by Sara Raasch
Madoc didn’t blame him. Those lucky enough to become trainees made one hundred gold coins a week. Those good enough to make Geoxus’s prized Honored Eight—the finalists who would compete for the chance to fight in the final match—made a thousand coins for each level they advanced. It was rumored that several spots had opened, too, on account of some illness running through the gladiator barracks. Three of the champions from the last war ten months ago against Cenhelm had died of it, and their positions could be anyone’s.
Madoc’s thoughts returned to Lucius’s trainer, and his offer in South Gate. That much coin would have been nice, but he had no intention of dying for it.
“Both,” Elias said as they turned the corner into the stonemasons’ quarter. Signs were already posted outside the apothecary declaring death to the Kulan gladiators, and showing images of their fire god snuffed out by sand. “We’ll be off for all the trial matches, as well. That’s two weeks’ vacation thanks to Ignitus.”
“Unpaid,” Madoc added, and received a jab to his ribs from Elias.
“In case you forgot, we raked in a winning purse last night. No digging for our dinner in Divine trash heaps this week!” Madoc winced, remembering a rough spot last month when he and Elias had searched for scraps of food in the Glykeria District—a wealthy, Divine area of the city—but Elias’s joy was unrelenting. He spread his arms. “Welcome to Deimos, Kulans!”
From across the street came a stream of boos.
Madoc grabbed Elias’s sleeve, dragging him around a mule-drawn cart on the bricked path. Still, he grinned. His back ached from double shifts churning the vats of sand, water, and cement into mortar. His hands were blistered and sore from slopping the gray sludge into the spaces between stones shaped by the geoeia of the Earth Divine masons. Elias’s geoeia abilities were fit for the more refined jobs of masonry—shaping towers or carving intricate doorways—but his father’s debts had tarnished the Metaxa name, so he was forced to work with Madoc and other Undivine, doing whatever cheap labor they could get.
Neither of them was complaining about some time off.
They cut through a narrow alley toward the small courtyard the Metaxa family shared with four other families. The air here smelled faintly like dust and simmering stock, and the top of each door was lined with broken gemstones—Geoxus’s eyes, people called them, though the truth was the Father God could see, hear, move, through any kind of earth. He was always close, and even in a place thick with thieves and hunger, reminders like this warmed Madoc.
It meant he was never alone, however much he felt that way.
But as they drew closer, wind gusted down the narrow alley, carrying a spray of dust from the ground and an uneasy quiet. There was no laughter, no arguments carried from the courtyards or from inside the open windows. Even the street beyond, normally filled with horses, carts, and beggars, was still. Just as the wrongness of it registered in Madoc’s brain, Elias stopped, his head tilting slightly.
In wordless vigilance, they crept forward, past a splintering blue door and a small bronze prayer statue tucked into an alcove near their courtyard. The dried flowers and incense Madoc had placed beneath them before their last fight were crushed, as if someone had stomped through them.
His heart raced faster.
They reached the gate to their home but found it open, swinging on its hinge with a quiet squeal. The white and green stones of a children’s game had been abandoned beneath the potted orange trees, and the community meal table was empty. Including the six of them in the Metaxa home, eighteen souls shared this tight space, and yet no one seemed to be here.
Dread curled in Madoc’s gut as he registered the glowing embers in the central hearth and the tunic left halfway out of the washing basin beside it.
It was as if everyone had disappeared, or hidden.
Madoc scanned for intruders. Thieves were not unusual in the quarter, but they would have taken the clothes on the line, or broken into one of the homes. His gaze jerked up the stairs, to the balconies that led to the tenants on the top floor. The windows were shuttered. The doors, closed.
“What is . . .” Elias stumbled over a broken bowl but caught himself before falling. “Mother? Cassia! Danon!” He called for his younger brother, racing toward the first-floor apartment. “Ava!” Elias shouted, making fresh fear swell within Madoc’s lungs. He didn’t know what he’d do if five-year-old Ava was hurt—if any of them had been harmed. They might not be his family by blood, but they were all he had.
The door swung inward at Elias’s push, and Madoc blinked to adjust his eyes to the group of people crowded in the small kitchen.
Danon stood closest, gripping his bony elbows as if he might fall apart if he let go. Cassia and Ilena were gathered on one side of the table with Seneca, the old woman from upstairs. Their strained stares flicked from Madoc and Elias to the two men in clean, white togas standing beside the door. One of them, a guard, was nearly as tall as Madoc, and built like the bricks he could undoubtedly crush with a flex of his fist.
The other was Madoc’s father.
The senate’s master of taxation and organizer of off-book street fights. The man who had kicked Madoc out at five years old for being Undivine.
“Ah, good. Just the young men I wanted to see.” Petros Aurelius dabbed at a line of sweat that carried the black powder he wore in his hair down his jaw. His paunch stretched over his belt, a sign that he could afford to live in excess, and his cheeks were flushed. “Leave the door open. It’s as hot as a sauna in here.”
Panic needled through Madoc’s skin. What was Petros doing here? Taxes weren’t due until the end of the month. And what did he mean, Just the young men I wanted to see? He didn’t even know who Madoc was. He’d been to this house many times over the years on his collection circuit and hadn’t once spared Madoc a second glance. Madoc had figured he’d either forgotten his own son or didn’t care that Madoc had survived.
At first, that indifference had been worse than Petros’s hate, but over time it had cured Madoc’s shame. If he meant nothing to his father, his father would mean nothing to him.
With a nod from Petros, the guard edged past his master and began sweeping through the main room, looking in jars, then tossing them to the ground, tearing aside the woven mats on the chairs. The space was so tight, he nearly knocked over the table on his way past.
“What’s going on?” Elias asked as a flash of white darted around them and latched onto Madoc’s legs. Madoc lifted Ava into his arms, blowing out a shaky breath as her small hands wound tightly behind his neck.
“There’s been a misunderstanding,” Ilena said. “Petros heard a rumor that you boys had been stealing, but I assured him that wasn’t the case.” Elias’s mother was slender and could fit under Madoc’s arm, but she was the fiercest woman he’d ever known, and when her pointed gaze landed on him, he knew he’d better play along.
“Hardly a rumor,” Petros said. “You know I run the amateur matches at the South Gate fishing port, don’t you? A little hobby of mine to keep people entertained.” He nodded to the guard. “Search the bedrooms.”
Madoc’s stomach dropped as the guard shoved past Cassia, entering the room she shared with Ilena and Ava. Petros didn’t run just the fights. The poor districts were filled with his other business ventures: bathhouses, seedy taverns, and cheap brothels. Half the South Gate district belonged to him, and the other half paid their dues for the right to live there.
His amateur matches collected enough coin to replace the dilapidated homes in the stonemasons’ quarter. Instead, it went into Petros’s pocket and paid off fighters like Fentus, who were sure to win.
It was a shame when they didn’t.
“I’ve heard of it,” Madoc said, out of the corner of his eye catching Elias twitching. From the bedroom came a crash, as if the pallet they slept on had been tossed against the wall.
Petros smiled tightly. “Then perhaps you know of the Quarry Bull. He’s been raking in quite a purse these past
months. Four matches he’s beaten my best fighters.”
“We don’t know anyone named the Bull, we told you,” said Cassia. Her dark hair was pulled back in a knot, showing the angry crimson of her cheeks.
“Easy, my dear,” said Seneca. “There’s no need for disrespect.”
Petros smiled.
“There’s little use denying it, girl. I have eyes everywhere.” Petros sighed, stepping closer to Madoc. “The Bull, as he’s called, ran off with last night’s take. I’d very much like to discuss that with him.”
Ava gave a quiet wince, telling Madoc that he was squeezing her too tightly. He loosened his grip, trying to look casual.
“How can we help?” Elias asked.
Petros chuckled, glancing at Elias’s dirty tunic. “You can tell me where to find the young man who fights with mortar stains on his clothes, who’s built like he’s spent long days hauling rocks with the strength of his back, not his geoeia.”
It didn’t matter how tall Madoc had become, or how many years had passed. When Petros narrowed his beady gaze on him, he wanted to disappear.
He hadn’t been careful enough. Few Divine did manual jobs, not when they could use their power to make more money.
Petros knew they’d been fighting. That they’d been winning. As much as Madoc had longed to confront his father, to own that he had been the one to take the winnings, he had not seen it playing out like this, with his family and Seneca standing watch.
“There’s no money here, dominus,” said the guard, resuming his place at Petros’s side.
Madoc’s pulse beat between his temples. He wanted these men out of this house, far away from the Metaxas. He wanted to forget the anger, and the pain, and the memories he’d locked so deep inside that he could almost pretend they weren’t a part of him. But they were a part of him, and now with each breath the past dug its claws deeper into his lungs.
You don’t belong here. You’re a disappointment to any god.
Elias laughed weakly. “I don’t know anything about that. We’re stonemasons, not fighters.”
“There you have it,” said Ilena. “Now, if you—”
“You used to live in one of the Divine districts, did you not? Glykeria? No, Kyphus.”
Ilena dipped her head, hiding the clench in her jaw. “Yes, dominus.”
Petros knew they had lived in Kyphus because six years ago, he’d taken Elias’s father for his unpaid gambling debts. Ilena had been left alone, pregnant and with three young children, as well as Madoc. And when they’d been unable to pay off what he owed, the tax collector had sold him to the arena, to be used as practice in the matches against real gladiators.
No amount of stonecutting skill could help him. Elias’s father had lasted only a week.
Behind Ilena, Cassia was gripping the edge of the table with white knuckles. She’d once told Madoc that the reason she wanted to become a centurion was to stop men like Petros. She’d applied every year for the legion since she was twelve, even though they didn’t take anyone under eighteen. Barely a day went by that she didn’t practice their training exercises in the alley behind the apartment.
He prayed she didn’t lose her temper now.
“I’m sure you think there isn’t much farther to fall than this heap of rubble and filth, but believe me, there is.” Tension thinned the air as Petros stepped closer to Madoc, forcing Elias to cram against the wall to stay out of his way. “It would be a poor decision to lie to me.”
“Please,” Cassia said. “We know—”
“Quiet,” Seneca cautioned her. Her eyes were water blue, nearly translucent as they landed accusingly on Madoc.
“Tell me, Madoc,” said Petros. “When did your geoeia reveal itself?”
Madoc froze. Petros remembered his name.
It shouldn’t have been a shock, but it was. Madoc hadn’t heard his father say his name in thirteen years. He’d assumed Petros had forgotten it, just as he’d forgotten him.
“Dominus, please.” Ilena stepped closer to his side, edging in front of Madoc and Ava. “My son is Undivine. He has no geoeia.”
“Your son,” said Petros, bringing a wash of shame through Madoc’s chest. Birth mother or not, Ilena was the closest thing to a parent he had. Madoc could hardly believe Petros was challenging the claim. “Did I not tell you it was unwise to lie to me?”
Petros raised his hand. With a twitch of his finger he summoned a stone from the wall and sent it hurtling toward Ilena.
“No!” Cassia shouted, launching herself forward. She was fast, but not fast enough. As she pushed her mother aside, the stone glanced off Ilena’s head, drawing a gash the size of a fist across her forehead.
Chaos erupted inside Madoc. With Ava still in one arm, he dropped to catch Ilena, terror punching through his ribs. As his adoptive mother blinked up at him, dazed, Madoc caught sight of a ceramic bowl flying off a shelf, crumbling to pieces in midair.
“Cassia, stop!” Elias cried, trying to block the fragments of clay before they hit Petros or his guard. It was illegal to use Earth Divine gifts against a government official. Citizens were imprisoned for even suggesting they could.
The guard swung in front of Petros, turning the shards to dust before they reached their mark. With a roar, he cut his arms in a wide arc, clapping his hands before him with a deafening boom. The walls around them shuddered as gravel and loose bits of stone came flying toward Cassia. Danon dived under the table, and Madoc thrust a screaming Ava toward him, dragging Ilena to safety as Elias tried to contain his sister.
“Please!” From somewhere across the room, Madoc heard Seneca’s voice. He looked frantically for her through the dust—the old woman could hardly stand without support. She couldn’t make it down the stairs without assistance. A blast like this could topple her. “You’ll bring the house down!”
The rumbling halted, but dust floated in the air, gleaming in the light from the door.
“Enough,” said Petros. Madoc coughed as he rose from beneath the table. He glanced to Elias, the gasp withering in his throat as he found Cassia’s arms pinned to the wall by molded clay. She struggled against her bindings, back bowing. Strips of hair clung to her dirty face.
“She’s sorry,” Elias was saying. “She didn’t mean anything by it. She was just trying to protect our mother.”
Tears of frustration streamed down Cassia’s cheeks.
“Are we done lying?” Petros asked.
Madoc wanted to kill him. Wanted to tear him limb from limb. He could barely feel the buzz of all the warring emotions in the room over his own hate.
“Let’s see your geoeia, Great Quarry Bull,” said Petros. “A little demonstration. I doubt anyone will notice if you make a mess.” He motioned to the chairs, tipped over or broken. The fragments of dishes burrowed into the red mat at Madoc’s feet. The candles were snuffed out and broken against the ground; the only light came through the open door.
“I have no geoeia.”
Petros lifted his hand again, and the bindings tightened around Cassia’s wrists. Her scream of agony cut him to the marrow. Frantically, Elias pulled at the clay with his geoeia, but each effort only doubled the bonds. Petros would not loosen his hold.
“It doesn’t take much pressure to crack the bones of the wrist,” Petros mused.
“Stop!” Madoc shouted. He caught sight of Seneca leaning heavily against the far wall behind Petros’s guard, her long white hair coated with gray dust. He couldn’t tell if she was injured.
“How about we sweeten the pot?” Petros taunted. “Show me how you fight, and I’ll let the girl go.”
Rage hardened Madoc’s veins. He glanced at Elias, his stare hard. If Petros wanted a show, he would get one. Sweat and dust burned Madoc’s eyes. He stepped away from the table, bits of dishes crackling beneath his feet. His hand dropped to his thigh, ready to give the signal.
This was a test, just like the tests in his youth, only now he wasn’t five years old and afraid. Now he had Elias. Now he had
a family.
He tapped his thigh, but nothing happened.
Petros’s gaze pinched.
“Come on,” Madoc muttered. Elias could lift a broken cup off the floor, flick a stone across the room, anything. But when he tapped his thigh again, the earth stayed quiet.
Panic laced through his ribs.
“My mistake,” said Petros bitterly. “It looks like you are just pigstock after all.” He snapped his fingers and his guard stepped forward. “Bring the girl.”
Cassia’s sobs gave way to a soft moan as her bindings loosened.
“No.” Madoc lunged toward Petros. “Please. I’ll do whatever you like. You want to see geoeia? Let’s go outside in the courtyard. I’ll show you.”
Petros’s disappointment turned to disgust. “The girl attacked me. I could ask Geoxus for permission to execute her. Taking her to my house is a mercy.”
“Your house?” Elias balked. The guard had crossed the room and removed a set of cuffs from his belt. They were wooden and spiked along the inside. “Wait. You’re shackling her?”
Madoc could feel his own control slipping. He’d seen the centurions shackle Divine lawbreakers so they could be taken to the jail. The wooden spikes in the cuffs that encircled the wrists and ankles could not be manipulated by geoeia. If the prisoner moved too fast, or tried to summon the earth to their bidding, the spikes impaled their skin and destroyed their focus. It was supposedly excruciating. A Divine man who mixed mortar with them had worn the shackles once after drunkenly attacking a centurion and now could barely bend his wrists.
Cassia wanted to be a centurion. She was supposed to be the one keeping order, not breaking it.
“Cause me more trouble, and you’ll be next,” Petros told Elias as the spikes were fastened around her thin wrists. “We’ll set her indenture at fifteen hundred gold coins. That’s only fair for her actions today.”
“That’s more than we make in three years at the quarry!” Elias cried.
“We’ll pay it,” Madoc promised. “Let her stay, and I promise we’ll make good on it.”
