His clothes stained and smelling of sweat, sour wine, and even fear, Pig Knot pawed at them as he made his way from the general quarters of the Pit, avoiding the stares of the fighters there. From the corner of his eye, he saw three men pulling the body cart, which he knew was full by his hand. He stopped for a moment, watching the cart turn to wheel away from him, heading down a side tunnel to the fire pit, which would make short work of the remains.
Pig Knot stared until they were out of sight.
Later, he collected his winnings—twenty gold coins—from the paymaster, who eyed him distastefully from behind a barred window. Four Skarrs stood ready on either side, their backs to the wall and facing the fighter or any rising threat. In the disgusted mood he was in, Pig Knot actually considered starting a fight just to see if one of them might kill him, ending it all. He’d take it as a favour.
Snatching his money from the paymaster, Pig Knot walked away from the window and climbed the stairs back into the light. The sun struck him with its heat when he exited the Gate of the Moon, and for a moment, Pig Knot thought about what it must be like to perish in a fire. He pushed for the Domis, got caught up in the crowds pressing into the arena, and remembered he had never wagered on himself in the first place. That stopped him in his tracks, and he stood there, a rock in a river of people, with his hands on his hips and staring at the dusty ground between his feet.
It wasn’t proving to be a good day.
It was his fault he had still been half-drunk when he fought, but he hadn’t expected to face another drunkard. He didn’t mean to kill him either, but what was done was done. He made a fist about the small leather pouch full of gold and decided that if he'd won it, he might as well make use of it, no matter how foul it felt.
But that was just now. Pig Knot knew that after a few pitchers of Sunjan gold, the mire he felt he wallowed in would fall away.
Mire.
Bathhouse. That was a right proper thought.
Not wanting company in the least, Pig Knot wandered past an open stall where a merchant sold wine by the clay bottle.
“Give me two of those,” he told the merchant, a much smaller man than himself, escaping the sun by selling his wares underneath a wide canopy. He handed over two bottles as asked.
“How much?” Pig Knot asked.
“Two gold.”
“Two gold. Gold,” Pig Knot spat as he dug out the coins. “That’s what I dislike about Sunja. These”—he held up the coins—“are only pieces here. The lands to the north call them talons. Something, eh? Sounds respectable. Valuable. And to the south, they’re called cutaros. Hmm? Strikes me as something cultured. Here, what do we call them? The most uninspired, boring, laziest thing we could think of. Pieces. Shite comes in pieces. Seddon above. Here.”
He slapped the coins down into the merchant’s waiting hand. No sooner had he done that than he placed one bottle on the counter between them. The cork came out with a twist, and Pig Knot took a deep, mind-numbing pull of the bottle, holding it up and letting it empty into him as if it were the best thing in his life.
Or in his day, at least.
The merchant watched him with unimpressed eyes.
Pig Knot finished the wine with a gasp and left the bottle on the counter. He snatched the other one, popped the cork, and walked towards the bathhouse. For two gold pieces, he knew he could lounge in a public bath and relax until the sun dropped from the sky. He meant to drink as well and get his clothes washed and aired. If one could find a bench near the pool, sleeping was perfectly acceptable. The more he thought of the warm waters, the more he wanted them.
They might even wash away what he was feeling. They certainly couldn’t do any wrong.
People crowded over the flat and rectangular quarried stone paving the streets. Pig Knot got through them all with the help of the second bottle and a forced smile. By the time he reached the bathhouse, the second bottle was gone, and he deposited the empty container into the hands of the attendant who took his gold in the main foyer. Two levels of carefully wrought stone, brick, and marble, with belowground piping and heating systems, Sunja’s public bathhouses were a relaxing delight for anyone who had the coin. Thick coils of steam issued from the archway and floated through cracked-open windows constructed in regular intervals in the outer stonework. Long grey bandages of mortar, freshly applied, gummed up cracks in the building’s shell.
“Any wine here?” Pig Knot asked gruffly, staring at one long tributary running almost the height of the wall.
The attendant, a younger man with a stick-like physique, blinked. “Some.”
“Bring me two bottles of anything, and I’ll pay you extra.”
The fellow nodded, summoned yet another man from a side room, informed him of what to do, and sent him off. The first attendant then handed Pig Knot some rough towels. He took them without comment and proceeded into the steam.
The bathhouse. For a fee, any commoner could lavish in coarse opulence. Just breathing the hot air lifted his weary and sickened spirits. Pig Knot kicked off his boots in a side chamber lined with tiers of open lockers containing the outer wear of the current bathers. He chose a locker, stripped, and proceeded to the baths through veils of billowing steam, holding his towels. The marble flooring was moist and warm to his bare feet as he made his way to the bathing chambers.
There, he chose one of many large barrels filled with hot water and climbed in, submerging himself to his armpits. He scrubbed away the stink of the previous night and early afternoon with a washcloth and a cheap bar of scented soap. An attendant asked him if he wanted a woman or a man to massage him, but he turned down both. Anything beyond washing up would cost extra, and Pig Knot felt he should be try to be conservative, even though he knew he would spend his winnings before they burned through the bottom of his pouch. Once clean, he left the bathing chamber and its smells of soap and water and padded into the main heated pool. Overhead, a white ceiling was topped off with a glass dome that seemed in need of a scrubbing itself. Frolicking dolphins decorated the glass, while near the corners of the ceiling were dark, shuttered vents, which could be opened if needed. Flat white rock, chipped and fashioned into irregular shapes and wet from footprints, ringed a huge oval pool lined with marble that turned the water into a pleasant shade of turquoise. Steam rose from waters that rippled and lapped up against the pool’s edges. Men relaxed in the water up to their chins, some appearing as mossy rocks while others’ bald heads glistened. Pig Knot made his way to the steps and waded in, the depths hot enough to make him wince. He found a spot near the far end of the pool and caused ripples as he forded towards it. He didn’t care who he pissed off by making waves—it was that kind of day.
He reached his spot and sat down, feeling his backside touch a smooth marble ledge. Heat. Heat soaked into his frame and took away his aches. He sputtered water, laid his head against the pool’s edge, and closed his eyes. An attendant found him moments later and placed two bottles of wine near his head, informing him they were there in a whisper, so as to not disturb the other bathers. Pig Knot grunted, and that was that.
His skin tingling and adapting to the heat engulfing him, Pig Knot sighed contentedly and let the subtle lapping of water rock him into a doze. The wine waited for him, and he thirsted for it, but the pool was a seductive decadence that slowed time. Steaming water rose just above his chin, summoning sweat from his opening pores.
He was only distantly aware of someone sloshing down nearby, the ripples pushing the waterline above his lips. Voices just a touch louder than a whisper made him wrinkle his face at the intrusion. Public pools. If he could afford it, he would have paid to have one of the private tubs, away from the main one.
“Ah… good…” a voice rasped. “Just the thing.”
The sound of it disturbed Pig Knot, and he mulled moving.
“Don’t be sloshing the water about, you punce. There are other people about,” the same voice said.
“Apologies, Toffer,” said another.
> “Just be glad Bar Bar isn’t here. Can you imagine him? Dying Seddon. He’d be like a sick horse thrashing.”
“Aye that.”
The wrinkles about Pig Knot’s closed eyes deepened. It seemed there would be no peace for him at all this day.
“Do you remember the time Bar Bar—”
“Why don’t you boys be quiet?” Pig Knot asked, not bothering to open his eyes. “Or at least try to whisper.”
The silence that answered him made him feel better. He’d gotten his point across.
“The punce wants quiet,” a low voice growled to his right, the one belonging to Toffer.
“Maybe we should make it quiet for him?” another asked.
“Sounds like an idea,” yet another voice said, this one coming from his left.
Three of them, all surly sounding. That made Pig Knot open his eyes.
Then he saw the fourth man, and all of them, two on either side, appeared none too friendly. They hunched forward like a band of crocodiles about to snap and drag him under the surface.
Pig Knot took in the threatening faces to his right, then his left. Perhaps one was as large as he, but the four of them all at once was far from favourable odds.
Still, he was having that kind of day, so he decided to try hard to not show any fear. Amongst dogs like these, fear would be deadly.
“Just the four of you? Thought there were more.”
“Enough to slap you about some,” one snarled. He had a mouth full of broken teeth.
As if I haven't been slapped around enough already, Pig Knot thought. “You want to fight me? Sign up at the Pit as a Free Trained, and we’ll have at it. At least there we’ll get some coin out of it. One of us will anyway.”
That quieted them all.
“You a pit fighter?” the one called Toffer asked. Flecks of grey coloured his temples while the rest of his hair was short cropped and black. His eyes looked ancient, however.
“Aye that.”
“Any good?”
Pig Knot frowned. “I can fight.”
“But are you any good, I asked.”
“I won my match this afternoon.”
“Which one was that?”
“The first one.”
The men exchanged glances. “You were the ball licker that killed that other pisser?” asked the one with the broken fangs.
That hurt. “Aye that,” Pig Knot groaned quietly.
“That was a disgrace of a fight,” said another. “Saw it. You both were begging to be ball slapped. Should’ve both died, in my eyes. Terrible.”
“It was a bad fight,” Pig Knot agreed.
“It wasn’t bad; it was shite,” said the brute with the teeth.
“Seen worse,” mumbled the quietest of the four.
“The boys are right,” Toffer said, eyeing Pig Knot. “I don’t know what you were thinking, but that was a poor performance, and every last soul in the Pit knew it. I’m not so angry myself. I had coin on you, so I’m happy. But you…” He smiled evilly and indicated the wine. “I guess I’d be doing the same. Only more.”
“A lot more,” said the largest of the four.
“Enough to go blind,” said Broken Teeth.
“How long you been doing this?” Toffer asked.
“Too long.”
That admission made Toffer smirk. “What’s your name?”
Pig Knot groaned inwardly. He should never have come to this place. He didn’t have to give his name to these men, but he certainly didn’t want the fight that would probably start otherwise.
“Pig Knot,” he muttered in the end.
“Well, Pig Knot, I’ll tell you what. Just because you made me some coin this morning, and only because of that, I’ll let you go about your day as though it were any other. Let you drink as much wine or ale or whatever as you want to see if you can’t wash away that taste of shite in your mouth, which you’re no doubt tasting.”
“My thanks,” Pig Knot said drily.
Toffer spread his hands in a don’t mention it gesture and then spoke to the others. “There it is, lads, to the other end of the pool. Let the man relax.”
Like famished animals denied a meal, the three other warriors eyed Pig Knot reproachfully, making it very clear what they wanted to do to him.
But Pig Knot closed his eyes and tried hard to appear unbothered.
The sounds of them wading away, making waves, diminished in his darkness. Toffer’s voice cut through when he ordered someone at the other end of the bath to move. Pig Knot didn’t hear any protest. He cracked an eye and saw the steam made the far-off figures appear smoky, and that suited him just fine.
With one hand, he carefully reached up behind him and felt the curve of a bottle. He brought it back down, chewed out the cork, and drank until a third of the wine was gone.
Toffer sat and thought about the name of the fighter at the other end of the pool. He silenced the killers about him with a glance, not wanting their prattle to disturb him. There was opportunity here, and perhaps more than what Clades had given. All that was needed was to think of a way to go about it. He always did when it mattered the most.
9
The light in the foyer dimmed at an eternally torturous pace. When the bench became too much, Halm got up and walked around the room, sizing up the pictures etched upon the copper walls. Most were fights from the earlier days of the Pit, a time he didn’t know. Some scenes depicted warriors battling beasts of war. One picture in particular caught his attention, that of a single fighter standing alone on a field awash in ruins of flesh, armor, and weapons. A grim feeling of satisfaction seized Halm. For him, that one image encapsulated the spirit of the games.
When he tired of the images, he tried to engage Goll in conversation. The man from Kree didn’t feel the same way, only responding directly to questions, keeping his answers short if longer than a grunt, and never offering an opinion. After a while, Halm simply gave up. Goll had things on his mind and couldn’t be bothered. The Zhiberian then wondered if Goll’s ass was getting sore from sitting on the bench for so long. He didn’t dare ask him. He was still just learning what was acceptable to the Kree. Pig Knot was different. Halm and the Sunjan joked all the time, and he knew what he could say to the man and what he couldn’t. Pig Knot knew him as well. Muluk, Halm thought, also had a sense of humor, which was good.
Goll didn’t appear to have much of a sense of humor. If he did, he kept it choked off like a pisser’s flow.
They waited long enough to see attendants come and go, as well as other well-dressed individuals, some of which Halm thought to be owners of lesser gladiatorial houses. They all entered and exited the inner doors, which led to the Chamber members. At times, the doors would open, and Halm looked up expectantly, knowing that this would be time to leave the foyer. The attendants leaving the room paid them no heed, however, and left both men to continue simmering like forgotten pots over a fire pit.
It was only when Halm thought about suggesting they leave and come back the next day that the door opened, and the attendant Goll had spoken with earlier motioned them to enter.
Goll struggled to his feet. Halm waited until he was ready and followed him in. He had no desire to speak with anyone of note. He had no tongue for it.
The Gladiatorial Chamber was uninspiring. After such a long wait, the drab stone walls set behind a semi-circular panel of red wood and raised above a cream-colour marble floor disappointed Halm, especially after the rousing ambiance of the entry foyer. The Chamber members sat behind the elevated panel and gazed down at them, appearing just as weary and hard as Halm’s ass. Goll moved along on his crutches to a waist-high table where visitors stopped and addressed the Chamber members. There, he stood and regarded the nine men in turn. They were clothed in robes of gold and white and appeared quite regal. Some of them were balding while some had full heads of hair or beards leaking grey. Halm stepped up behind the Kree and stayed off to one side, within arm’s reach in case Goll fell over. Not that he expecte
d the slayer of Baylus to do so. He turned halfway around and eyed the attendant standing near the doors behind them all. He also made note of the six Skarrs against the walls. He always made a point to know where everyone was in a room.
“Chamber members.” Goll spoke in Sunjan with a slight accent. “Thank you for granting me this moment to speak with you. I will not take much of your time. My companion and I have business to discuss with you all.”
This was answered with silence and eyes that glowered back. Halm secretly prayed to Seddon that the Kree would be brief. The Chamber members possessed a venerable fierceness about them. If Goll did take too much time, they’d probably give the Skarrs the word to remove them both from the room. Forcefully, if needed.
Don’t prattle on, Halm willed into Goll, hoping he picked up the thought.
“I am from Kree, and I have trained with the Weapon Masters there to compete in Sunja’s tournament of arms. I’m with no house in Sunja. My companion also belongs to no such house. In your eyes, we are Free Trained gladiators, trained by unrecognized men, and have freely chosen to enter the games. Our skill is questionable, as are our reasons for being in the arena, but our hearts are strong. What I wish to do this day is create my own house. My own stable. Made up of Free Trained pit fighters who wish to rise above their station, their class, and become fully backed fighters seeking the ring of the arena. The title of champion. To do this, I must have your approval, and I’m willing to do what is necessary for my vision to become reality. What is it I have to do?”
Silence. Long, uncomfortable silence, as the men sat above them regarded them as talking oddities.
Halm looked from Goll to the Chamber members and craned his neck to check on the Skarrs.
“You say your name is Goll?” the voice of one of the men finally rumbled, startlingly loud in the stillness.
“I am.”
“And you’re from the Weapon Masters of Kree?”
“I am.”
The speaker leaned back in his chair. His hair and beard were cut short but grey, and Halm suspected him to be the oldest. He also saw the man’s right ear was missing. The Zhiberian wondered if he ever got the sensation it was still there.
131 Days [Book 1] Page 20
