by T. C. Edge
And he’d been there now for several days.
Those days had been the worst of his life. He couldn’t rightly remember all of his days, of course – in fact, given his advanced years, much of his early life had now broken free of his memory bank – but he certainly couldn’t recall any as bad as these. And that said something, given how life in Southside on the edge of the swamps was so utterly repellent to him.
He was in Southside now, and there was a strange irony to that. Every time he returned from the seas it swallowed him back up. Now, it looked as though he’d never escape it.
The prison he was in, however, didn’t hold any answers for him. After being caught and entrapped by those guards, he was taken here on a count of treason against the empress. He thought for a little while that his head would find itself immediately on a spike, though that hadn’t been the case.
Instead, he’d been dragged through the street, hurled onto a cart, driven to this fetid cesspit near the swamps, and thrown in this subterranean cell. When he arrived, there were about twenty men with him. Even then he’d thought it a squeeze. Now, that number had almost doubled, and more were still coming.
He had, of course, been furiously trying to inform the guards of his affiliation with Prince Domitian, and that he hadn’t actually done anything wrong. At first, they merely laughed. Then, they got annoyed and slapped him around a little. By the time he arrived at the prison, his lip and left eyebrow were split, and his ribs badly bruised. He didn’t say another word after that.
After hurling him into the communal cell, the guards left. That was it. There were none on duty down there, and the only time anyone had come over the last few days was to either bring in more prisoners, or pass them some rations of food and water.
Though, to call them food and water was pushing it the little. The former was more like pig slop, and the latter looked as though it had run about ten miles down rusty drains before being emptied into a bucket. No cutlery was given to them, no bowls. They merely had to take it in turn to eat from the pots and drink from the buckets, using their hands for both.
And, that was so say nothing of the toilet facilities in the corner. It all gave Merk a new perspective on what Master Domitian’s contenders had to endure in the ship’s dungeons. At least there they had some space and some privacy. Here, there was neither.
The people in the cell were, however, rather different from what the old caretaker expected. He’d assumed such a rotten place would be fitted with a fine collection of grade A degenerates. Murderers, rapists, thugs and hooligans. In short, the sorts of people who wandered the streets of the swamps up above.
Yet, while there may have been a few that managed to meet Merk’s criteria, most appeared to be just, well, normal. They ranged in age, from young men just out of their teens, to old men with wrinkled faces and withering white hair, with most falling somewhere in the middle.
They looked frightened, confused, and cowed by the experience. And as the days had passed, Merk began to discover that all had been similarly treated as him, and some even worse. While he’d at least had a rumble in the square – a misdemeanour that could lead to some form of punishment, like the lash or a hefty fine – most hadn’t touched a soul.
But, what became clear was that all were there for the very same reason – they’d had negative thoughts about Empress Vesper. Not words necessarily; not calls for her head in the streets, denouncing her as some evil, crazed witch, or merely just negative comments about her methods of rule.
No, just thoughts. Thoughts that were, like with Merk, lured to their minds via some form of entrapment. The sting had worked on Merk, and it had clearly worked on others too. And now, here they all were awaiting their doom.
When the guards came, they did so with more frightened sheep for the pen. Some of the more manic inmates would call out for information, for them to be released. If the guards had time for a short workout, they’d gather up the offenders, drag them beyond the cell, and beat them as they did Merk. The injured parties learned quickly to stay silent, but new people were always coming. And their voices weren’t to be so quickly subdued.
Suffice to say, the guards got plenty of exercise during those few days and nights. And Merk, though still praying for some intervention from Master Domitian, soon began to lose hope.
No, his master didn’t know he was here. And, if he did, would he be able to do anything about it? Would he even care? The charge of treason against Empress Vesper carried the sentence of death. It wasn’t likely that Master Domitian would interfere with such a thing, not even with his own mother. And certainly not for an old man like Merk, who knew, in his more sober moments, that the prince didn’t really care about him. Not properly at least.
He was, in the end, just another servant to the man. Just one of many, and barely worth a second thought. He didn’t blame the prince for that, of course. It was just the format of their relationship. For Merk, serving Master Domitian gave him great purpose and pride. For the prince, Merk was merely an old man to endure during long voyages at sea. And that was just fine by him.
So, in that cell, all hope begin to wane, receding into the depths. All who’d been there more than a day or two soon realised this was it. The new faces that came quickly drew the same conclusion.
This world, this city, wasn’t fair. And all of them had been dealt a bad hand.
Yet, among such company, it wasn’t quite so bad for the caretaker. He was old. Old enough to have lived long and free, to have experienced many places and people. He’d had a wife and family for a time. He’d lived on the oceans and given his eyes a taste of some truly wondrous sights.
And, above all, he’d had the honour of serving the Prince of Neorome, a young man who, Merk thought, would go on to become a fine ruler.
Yes, he’d had some happy years, enough to be content with his life. But here, he was surrounded by young men who’d seen too few winters. Who were too young to have felt the love of a good woman, to have raised a child and seen them grow.
Too young to have lived a full life.
Too young to die.
27
The night before the start of the games, the city was awash with celebration.
In every square, down every street, parties and events were being held to call a start to the most joyous month of the year, the people infected by a febrile energy as the hours passed and the start of the Imperial Games grew so tantalisingly near.
None were more grand than the celebration in the imperial plaza, surrounded by its striking, circular walls and leading towards the splendid palace at its head. Here, all the aristocrats, nobles, and lords from across the city would gather to eat, drink, and rejoice. Musicians, dancers, and other performers would put on a great show, and men and women would debate the contenders and set wagers to their favourites.
Yet, the main attraction wasn’t the setting, or the singers, of the stunning dancers, but the gladiators themselves. Here, along the flanks of the plaza, they were all on display in varying states of undress, some only lightly draped in sparse apparel and others fully outfitted in their armour and combat gear.
At one end, Dom’s contenders were situated, each of them standing upon their own small podium and surrounded by the many tables filled with food and fine wine. On the other side of the forum, Lucius’ troop dotted the sprawling space, with other gladiators owned by other lanistas also completing the display.
It was an opportunity for the nobles of the city to get up close and personal with the men and women set to fan the flames of excitement through the city, to entertain them and give them a grand old show. They could see their rippling physiques and jaws carved of stone, their cold, staring eyes and scarred skin. They could see for themselves whether the favourites lived up to their tags on appearance alone, and set bets and wagers if they so wished.
It was an exciting time for them all. The wine and music and powerful warriors on show made for the most talked about night of the year. And while most loved it, it was an e
vening that Dom only ever endured.
He didn’t enjoy the pandering. His job was to tout his contenders, draw up interest, defend them if he needed to or overpraise them if they were being ignored. He would mingle among the crowd of sycophants, speaking in such glowing terms about each and every one of his troop, trying his best to force their wallets into the light and secure their patronage.
Really, he never thought such a thing becoming of a prince, and his only solace was the fact that Lucius felt the same. Neither enjoyed the process, and only really wanted to get on with the games and set their gladiators loose. Yet, it was a necessary part of the games in securing more money for the city, if not for themselves, and as lanistas it was their job to hawk and peddle their men.
It was Dom’s job, too, to display his contenders in whatever manner he thought best. His personal preference would always be to dress them in their combat gear, though that wasn’t often the best course of action for the masses. Flesh, he had discovered, could be highly effective in attracting the crowds, and so he would often unveil them and set them up on their podiums in little more than loincloths.
Finn, Dom knew, had a fine frame. As a handsome young boy, with his golden locks and blue eyes, he was the sort to draw attention for his aesthetic look alone. And, now that he’d been forced to push him up into the fifth seeding position, he had that as a selling point too.
He was set quite centrally, his tanned and toned midsection on show, his hair arranged by some of his more stylistically gifted servants. He looked quite striking under the lights, like an ancient Greek God: Finn, the warrior from the sea, with the power to manipulate matter. Dom had even considered giving him a ceremonial trident, and dressing him up like Poseidon, but thought better of it in the end.
Others were similarly de-clothed, though none of the men were as pleasing to the eye as Finn. He had Oom in the animal pelts and skins he arrived in, though slightly modified to show off his gigantic arms and legs. He would be a major hit here and in the arena, Dom knew.
Leewood was a handsome man too, rugged and lightly bearded and with flowing brown hair, and was thus dressed quite sparingly. Even Malvo, squat though he was, had a sort of brutal shape, his limbs and midsection fitted with thick muscle, that would interest some of the crowd.
Shadow, however, Dom decided to keep mysterious. His facial expression never seemed to deviate too far from ‘furious’, and that night he’d perfected the look. He didn’t appear to enjoy the limelight very much at all, and simply spent the entire evening just staring forward, draped in black, barely even moving an inch.
In the end, some gladiators took to the public quite well, and others absolutely hated it. Occasionally, he’d spot smiling faces among his men, and the other contenders dotted around the plaza, and imagine that they were born for the limelight. Others would look awkward all evening, body language poor and posture protective and self-conscious. Obviously, those who were dressed so frugally had it harder, though Dom tended to buy into the theory that good looking people were generally more happy than most to exhibit their well-honed frames.
For all those he had on show, however, Dom’s focus rarely ventured too far from Kira. With the low seeding forced upon her by his mother, Dom had been required to put her in a less central position. Yet, she still managed to garner plenty of attention anyway, owing to an aesthetic that was highly unusual among these parts.
The combination of vibrant, bright red hair, shining green eyes, and an athletic, lithe and finely curved frame, made Kira quite the star of the night. Dom had chosen to show her off in a fairly sparse outfit if only to offset the lower seeding and give her more attention. After all, she deserved it, and having the crowd behind you could often take you a long way.
Yet, her glare appeared to be just as intense as Shadow’s for much of that evening, and Dom understood just why. The previous night, after his mother’s perusal of his stock, Dom had sent Rufus down to the cells to give the contenders feedback on their performances. He did this only if seedings were altered, and on this occasion they had been.
Finn, pushed up to five, and Kira sent to the bottom of the pile. It was a turnaround that Dom certainly hadn’t seen coming, and one he didn’t want to follow through with. But that was his life. If his mother gave orders, he had to follow them. Around here, her word was law.
According to Rufus, Kira had barely reacted to the news. Her performance in front of Vesper had caused something in her to temporarily snap, Dom was well aware of that. She’d lost it for a moment, and that had been fatal. And now…now she was to enter the cull.
And the cull was a bloodbath.
He sighed and turned now to Kira, standing stiff and upright on her podium, emerald eyes so clear even from this distance. Around her, a number of people were looking on with interest, conducting their own inspections. They weren’t, of course, allowed to touch her, or even speak to her. This was purely a display of the physical form, another of the many customs that had been reborn from the ancient days. Here, the sight of a strong man or beautiful woman was to be admired.
And, Dom thought, Kira was certainly the latter.
He wandered a little nearer, smiling as he went and engaging briefly with the nobles and lords and ladies of Neorome. And ahead, seated in her throne at the base of the steps to the palace, he saw his mother sitting proudly and dressed in her full regalia. There was a line to one side of her, all waiting their turn to greet her, bowing and genuflecting like all good sycophants should.
Dom rolled his eyes at the sight, and the look of pride on his mother’s face. She seemed to feed on their fear more than ever these days, her mind continuing to grow unstable and ever more dangerous with each passing moon. Dom looked at her these days so differently to before. Rarely did he see his mother. Now, she was little more than a stranger.
He turned his gaze from her and across the plaza, and his eyes took in the forms of other warriors. He’d had little opportunity that night to do anything more than tout his own men, though had stolen a few moments, here and there, to peruse what Lucius had to offer.
It was, of course, almost impossible to determine much from how a person looked. Unlike the fawning masses, who were often so bowed by physical strength and appearance, Dom knew better. And even knowing of a contender’s powers and feats wasn’t enough to accurately assess their path through the games. The seedings, after all, were one thing. Fighting in the arena was another entirely.
Yet still, he could give himself some impression. And what he saw that evening fit quite snugly with what he’d been hearing in the forum and baths and around the city over the last few days - that Lucius’ batch was fearsome, and even with the likes of Shadow in his corner, he’d be hard to beat.
Dom saw them now, standing on their podiums, a host of tall and powerful looking warriors.
Biggest of all was a man called Redmane, whom Lucius had mentioned to Dom once before. If Dom didn’t have Oom on his side, he’d consider Redmane to be an absolute giant. And still, he was, well over seven feet tall with a long red beard and mane that rivalled Kira for its stark colour and wild curls. He was, Dom now knew, Lucius’ third seed.
Another, Tomahawk, had the look of a barbarian and the same skin tone as Rufus. He was tall, athletic, skilled with axes by all accounts. Dom had heard, too, that he had a voice like a thunderclap; one that could, were he to put enough energy behind it, dull a man’s senses enough to make them vulnerable. He was seeded two.
Others had equally odd, yet fitting, names, unsurprising given Lucius’ penchant for dramatic titles.
There was Hurricane, with the power to shape the wind, and Shockwave who could shake the earth with telekinetic blasts.
He’d heard the name Irongrip, and another called Kraken, a man of the sea, though nothing like Finn.
Kraken was a beast, manic-eyed and long limbed and with a tolerance for pain, apparently, that was completely unmatched. He was Lucius’ fifth seed.
His fourth was a warrior called
Steelhide, so named for the near impenetrability of his skin. There were, after all, people with strange gifts and abilities out there that even Dom had never heard of. Steelhide possessed one of them, his body invulnerable to most attacks according to the circulating rumours.
But, of course, it was Lucius’ number one seed that attracted the most attention. And it was he, too, whom Lucius stood closest to most of the night, smiling wide to the crowd and playing his part well.
He was a man of modest proportions really. Not hugely tall or wide, or even overly muscular. He was strong looking, about thirty years of age, and possessed an energy that stood out among the rest. There was an aura to him that reminded Dom of Ares, an unwavering focus lingering behind his eyes that suggested total and utter confidence in his abilities.
And those abilities were, well, quite extraordinary if the word on the street was to be believed. Though Lucius hadn’t been entirely open about what he could do, rumour spoke of a man who was adept with all weaponry and blades. A man who could move faster than any other, and see further, and mimic any fighting technique he saw in the blink of an eye.
In many ways, he sounded to Dom to be similar to Shadow, though there was one very important difference between them – Lucius’ man had chosen to come here.
His name was Jaeger, and he was one of the few who came willingly. They cropped up from time to time, those who wished to pit themselves against the greatest warriors from around the world. Those who trained their entire lives for this very event, to win the warrior race.
Jaeger was one such man, and as Dom well knew, those men were always very dangerous. To enter the arena by choice meant that they were fully aware of both the risk and the glory. They knew what they’d be up against, and would readily put their lives on the line in order to be crowned champion of Neorome.
And here he now was, standing atop his podium, surveying all others with a cool, calculating manner. He didn’t look much, but looks could be deceiving. And though Dom didn’t care a great deal for Lucius these days, he certainly placed great trust in his judgement of power.
