The Warrior Race Trilogy BoxSet

by T. C. Edge

  So he played the role he assigned himself, and the entire gallery did the same. It was pageantry up there in the balcony, as though a stage had been set and they were putting on a play. The day passed by as theatre, everyone doing their part. From the central characters to the extras at the rear, the production was well rehearsed and went without a hitch.

  The bouts began with Vesper's shrill voice ringing out across the stands. She called a re-start to the games after all the delays they'd seen, explained the new format - something the people were already quite aware of - and made brief mention of the revolt in Southside, dismissing it as a 'minor squabble' that would soon be resolved.

  At this point Dom paid especially close attention. He knew her better than anyone else here, and though nothing of note changed upon her face, or even within her voice, he could sense the slight tension that briefly enclosed her.

  He looked to Ares too, right by her side, and saw a faint reaction. His eyes dipped only briefly before lifting. He was a man without fear, but Dom could feel the fog of unease that was beginning to shroud him.

  The problems in Southside, he knew, were escalating, and to a degree that concerned them both. Dom had to suppress his own reaction. His artificial smile threatened to become real.

  The opening bout was a bloody affair, a warm up to get the crowd going. There were a number of lowly gladiators remaining who hadn't made the main draw for the newly formatted tournament, and so they'd perform the supporting role. Half a dozen came, fighting without much grace or poise, hacking and slashing until one remained. He was so badly injured, however, that he died in the cells not long after his bout.

  Next came Malvo, fighting against Kraken. Lucius' man was a strange, gangly figure, gifted with abnormally long limbs, especially arms, and with large, manic eyes that were so blue they could be easily seen from the highest tiers. He moved in an odd fashion too, flowing as though at sea, his extended arms bizarrely rhythmic in their motion and his legs rarely staying still.

  Malvo was quite the opposite. Short, bald, entirely focused and unmoving until he saw a time to attack. He was surgical, and quite skilled at conserving energy for short and intense bouts. The odds had the contest pretty much even, as you'd expect, though the result came much quicker than anyone could have anticipated.

  It wasn't a drawn out fight by any means, and a stroke of good fortune saw Dom's man to victory. Though fast and with excellent reach, Kraken's arms turned out to be something of a burden when faced down by a warrior of Malvo's worth. Working him into position, the squat brute was able to turn him left and right and have him tumbling over his own limbs. Malvo saw the opportunity and made it count, cutting at the tangled creature and spewing his blood to the golden sand.

  It was anticlimactic, and brought a certain amount of disappointed boos. Lucius caught a glare from Vesper, as though he was to blame.

  He did, however, redeem himself in the next fight, which was far longer and more enjoyable for the throng. Steelhide, Lucius' man, was one of near impenetrable skin. His exterior was thick and rough and as hard to pierce as layers of cured leather. Lee's blade, meeting him with glancing blows, seemed unable to even draw blood, leaving scratches only upon his hide.

  It seemed that only a proper thrust with the tip of his sword would be sufficient to puncture the man, a fact that had Lee abandoning his tactics and taking risks. He did well for a time, well enough almost to win. But eventually, his frustration grew, and along with it came a disabling bout of dizziness that rendered him suddenly defenceless.

  His lingering injuries following the beating he took from Oom were always a concern. He'd worked hard in the yard to overcome them, but the stifling heat of the arena, and the roaring of the crowd, and the growing feeling of fatigue and dehydration were hard conditions to properly replicate.

  Thus he lost his bearings, and Steelhide struck. A long contest came to an end with Lee's body twitching upon the sand, his opponent's blade stuck right through his spine.

  The crowd applauded, and the honours were even for Dom and Lucius. They took the attention and did their duty. Yet both of their thoughts were elsewhere.

  92

  The crowd were already bustling out onto the central streets of Neorome when Dom's carriage rolled south. He'd taken a swift leave following the end of the day's fighting, passing along the appropriate excuses. They were believable, and wouldn't raise a brow. As he told his mother, his wounds needed further tending back at his ludus, and he wished to beat the rush.

  He greeted Malvo in the belly of the arena, bloodied and victorious, though sunken and quiet. He'd grown quite friendly with Lee over the past weeks, and had hoped both would make it out alive. Dom offered the sympathy the man deserved, knowing that he was at fault for Lee's death.

  He drew him from the cells and out into the light, the crowd beginning to pour from its many exits. Malvo climbed aboard the carriage, his ankles chained, and sat glum and empty as the wheels began to bounce and roll, and the carriage worked swiftly down the streets.

  The mounted guards alongside hurried it along, and forced the burgeoning crowd to part. It shaped a path back towards the ludus, though not on its regular course. Instead, its direction took it towards a quieter grouping of alleys, where the carriage drew to a stop.

  Dom waited inside, before a guard poked his head through the curtains.

  "OK, sir, the coast is clear."

  "Thank you, soldier. Take Malvo back to the ludus. Give him food and wine. He deserves it."

  He patted the brutish gladiator on the shoulder, though got no real reaction, and slipped out of the carriage. His eyes turned up and down the narrow, cobbled lane, the crowds wandering past at each end as the fading light of the afternoon bathed them in orange and yellow.

  With a haste that caused his back to grumble, he moved a little down the lane to find another carriage parked ahead. It was simple, less decorative, and not known to the people as his was. Just a regular carriage carrying a regular man, and nothing more.

  It would blend in nicely.

  He stepped inside, and looked upon the change of clothes waiting within. His robes were those of royalty, too recognisable. He undraped himself, casting aside his toga and pulling on the dark grey cloak that lay ahead. Its hood was sufficient to fall over his head and cast his face into shadow.

  Three other men climbed in, each of them wrapping themselves up in similar attire, hiding their armour and the standards that would give them away. This mission was to be under the radar. It would be better if no one knew Dom had paid a visit to the south.

  Outside, his personal carriage now headed off again, only Malvo sat inside. Most of the mounted guards who'd accompanied him to the stadium went too, leaving only the four behind who would accompany Dom south. Three were sat with him now, the other up front as driver. All were dressed as common folk, tradesmen who'd garner no attention.

  The wagon worked off again, moving down the tight, shadowed lane and bursting into the light. The tide of people, drifting from the arena, was now swelling, though they'd been swift enough, just, to defeat the rush.

  The wide, white streets shone bright, and the wondrous colours of the wealthy sparkled as they moved in and out of the stream of bodies, heading off to public squares to eat and drink, or simply seeking the quiet of their well-appointed homes. The density of the populous began to shrivel as they drew up towards the Tiber. The roads became less even, cracked and fissured under foot and wheel, and the colours became less bright, the tunics and robes and cloaks of murky white, grey, and muddy brown.

  Dom's gaze spread through the wagon's window, looking upon the roads as they went. The Tiber gleamed and glistened under the setting sun, marking their transition to Southside, and the usually bustling streets grew quieter than normal. Even here, far from the trouble close to the swamps, the people were beginning to hide away, sticking to their homes and rarely venturing towards the public squares.

  Some hearty, unafraid folk did, however, unwilling
to let the problems take away their pleasure. Dom saw groups of mostly men, and most of them quite elderly, gathered together at their usual drinking holes, muttering about the state of affairs and discussing the city's woes as the old sages they were.

  The rebellion was a young man's game, and these old-timers would play witness but not take part. They'd lived long enough to grow stout and unperturbed by the risks of being here. As yet, the pockets of fighting were being kept away, but there was no telling when it might spread. Most were all too aware of the possible hazards of spending too much time in public places, but these old men cared not.

  Dom's soldiers began to sharpen their glares. The wagon was nearing more troubled pastures. Outside, the sight of Imperial Guards made that evident. Their armour wasn't as silver and polished as normal. Some were dirtied, even cut and bleeding. It looked as though they'd only recently pulled back from some skirmish, a number of prisoners and captives under their guard.

  Dom had no idea just who they were. For all he knew, they might be his mercenaries, faceless men hired to do a job. A quiver of alarm rustled through him, before he realised his name was safely hidden. Claudius and Rufus had been careful to ensure that there were enough link-men to keep Dom clean of any filth that might be thrown. The men fighting under his patronage really had no idea they were fighting for him at all.

  Such things didn't matter for mercenaries, of course. They were motivated by coin and little more, fighting for the highest bidder no matter the morals involved. The men battling on his behalf would just as easily turn to his mother's side should she offer them a higher wage. Loyalty was a hard commodity to come by at the best of times, and all but non existent with hired blades.

  The sight of the Imperial Guards, however, had Dom sinking back from the window. He drew his cloak a little lower down his forehead, and urged the carriage to quickly shape away. He'd heard that cordons of soldiers were conducting checks, taking in anyone who looked suspicious.

  "Quickly now," he whispered harshly. "We're not too far."

  The wagon picked up speed, moving down a silent lane. The people who lived here were now hidden away, so many thousands of them living in fear. It was hard for Dom to compute just how many lives might be being lost, and how many his decisions accounted for. Giving support to the rebels, and hiring more mercenaries was only going to prolong the trouble, intensify the conflict and, as a consequence, lead to further loss of innocent life.

  He had to balance that thought with the notion that he was doing the right thing. That the plan was, so far, working. That his mother's focus was stretched and strained, and her Imperial Guard the same. Soon, Dom hoped, an opportunity would present itself. And ridding the city of her would lead to the saving of thousands, in time.

  That was the reasoning Dom applied.

  Their progress grew stunted as they wended on, forced to divert down alleys as they encountered a number of blocked off roads. The occasional snap of gunfire splintered the air, a rare sound in the city, an ironic thing itself in a place of such crime and cruelty. But firearms were, though carried by soldiers, often considered a last resort. Vesper had no liking for them, and preferred for order to be kept with blades.

  It took them a while to venture towards their intended spot, by which time the light had sunk into shade and the sun departed. A whiff of smoke lingered in the air, a number of fires crackling across the swamps, adding a hue of orange and red to the dark gloom of coming night.

  The wagon stopped, parked up against a cluster of homes in what might once have been a nice neighbourhood. The workings of the streets here were not regular or patterned in straight lines and grid formations as certain other parts of the city were. They were haphazardly arranged, roads winding off in all directions, curling and coiling and sometimes straightening, but mostly bundling into a maze that a foreigner to these parts might find hard to escape.

  Dom knew his city well, but not these regions. They weren't quite in the swamps, but were certainly near enough, and the edges of the district were being infested nonetheless with crime, filth, and debauchery.

  It was quiet, the rooftops arching overhead like ominous branches in the woods. Dom's soldiers led him on by foot towards a central courtyard, surrounded on all sides by the tangled streets and terracotta-topped apartment blocks. Several cats lingered, blissfully unaware of the perils of being caught outside, licking their stretched-out legs or reclining peacefully upon doorsteps.

  One of the soldiers kicked out at a particularly stubborn one, the multicoloured mog taking offence and showing it with a fierce hiss and a bearing of both teeth and claw. A second kick ended the standoff, and the cat fled to the shadows, its green eyes lighting up a death-stare from the gloom.

  "This is it?" questioned Dom, staring at a worn wooden door. It would have once been a bright red, but was now dull and faded, the paint stripping and revealing rot.

  "Yes, sir. The address you gave us."

  Dom took a step back and looked up. The building was two storeys tall, like most of them around the square. Some were lower, others higher, but two floors seemed to be the norm. It would appear that there must be several apartments inside. It was unlikely anyone around here could afford to rent or buy the entire property.

  Yet the address Claud had passed to Dom hadn't specified an apartment number or floor. It merely brought them here, to this building, within this quiet square.

  "Sir, shall we knock?" asked a guard.

  Dom felt slightly uneasy, but nodded.

  The guard's knuckles tapped against the wood. He did so only lightly, but it was quiet enough to spread right through the little, claustrophobic square.

  Dom stepped ahead of him and to the front. He waited for an answer within. None came. He knocked again, himself this time, and got no result. He had no time for patience.

  "OK, knock it in," he said.

  A guard moved ahead, lifted his foot at the lock, and thrust. The door splintered easily, cracking loudly and swinging in. A musty smell of stale air poured out of the gloom, and the interior came into view. There was a hallway ahead, and a staircase, several rooms leading off from the corridor. It seemed a single residence, not split into apartments as Dom had expected.

  He stepped forward quietly, and from up the stairs, a flow of candlelight trickled. Someone was home...

  His eyes flicked back to his four guards, swiftly issuing orders. Two of them moved to his flanks, the others staying by the door. He turned back and began moving for the staircase, his two escorts in close proximity as his feet landed upon the boards. They creaked, sprinkling dust. It appeared as though the residence hadn't been properly cleaned in some time.

  Moving up the stairs, Dom's eyes remained centred upon the glimmering candlelight ahead, dancing upon the landing and issuing from the left. He reached the top and turned. There was a half-open door, giving way to a spacious room. The light was coming from within.

  He moved quickly forward now, and his voice rolled out as he went.

  "Cicero," he said. "Mr Cicero M. Herma. Are you in there, sir?"

  He stopped before entering, giving the man an opportunity to answer. Nothing came. He glanced to his guards. They knew what to do. In a sudden rush, they pulsed past him and swept through the opening, pushing the door wide and letting the light spill out. Dom stood for a moment beyond the threshold as they went, their eyes taking in the space in an instant.

  They turned to him and nodded.

  "It's OK, sir. There's no one here."

  Dom stepped forward and sent his eyes around the room. It was a living room, cluttered with books and papers and tattered furniture. A single candle, set within an ornate holder, glowed bright on a table to one side, the wax eroded low, drooling and gathering at its base. Other lamps sat unused around the room, either broken or just shut off Dom couldn't know.

  "It looks like the electricity's been cut, sir," said one of the guards. "Could be due to the trouble. Downed power lines or something."

  "Could
be. Or maybe just unpaid bills," murmured Dom, eyes scanning a grouping of papers for relevant documents or letters. He looked back to the guards. "Check the rest of the house. Cicero might be hiding. For all he knows we're Imperial Guards here to take him. If you find him, assure him we're not."

  "Yes, sir."

  The guards flew from the room, their feet raising dust. There was a fine mist to the air, and much of the room appeared to be covered in a thin layer of accumulated grime. What was curious, however, was that the same couldn't be said for all of it. Some of the books looked to have been recently handled, and one particular armchair was cleaner than the rest of the sofas and seats within the room.

  A favoured spot, perhaps, for Cicero to sit and read?

  Dom moved carefully around, looking over the assembled library and anything else of interest. The manuscripts here were varied, ranging across a wide number of topics. Some were fictional accounts of adventure, the sort to inspire the young and impulsive. Others made for more dreary reading, at least to Dom. He'd never had an interest in the likes of horticulture and woodworking.

  As he wandered around, trying to make sense of things, one of the guards reappeared.

  "Anything?" Dom asked.

  "Nothing, sir. There's no one here. I found a bedroom upstairs. It seems that someone left here in a hurry. Perhaps Cicero got wind that we were coming?"

  "I don't see how he would," said Dom. "And in any case, I don't see why he'd flee, unless he's got something to hide."

  "He may just be frightened, Master Domitian. Lots of folk are leaving town or moving to safer parts of the city."

  It was a reasonable suggestion, though a frustrating one if true.

  "Well, if he did leave," said Dom, moving towards the candle and picking up the holder, "then he did so only recently. This candle hasn't been lit for too long. And...I don't quite know why he wouldn't blow it out."

  Dom's mind worked towards a reason, something not quite adding up. It was quiet, too quiet. The square outside. The nearby streets. It appeared as though the entire place was abandoned.