A Deal Struck

While Arn's victory had given him more prestige in the hierarchy of the gladiator school, Domitian had willingly demoted himself, allowing them to meet in the middle and eat their meals next to each other. Arn still did not care about how the gladiators ranked themselves or having company when eating; conducting a conversation even with his wax tablet was too cumbersome. Yet he saw no reason to spite a man that showed him friendship.

"That's a neat little pouch," Domitian remarked in between gulps of gruel, nodding at the new item attached to Arn's belt. "I can't imagine if I lost my tongue and had to write down everything I wanted to say."

Given the flow of words that spilled from the burly fighter's lips each day, Arn could not rightly imagine such silence either.

"You're lucky they let you out so fast. Maybe they thought a prisoner of war had more honour. It took months before I was given such privilege."

For once, Arn took note of what he was being told, and he turned his head to give Domitian a questioning look. He had assumed the Aquilan was a freeman who had joined willingly.

"Ah, I never told you." Domitian pulled up his sleeve to reveal the word Damnatus branded into his flesh. "I suppose you'll be curious to know what I did."

For once, Arn was curious.

"Halfway through my time as a legionary. Got into a drunken fight and killed another. I was not on duty or in camp at the time, or I'd have been executed for sure. Still, it could easily have gone that way. But my prefect had a soft spot for me and convinced the legate to let me repay my debt in the arena."

Arn would never have guessed such a tale, but there was no drink in the ludus, and he had never seen Domitian intoxicated.

"At one fight a month, I'm still a couple of years away from freedom. Unless I make champion at the solstice games, of course." Domitian's eyes acquired a dreaming look before he blinked. "Something for you to aim for as well! You got the skill. I'm surprised you haven't battered down Master Mahan's door yet to get another turn on the sands. You were more eager for your first time than a sailor in a brothel."

Except Arn hoped to have one of his minor runes restored before that, which would ensure victory in any fight; no need to risk another close struggle against an even opponent if he could have magical strength on his side the next time. Looking at Domitian, Arn gave a thin smile.

*

Days passed until Arn had waited long enough, and it was time to return to the loremaster. After obtaining permission to leave, Arn washed after training, ate his evening meal, and prepared to do just that. He went to his cell quickly to collect his tablet and change into other clothes appropriate for the city when he heard a knock on his door.

The sound made him frown; nobody had done that before. Pulling a clean tunic down over his body, he walked over and opened the door. Outside stood the nun who came each Manday to pray with those fighting the day after, though Arn assumed she was lost; he was not scheduled to fight, nor did he need or want her prayers.

As the last time he had seen her, she wore the uniform of her order, with cloth covering her head and hair, including a veil before her face. Her right hand held the staff used in her rituals. "You're the Tyrian, I take it. I'm Sister Helena."

He stared at her without any expression, waiting for her to continue.

"I'm told you're mute. I might be able to help you."

Arn could not imagine how.

"All the sisters at my convent learn to speak with signs. It helps preserve silence during rituals or prayer, and it helps with the older sisters hard of hearing." She laughed a little. "I could teach you the same."

He grabbed his tablet. Do any here know signs?

"Ah, not to my knowledge, no. But if you have learned, others could as well."

So she offered means for him to communicate with nuns. If writing was not such a chore, Arn would have delighted in scribbling a sarcastic reply. Instead, he resigned himself to a simple answer. No.

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

"Oh. Of course. I won't trouble you further."

Looking at the black veil of thin fabric separating her visage from his, Arn believed he saw disappointment on her face, though the cloth made it hard for him to make out her features. Yet the blessing of eagle eyes told him something else, despite it being hidden. On her cheek, she had a bruise of a deep red colour, a sign of heavy impact, and still fresh. Plenty of men in the ludus had such after being struck by a wooden weapon; seeing it on a woman, Arn might have suspected her husband of having an ill temper, but he doubted that would explain what had happened to a nun. He wondered with an inwards smile if the good sisters also trained as gladiators. Pointing first to his own cheek, he turned his finger towards hers.

"What? Oh, that." She lowered her face while her hand went up to cover her bruise through the veil. "We sisters train to fight with staves." Her other hand held the aforementioned item, and she stamped it against the floor, raising her eyes again. "You can be kind without being weak."

That was the first thing Arn had learned about this woman that he respected. Still, he had no use for her offer, and time was dwindling; he had somewhere to be. He pointed over her shoulder.

"Right, sorry. I shouldn't take more of your time. Luna watch over you."

A blessing that Arn had no use for nor imagined would come to pass; he waited as the nun hurried away before making his own departure.

*

In case anybody followed him, Arn went to the grove first and knelt before the blood tree. He placed one hand against the bark and prayed, offering his gratitude for his survival and success so far. He did not think the gods capricious or that they would disfavour him if he failed to show such appreciation, but it seemed good manners to do so.

Afterwards, occasionally glancing over his shoulder, Arn made his way to the loremaster. He knocked, a voice bade him enter, and he did so, only to realise a third party was present. A short man, entirely bald without beard either, but wielding a smug expression and wearing sharp ears like the trolls of Tyria. Arn looked from him to the loremaster, wondering what he had interrupted.

"My quiet friend, this is Lucius," the loremaster said, speaking Aquilan. He squinted at Arn. "You understand Aquilan, right? If not necessarily speak it."

Arn nodded with a frown; he had business to discuss with the other Tyrian, which did not involve this smirking fellow.

"Now, as to your demand. I believe I can create your rune token. The real question is the price."

The skáld's expression turned to a scowl, and he pointed at the Aquilan in their midst, whom he had no wish to involve in any of this.

"If you're wondering about my presence, it's because I'm part of this little deal," Lucius explained, still wearing the same demeanour that made Arn want to punch him. "You see, our mutual friend here, he works for me. So anything you need from him, you'll have to pay me."

Arn raised a hand, gesturing for him to get on with it.

"And I'm not interested in money. Old Helgi here tells me that you've got a touch of magic yourself. And unlike him, you're trained for battle. What did you call him?" Lucius looked briefly at the loremaster. "Ah, yes, a spellblade. That means nothing to me, but Helgi reassures me that you're handy with a sword."

So the old Tyrian had deduced Arn's profession; he was wilier than he looked. And somehow enthralled to this slimy Aquilan, which complicated matters. But Arn needed his runes restored; he had to deal with them. He took out his tablet. What's the price?

"Very well, to the matter. Not far from here, there's a small group of malcontents causing trouble. Three of them, which shouldn't make a – spellblade like you have any difficulty clearing them out."

Arn looked from one man to the other. This was a price he could pay much faster than silver, but it was also far riskier. He would have to do it in the evening, as he could not leave the ludus at night. Being Tyrian, he was easy to describe should any witnesses notice him. He had no knowledge of his opponents, how skilled they were, whether there might be more than three, or the interiors of the location where he would fight them.

But it would be difficult to trace the deed back to him; he had no connection to these men, and there was no reason anyone would search for their killer in a gladiator school. In addition, if Arn did it right, he could leech magic from one of them, speeding up his restoration. Assuming he proved the victor. After a moment's hesitation, Arn wrote, I need a sword.

Lucius smiled. "We got one or two spare lying around. Come back here when you're ready, and you'll find a blade waiting for you. Helgi knows the details you'll need."

"I'll get to work on your rune token," the loremaster added. He looked at Arn's body. "Which one do you want?"

The skáld had already considered this. His chief concern was winning fights in the arena; both strength and speed helped with that, and either would serve him well in that regard. But now he had another concern; if getting all four minor runes restored required more of such acts like the one currently proposed, he needed to be able to leave the ludus at will. Strength would help him scale the wall of the training yard at night. His decision made, Arn pointed at his rune of force on his right arm.

"Alright, you want your strength back. I'll do that one."

Arn quickly wrote, Easier to do task with rune.

Seeing the Tyrian letters, Lucius looked at Helgi, who cracked a sardonic smile. "Fellow wants the stone first, so he can use its power to deal with your problem."

The Aquilan donned the same expression as the loremaster. "Work first, payment after. You'll have to rely on what other magic you got. From what Helgi tells me, you should have all sorts of spells you can do with your blade. Would be odd to call you a spellblade otherwise."

In theory, except Arn's fount of spellpower was dry, and he could not cast any spells. But revealing this weakness would be folly; this fellow, Lucius, seemed the sort of man who only respected power. Admitting that Arn had none of note as of yet invited treachery. I'll return next fiveday.

The bald Aquilan smirked. "Excellent. A deal well struck."

On his way home, Arn spent his last coins buying a cloak with a hood.