarted in his cowardly act, and though no charges of collusion in this crime are made against the Prince, he must still answer for his patronage of such a man."
Dom's position was sideways to her and the front of the crowd, situated as such so that both the incoming injuries to his back, and his facial expression could be seen by his mother. He glanced now in her direction, and noted her eyes lift. They moved towards the summit of the pole to which he was attached, to a bundle of black at the top that he hadn't yet given a second thought.
"Prince Domitian will suffer ten lashes for this failing of judgment, and he will do so under the gaze of the vermin who set him here. Please, remove the cloak."
Dom saw a guard step forward from ahead of him, a long ten foot spear held in his grasp. He set the tip towards the top of the pole, a dozen feet from the ground, and skilfully ensnared the black fabric, pulling it away.
Dom's eyes locked on the face that came into view, on the head attached to the spit. The once dark, luscious skin, now growing pallid. The eyes, those he'd closed behind their lids, opened up again and staring, black pebbles gazing out with nothing within them. The lips, not held tight but hanging unnaturally, the formation of his handsomely structured face now losing its form.
Dom looked at the severed head of Rufus and felt the throb of pain surge through his veins. His breathing, and heartbeat, began to increase in tandem. His gaze stuck fast for a moment, far too long a moment, and his shackled hands wished only to tear themselves away and bind themselves instead to his mother's throat.
And then, as he stared, her voice came once more.
"This is the man who would have me dead," she said. "And look what becomes of him. His head is here, to see his master punished for his reckless crimes. And his body, torn apart, has been distributed around the city to show what happens to would-be assassins. I feel such horrible pity to have to force the Prince, my very son, to endure this suffering. But this wretched recreant has left me no choice. He has cast
a dark cloud over this city. Let it be swept away by the lash." She delayed a moment, took a breath, and spoke. "Now...begin."
Dom had little chance to recompose himself. Little opportunity to set his thoughts back into their calming arrangement, revisit the happy oasis of tranquility deep within his mind. His head was a jumbled mess, and with his eyes still upon his friend, the first strike came.
It didn't tease his flesh, or arrive with any sense of hesitancy. There was no pulling of punches, no easing in of the leather upon his golden skin. The Master of Pain had been given his mandate to unleash the full extent of his wrath. His arm coiled and struck out like a sniping snake, and the lash followed as its tongue licked and sliced, cutting deep from the start.
The sense of pain was masked only partially by the suddenness of it all. Dom's mind remained on Rufus, and on grief and hatred combined. The strike took all that away, filling his head with a violent current of agony that rushed up from his flesh in thick, pulsating waves.
It was unlike anything he'd ever suffered, and his lips quickly cracked with a desire to call out. His face was wrapped in an horrific contortion, his mask falling so swiftly. He focused hard and drew his expression back to its regular form, unwilling to relent, to show the true nature of the pain thundering through him like the most terrible storm.
Then the second strike came, worse than the first. He knew of it, expected it, yet could do nothing to prepare. It worked across his upper back this time, forming a thin red slice on a larger portion of flesh. He fell forward, his chest pressing hard against the pole, gripping it tight and tensing every sinew he could still command.
He clenched his teeth, biting down, and forged his jaw into unbreakable stone. His eyes, chocolate brown, melted into a puddle of delirium, swimming and dulling, before catching the light again. He set them too, as well as he could, staring forward now in an attempt to gain some foothold, some semblance of control over his faculties.
Crack.
The third strike whipped across him, diagonally, the worst of all. More flesh to visit, more blood to draw, more skin to cut clean through. Dom's legs shuddered and his knees threatened to give way. His eyes muddied again, and his jaw clamped down with such power that a portion of his lip, caught between teeth, got split in two as well.
Blood began dribbling from his mouth, the taste of salty brine a slight distraction. The fourth whip came, diagonally again but the other way, painting an x across his back, warm maroon and weeping.
The crowd were watching in total silence, faces dipped and struggling to bear witness. Dom looked upon them and saw no true friends, all of them merging into a sea of black and grey as his eyes began to water.
A fifth strike came, followed so quickly by a sixth. Dom's mind was starting to muddle, his chin drooping and limbs failing. His head was a sea, churned up by a storm, each thrashing wave a flow of pain. They were growing larger, throbbing and tearing through him, a feeling of cold setting to his frame, in odd contrast to the hot blood now drooling from the many long gashes to his back.
With the seventh strike, he knew he could take little more. He wished, at least, to empty his lungs, to scream as the final licks singed him. He could pierce the air in agony, distract and purge himself of some of the torment. He could let his voice ring out across the plaza, and all across the city, as a warning that even the Prince of Neorome could suffer so dearly at the hands of the Empress.
He knew it was what she wanted. To make a statement, right here among the rich and powerful. To display her ruthlessness and cruelty in a fashion she never had before. He knew it, and he wanted to deny her. But he couldn't. He couldn't stand it much longer.
He blinked away the growing tears, eyes watering and stinging. The murky crowd appeared before his eyes once more, and in their centre a form started to come into view. His lids shut tight as the eighth cut came calling, and then opened as a new wound was formed. His mouth did too, set to bellow for the first time, but his voice was stopped short by the face before his eyes.
Lucius stood there, near the front and right ahead of him. He wasn't dipping his chin, or averting his eyes. They were right on Dom, and looked as they once did. Warm, supportive, giving him the strength he needed.
They were the eyes of his old friend.
Dom saw his lips moving, so subtly, mouthing two simple words that took a second only to form.
"Don't scream," he was saying. "Don't scream."
Dom's lips, ready to part and roar, shut again. His jaw drew its remaining strength and fastened tight like a clam. His eyes stayed right with Lucius, and Lucius stared right back. And the ninth lash, coming down upon numb flesh, came with little fanfare.
Dom's head swam now, his mind fading and blurring. One more to go. Just one. His lungs were working hard, shallow breaths speeding in and out. He kept his gaze upon his friend and, then, the final strike flashed.
It left behind a shattering of the air, a violent echo working across the forum, and then a silence dawned like a blood-red morning. Dom saw Lucius' lips working in a determined smile, and his head nodding slightly as he melted away into the crowd. He tried his best to keep his head up, and firm his knees and extend his frame. Every movement, no matter where on his body, resulted in fresh pulses of utter anguish.
Yet he refused to yield, to display any weakness. He summoned all he could from the depths, and waited for what seemed like an eternity for his bonds to be undone, and his frame to be helped down from the stage.
He needed the aid, though wished to refuse it. Hands drew perilously close to his butchered back, his many lacerations throbbing and boiling. He winced as any got near, and tried his best to walk alone.
The crowd watched in a hushed silence as he managed to stumble away towards his carriage, helped along by his own guards. He reached the curtain, and was pulled inside, and found Claudius waiting to attend to him alongside a medic. Hidden behind the veil, the watching eyes of Neorome, and the Empress, disappeared.
Dom dropped to the carriage's floor, and swiftly passed out.
88
Kira was watching from the upper floor of the villa as the carriage rolled across the courtyard, her eyes staring and fingers gripping tight at the window frame. Surrounding the carriage, a number of mounted guards were quick to jump from their steeds as the carriage came to a halt at the gate. They rushed straight for the opening, pulled aside the curtain, and drew out a stretcher.
Kira's heart almost gave out.
The figure upon it was lying face down, identifiable as Dom only by the shape of his frame and the curls of brown, glossy hair falling from his head. His back was covered in a coating of blood, a web of deep lacerations criss-crossing it like cart tracks at a busy intersection. Kira's fingers all but dug into the wood as she watched, the stretcher swiftly carried across the training yard by several strong guards and accompanied by Claudius and what Kira took to be a doctor of some kind.
They disappeared into the house, and she quickly moved down the corridor and stairs, stopping half way down as she saw Dom being hauled up towards the second floor. He didn't stop there.
"Right to the top," said Claudius. "Get him to his bedchambers."
Kira stepped back, watching silently as they came. Her presence was ignored as she kept to the rear, waiting for the guards to set Dom upon a table in his large bedchambers, before being quickly ushered away by Claudius, leaving only the old man and the medic in attendance.
Claudius peered down the corridor.
"You can come in now, Kira," he said.
Kira didn't need to be told twice. She rushed in and quickly took in Dom's frame, wincing in vicarious pain at the network of lacerations upon his flesh. The medic was already at work, sewing and stapling as Dom lay unconscious, before applying the appropriate ointment to ensure that all healing was expedited.
"What the hell happened?" said Kira, leaning down to look upon Dom's face. His eyes were shut, blood dripping from a split lip. His breathing was calm and smooth.
<
br /> "I think it's obvious what happened, Kira," said Claudius in his usual plain manner.
She stood up and glared at him.
"Don't get snarky, Claudius!" Her voice was simmering. She'd been nervous for some time, and this was the explosive result. "I didn't think it would be this bad! He's out cold!" She turned to Dom again, and lightly tapped his cheek. "Dom, Dom, can you hear me?"
"Not a good idea, young lady," said Claudius, reaching forward and taking her arm. It was perhaps inadvisable. She tore her limb away and stood to her full height. "Calm yourself," continued Claudius, totally unflustered. "You have become unbalanced. It is no good trying to wake him. We administered a sedative and anaesthetic on the journey back. He will be unconscious for some hours, and by the time he wakes, will be largely healed."
"Largely healed! Look at him, Claud!"
"Yes, I have already taken a good long look. We have a fine medic here in attendance, who will see to Master Domitian's recovery. You know full well that we have quite advanced healing procedures here, Kira. Now take a few deep breaths, and return to a more rational state."
His words had the intended effect, though Kira was forced to turn away from him for a few moments in order to restore her emotional equilibrium. Once she felt suitably calm, she looked at the old man and apologised.
"No requirement of such a thing," said Claudius, struggling to smile. "It merely shows you care for our Master. Your reaction was somewhat justified."
"Erm, thanks," mumbled Kira. "I've got a hot-head sometimes. I didn't mean to..."
"I already said, young lady, that apologies weren't required. Now let's leave it, OK. I have business to attend to. I will send Silia to aid in Master Domitian's recovery once the medic has completed his work. How long will that be?" he asked the man directly.
The medic didn't lift his eyes. He spoke as he stapled.
"Not long. Half an hour should be sufficient. I could do without the distraction, however, so if both of you could leave, I'd appreciate it."
