Set Fire to the Gods

by Sara Raasch

  It was working.

  Ignitus was already descending the long wooden gangplank of his lead ship. He wore scarlet robes and orange glass beads that glinted even from this distance. Blue flames twisted around his lifted arm—a greeting, a threat, a reminder that he was the god of fire.

  The Deiman citizens packing the parade route started a cheer when Ignitus came into view. Bits of silver-painted confetti and fragrant flower petals peppered the air.

  “Geoxus!” they cried. “The mightiest god!”

  Ash gripped the ship’s railing. Of course they weren’t cheering for Ignitus. But if he heard the taunts of the Deimans, he overlooked them with a sharp, soulless smile.

  His last war with Geoxus had ended in failure for him—not Char’s fault, thankfully—and now Ignitus had just lost his best gladiator in a rigged fight. But he seemed high on good fortune.

  Tor and Rook started down the gangplank, but Ash stayed on the deck, her heartbeat bruising her ribs as a realization bruised her mind.

  Ignitus was unworried. Relaxed, almost, tossing his shining black curls down his back and flinging random bursts of fire into the air.

  Now that she thought on it, Ash had never seen Ignitus worried. Angry, yes; offended, of course. But not worried. All gods seemed to go directly from prideful to furious.

  I have heard no similar rumors, Hydra had told Ash back in Igna. Stop worrying.

  At first, Ash had thought Hydra’s message was in response to some slight Ignitus had committed. But she had wanted him to stop worrying about something.

  Dizziness set Ash’s head spinning. No, it wasn’t dizziness—it was . . . hope.

  Someone or something existed that could worry a god.

  Five

  Madoc

  MADOC HAD BEEN to Geoxus’s great arena as a spectator many times. Every year Ilena brought them to the Festival of Sand and Stone, where the Divine competed to lift the heaviest boulder with their geoeia. During Conquest, a weeklong festival in the summer commemorating Geoxus’s greatest arena victories, there were exhibition battles in which all the city’s top gladiators fought costumed soldiers from foreign lands. And, of course, Madoc and Elias flocked to the stands like the rest of Deimos when Geoxus waged arena fights with his god-siblings.

  But never had Madoc set foot on the sands within the arena, or in the tunnels below, where they now waited in lines with Lucius’s other trainees for Geoxus to make the formal announcement of which gladiators would fight in the war with Kula.

  “Sounds like a lot of people out there,” said Elias, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

  Madoc pulled at his golden breastplate. It weighed him down, along with the belt lined with squares of rose quartz and his silver-plated sandals. When he’d seen gladiators take the arena in full armor, they’d always moved with ease and certainty. He didn’t understand how. The metal was cumbersome and hot. His tunic beneath was already soaked through with sweat.

  He forced his shoulders back. It had taken extensive groveling to convince Lucius’s trainer—Arkos, Madoc had learned—to give them this opportunity after Madoc had turned him down after the South Gate fight. He wouldn’t let Arkos question his second chance. For one hundred gold coins a week, he’d be the best trainee Lucius and Arkos had ever seen.

  He just needed to stay alive long enough to get Cassia away from his father, who by now probably had her laundering his clothes or scrubbing his floors, berating and belittling her every chance he got.

  He prayed she could keep her head down until he had the money.

  The last days had been a frenzy of activity. After arriving at Lucius’s villa, they’d found the house staff in chaos, preparing for the war. It was dark by the time Arkos led them to the library, a dusty room filled floor to ceiling with leather books and scrolls, and presented them to Lucius. The great sponsor was poring over records of gladiator statistics and was so preoccupied that he only gave Madoc a passing inspection before shoving a contract at him—a pledge that Madoc would fight for Lucius alone, for the glory of Deimos, until his severance or death.

  With a knot in his throat, Madoc signed his name and became a gladiator.

  He had not been the only new trainee. There’d been a flood of recruits for the war, especially following the plague that had killed the three most respected gladiators, and twenty other fighters, male and female, had spent the night in the dormitories crammed onto bunks stacked three high. The best, he learned, sparred with real gladiators. Some of them had fought in exhibitions, or in lesser matches around the city. All of them were equally desperate for glory in the great arena, and the payout that came with it.

  Madoc peered around the broad shoulders of a boy named Narris, who’d told Madoc that the last trainee to fill Madoc’s bunk had lost the front of his skull in a hailstorm of gravel. When Elias had responded that they’d once defeated Fentus, an expelled fighter from the facility in Xiphos, Narris had laughed like this was a joke, slapped them on the backs, and told them they were all right.

  They were in with the trainees. Now they just needed to make sure no one caught on that they were cheating.

  The golden circle of light at the end of the hall was blinding. The crowds in the stands shouted, their stomping feet quaking the arena and shaking sand through the gaps in the stone ceiling.

  The arena needed new mortar. Under other circumstances, Madoc and Elias would have been called in to fix it.

  “Stand ready!”

  The order came from the front of the line and caused a ripple of excitement down the ranks. Whispers bounced off the narrow walls and low ceiling. Leather armor creaked, flicking at Madoc’s raw nerves. He was the last of the dozen trainees in his line, which ran parallel to the trainees from Xiphos. Another sponsor’s gladiators would come from the opposite side of the arena and meet them in the center. They were to stand behind Lucius’s real gladiators as Geoxus chose the Honored Eight who would fight in the war against Kula. The trainees were to look menacing and ready to attack. That’s what Narris had said, anyway.

  The rumbling outside quieted, then gave way to silence. Madoc’s stomach pitched, but he tightened his jaw and glared ahead. He’d lived as pigstock long enough to know that the only way to fit in with the Divine was to pretend to be one of them, or to be tough enough that it didn’t matter.

  Now he had to be both.

  “What are we doing?” Elias muttered. “There has to be an easier way to get Cassia.”

  “Like robbing a temple?” Madoc hissed. “You want to steal bread from starving children, be my guest.”

  In truth, he wasn’t above it at the moment.

  Narris’s attendant, a boy called Remi with silver-painted lips and streaks of gold in his hair, glared at them. “Quiet! The officials have begun the ceremony!”

  “Was I talking to you?” Elias motioned with his hand for Remi to turn around, which he did only after giving them another dirty look.

  “It’s fine,” Madoc told Elias. “This is just for show. The money is what matters.”

  “Don’t let Geoxus hear you say that,” Elias muttered.

  A tremor ran through Madoc as he recalled this morning’s inspection at Headless Hill. The trainees had been talking about the lavish parties the Father God threw in wartime, how the light from his palace burned straight through until dawn, when Arkos had called them into formation. For long minutes, they’d stood in silence, gladiators side by side with trainees. Madoc had waited for Lucius to address them but found him at the front of the group, staring forward, as still as the rest of them.

  That’s when the sand beneath their feet began to churn, like ripples in a pond, and the stones around the training arena had begun to groan and shift.

  A chill had crawled over Madoc’s skin as he realized the inspection had already begun. They were being watched through the earth, by Geoxus.

  Maybe it was his sixth sense, or maybe they’d all felt scrutinized, but Madoc swore he could feel the Father God’s eyes on him alone. H
e’d expected to be called out on the spot, shamed for his lie and his lack of divinity, maybe even killed. But the earth had settled, and they’d been ordered to load into the carriages that would bring them to the great arena.

  “Listen up, dust mites,” came Arkos’s growl from the front of the line. “You will march out there with your heads high and your backs straight. If you fall out of formation, I’ll sand your skin raw. If you so much as flinch when Geoxus chooses his gladiators, I’ll give you to the real fighters to play with. Are we understood?”

  The response from the other trainees was instant and bone-shaking. “Yes, dominus!”

  “He seems friendly,” Elias muttered.

  Outside, the crowds roared.

  Madoc pulled again at the golden breastplate. A cool rush trickled through his veins, coming faster and more powerful with each passing second. He felt like he did before a fight. Ready. Eager.

  “In stone!” shouted Arkos.

  “And blood!” responded the recruits.

  “In stone!”

  This time Madoc was ready.

  “And blood!”

  The line moved forward.

  Remi pounded a fist against his trainee’s breastplate. Narris’s mouth tightened into a sneer.

  Elias’s eyes grew wide. “Don’t trip. I don’t want to see what you look like without skin.”

  The attendants moved to the side. A brief moment of panic cut through Madoc when he realized Elias wouldn’t be going with him. What would he do if they were forced to demonstrate their skills? It would be immediately obvious that Madoc was not who he claimed to be. He’d be given to the real gladiators to play with, cut down faster than Elias’s father.

  Elias must have been thinking the same thing, because all color had drained from his face.

  “Move along!” A centurion shoved Madoc from behind. “Come on, keep in line!”

  Madoc followed Narris’s lead, shoulders back, chin high. He’d faked his way through fights; he could fake his way through this. Still, his doubt grew with every step he took toward the mouth of the tunnel.

  Geoxus would know.

  The Father God could have seen Madoc in his youth through the stone of Petros’s villa or the brick of the Metaxa home. Rumor was he could sense divinity in his mortals, and though Madoc had been sure he’d never get close enough to the Father God for that to matter, he’d counted on Elias’s presence beside him just in case. Now he wouldn’t even have that.

  He was a dead man, and Elias along with him. Cassia would be broken down by Petros’s will, and the rest of the family, dependent on their income, would be thrown to the streets.

  The scaffolding of his plan was buckling. What was he doing? This was a war, not some street fight. The fate of Deimos was resting on the shoulders of the men and women around him.

  Four more steps and he would be outside.

  He had to turn back. There was still time. They could still think of a new plan.

  Three. Two.

  He crossed the threshold into the light, blinded by the brightness of the sun and its reflection off the hundred pounded gold mirrors encircling the arena’s upper deck. The roar of the crowd shook through his bones and stole the breath from his lungs. He trained his eyes on the back of Narris’s shaved head but could still see the stadium behind it, rising four magnificent stories skyward, every seat filled with cheering Deiman citizens.

  It was as if he’d missed a step going down the stairs. For a moment, he wasn’t thinking about Geoxus, or Cassia, or even his own skin. The crowd was cheering for them. He was wearing the armor of a gladiator and marching with Lucius Pompino’s fighters as half of Crixion screamed his praises.

  It was a rush unlike any he’d ever known.

  Mounted centurions were posted around the arena floor, each carrying the silver and black flag bearing Crixion’s city seal. The Father God’s artists must have been hard at work all night, because a stage Madoc had never seen before had been erected in the center of the arena, massive onyx spires twisting skyward at each of its four corners. Mosaics of white, black, and silver braided across the front like a river of metal, while the supporting stones were carved in the shapes of ferocious Deiman gladiators.

  Lucius Pompino, wearing a fine white toga and a crown of turquoise, stood atop the stage beside two other senators in white and red robes. A few lesser sponsors joined him, but none stood as tall, or as proud, as Geoxus’s favored great-grandson. People said he was the most beloved descendant of the Father God since the gladiator Galitus, son of Geoxus, had lived seven hundred years ago.

  On the opposite side of the stage stood Petros, wearing thick opal bracelets and black powder in his hair. His presence made Madoc’s stomach twist—Petros knew exactly what he was and wasn’t capable of, and if he spotted Madoc, he would surely inform Geoxus.

  Across the yellow sand, the other line of trainees snaked toward them. Both groups slowed as they neared the center of the arena. Madoc sighed in relief as his line crossed in front of the other to create two layers of trainees who faced Geoxus’s private box in the center of the stands, blocking him from Petros’s view.

  As the crowd thundered on, the trainees stopped, and Madoc became as acutely aware of Petros at his back as he was of the Father God himself, just before them. Geoxus was standing at the edge of his box, his thick chest and arms bare and glistening in the sun, his black, fringed toga hanging neatly off one shoulder. The crown of opal and onyx encircling his head caught the light and shone in Madoc’s eyes, forcing him to look away.

  Not just because his being here was a lie, but because he was here at all. This wasn’t like the inspection at Headless Hill. The Father God was present now, and there was no denying that he could see Madoc.

  A movement beside Geoxus lifted Madoc’s gaze again, and a surge of anger ripped through him at the sight of Ignitus, whose cheating gladiator had caused this war. Madoc had seen him before, from much farther away, during the last war with Kula. Geoxus’s brother hadn’t changed a bit. His face bore no lines of age or hardship. Only a single stripe of grayish hair graced his otherwise black locks. But where Geoxus was sturdy and muscled, Ignitus was thin and lithe. He moved like the flames he so loved, like he had too many joints and not enough weight. He slouched against the railing, keeping to the opposite side of the box.

  Maybe Madoc wouldn’t be the champion to send him home defeated, but Ignitus would be defeated, as he had been at their last war.

  Madoc’s gaze flicked to the tunnel entrance, searching for Elias, but there were only shadows.

  “Eyes ahead,” muttered Narris. “You want to get us in trouble?”

  Madoc’s head snapped forward.

  The crowds screamed louder, their excitement pressing against Madoc’s temples as the gladiators of the top Deiman sponsors emerged. Each was taut with muscle, from the cuts on their forearms to the bulging knots of their thighs. Their chosen weapons hung from their belts or were carried in their fists—knives, hammers, even long, gilded swords. Sneers pulled at their mouths. There were fifteen of them, and Madoc was relieved that they were on his side.

  The cheers in the arena suddenly plummeted into boos as a small group emerged into the box behind Ignitus and gathered near the railing beside him. They did not march in formation, or brandish any weapons. They wore gold and red Kulan armor and glared down at the Deiman gladiators they would soon face off against.

  Chills whispered down Madoc’s spine.

  “Children of Deimos!” Geoxus’s voice echoed like thunder in a cave, though he did not appear to strain at all. He raised his hands, and again Madoc felt the urge to look down and drop to his knees.

  Instead, he turned his gaze toward the small band of Kulan gladiators. One was as muscled as Geoxus himself, with long ringlets of black hair and hands big enough to crush a man’s skull. Another was older, and didn’t look like much of a threat.

  Then again, neither did Elias, and he could knock down walls with a flick of his fingers.r />
  Madoc felt the itch of someone watching, and when his eyes landed on a girl in the center of the group, he startled.

  She was younger than the rest, close to his eighteen years, with long, graceful arms, and wild raven hair cascading over her shoulders. Her waist was narrow, her legs lean and strong. She had high cheekbones and a sharp chin, and when she caught him looking, she quickly turned away.

  A morbid curiosity rose inside him. Plenty of trainees were young, but he’d never before seen a champion his own age. Could she throw ribbons of fire like the other Kulan fighters he’d seen? Could she summon a flame to dance in her bare hand? He knew it was wrong to want to see it—she was the enemy, and any skills she possessed would be used against good Deiman gladiators—but he was intrigued all the same.

  “Today we enter into war with Kula!” Geoxus called. When the crowd grew quiet, the Father God stabbed a hand in his brother’s direction. “Last week, in a match with Kula over their barbaric attack of a Deiman fishing boat in the Telsa Channel, one of Ignitus’s mortals interfered.” The arena erupted with boos and angry threats, but Madoc’s eyes were drawn to the god of fire and the sour pinch of his expression. Ignitus hated Deimos and had attacked many times in Madoc’s lifetime, but this war felt desperate—he’d never heard of a god sending another gladiator in to win a match.

  “The great Stavos would not be beaten, and though he defeated Ignitus’s champion, this violation of our sacred rules will not be ignored,” Geoxus thundered. “The stakes of this war have been set. Deimos and Kula wager fishing rights in the Telsa Channel. Kula wagers a twenty percent stock in their glass trade. And in addition, two seaports of the winning god’s choice, including all taxation and docking rights, will be surrendered indefinitely.”

  Gasps gave way to more cheers, but Madoc could only gape in surprise. In the past, stakes of war had included a single port, or trade for wheat or some other crop with another country. But the entirety of the Telsa Channel, which ran between Deimos and Kula, or twenty percent of Kula’s glass trade, plus two seaports—such a prize was unheard of. And a testament to Geoxus’s anger.