The high cages were boxes made of black iron bars. Pashera knew that she wouldn’t be able to stand up or lie stretched out in them. They were built on poles ringing the wall that ran around the arena sands, in front of the seats. Orm’ryn led the way to an empty cage, then worked a mechanism that brought the cage, clinking and clanking, down to their level. Gwettelen fought them as they put her in the cage, until Orm’ryn pounded her mercilessly. Finally Gwettelen stopped resisting.
Once Gwettelen, now senseless, was stuffed inside the crate, Orm’ryn worked the mechanism again. A loop on the bottom of the cage hooked onto a toothed gear that ran up the side of the pole. Soon, Orm’ryn operated the mechanism that sent the cage clanking up the pole again.
“Pashera.”
The voice came from a distance, carried on the wind. Pashera looked around. There, a quarter of the way around the arena, was another cage. She looked closer. It was Amaz.
Pashera pointed to Amaz. “My friend is in a cage over there,” she said to Orm’ryn. “Can we take her down? She’s been up there three days.”
Orm’ryn shrugged. “She comes down when Ang’kim says so, not before.”
“I’ll talk to Ang’kim today.” Pashera ran across to the cage that held Amaz. Inside the cage, the other woman looked terrible. Her face was haggard, and she seemed weak.
“I’ll get you out of there,” Pashera called up to her. “I’ll talk to Ang’kim today.”
There was a strange, soft, repeated sound. Pashera realized it was the other woman weeping. “Just kill me,” Amaz finally begged through her tears. “I can’t sleep. I can’t even rest. I want to die.” This last was a wail.
“Don’t give up hope,” Pashera c her. “I’ll talk to Ang’kim. You’ll see.”
Pashera jogged back to join Orm’ryn. The saurian led her back through the maze of tunnels. When they reached their unit, Tooloosa pointed for them to take their places again. The group had moved on from wrestling, and now was running in place, broken up with squats, sit-ups and push-ups.
At the first break, Tooloosa said to them: “You took your time putting that one in a cage. You missed the news that Dawatana will be fine. It’s hard to crack her big head.”
“Gwettelen gave us trouble,” Orm’ryn said. “We had to convince her to get in the cage.” She shook her fist.
“Good,” Tooloosa said.
Pashera seized the chance to ask if she could speak to Ang’kim about Amaz. Tooloosa wrinkled her nose, then sighed and said: “Go on, get out of here.”
At first, Ang’kim didn’t want to listen. “Absolutely not,” she said. “The woman acted like a wild beast. And she’s a convict anyway. If she dies in the cage, we’ll just feed her to the animals.”
Pashera shook her head. “You don’t understand. She’s a natural leader. If you want the convicts to make a good show of it, you need Amaz. She’ll do the job.”
Ang’kim considered. “The schedule is very heavy this year … I am worried about the prisoners lasting even though the first day.”
Ang’kim considered silently for a while longer. Pashera held her breath. Finally, Ang’kim said: “She begged for death, you said?”
“Yes,” Pashera said, hoping that she hadn’t condemned her friend with her own words.
“Well, as long as she’s penitent, I’ll allow it,” Ang’kim said. “Go get one of the more experienced girls, and get the troublemaker down from her cage.”
Soon, Pashera and Orm’ryn were in the arena again. Orm’ryn ran the machinery that lowered Amaz’s cage.
Amaz fell out of the cage into their arms. She stank like piss and stale sweat, and her head lolled back as they carried her.
“Stay with me, Amaz,” Pashera urged her.
The medic diagnosed Amaz with dehydration, hunger and exhaustion. “Feed her, bathe her, put her to bed,” the medic said. “Let me see her tomorrow.”
The cooks wouldn’t let Amaz inside the kitchen, so they put her down outside. The cooks also weren’t keen on feeding a gladiator between meals, or feeding a convict (convicts received their food at their barracks, as Pashera learned). Orm’ryn yelled loud and long enough that the cooks forked over some porridge and meat and cheese, muttering curses all the while.
Within the hour, Amaz was back to her bellicose self, sitting up on her own, grimacing, grunting and vowing revenge on the world. Orm’ryn pronounced Amaz fit enough and left. “You’re in charge of her,” Orm’ryn said to Pashera. “She’s your responsibility. Get her cleaned up and to the convict barracks. Otherwise, you’ll end up in a cage, too.”
Amaz told Pashera that the convicts washed in a cold-water fountain at their barracks. So, Pashera took her friend to the gladiator baths, which were empty this time of day. Soon, she was soaping up Amaz in warm water, washing away the grime and stink of three days in a cage.
Amaz’s breasts really were large, Pashera realized, now that she ran her hands over them with a sponge. Firm, too.
“Did they feed you?” Pashera asked.
“Nothing I wanted to eat,” Amaz said dreamily. She fairly cooed as Pashera ran a sponge over Amaz’s breasts and chest, and further south.
“They gave us water twice a day,” Amaz continued. “I drank the water. Oh, do wash down there,” she added, rubbing Pashera’s hand holding the sponge on her groin.
Pashera could tell that Amaz was forcing her jocularity, trying to show how tough she was.
“I’d say you’re feeling a lot better,” Pashera said, stepping back and turning on the streams of water again. Amaz spluttered.
Soon, Pashera had Amaz dressed in a new loincloth. “I’ll get you to bed soon,” Pashera said. “But first, I need you to do something for me. I need to you to apologize to Ang’kim.”
“Why should I apologize?” Amaz demanded. “I did nothing wrong. Gwettelen deserves to die!”
Pashera counted to three, took a breath, smiled sweetly, and said: “You will apologize because I’m asking you too. Besides, it’s the only way I can get Ang’kim to put you in charge of the convicts.”
“Never,” Amaz said. “She should apologize to me. I’m a queen. I ruled the great Zimbwe tribe at my husband’s side. Even now, he is attacking the lizards at every turn, trying to find – OW!”
Pashera’s slap to the face caught her completely by surprise. “Listen, you,” Pashera said. “I’ve gone out on a limb here.”
“I didn’t ask you to,” Amaz said, rubbing her cheek.
Pashera slapped her again. Her hand hurt like hell. Amaz had the bone structure of a boulder. Amaz, for her part, just stood there and took it. “No, you asked me to kill you,” Pashera said, the anger building inside her. “I would have thought this was much better.”
“I’ll die anyway,” Amaz said hotly.
“Maybe you will and maybe you won’t. A lot can happen in a year. By the hells, a lot can happen during the next two moons. And anyway, wouldn’t you rather die leading warriors than stuffed in a cage?”
Amaz’s face grew furious. “I’ll never apologize. Never.”
Pashera slapped her again. Amaz’s arm lifted too late, and her eyes widened in shock. Perhaps not that Pashera had hit her, but that Amaz hadn’t been able to block it. But she was still weak from her ordeal in the cage. And by dint of constant training, Pashera was getting a lot faster.
Amaz grabbed at Pashera. She had a full head of height and a whole lot of weight on the younger, smaller girl. But by now, Pashera had plenty of practice grappling larger opponents. She grabbed Amaz’s arm, twisted it, and drove the bigger woman face-first down to the stone floor.
“OW!” Amaz yelled. She turned and tried to grab Pashera. But Pashera tightened her grip on Amaz’s arm and twisted it further. With the other hand, she hammered Amaz’s back.
“You. Will. Apologize!” Pashera emphasized every word with a punch.
With a mighty effort, Amaz twisted free and stood up again. But she was too slow; Pashera swept her legs out from under her with a kick. A
maz went down on her back, stunned. Pashera flipped the other woman over, then lay on Amaz’s back, wrapping her legs around her, and put her in a choke-hold that she’d learned just two days earlier.
“You. Will. Apologize!” Pashera said, tightening her grip with every word.
Amaz choked and struggled like a cat being dunked in a boiling pot, but to no avail. She clawed at Pashera’s arms, but Pashera was immune to such pain now.
Slowly, Amaz stopped struggling.
Suddenly, there were footsteps on the stairs ahead of them. Ang’kim came down the corridor, with Orm’ryn in tow. She cocked her head when she saw Pashera and Amaz wrapped up in each other on the floor. Pashera quickly released Amaz and jumped to her feet, and bowed to Ang’kim.
“How go things?” Ang’kim asked, a twinkle in her eye.
“I was just emphasizing the lesson learned, Teacher,” Pashera said, panting. “Amaz is ready to apologize to you now.”
Amaz lay on the floor, panting like a dying yast. Pashera nudged the prone woman with her foot.
“I … apologize … for attacking Gwettelen,” Amaz choked out.
Pashera tried mightily to hide her sigh of relief.
Ang’kim crouched down. “You may yet get to kill Gwettelen,” she said. “The arena is a good place for settling scores. But only when I give you leave to do so. You offense was disobeying me. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Amaz said. She lifted her head from the stone, but kept her eyes down. “I apologize, Teacher.”
“That’s better.” Ang’kim stood back up. She looked at Pashera. “Aren’t you supposed to be getting her to the barracks?”
“Yes, Teacher,” Pashera said. She reached down and helped Amaz get up.
As they turned to go, Ang’kim put a hand on Pashera’s arm. “You’re responsible for her now,” she said. “Don’t make me regret my decision.”
“I won’t, Teacher.”
“There’s a meeting in six days. Things are changing again. A lot more money coming into the games,” Ang’kim said. “I want you at that meeting.”
“But I’m not even a real gladiator,” Pashera said, surprised. “Yet.”
“Oh, you will be,” Ang’kim said with that twinkle in her eye. Turning to Orm’ryn, she said: “Help her get Amaz to the barracks, then see her back to training. She tends to dawdle, this one.”
“Yes, Teacher,” Orm’ryn replied.
Ang’kim touched Pashera’s left arm, and turned it to reveal deep scratches left by Amaz’s struggle. “Get that looked at,” she said.
“Yes, Teacher.”
And Ang’kim left them, gliding down the hallway with athletic grace.
Between them, Orm’ryn and Pashera got the exhausted Amaz to the barracks and tucked in on a reed mattress. Pashera looked around. There were none of the little luxuries that she enjoyed in the gladiator barracks. This was a stark and barren place, a place where convicts waited for execution.
Still, before they left, Amaz reached out to Pashera. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for saving me from the cage.”
“We’ll talk again soon,” Pashera said, stroking her friend’s face as she fell asleep.
On the way back, Orm’ryn led Pashera to the medic. “You again!” the saurian female medic said in exasperation. But she cleaned and bandaged Pashera’s arm.
Gwettelen was let out of her cage the next day. Tradition called for a girl to remain in a cage as long as the girl she hurt stayed out of practice, and it would be another day before Dawatana returned to the exercise field. But Gwettelen had a rich patron, and she needed the training, the gladiators told each other bitterly.
The time in the cage had done nothing to dampen Gwettelen’s mood. She spit, snarled, clawed and lunged at any opponent in the wrestling matches. But she didn’t do any more late hits, Pashera noticed.
Chapter 15. Sword, Bow and Spear
Six days after Gwettelen went to the cage, and five after she returned, the gladiators had a ceremony. The new girls were each branded on their left hips. No one was asked if they wanted it. If you’d made it this far, it was assumed you wanted it.
And some weren’t lucky enough or good enough to get the brand. A half-dozen new gladiator trainees disappeared from training the morning of the ceremony. They were all human, none of the saurians. And Pashera remembered the missing girls as those who were always at the end of the line and the bottom of the pile.
“Teacher, what happened to the girls who aren’t here?” she asked Ang’ess.
Ang’ess shrugged. “Some just don’t have the physical ability to be gladiators,” she said. “There’s no point in training them anymore. This way, we’ll have more time to concentrate on training the rest of you. Now, step forward and take the mark of the sisterhood.”
The branded symbol was a sword in a circle. The circle symbolized the arena, as well as the sisterhood of the female gladiators.
Suddenly, the prophecy from the Megalith came rushing back to Pashera. A sword in a circle – the arena. But what did it mean? That she would find her freedom as a gladiator? All gladiators were slaves. That made no sense at all!
She looked at the palm of her hand. The mark had long worn off as her weapons practice built up new callouses.
Pashera stripped down with the others. Nervously, they stood in line, pressing back against each other in herd instinct as one after the other was called forward to the forge. Then it was Pashera’s turn, and she took her brand.
It hurt like hell when the hot iron pressed into her tender skin. It was different than the mark of the Megalith – this one hurt deeper for longer. Her skin sizzled as the iron bit home, and the smell of her own burning flesh was nauseating. But she avoided crying out, unlike some of the others. She noticed that when Gwettelen’s turn came, she didn’t yell, either. She just looked at the world through her hate-filled eyes, eyes that slightly unfocused as the iron seared its mark into her.
After the ceremony, the new gladiators were given new collars. These were of wood, and loose, and similar to the collars worn by the instructors.
“You’ll take them off when you go out on the sands,” Ang’kim said. “You take them off to fight.”
The ceremony was at noon. Most of the new girls were given the rest of the day to recover. But Pashera was called to a meeting, and she walked there slowly, with throbbing hip.
The meeting was held in a room of the ludus Pashera had never been to before. It was round, and vaulted to the ceiling where glass of different colors, held in place by metal so ancient it was green, traced out a picture of two dragons battling in the sky. The dragons were gold and purple, and were caught in mid-flight, snapping and clawing at each other, with neither seeming to have advantage.
The room was decorated with rich but decaying tapestries and furnishings. In the center was a large wooden table. And around the table were six seats. In each seat was an individual. Pashera saw …
Ang’ess sitting in a tall-backed chair. Behind her, standing, were Ang’kim and the human gladiator teacher, Kodo.
Kro’tos. Behind him was a warrior she hadn’t seen before, and Gwettelen. Gwettelen who, even now, could not hold back tears.
U’Clee. Behind him were U’Chan and the scholar Y’Sasos. U’Chan nodded as she looked at him.
An odd-looking saurian in the tallest peaked hat Pashera had ever seen. His robes and hat were shiny-red where they weren’t covered by strange symbols in white and yellow. She thought him odd because he had the face and general appearance of a youngish saurian. But his skin was waxy, and unhealthy looking. His eyes were very old. Behind him were two other odd-looking fellows in slightly shorter tall hats; one in blue, the other in orange.
The merchant Bel’orm. Behind him was another merchant that Pashera remembered as Dal’sami; Tol’zen had spoken to him on the night he’d announced he would run for king. A female wearing luxurious fabric, her top-feathers styled in an elaborate representation of a tree, stood to one side beside Dal�
�sami and behind Bel’orm.
Tol’zen. Pashera stopped in shock; TOL’ZEN!
He seemed to be focused on something he was turning over in his hand. Behind him, to one side, was a female saurian that looked somewhat familiar. Pashera searched her memory. Was it … yes! It was the lady who wore a translucent outfit the night Sai’tan had brought all the ladies to peek at Pashera. That was the one Tol’zen had married? That … BITCH!
And now here that saurian female was, in another translucent outfit; this one with barely enough shade of purple to obscure her breeding bits, her top-feathers styled in the purple dragon of Tol’zen’s sigil. She looked at Pashera with a jaundiced eye.
This was Orm’rishet? This was Tol’zen’s wife?!
Pashera knew in her heart that this skinny lizard, this cretinous cankered whore, this poison-dipping pompous she-snake would never be good enough for her Tol’zen. NEVER!
“Take your place,” Kodo told her, his voice flat. He indicated that she should walk over by Tol’zen and the bitch-queen. Pashera’s feet felt like lead. She dragged them, unwillingly, over to stand beside Orm’rishet.
Unbidden, Pashera’s hand almost reached out to touch Tol’zen’s shoulder. Almost. She held it back by sheer force of will. To be so close to her beloved and not be able to touch him … argh!
A hiss, probably inaudible to others around them, escaped the lips of the lizard lady beside her. Meanwhile, a ripple went through the broad shoulders of Pashera’s brave Tol’zen. He would, of course, not be able to talk to her in any but the most formal terms.
This is sheer torture, she thought silently, as she started to sweat with the stress of it all. Devouring God, I don’t believe in you anymore, but take me now and end this.
“Now that we all are here,” and Ang’ess gave Pashera a look that told the girl she was going to get an earful for being tardy, “we must discuss some details. With six factions underwriting portions of the games, we have the potential for a truly remarkable show.”
She turned and addressed each person seated at the table in turn.
Slave in the City of Dragons (Dinosaurs and Gladiators Book 1) Page 32
