Orlo’s mouth dropped open, as though he couldn’t believe Caelan had dared ask a personal question.
Turning red, Orlo raised his cattail club. “Get to barracks! Wash your filthy hide!”
Caelan ducked his head and ran. Humiliation and rage at himself burned within him. He wouldn’t have taken the dagger from Orlo. He wouldn’t have attacked the man with it. He was simply curious. But slaves weren’t allowed to explain. They were judged and punished.
Slaves weren’t allowed to be curious either. No opinions. No conversation. No questions. No privileges.
It seemed he would never learn.
And now there was no more time. Tomorrow morning the games would commence.
As he jogged across the drilling field with the others, he glanced at the arena itself. Dozens of workers swarmed it, scrubbing steps and setting up railings to direct the crowd. Beyond the gates, concessioners congregated impatiently, with their wares and cooking grills stacked haphazardly. They were shouting offers at the guards, trying to bribe their way in early.
As yet, Caelan had not been inside it. He wondered what it would be like. Supposedly the ring was divided into six sections. In the first game, twelve gladiators were positioned, two to a section. The six victors then fought, until there were three. Then there would be a free-for-all among the three men, or lots would be tossed to see who fought first. Only one victor left the ring each day.
On the following day, the lone victor would again be a member of twelve gladiators. The same procedure would be followed. Usually the least trained men fought first, with the veterans coming in fresh on subsequent days. Each week was called a rotation. At the end of the seventh day, the survivors would draw lots to see which day of the next rotation they would fight. And so on, until the end of the season.
In Caelan’s barracks, the trainees were quiet. Most looked frightened. Tomorrow was looming larger and larger. Word had gone round that this was the last day they would see the sun except in the arena itself until season ended. Tonight they would go into the catacombs beneath the arena, a dark mysterious place that the veterans seemed to dread.
And what was the initiation this afternoon? None of the veterans had mentioned it before, nor would they discuss it now, which was odd.
Caelan ignored the whispered worries of the others. Standing in the doorway of the barracks, he stared out at the sandy jogging track and the wall towering beyond it. The sun beat down on the dry earth, and only a slight ragged breeze stirred the dust.
He thought of the glacier of home, the ice-capped mountains, and fragrant pine forests. He thought of the dazzling lights in the winter sky, of the apple harvests and the smoky smell of peat. All that seemed a hundred years in the past. Now he stood here, in a place of death. The smell of it already lay in his nostrils, although combat would not commence until tomorrow. He felt cold and shivery as a strange feeling passed over him. Glancing over his shoulder, he took in his comrades. He had not troubled to learn most of their names, and now as he gazed at them he saw their flesh fade away. They were a collection of skeletons sitting, standing, lolling on their pallets in unexpected idleness. The vision faded, and Caelan wrenched his gaze back to the jogging track.
Breathing hard, he wiped clammy sweat from his forehead. He’d had such visions before. These men were doomed. they would die tomorrow, or the next day, or the next.
And him?
He did not know, but his own death seemed to be the most certain thing of all.
Chapter Nineteen
THEY WERE FED a midday meal—an unheard-of luxury.
While they ate, Caelan heard a clamor outside. Half the men went to the window to look. The rest, Caelan included, took the chance to grab all the food available. In minutes guards appeared at the door, yelling for them to assemble outside.
Squinting in the glaring sunshine, they milled around uncertainly while all the veterans filed out from their barracks as well.
“Form ranks!” Orlo shouted.
In the broiling sun, they divided themselves into two lines. Veterans on one side, trainees on the other, facing each other. The guards were extra vigilant today, keyed up even more than the fighters.
Caelan felt increasingly nervous. His stomach knotted up, and he wished he had not eaten so much. He kept swallowing, trying to ease the dryness in his mouth. He tried not to think of tomorrow, and yet it was impossible.
While they stood lined up, the gates to the compound opened, and a procession of priests entered, swinging incense holders that burned with crimson smoke. The priests were chanting something unintelligible that sent eerie chills up Caelan’s spine.
The priests wore long brown robes with leopard hides across their shoulders. Their heads and faces were shaven. Still chanting, they walked between the two long rows of fighters, then circled around and headed up the steps into the arena itself. Prodded by the guards, the fighters filed after them.
Caelan wasn’t interested in what the priests were doing. Their incense stunk, and he tried to breathe as little of it as possible. Going up the steps, he felt his heartbeat quicken and his palms were suddenly damp. He glanced back once for a quick look—probably his last—of the compound.
The interior was cool and slightly dank, all dim and shadowy, with ramps leading up to the stone seats that circled the entire structure. To his surprise, Caelan found the arena was shaped like a bowl, with the fighting area at the bottom and the spectators ranged above. He had never seen such a place before, but he had no chance to study it, for the guards were shoving them along as quickly as possible.
The veterans branched off through an open door, leaving only the trainees to follow the priests along a dim passageway and finally down a broad flight of stone steps. In the near darkness the steps were treacherous, and the air smelled strange and unhealthy.
As the air gusted up into their faces, Caelan’s nostrils wrinkled with revulsion. It was more than dank. It carried smells of oiled leather, mildew, blood, and death.
He shook his head, angry at his own vivid imagination. Nothing had died in here for at least three months. Corpses were cleared away immediately to hold down the chance of disease.
Still, there was something odd and unusual to the mingled scents in the air . . something he could not identify, yet it sent involuntary shivers through him.
Caelan stopped, all his instincts warning him against descending farther.
A hand shoved him forward so hard he nearly fell. “Get on!” Orlo said angrily. “None of your Traulander nonsense about the dark here.”
Given no chance to protest, Caelan was crowded down the steps along with the others.
At the bottom they found themselves pushed into alarge, vaulted chamber lit by flaring torches. Stone columns carved in twists supported the ceiling at its highest point. Carved into the far wall was an enormous, tormented face of a demon. At first glance Caelan thought it was the fire spirit himself.
Caelan’s blood congealed in his veins. He glanced around swiftly, trying to back out, but Orlo shoved him forward with the others. The door was slammed shut and bolted, sealing them in with the chanting priests.
Already the stench of incense was chokingly thick. Caelan smelled blood again, fresh and warm. But now he realized it wasn’t his imagination. Across the room stood a stone altar flanked on either side by two vats of copper. Both held a thick, shimmering liquid that darkly reflected the torchlight.
The face of the fire spirit on the wall had a fire kindled inside the open hearth of its mouth. The flames burning there made the empty eyes of the horrifying visage glow, and every darting shift of the fire made the face appear to move and gaze back at the men.
Overhead, Caelan could see the snarling faces of wooden beasts carved into the support beams, shadowy and all the more menacing. The fire hissed and licked the stone lips of the fire spirit, and if Caelan closed his eyes he could hear unworldly sounds in the steady chanting from the priests, a whispering of vile blasphemies from the ways of ant
iquity.
From infancy Caelan had been taught the lessons of ancient times, when the world had been ruled by the shadow gods and their spirits of chaos, also called shyrieas. Then they had been sealed away and the world had been placed under the rule of mankind. Such unholy carvings as Caelan saw around him now were said to be small breaks in the seal, creating tiny gateways for evil to return.
Caelan’s forehead was beaded with sweat. His uneasiness grew, and he backed up until he stood behind all the others al the very rear of the room. The door was stout wood, bound with iron straps and bolted from the outside. He had no way to escape from this place, and he felt as though he had entered hell itself.
The stone floor was black with ageless grime. The burning torches sent dark streaks of soot up the walls. The torches themselves smoked fearsomely, emitting fitful pops as though they’d been soaked in bad pitch.
The chanting stopped. In silence the priests arranged themselves behind the altar in a semicircle. One priest in a saffron robe stepped forward to the altar and raised his hands.
“Here in the halls of death stand condemned men, O Gault.”
Caelan held back a gasp. He had never known the father- god to be worshiped like this.
Again, Caelan involuntarily glanced around for a way out. There was none.
“Their blood is your blood, our father. Their lives are forfeit by the will of their masters. By your will, we have come to prepare their souls for the journey into your hands. We are your avengers, O Gault.”
“Avengers,” the other priests chanted.
“We are your punishers, O Gault.”
“Punishers.”
“We are the chosen faithful, who lead others to your understanding, O Gault.”
“Chosen.”
“Vindicate us, oh great one, as we vindicate others.”
The priest lowered his arms and picked up a plain copper bowl, which he dipped into one of the vats of fresh blood. lifting it high so that the blood dripped onto the altar in small, dark spatters, the priest looked around him with bright, fanatic eyes.
“Who will be the first to come?”
No one moved.
Caelan had long heard it said by gossips that the emperor permitted perversions of all kinds to flourish in Impe- ria, that the emperor—in his own desperate search for immortality—had opened the gates to the dark spirits. But this was Caelan’s first real encounter with any such practices. Of course he knew who the Vindicants were. He had heard his father and other men in the hold shake their heads over the most powerful faction of the priesthoods. There were almost no Vindicants in Trau, and scant tolerance of such rituals as this.
Disgust rose in Caelan. He scowled and planted his feet, crossing his arms over his chest. Whatever they intended, he wasn’t going to participate.
The priest was speaking again, softly, cajolingly. Whether pushed by a guard or drawn forward by curiosity, one man stepped up to the altar and bowed.
“I am afraid to die,” he whispered.
The priest smiled and put his hand on the man’s head. He spoke something aloud, then put the bowl to the man’s lips. “Drink,” he commanded.
Caelan swallowed hard, his revulsion stronger than ever. It was forbidden to drink blood. By all he’d ever been raised to believe, such was not allowed.
The priest was not satisfied with merely a sip. He insisted until the man had swallowed the entire bowlful, gagging on it. Then the priest seized the man’s wrist and made a swift cut with a copper knife. The man screamed and tried to twist away, but the priest held him with unexpected strength. Blood bubbled up from the man’s wrist, and the priest collected several drops of it in a second bowl, chanting all the while.
“From fear is born obeisance. From despair is created belief. You have taken the blood of the god and given your blood in return. Such is your passage into the brotherhood of life-takers. Gault be praised.”
Another priest bandaged the cut efficiently and gestured at the large face of the fire spirit. “Pass through the mouth of the god,” he said, “and receive your blessing in the next room.”
Miraculously the fire blazing inside the mouth of the carving died down as though by command. Hesitant, the man finally ducked low and stepped through, hopping over the glowing coals. As soon as he vanished from sight, the fire blazed up again. It was as though the god had consumed him.
Everyone waited, but no sound came from the other side—not a scream, not a whisper. It was as though the man had vanished forever.
Someone crowded next to Caelan, his face pale. “What in the name of the gods do you think is beyond that?” he whispered.
Caelan shook his hand, unwilling to utter a sound in this place of evil. He had never witnessed such blasphemy, such a twisting of the truth or the old ways. Even witnessing these acts made him feel unspeakably tainted. He wanted to cry out condemnation at what was being done, but he kept silent, afraid of punishment from the guards. His own fear shamed him.
One by one the trainees went forward, sweating and fearful, forced to the altar if necessary. Some drank the blood with bravado, pretending to enjoy it. Others spat and choked. Again and again the priest dipped the bowl for more. Not one trainee failed to flinch as his wrist was cut in turn. Bandaged, each man then stepped through the mouth of the fire spirit and vanished until there were only five men left, then three, then one.
Caelan stood alone, the last man, and he would not budge.
The guards sighed and gripped his arms. “Always causing trouble, you are,” one murmured. “Come now, Giant. Move your big feet.”
They force-marched him to the altar, with him planting his feel at every chance.
“Bow to Gault,” the priest commanded.
Caelan glared at him, tight-lipped and defiant.
“Blasphemer! Bow to the father-god!”
“Gault is not worshiped this way,” Caelan retorted. “I will not defile him with such evil.”
Fury twisted the priest’s face. He struck Caelan across the mouth before the guards could react.
“You dare defy us, slave! You are a condemned man. You have no choice but to serve as you are bidden.”
“Go to the hell you serve,” Caelan said.
The priest stepped back, glaring. He snapped his fingers, and the guards closed in on Caelan. One socked him in the stomach, doubling him over.
While Caelan was still gasping and choking, trying to draw in air, the other man twisted his left arm behind him and gripped him by the hair.
Caelan gritted his teeth with all his might, struggling and kicking, but with four guards on top of him even his strength was not enough. One of the guards pried open his jaws while the priest poured the blood down his throat.
Choking and drowning in the stuff, Caelan thought he would be sick. Gasping and shuddering, he was released and sank to the floor at their feet. The priest chanted grimly over him, then gestured. Caelan was kicked.
“Get up,” the guards told him.
Slowly, resentfully, he rose to his feet and towered over the priest. The man lifted the copper knife, its tiny blade stained with the blood of all the others. At the last second, Caelan jerked his wrist so that only the skin was cut and not the vein. A few small beads of blood welled up, but not enough to be collected.
“Hold him,” the priest said to the guards.
They grabbed Caelan’s arms, but he lifted his feet and kicked at the altar, sending bowls and implements flying. Blood splashed across the robes of several priests. Their chanting stopped abruptly.
Still kicking and struggling, Caelan condemned them at the top of his lungs.
The chief priest glared at him while others knelt on the ground, hastily trying to scrape up the spilled blood. The man’s face was taut with fury. Spots of color blazed in his cheeks.
“Gault’s curse be on you!” he shouted. “Defiler, know now the true meaning of condemnation, for you shall face death without the protection of the gods. All blessing is stripped from you. Gault
’s face shall be turned from you, and when you die the shyrieas will shriek acclaim at another soul lost to all damnation.”
Even the guards looked shaken.
But Caelan did not believe in the religion of the Vindicants, and he laughed scornfully at the curse. “Teiserat huggen fieh ein selt ein fahrne teiseran!” he shouted, using the old words spoken to drive wicked spirits away from the walls of hold, house, and hearth. It was the only ancient countermand he knew.
Whether the priests understood it or not, it had the effect of freezing them in their tracks.
The chief priest gestured at the guards. “Get him out of here. Quickly!”
The guards dragged Caelan over to the fire spirit and released him with a shove. “Pass through!”
The fire was still blazing in the mouth. Caelan hesitated.
Another guard kicked him. “Do it or we’ll throw you on the fire.”
The flames died down, and Caelan ducked through. As he did so, he could feel the radiant heat from the coals beneath him. He hopped down to the floor on the other side and found himself alone in a small, featureless room. An open passageway led from it.
Surprised, Caelan stood there and glanced around. There was nothing in here to fear or light.
Suddenly the walls seemed to till. He sank to his knees, feeling nauseous with shame. If his father walked the spirit world and could see him at this moment, he prayed Beva would understand the many failings of his son.
Caelan ran his fingers down his throat until he vomited up the blood.
Spitting and wiping his mouth, he moved to another, cleaner corner and leaned back on his haunches, bracing his shoulder against the wall. Bitterness lay sour in his mouth, and he found the old hatred rekindled in his heart. Perhaps it was a mercy to die on the morrow. He would certainly rather be dead than to continue like this.
But another part of him raged silently, demanding vengeance for all the degradations that he had known. He had to find a way to battle free of slavery. He had to live, and win, and survive.
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