by Joel Ohman
Three dozen men in heavy battle gear marched out of an underground tunnel in precise military formation. Turning as one, they assembled themselves six across and six rows deep, each staring impassively at the ragtag group of Low Scores.
No one could miss it: the contrast couldn’t be greater.
Their heavily polished Roman-style breastplates, shields, and helmets gleamed in the sunlight. Each soldier was outfitted in overlapping armored plates that interlocked to form a breastplate of bronze and leather. Sheet-metal greaves protected each of their legs; metal helmets, complete with cheek guards, guarded their face; large circular shields, inlaid with an intricate carving of a soaring Pegasus, safeguarded almost the entire body of each soldier. And every soldier wore a short gladius sword strapped to each hip. Sven gulped. Suddenly, Rico’s massive club looked much less impressive.
“And, the hero and leader of the Honor Guard …” The announcer pointed to a tunnel where the outline of a man on a horse was just visible. “The part played by the captain of the Meritorium Honor Guard himself, personal guard to the emperor, I give you the czar!”
A white beast dashed out onto the arena floor, its rider impressively outfitted in full Roman legionnaire regalia, and resplendent in a Roman imperial helmet, a red horsehair plume bristling skyward. Cutting the beast in a circuitous route, waving a gloved hand to the crowd, the czar guided the beast back to the front of his troop.
Looking closer, Sven’s eyes widened. The horse had wings. Stubby little feathered wings sprouted from each of the beast’s massive flanks.
Camilla sucked in a breath of air. “A Pegasus.”
“It’s just another animal combo,” Sven said, trying in vain but unable to tear his eyes away from the magnificent creature. “Probably can’t even fly, those wings don’t look that big.”
Almost as if the beast had heard his mutterings, the Pegasus-like creature fluttered its wings gracefully and hovered just off the ground, rotating itself gracefully in position at the head of the array of soldiers.
“Great,” Sven said. Things were not looking good.
“We not scared of magic horse.” Rico strode up, smacking his bat on an open palm for emphasis. He was followed by his cousins and a sizeable group of club-wielding low-Score boys, each as wild-eyed as a Circumcellion.
Rico’s words and attitude jolted Sven from his reverie. “Right, let’s proceed with the plan. Everyone remember your spacing assignments.”
“No problemo, capitán.” Rico smirked, nodding to his cousins as they followed his easy lope.
Sven slunk back, drifting to the left-most pincer of their juvenile formation. He reached a sweaty palm into his pocket, fingers playing over the jagged edges of a rough-textured piece of pumice. This was the tricky part: the first contact would reveal how the next moments would unfold. It would tell if they were facing trained soldiers or just actors in battle dress. After hearing that the real captain of the emperor’s personal Honor Guard was playing the part of the czar, Sven feared it was the former. But he hoped there was still a chance that the others were hooligans enlisted to play a part for the delight of the crowd, rather than professionally trained soldiers.
But it was Meritorium, and Sven was quickly learning that anything could happen.
Sven’s part of the plan was to draw their attention, get them riled up enough to charge his side of the pincer, leaving their other flank exposed to Rico and his stealthily creeping savages.
The captain shouted out an order, drawing cheers from the crowd. “Forward, march!” He snapped the reins with an expert flourish, and the Pegasus-like creature high-stepped forward, head high and nostrils flaring.
If he was going to sign his death sentence, Sven decided he was going to darn well do something to deserve it.
He pulled the rock from his pocket.
He looked across the arena, eyes searching for Camilla. It was absurd, but he wanted to see her one last time. She was tucked behind Renaldo, her brotherly protector shielding most of her from view, but he could see a long slender arm reaching down to the ground. Sven looked closer; it looked like she was picking up a rock. Sven stepped forward quickly; he needed to draw the approaching soldier’s attention now before they headed in her direction.
He closed his eyes and opened them again quickly. The noise of the boisterous crowd receded, fading away in a fuzzy haze, his eyes tunnel-visioned in on the captain, high atop his magical winged steed. He looked at the captain’s nose, Roman in profile, and then before he had time to overthink, he let the rock fly.
It was a rocket. A missile. It was in the air, and then it wasn’t.
The impact was dramatic, but not a direct hit. It skinned across the temple of the captain, shredding flesh and eyebrows, just below the forehead guard of his helmet.
In some respects, it was much better than if it had hit the intended target, his nose, because the effect was an instantaneous blossoming of blood, as if someone had thrown a rotten tomato on stage. It certainly got the captain’s attention. With an undignified scream of rage, the captain jerked heavily on the reins, galloping directly at Sven, his soldiers picking up speed behind him.
Blood sheeted down his face; in an instant he had been transformed from a military commander of stately bearing to a blood-besotted winged angel of death. He drew his sword, shaking his head furiously from side to side in an attempt to see through the surface wound gushing rivulets of blood down his face.
Sven took a step back, his foot thudding clumsily backward, echoing the stunned silence of the crowd. The other Low Scores on his side of the pincer wisely angled themselves away from him. Drifting laterally, Sven noticed that that captain didn’t correct his course; he still rode straight ahead.
Sven realized that he must not be able to see through all of that blood. The captain appeared courageous, or just stupid, to charge blindly ahead in the direction of his enemy. Sven continued moving sideways, releasing rock after rock in sidearm throws. Many Low Scores pulled out rocks of their own and began to sling them in earnest.
One rock flew past the captain, but nicked the exposed calf of a following soldier. Another thudded directly into the side of the captain’s helmet, leaving a noticeable dent. This caused him to tip sideways in his saddle, before correcting himself, and then swerve in the new direction of the incoming volley of rocks.
The audience began to jeer, now at the soldiers, mocking their ineptitude. Breaking formation, the soldiers picked up speed, charging directly at Sven and his group of Low Scores.
That was a mistake.
Despite the oncoming horde, Sven smiled. The soldiers, unknown to them, had exposed their backs to the bulk of the Low Scores.
Rico blistered into the middle of the arena with a half-crazed maniacal scream, his massive black bat felling two soldiers from behind, their helmets denting in with a sound between that of a gong ringing and rotten fruit splitting, before the soldiers even turned around. His cousins and the other Low Scores fell on them like a pack of starving wild dogs, jabbing, swinging, and smashing with their Circumcellion “Israelites”.
Rico yapped in a steady stream of Spanglish, his cousins roving behind him like a vicious clean-up crew, permanently disposing of the battered and bruised men fallen beneath the ax chops of Rico’s bat. Low-Score boys picked each fallen soldier clean. In mere moments, more Low Scores sported armor, shields, and short gladius swords than the hastily regrouping soldiers.
The crowd ate up the unexpected reversal of events like the platters of sticky sweets sold throughout the stands. Drunken cheers followed each swing of Rico’s bat. A new gladiatorial hero was born. Hearing the uproar, spectators streamed back into the arena, the so-called respectable citizens cutting their lunches short and returning in a flurry of rustling robes and smacking lips.
Looking into the stands, Sven’s eyes narrowed. He knew that when the Low Scores, the nobodies, the le
ss-than-people were sentenced to what was essentially an execution that masqueraded as a battle reenactment, the crowd left in droves. What they didn’t see, they didn’t have to think about. But they still knew.
In a way, Sven had less issue with those who had stayed to watch. The so-called lower-class citizens who cheered, jeered, and leered enthusiastically in hopes of seeing more violence and gore. They were upfront about their support for brutal injustice against the innocent. They were wrong to do so, he knew, but he didn’t hate them. At least they weren’t ashamed to admit it. Really Sven hated those who had left. The sophisticati, the so-called respectable people, who made themselves feel better by leaving, by refusing to watch, because they liked to think they were above this sort of thing. But they knew, and they did nothing.
Some might ask what was worse: to revel in evil and injustice, or to have the power to stop it but to turn away? But Sven knew.
Sven fingered his last rock, scraping the pads of his fingers slowly across its rough ridges and divots. Deep down inside, he knew that the reason he hated those who left, those who refused to watch, those who remained passive in the face of injustice, was because they reminded him of himself in Meritropolis.
He had tried, unsuccessfully, to convince Charley to avoid any confrontation with the System.
It was too dangerous.
Too risky.
Sven stepped over a dead body, fighting back a churning sensation in his stomach.
He gritted his teeth, willing the rising bile to recede. But now he knew he would die before he remained passive in the face of injustice ever again.
Rico galloped up, riding the Pegasus-like creature, and wearing the full regalia of the captain, complete with red-plumed helmet and glimmering sword. Sven had wondered earlier why Rico hadn’t put on any of the fallen soldier’s armor or weaponry; he alone had remained with just his club, leaving everyone else to the gear.
Now Sven knew.
“Good plan, Capitán,” Rico said with a smirk, twisting on the reins with a rough snap.
“Yeah …” Sven put the last rock back in his pocket. Bodies littered the arena floor, both soldiers and Low Scores, but only Low Scores remained standing. Camilla, Renaldo, Rico, and his cousins were all unharmed.
Sven very carefully kept his eyes raised. Every body with eyes bugged out, or head lolling to one side, an arm or a leg splayed at an unnatural angle, sent renewed tremors rippling along Sven’s innards; the death all around him was gruesome. Suddenly, Sven was struck with a thought, more painful than a physical blow; was he just the same as the sophisticati from the crowds, averting his eyes from evil? He forced himself to look down at the ghastly scene on the arena floor. He was responsible for much of this death and destruction. This was evil; he had caused it, he had allowed it to happen, and now he could not turn away.
Rico grunted an imprecation in Spanish and kicked the Pegasus forward. Dashing around the arena, he screamed wildly, playing to the crowd.
The spectators went berserk with excitement. The tall announcer tried in vain to talk over the crowd, but all Sven could make out that there would be a more historically accurate conclusion during the water battle on the last day. He walked slowly over to Camilla and Renaldo. It appeared as if they had bought themselves some time.
Lifting the fallen captain’s sword high in the air, Rico screamed out, “Who High Score now?” Riding with just his knees, he lifted the sword skyward, pounding his chest. “I High Score! Rico is High Score!”
Looking closer, Sven felt his stomach heave.
There was something speared on the end of Rico’s sword.
It waved pennant-like to the cheering crowd, a barbarian warning: do not cross me. Camilla lifted her hand to her mouth, letting out a little gasp.
Rico pumped the sword up and down, sprinkling bright red droplets that fell around him as blood rain, a portent of things to come.
Skewered on the sword an arm flopped listlessly, wrenching back and forth at the elbow joint. Sven tried to turn away, but couldn’t. It was the captain’s arm. Sven could see the hairy musculature and a high Score of 123 imprinted on it. Sven emptied the contents of his stomach on the sandy arena floor, wondering who he was becoming and what had he created.
Rico snarled to the crowd, lifting his chin. “Rico is High Score now!”
CHAPTER 11
A Czar Cry From The Expected
Charley had to laugh; he knew there was nothing else to do really. He rolled over on his cot, replaying the chariot race in his mind. They had been so close to winning. If that stupid axle hadn’t given out, and if they had seen the horoceros coming just a little earlier … But he knew there was no use in trying to change the past.
He sighed. The past was the past.
“You alright over there, Charley?” Hank propped himself up on one elbow, his lithe frame stretched across his own cot.
“Yeah, it’s just—I’m fine. Just thinking about the race.”
Hank snorted. “I can’t believe we got beat by a bunch of girls.”
Charley looked at Orson lounging on his cot like a cat. Orson remained noticeably silent. Grigor lay on the next cot over, the bedsprings sagging to the very limits of their tensile strength. He wrinkled his forehead, a small smile playing across his lips.
Charley sighed again. “Yeah, we did. But at least we know Sandy is okay.” His face brightened. “And Sven and the other Low Scores,” he added hurriedly.
“For now, anyway,” Hank said. “That Low Score uprising is all anyone can talk about; no way they won’t get another shot out in the arena.”
“Yeah …”
Grigor shifted his great bulk. “He’s safe until the water-battle portion of the failed reenactment. I understand they certainly do want all of those same Low Scores out in the arena again. It’s set for tomorrow night—the final event of the Venatio.”
Hank nodded. “They sure made quick work of—”
Ian walked through the front door, nodding quickly at the bevy of guards who granted him access. “Made quick work of who?”
“The capt—”
“Right, right, of course. Yes, the captain of the Meritorium Honor Guard—excuse me, the former captain of the Meritorium Honor Guard—now dead as a doornail.” Ian motioned to one of the house guards for a drink. “And missing an arm.”
“We know,” Charley said.
“Word travels fast.” Ian lifted a glass of water to his lips and took a long swallow.
Charley eyed Ian steadily. “Good news travels fast.”
“Well, bad news travels even faster, and I’m afraid I’ve got some for you.” Ian set his glass down on the table. The glass was half-empty, Charley thought wryly. Ian tapped his finger on the table, appearing to mull something over.
Charley frowned. “Out with it already.”
“Ah, well, fair enough. I always hate dragging these kinds of things out. I’m afraid my investment into the four of you is not giving me the return I had hoped for. The chariot race was—” Ian rubbed the side of his orange stubbled face and grimaced. “Let’s just say it didn’t turn out as I expected.”
“Yeah, but—”
Ian held up his hand. “Please, don’t. Anyway, I had a chance to cut my losses, and I took it. There’s no easy way to say this, but I’ve sold you. All four of you.” He stood up, nodding to one of his men to get the door.
“Sold us? To who?” Charley asked.
“The emperor, in fact. With what use he has for you, I can scarcely dare speculate. Especially for some of you.” He looked right at Charley.
Charley swallowed. His mind raced from one creative punishment to another. Buried alive in a coffin of snurtles? Hung upside down again while lanthers tore at his flesh? Maybe he would die a slow death in the center of the arena, scores of soldiers forming a firing line of javelin throwers. Well, that might b
e fitting, he had to admit. He should have thought through his assassination attempt a little better.
“Well, I’m afraid this is goodbye.” Ian nodded to one of his men, who stepped forward with an all-too-familiar canister.
Orson rolled over and spoke for the first time. “You’ve got to be kid—”
The purple mist enveloped the room, floating Charley upward to the land where dreams and nightmares come true. Lying motionless, his eyes closed slowly, an unspoken word on his tongue. In the halfway state between waking and sleeping, bursts of clarity sliced through the fog like sunrays splitting the clouds.
He would get information from the emperor.
Kill him.
Then kill the czar.
But the fog was taking over. Flying snakes twisted through the cottony clouds, snapping at Charley as he floated upward. He was paralyzed, body as rigid as board, eyes facing the sky, and unable to turn his head. His nightmares were bleeding into his reality, tugging and pulling him in.
The face of Emperor Titus appeared, harsh and severe, an apparition intent on revenge. He lifted a lock and watched silently as Charley floated into a cage. A little hand and fingers extended outward between the bars, pleading for help.
But Charley couldn’t help. He was powerless.
Emperor Titus pushed the cage shut with a smirk and snapped the lock. Dozens of javelin points began to enter through the gaps between the cage bars.
Slowly, they pressed inward.
***
Charley awoke with a start. Beads of sweat bubbled across his brow like salty dewdrops. He lifted a hand to wipe his forehead, still straining to focus his sleep-encrusted eyes and return to the land of the living. His fingers jerked just short of reaching his face. Confused for a moment, the tension against his wrist told him all he needed to know.
He was in chains. Again.
Scrunching his eyes shut, Charley shook his head from side to side. His head felt like a giant puffy dandelion seed head, bending and swaying with the breeze; each delicate gust just enough to float part of his consciousness up and away, a cottony dandelion blowball dispersing on the wind.
