Under the Visage of the Moon

The sound of wooden weapons striking each other echoed through the yard, interspersed with various outbursts of triumph or frustration, as the gladiators of House Ignius trained. Arn's mind was elsewhere; in his thoughts, he went over the tavern from yesterday, considering the best approach.

He would have to do the deed at night; during the evening would be too conspicuous, and the place would be crawling with people. Hopefully, even if a tavern like that probably served customers until the early hours, nightfall would see it quiet with an opportunity for Arn to slip in. While sneaking out of the ludus carried its own risk, it also gave Arn more time to get it done rather than if he left in the evening and had to return by last bell. Thanks to his rune, he had the strength to scale the wall and get out.

A blade, though fortunately made of wood, struck him across the face. Titus, his opponent, laughed, especially seeing the scowl on the Tyrian's face. Before their sparring could continue, Mahan stalked over to stand between them. "How did that happen, Northman? How did you let him get so close to strike you with his short reach?"

Arn stared at the gladius wielded by Titus and looked up at Mahan, tired of being asked questions that would take him too long to answer. He did not bring his tablet to training anyway, given how easily it might break during the physical exertions.

"Tell me," Mahan demanded. "Use your signs. The sister has taught you, no?"

Surprise filled Arn's face, and he swiftly signed, 'You understand?'

"Not the first silent fighter I've trained," the weapons master replied. "Though the last was many years ago, admittedly, but I remember well enough. So, tell me why you failed."

Arn suddenly missed his excuse for not having to explain himself. 'I was distracted.'

"In the arena, especially given your reputation, that'll mean death," Mahan told him brusquely. "A blow across the face like that? You don't recover before it's too late. If this happens again, you're not sparring anymore, but working the equipment for the next fiveday."

Behind the weapons master, Titus' grin widened; being removed from sparring was considered among the worst humiliations in the ludus, and it also meant Arn would not be given any fights in the arena anytime soon.

While that threat alone sufficed to make Arn focus, seeing his opponent's smirk helped as well. 'It won't happen again.'

"See that it doesn't. Alright, back to it!" Mahan barked, turning around to harangue his other fighters.

*

After training, Arn went to see Gaius, the clerk who handled the affairs of the school and its gladiators, including holding their money. Arn raised his tablet. I want my coin.

"Eager to spend it on drink and harlots, I'm sure," the beady-eyed Aquilan remarked, digging out a ledger and turning to the page with the latest entries. "Fifteen silver for Arn, Tyrian," he read, giving a sigh. "Hardly seems worth keeping records of." He adjusted the column to zero, wrote the day’s date, and unlocked a drawer to take out one crown and five silvers. "There."

Arn swept the coins from the table into the palm of his hand and left. As always, the gold stung his hand, like a wasp. This small amount was not enough to suppress his magic, but the sensation was a stark reminder of what the hated metal could do.

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Once alone, Arn placed the golden coin inside his belt, next to his needle; the silver he threw into a pocket.

*

It was Manday; after the evening meal, some of the fighters returned to the yard to pray with Sister Helena. His thoughts still on his task, Arn was not in the mood to practise signs, yet he took Mahan's counsel to heart about avoiding distractions to focus on the matter at hand. Following the nun to the bench, once her ritual was done, he turned his attention to her lessons.

'Did you know Mahan knows signs?' Arn asked, practising conversation.

'I did not. He must have learned long ago before I began to come here.'

'I figured you didn't teach him, or you would have mentioned he also knew.'

'Yes. That must be nice. Another person you can talk to.'

'I guess. I miss having an excuse not to answer questions.'

The sister burst into a surprised laughter underneath her veil, disrupting whatever signs she had been about to make.

'Why do you come here?' Arn figured it best to keep asking, making the sister talk about herself rather than him. 'Does your goddess demand it?'

Helena smiled, barely noticeable beneath the veil. 'No. But you go mad staying in a convent all day, every day. All us sisters do different work. Every morning, I teach the children from the neighbourhood. Others tend to the sick, and so on. Whoever needs help.'

'Sounds like good work.' It sounded like a waste of time, but each to their own.

'Listen to me – well, look at me, doing all the talking. You are supposed to practise, not me.'

'That's alright. I learn from seeing you. Tell me about – your convent.'

She wagged a finger in the air. 'No. You tell me something. What does your name mean?'

'It means eagle. My people.' Arn lacked the gestures to explain it was one of nine Tyrian tribes, and that each had its own animal sacred to it. Perhaps for the best; he realised that he felt tempted to speak with this nun, converse with another human being, even as he had just told himself to steer the conversation away from himself.

'You will find lots of eagles in Aquila,' Helena signed with another obscured smile, referring to the Imperial standard of the realm. She looked up, though not at any banners flying, such being absent, but at the darkening night sky. 'I must go. I will see you next fiveday.'

'See you next fiveday,' Arn replied, repeating her gestures back to her. As she left, he looked up as well at the reason why he should either carry out his murderous task tonight or else wait another month; the moon was new, casting no light over the city.

*

Arn had some experience sneaking around and infiltrating enemy strongholds, but always with the power of his magic to aid him; most importantly his rune of subtlety that pulled shadows to him and dampened any noise. Ironic that he could sorely use that ability for this task, yet he would only have the rune restored to him upon completion.

He could wait, of course; spend a few more evenings at the tavern, learning more about his target and the best way to make his approach, until a month had passed, providing the next suitable night for sneaking out of the ludus.

But time did not strike Arn as a friend; no matter his precautions, he was always in danger of being discovered or unmasked. The lanista knew his secret; while the thugs at the docks were not aware of his identity, they knew he had magic, and if they found out he was a gladiator, he would be at their mercy to be extorted.

And besides Arn's hurry to regain his powers, there was also the matter of vengeance; Arn had sworn an oath, and he could not sit idle, night after night. His own words spurred him to action with the gods as his witnesses, and endless delay might rob him of his opportunity; the man who took everything from Arn needed to die by his blade, not from his heart giving up after feasting on meat or any other such frivolous reason.

With all these arguments churning in his head, perhaps serving only to mask his impatience, Arn waited until nightfall when the guards had made their last headcount and left. Once it seemed reasonable that all were asleep, the Tyrian snuck out into the yard. The walls prevented any light from the city to reach into the enclosure, and with the moon absent, it was completely dark.

Walking over to the wall, Arn called upon his rune of force to grant him strength. It did so reluctantly and with accompanying pain, but it obeyed all the same, and Arn made a leap up the wall, twice the length of a tall man, allowing his hands to grab the top of the stonework. With another pulse of strength, he hauled his body up only to lower himself down the other side.

Landing on the ground, Arn's head whipped back and forth. The alley lay dark, and nobody was around. He was out of the ludus; a free man until sunrise.