Hero Grown

by Andy Livingstone

  He had forgotten about his self-inflicted malaise. Forgetting was a good sign in itself, but now that he thought about it, he realised he could move his head without wincing and could even contemplate breakfast.

  ‘Actually, I feel much better, thank you. That disgusting drink has really worked. I’m not perfect, but I could actually do with some food. Thank you very much.’

  He spun on his heel to head for the door. Salus put a hand on his chest. ‘Are you serious?’

  Brann turned back slowly, trying to think what he may have missed. ‘My apologies. Should I have bowed, or something?’ He bent awkwardly at the waist.

  Her elbows were on the table. Her head was in her hands. ‘By your gods and mine, I am close to doing what that oaf failed to achieve with you in the Arena.’

  Salus’s hand closed on the neck of his tunic and propelled him from the room. ‘It may be best if we start again.’

  He closed the door then immediately knocked on it. Without waiting for a reply, he walked in, dragging the stumbling Brann with him. Mylas was walking across in front of them, carrying a tray of shining instruments. Salus guided the boy around the slave. ‘Not a word to him,’ he growled.

  He jerked Brann to a halt in front of the table, where she still stood, leaning again with both hands on the surface, her head bowed.

  Salus’s voice was quiet. ‘Lady Tyrala, may I present Brann the miller’s son, recently emerged from the Arena.’ He slapped the back of his head. Brann winced. The potion had not yet fully cured him. ‘Though the gods only know how he found the wit to achieve that.’

  She looked up. ‘On the table.’

  Without a word, he lifted himself onto it.

  ‘For your information, Brann Millerson, my function here extends slightly beyond helping the excess-induced sore heads of idiots; that was a bonus for you. I choose to spend more of my time helping keep the bodies of our residents here in a condition where they work.’

  ‘I… er… I’m sorry, I…’ He was stammering again.

  She ignored him. ‘The day of a contest we look to any wounds. To everyone’s surprise, you escaped without a scratch or anything more than a slight bump on your head that you managed to inflict with your own shield, far less the fatal result that, incidentally, was universally expected.’

  ‘It’s nice that everyone has felt the need to remind me I was expected to die.’

  ‘Try not to talk for a while. It would probably be to the advantage of us all. Thankfully your friend this morning was perfectly co-operative. Had he been like you we could have been here all week. If there are no serious wounds requiring attention, what we do today, the day after a contest, is to ease the bodies back to a state suitable for a return to training. Now, lift your left arm out to the side.’ As Salus took his leave, her fingers started to probe Brann’s shoulder. ‘You took a bit of a battering on your shield, so this is a good place to start.’

  And so began a session that seemed to make her use of the word ‘ease’ highly inappropriate to Brann. Relentless stretching, twisting, pulling, kneading, pressing and, worst of all, gouging with her surprisingly powerful thumbs seemed to owe more to the principles of torture than recovery. When Marlo appeared at the door more than an hour later, he felt as if he would be barely able to walk.

  ‘Good.’ Tyrala turned to a basin to wash oil from her hands. ‘Now you bathe as yesterday. Return here this afternoon.’

  ‘Return?’ He couldn’t have sounded more horrified if she had told him he was due back in the Arena.

  ‘You haven’t grasped yet that this is to help you.’

  ‘I wish it felt like it.’

  ‘Trust me.’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’ She turned and glared. He jumped from the table. ‘Didn’t think so.’

  She let the door close, but not before he thought he might have glimpsed a smile ghosting onto her lips.

  The hot and cold pools restored enough movement to allow him to walk with Marlo towards the courtyard where they had first met. The garden seemed even more beautiful today. Perhaps it was because he hadn’t expected to have the opportunity to be here. To be anywhere.

  He looked at the young boy, ambling amiably beside him. Although they were much the same age, the events of the past year felt like they had moved him beyond the stage his companion was at. He envied him his youth. ‘Why are you here, anyway?’

  ‘Youngest of three brothers and father could only afford to support two.’ Marlo shrugged. ‘It seemed as good a move as any, to enrol here. It is not the worst life. While Cassian does not run one of the big schools, and while he does have a certain reputation, I had heard good things about him.’

  It was not what Brann had meant by his question, but he could come back to that. His curiosity was roused. He stopped and sat on a small bench, enjoying the feel of the warm stone beneath and a slight breeze on his face. ‘Do you mind?’

  The boy grinned. ‘It is your rest day.’

  Brann felt himself smile back. The sun, searing when they had first started to sail into these climes and blistering when he had come ashore and away from the sea winds, was becoming more familiar. Eyes shut, he let the warmth soak into his muscles. ‘Reputation? What did you mean?’

  Marlo sat beside him. ‘What is the word? Eccentric? Many call him mad, but when you are around him enough, you can see past that. He is a bit odd in many ways, but that is his way. He was in the army, earned great renown, then was captured during a campaign across the sea. They said he was dead. His body had even been paraded by his captors at the time. It was more than a year later that they came across him at the gates of a town, escaped, broken, hanging over the back of a mule.’

  ‘What did they do to him?’

  ‘Who knows? Who wants to know? He certainly didn’t. His mind shut off from his body. He sat in inns, squares, brothels, parks, but he never drank, never whored, never spoke. He collected his army pension, he paid for food, and he sat and stared. No one robbed him, not even the scum – he was Cassian, after all. But also no one spoke to him – he was Cassian the Mad, Crazy Cassian, the Insane General. The smell didn’t help, or the look in his eyes. Or so they say.’

  ‘But he seems content, maybe not bouncing with life, but at least chirpy. What happened?’

  ‘Tyrala happened. She had met him in the army, when she was working with the other physicians during one campaign and he had wounds needing tending. Whatever their relationship then, whatever the effect he had on her or the regard she held him in, it was enough to prompt her to leave her home and travel most of the length of the Empire to find him in the depths of this city. She had been conscripted to serve her time with the army, but she volunteered to serve her time with him.’

  ‘What did she do?’

  ‘Brought him here. It was a small abandoned farmhouse with failed crops on the infertile wild land beyond the city, but it was all they needed. She needed time alone with him, and he needed her. Whatever it did, it brought him back. Maybe he’s a bit bonkers now instead of the inspiring general they say he was before, but we kind of like the bonkers. And he still knows his fighting. He decided to give back what he knew, to help those who he could. So he took in fighters unwanted by the other schools, slaves down on their luck, all sorts, just as long as they wanted to work, and improve. Always to improve. And because they improved, they started winning. And that brought the means to build this place. The Big House, the quarters we need, the training areas. His school. People respected his results, but the big schools resented his presence. The Big Seven are generations old; he was a newcomer. The smaller schools are just meant to scrabble for the scraps. His fighters don’t win as much as theirs, but they win, and they hate that. It upsets the order, and you know how we like order here. Cassian doesn’t care. He just wants to give people a chance. People like me. That was what I liked; that was why I came. Even at that age, I knew he was a good man.’

  ‘What age were you?’

  ‘Six.’

  ‘Six?’
He was incredulous. ‘I know your family were poor, but you were sold into slavery at six?’

  Marlo laughed. ‘You really do know nothing of where you are, don’t you?’ He pulled his tunic collar to one side. ‘No chain. I am no slave.’

  ‘But are all fighters not slaves?’

  ‘I am not a fighter, not yet. Next year I start training. At least two years later, if Cassian feels I am ready, I will start in the smaller contests, the ones where the merchant caravans camp or in the poorer districts. I hope to work my way to the Arena one day.’ He nudged Brann playfully. ‘Not all of us start our career there. But then, not all of us catch the eye of the Emperor on our first day in the city.’

  Brann was confused. ‘That’s all very well, but as I said, is it not only slaves who fight in these contests?’

  ‘Of course not! Anyone can fight, though you must belong to a school. That was why you and your friend were placed here. You needed to represent a school. But usually people join a school for one of three reasons: they are bought from the slave markets, they are criminals sentenced to slavery as a fighter or they enrol as a free man or woman.’

  ‘Why would anyone want this?’

  The boy looked at him, no lightness in his eyes this time. ‘Sometimes it is all you have got. Sometimes it is better than you have got. And fighters who are citizens keep half their prize money, whereas all of the winnings of slaves go to the schools, so it is a living. And there are worse livings, believe me.’

  Brann shrugged. He had seen the truth in that, and imagined there was far worse than he had seen. ‘Do you ever think of leaving though? I mean, now that you are older, going out and finding a craft?’

  The boy frowned. ‘And this is not a craft? Cassian’s school gives me almost all the memories I have in my life. I am happy here. And soon I will start learning my craft in earnest. Why leave now?’ His eyes narrowed, but a smile creased their corners. ‘What put that thought in your head? Are you thinking of taking your leave?’

  Brann’s laugh was hollow. ‘I don’t have much choice at the moment, do I? But if things change, or if they don’t and an opportunity presents itself…’ He picked absently at a leaf. ‘I have friends somewhere in the city and two more held in the palace. The others may be planning something to help the two hostages, or they may not have the chance at this time, but either way I cannot stand the thought of doing nothing. It is just not me.’

  Marlo caught at his arm and spoke quietly. ‘Be careful. Cassian is a benevolent man, whether from his experiences or just because he cares for people. But there are laws that maintain this city, and above that there do seem to be, from what little I have picked up, powerful people who have your worst interests at heart. Do not give them the chance to act severely, and severely they will act against a runaway slave. You would be an example to others and would not be given the luxury of a death match, believe me.’ He turned Brann to look directly at him. ‘Just, please, promise me that you will not do anything without telling me. I know this city and I still know people in it who are not fond of the authorities. If you are going to do something stupid, let me help you be less likely to be publicly butchered.’

  Brann looked at him. He knew he could trust no one, but he also knew that he was in a city of strangers and alien customs. Trust or not trust, either path carried grave risks. He would decide when the moment came. If the moment came. Right now, he just raised his eyebrows. ‘You would do that for me? Knowing the consequences if it went wrong?’

  Marlo shrugged. ‘I know everyone here. But I only have one friend.’

  Brann’s breath caught in surprise, the answer touching at his fragile control over the sadness that sat within him, pushed deep and out of sight. Then Marlo brightened, his grin lightening the mood. ‘You must be hungry.’ Brann realised he was.

  They followed the smell of lunch even above the perfume of the garden and, when they emerged with hands full of steaming bowls to sit on a bench, their backs against the building wall, Brann felt almost content.

  ‘No training today,’ Marlo grinned, stirring the meat of his stew with a hunk of freshly baked bread, ‘so this lunchtime you can stuff yourself.’ Brann already was.

  They ate in silence, if silence meant no words. Such was Brann’s hunger that he ate with a desperation that produced a noise similar to the feeding pigs in the pen where old farmer Donnuld had kept them just south of his village. Even the thought of his village was unable to curtail his anger, however.

  ‘Oh, how good it is to see a young boy eat with such healthy gusto!’ Salus stood over him, beaming as ever. ‘You are feeling better, then?’ Brann nodded without missing a bite. ‘The lady of the house sort you out?’ He nodded again. ‘Your young companion given you the guided tour?’ He frowned in confusion. Marlo’s foot kicked his ankle. He nodded vigorously. ‘Good, good. I’d better get in there while you two have still left some food for the rest of us.’

  Brann studiously mopped up the last of his gravy with the last of his bread until the big man had disappeared inside. ‘Guided tour?’

  ‘I was supposed to do that before you ate, but you wanted to spend too much time gossiping and sitting amongst flowers.’ He sat his empty bowl down, stretched and burped. ‘Anyway, this,’ he slapped the wall of the building they were resting against, ‘where they store the food, prepare it and serve it, is the Food House. Down across the end, where you woke up this morning, is the Sleeping House, and separate from the rest, of course, is the Shit House.’ He waved a hand straight in front of them. ‘Over there, where you got your weapons, is the Weapons House and beside the end of it, where our cheerful smith works away happily, is…’

  ‘Is the Smith House,’ Brann cut in. ‘I think I get it.’

  Marlo looked at him. ‘… is the Forge. Who would call it a Smith House?’ He shook his head. ‘Down behind the Sleeping House is the Practice House, where the fighters can train if the weather drives us all inside, and beyond that are the Training Fields where you, well, train. Oh, and up at the top, where you were this morning, that’s the Big House. There you go. Guided tour done. How hard was that? Let’s get some cake.’

  Food and a doze in the sun took them to the time to return to Tyrala. As they walked through the garden, Brann was reminded of the question he had unsuccessfully tried on their journey down, and reworded it.

  ‘Why are you with me? Were you not just supposed to be there when I couldn’t use my hands? And anyway, if I am a slave and you are free, why are you told to help me? Should it not be the reverse?’

  ‘Not in here. Slave and free are alike in here. All are men and women, all are members of Cassian’s School, no matter how we arrived here. You are further ahead than me, and so I help you. All apprentices are assigned to a fighter, to shadow them so we know what is expected when we start training. Normally we also clean any weapons you use but in your case, Cassian has decided that you should do that as weapons seem to be woefully unfamiliar to you and he thinks it will help you to get to know them.’

  ‘You have got off lightly, then.’

  ‘Not really. I also have to help you with the things you don’t know. Given your lack of knowledge so far, cleaning a few weapons seems trivial.’

  Brann couldn’t deny it.

  The afternoon session with Tyrala, he was delighted to discover, was more to ease his muscles rather than batter them back into shape. Still, he surprised himself at how early he felt ready for bed.

  It was barely beyond dawn and scarcely with any warning when he found himself shouted awake. The routine for all fighters was the same, falling out of bed and following Salus on a run six times around a well-worn track immediately inside the perimeter of the compound, then wash shoulder to shoulder at a stone trough that ran the length of the outside of the Sleeping Building. Brann counted around two score fighters, a dozen of them women. They did everything as a group: sleep, wash, run, eat. Or, at least, they tried to. Brann had found himself detached behind the group by the time they completed tw
o laps.

  A leather-clad woman, almost as tall as Salus and broader, glanced sideways at him as she splashed water from the trough onto her face and rubbed it under her armpits with vigour. ‘Pity you’re not as good at running as dancing. Or maybe you need some wine to help you along? Even my arse was in your vision, when I should have been looking at your scrawny effort.’

  His chest still heaving, he mumbled, ‘I’m just not a natural runner. I can walk up hills all day, but I’m not built for running.’

  She snorted. ‘Not many hills in the contest circles. And your legs’ll need to go faster than a walk.’

  A voice spoke up on his other side. ‘Leave him be, Breta. We were all new here once.’ It was another woman, but one who couldn’t be more different in size and shape from the first, her slender body that of a young boy and hair cropped to match. She grinned at him. ‘Mongoose.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mongoose. That’s what they call me. You know a mongoose?’ He shook his head blankly. ‘They bring them here for the shows, all the way from the lands over where the sun rises. Small, furry, cute things. But put them in front of snakes and they’re different. You know, the snakes that do this,’ she lifted her hand and formed her fingers into a wedge that darted to jab Brann on the cheek, ‘before you even see it coming? Well, the mongoose is quicker.’

  ‘What’s your real name?’

  She returned to the trough. ‘Don’t know. Don’t care. I like Mongoose. It fits.’

  Salus clipped the back of his head. ‘If you’ve finished trying to charm the local talent, new boy, I’d get to the food before it is gone.’

  On the training field, Salus took them through a series of exercises that stretched every part of their body. They were a mixed lot, Brann saw. Men and women alike looked drawn from the length of the Empire as well as many of the free countries in the direction of his homeland. Shapes and sizes differed as much as colours of hair and skin, bit all moved through the exercises with a grace that spoke of familiarity. He, by contrast, constantly felt on the verge of toppling. They were watched all the while by Cassian and Tyrala, sitting in the shade of a canopy atop a small man-made ridge that afforded them a view of every person. Brann felt that neither pair of eyes missed a thing, and his balance grew even worse with the thought.