A Garden Brawl

Days earlier, before the arrival of the spellbreaker, Arn could finally rejoin the other gladiators in training, though Mahan made no mention of when he would have his next fight in the arena, and Arn did not press the matter; the last fivedays had been tumultuous, and he did not wish to draw more attention than necessary.

He was pleased to have another rune restored to him; he had spent a night in meditation, and once more, subtlety was bestowed on him. Shadows would be drawn to him, drape themselves around him, and light would shy away from his presence. It would keep him safe from the eyes of others when leaving the ludus, for instance, and help him get around unseen.

On the same day that Atreus arrived in Aquila, a break in the monotony of the ludus took place. "Where's the barbarian?" Gaius, the clerk, appeared in the training yard with an overbearing look at the leather-clad, sweating men beating each other up. "The newest of them, that is, the one from Tyria."

Mahan pointed out Arn. "What's this about?"

"The dominus will be bringing him along for tonight’s festivities at House Flavus."

"Him!" The exclamation came with a sneer from the weapons master. "I was not told of this! Why isn't Sigismund representing our ludus?"

Gaius glanced at him. "If the dominus wanted you to know, he'd have told you." He raised his voice. "You, Tyrian! You will accompany the dominus tonight. Go and bathe. New clothing awaits you in your cell. Join us as soon as you're ready. Don't make the master wait for you."

Noticing various looks sent his way, and none too happy himself either about being turned into a performing dog, Arn discarded his weapons and left training.

*

The clothing turned out to be of the same sort that he usually wore outside of training. A woollen tunic and a shirt and trousers in linen. The only difference was that the garments were new without any of the tear or stains that his other clothes inevitably accumulated during wear.

A guard took him from the ludus to the inner house and brought him to the courtyard to wait. A carriage stood with a pair of horses harnessed, waiting for the master and his family. It suddenly struck him how eerie it felt to be attending a celebration. If in Tyria, he would have worn colourful garb with patterns rather than this simple fabric; the belt around his waist would have a buckle crafted like an animal or perhaps a wyrm, and he would have combed his hair and tied it somehow. Arn ran a hand across his head, feeling how it was shorn; gladiators kept it short.

Ignius appeared, along with a woman and a small boy, all of them dressed in as much luxury as they could afford, and a servant. While his family entered the carriage, the lanista glanced up and down at Arn. "Lose that. It makes you look like a spice peddler." He pointed at the leather pouch containing Arn's tablet. "Jump onto the back and hold on. We leave now."

Arn untied the pouch and left it on the nearest table, suddenly feeling vulnerable without his means of communication. Having no choice in the matter, he returned and leapt up to stand on the small board at the back of the carriage, and the driver set the horses into motion.

*

House Flavus, whoever they were, possessed considerable means. The carriage entered the grounds of a mansion several times the size of the ludus, along with extensive gardens surrounding it. Upon arrival, servants greeted them; one led the respectable guests into the house itself, while another gestured for Arn to follow to the kitchens.

He arrived to find what could only be fellow gladiators, given their physical form. There had to be at least thirty or more; if each represented a ludus, it spoke of how much blood the great arena demanded. They all sat around a table, drinking and eating. "I suggest you join us, straw head," one of them remarked. "You won't get anything else this night."

As Arn sat down and grabbed bread, the others regarded him with curious looks. "You're new. Which ludus is yours, then?"

No point trying to have a conversation; Arn ripped off a chunk of bread and began chewing.

"What do you reckon, fellows? He doesn't understand the language, or he's too stupid to understand?"

"I know where he's from," another interjected. "Saw him fight. He's from House Ignius."

"Wait, that nasty Tyrian who killed both his opponents?"

"Yeah, the blood eagle, they call him."

"Bastards, the lot of them."

"Wonder what happened to Sigismund – why ain't he here?"

"Maybe this bird brain killed him too."

Arn kept chewing, ignoring the dirty looks sent his way.

*

After the meal, the gladiators walked outside again and through the garden in single file; Arn simply followed their example, making up the tail end. The sounds of loud conversation drowning out faint music reached them as they turned around a corner, reaching the main gardens of the mansion.

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Ostentatious wealth was on display, and not just the exquisitely carved statues that dotted the landscape. The men wore silken shirts and velvet doublets, and the women had dresses of the same materials, imported from distant lands at great cost. Arn let his sense of magic extend from him, and the constant flashes of burning heat told him of all the golden jewellery being worn; not to protect against magic, he assumed, but simply as ornaments.

The gladiators lined up like horses at the market, and their arrival caused excitement. The guests, patricians and aristocrats of the Empire, flocked around them to inspect the specimens. They had no qualms about touching the muscles of the men, remarking on their strength and physical form, and Arn growled each time this happened to him, to little effect; the women shivered in delighted terror at the barbarian, and the men gave overbearing smiles. He might be a wolf among lambs, but they knew he was leashed; baring fangs was all he could do. At least they did not go so far as to pry open his mouth to inspect his teeth.

Arn distracted himself from this indignity by imagining all the violent deaths he could bring upon them, and after a while, the guests lost interest and drifted away, though he noticed a few continued discussing the present gladiators.

His gaze swept over the gathering, the well-dressed elite among the sculptures and trees with beleaguered servants flitting about to supply them all with drink, and Arn wondered how much longer this would go on. Ignius had spoken of exhibition fights, but this resembled rather a cattle market.

"You can loosen your hands, friend," spoke the gladiator by his side.

Arn realised he had been clenching his fists, and he took the advice.

"Not too long now. They'll do the ritual, and then you'll get to fight."

The fellow had either correctly understood Arn's desire to have the night done with, or incorrectly interpreted him as being impatient for the fighting. Regardless, unable to speak with the man, Arn could make no reply.

"You're mute, right? I heard about you. Usually, it takes more than a couple of fights in the arena to get a reputation, but you sure knew how to speed things along."

Great. Arn could not walk away or quiet the man; this evening grew ever more insufferable.

"Well, there's no sharp weapons tonight, so maybe that'll keep you cool for once." The gladiator chuckled at his own remark.

Arn closed his eyes, trying to retreat his thoughts from the surrounding world.

"If you're wondering about the wait, it's because they got to do the ritual first."

Arn had wondered. Despite his intentions, Arn opened his eyes and glanced at his companion, a short and bald man.

"Oh yeah, this whole affair is a celebration to Luna. Us gladiators being shown off like prize cattle is just an afterthought. But they're very strict about it." He glanced back at Arn with a smirk. "Without it, this would just be a dirty brawl. But with rituals, this becomes a sacred event." His smile widened. "Nothing pleases the Lady of the Moon more than sweaty men beating on each other, apparently."

Arn knew that the Aquilans performed rituals to Malac before the fights in the arena, though they always took place before his arrival, so he had yet to witness it. Another oddity of this realm; everything required a ritual or chanted mumbling, no matter how it might fit together. If they wanted to watch two men fight, why did they have to pray about it first?

"Finally, they're here," Arn's companion mumbled. "Their convent is next door, you'd think they'd arrive early. Guess it takes a while to cross these grounds on foot."

Confused for a moment, the Tyrian glanced around until he saw a progression of priestesses – or nuns, as the Aquilans called them. The Maidens of the Moon, Arn recognised; coincidentally, the only such order whose uniforms he would be able to recognise, having seen one regularly in the ludus.

Was Sister Helena among them? Difficult to tell when they all wore the same veil, and their robes hid their figures. Arn watched as the congregation became silent and they began their rituals, planting their staves in the ground while chanting. Above them, a halfmoon shone upon the garden.

*

Once the ritual ended – which consisted of stomping into the ground alongside mumbled chants, as far as Arn could tell – the sisters withdrew to one side, but they did not leave. Perhaps their presence was required, or maybe they enjoyed watching muscular men bloody each other as much as any ordinary Aquilan did.

A patrician stepped forward to stand on the edge of the consecrated space. "Honoured guests! The house of Flavus is grateful for your presence as we renew our pact with Luna, our gentle patroness who shines upon us this eve!" The guests clapped politely without much enthusiasm; this was not why they had come. "But before I can allow you to leave, I would ask you to help in my most important task as magistrate." The patrician gave a self-assured smile. "Choose who are the finest gladiators of our city!" This time, the crowd cheered.

As two fighters left the line to take positions inside the ring marked by staves, Arn's eyes searched among the nuns, who stood on the edge of the audience. One of them could be Helena; she had the right height.

When her veil was turned in his direction, Arn gestured, 'Hullo.'

She promptly looked away, making further silent conversation impossible. Perhaps he had guessed wrong and just made a nun feel uncomfortable at being hailed.

The sister turned her head back. 'How dare you talk to me.'

Arn had guessed right. He had not, however, considered why he had initiated conversation; what he wanted to say. Or rather, he knew what he ought to say, but the gestures felt too feeble to convey what he felt. 'I'm sorry.'

Two gladiators returned to the line, replaced by two others, and their movement interrupted the line of sight briefly until she could reply. 'You're sorry. That makes it alright.'

Sarcasm was difficult to convey through hand movement, but Arn figured that was the intention. 'I'm sorry', he repeated, as he knew no other way to say it. As much as he appreciated that in a situation where no spoken conversation was possible, he could still talk, his frustration grew due to the limitations. He wanted to tell her that he regretted pushing her, but his life had been in danger; that while he might initially have learned signs from her to take advantage of her, he was grateful for the hours spent in her company conversing about anything other than fights, training, and coin. The only time he had been able to forget his present circumstances. 'I'm sorry.'

'Never speak to me again.'

With clumsy hands, Arn signed the first thought that came to his mind. 'I used to sing.'

A slight tilt of the head hidden by the dark veil. The lack of an immediate reply suggested he had at least caught her off-guard.

'If I could, I would sing, so you could know my regret. But I'm less of a man. So this is all I can say. Thanks to you.'

Other of the nuns turned their heads in his direction; Arn realised that others might be listening in on their conversation, in a manner of speaking. Although the other guests also looked at him.

The voice of their host broke through the noise. "Finally, as our last fighter, from the house of Ignius, we shall see the Blood Eagle!"