22 - GLADIATORS

At a certain point, the novelty of the event began to wear off, and the horror set in.

I watched a woman stagger backward as a spear raked across her face, taking out an eye and leaving a deep, red line down one cheek. But she, like the other gladiators I had so far witnessed, was too tough for her own good, and instead of retreating or crying out, she simply drew yet another knife from a hidden location, sprinted forward, and threw herself at her opponent.

The crowd cheered. Felice recoiled in disgust. Justinia might’ve been asleep.

I leaned forward, tensing in sympathy.

And then released a breath as the woman was impaled upon the very same spear.

Blood spluttered from her lips. She twitched, tried to swing her knife at her killer, but wasn’t close enough. Her killer, a large man covered in black tattoos, twisted the spear, then kicked her body in the opposite direction, freeing his weapon.

A moment later and the tattooed man was half-decapitated by some small, sneaky bastard from behind, who was apparently stronger than he looked, judging by how quickly he could swing that ax of his.

“This is…awful,” I murmured.

Felice gave me a look as if to say, I told you so.

“It’s boring, is what it is,” Justinia said. “Half of these people aren’t any good, and the other half are too good. And they haven’t even released any animals yet.”

This proved to be an ill-timed comment—less than a minute later, one of the larger gates slid open, releasing a tiger into the arena.

“Ah,” Justinia said, relaxing into her seat. “Here we go. Some sport, finally.”

“There’s something wrong with you,” Felice said, not even looking at the other woman.

“You’re only just noticing?” I asked.

I’d never seen a tiger before, and in fact, did not know it was named so until afterward, when I asked Justinia. Watching it stalk toward the gladiators duelling at the center of the arena, I felt a pang of sympathy for all those poor bastards about to be torn to pieces.

I turned in my seat, eyeing all the others in the crowd. There, a few feet away, a beautiful, young couple holding hands. Both were smiling, both seemed to be having a perfectly pleasant time. And next to them, another couple, a little older, with their daughter sitting on her father’s lap. Six years old, maybe, and with her fist in the air as she cried out the name of one gladiator or another.

Everywhere I looked, the citizens of the Autarchy, old and young, man and woman, were enjoying the bloodbath below.

Savages, all of them.

But then, I tried to remind myself that, even if three hundred thousand citizens were here, there were even more of them not present—the rest of Tymora’s population going about another ordinary day. Maybe some of them were only missing out because they hadn’t gotten a seat in time, or because they couldn’t afford it—but I had to believe that there were also plenty of individuals who simply didn’t want to see this.

But perhaps that was just a pleasant lie I was telling myself.

More gladiators flooded into an arena. Three of them, apparently working together, rushed the tiger, poking at it with tears. The beast growled so loudly, so deeply, that I felt it in my chest, and the hairs along the back of my arms stood up. It leaped at them, claws flashing, so fast that I actually flinched back in my seat, and caught one gladiator in its jaws. A crunch. The flow of fresh blood. An ear-splitting scream and then, a moment release, the release of one soul into the warm air, which now reeked of human sweat and of food.

Nausea gripped me. I closed my eyes.

“You okay?” Justinia nudged my side.

“How much longer?”

“No idea. And please don’t throw up on me.”

“I’ll do my best,” I murmured.

Felice grabbed my right hand, squeezed it, and that brought me somewhat back to life. Her hand was warm and soft and, the moment it was on me, I desperately hoped she wouldn’t remove it—but then, several moments later, she did, returning it to her lap with the other one, and I found myself side-eyeing her forlornly and wishing she’d touch me again.

I was distracted, I could recognize that, but I could either focus on the pretty girl sitting right to me, or on the brutal slaughter down in the arena, and I knew which one struck me as more appealing.

One gladiator shoved their spear through the tiger’s throat, and it curled up into a growling ball, desperately trying to protect itself.

The gates opened. More gladiators. This time, half of them had red shields, the other half blue. The two opposing sides locked shields with their fellows and begun a slow, steady march toward one another.

“Mock battles are the most popular event,” Justinia explained. “Mind you, the way these boys fight, it’s nothing like a real battle. Real battles are dirtier. Uglier. They’re trying to entertain. Lots of money at stake. Fame. Luxury. But in a real battle, the only thing anyone is thinking about is how to get out of the bloody thing in one piece.”

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The crash of metal against metal as the two lines met in the middle. It was difficult to make out the details of the combat from so far away, but I could see the lines pushing, heaving, then buckling, then pushing again, a constant back-and-forth. More tiny, blue flames as lives were lost and souls were emptied. Once again, the urge to reach out and swallow them up was immense. After all, that was my real goal, my one true imperative, and they were right there, within easy grasp.

I just couldn’t resist.

Jaw clenched, I reached out with my own soul, expanding my aura, and calling these other lost souls to me.

It was as though the blue flames had been caught in a sudden, powerful wind. They were dragged toward me, elongating, glittering and dancing through the air. So far as I could tell, no one had noticed, could tell that anything at all was happening. Only someone capable of necromantic vision would be able to detect what I was doing, and I was confident, supremely so, that no such person would be present at the amphitheatre.

I sucked up one soul at a time. My aura pulsed, subtly expanding.

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

The mock battle went on for some time. An hour dragged by, and the day became increasingly hot. Sweat poured down my face. I could tell I wasn’t the only one faring badly. Many others around us were red-faced, desperately trying to fan themselves. Justinia was grimacing. I could only imagine how bad it was down in the pit for those clad in heavy armor and forced to fight to the death.

Once again, I found myself sympathizing with them. I did not think that they were bad people—merely men and women hoping to make the best of their circumstances, taking the wild, ultimate gamble that they could stand out, could be better than everyone else; that they could carve themselves out a bright future with nothing but sharpened steel.

In another life, I told myself, it could’ve been me.

In the end, the blue team won, eight individuals remaining by the time a group of servants begun to drag away the dead. Pools of blood glistened in the afternoon sun. The eight winners bowed to the spectators, kissing the bloodied edges of their weapons before returning into the dark labyrinth beneath the arena.

The gates didn’t open again. A silence fell upon the amphitheater—an air of anticipation.

As though everyone, except us, knew that something was about to happen.

Justinia and I exchanged glances. She looked concerned.

“Any idea what’s going on?” I asked Felice.

Felice was frowning. “Well…it’s possible that…” she paused, shook her head. “No. Surely not…” but she didn’t look sure.

In front of us, an Autarchy soldier was seated with a woman, presumably his wife. I heard him whispering, caught only a few specific words: “...the Autarch…coming…”

A chill went through me.

The air seemed to become heavier. Thicker. Harder to breathe.

A sourceless wind picked up out of nowhere, disturbing the grass down below, and the branches of the decorative trees. A nearby woman clutched at her hat to prevent it from flying away.

“I don’t like this,” Justinia hissed.

“No,” I said slowly, heart thudding. “Neither do I.”

But there was nothing to do but sit and wait to see what happened next.

What happened next was this: down on the arena floor, at the very center of the field of death, the air became distorted. Discolored. Blood from the dead gladiators ascended from their corpses in solid pillars that defied gravity. They joined up, linking, forming a frame, an arch, a gateway.

And out of that gateway, a man appeared.

Nine feet tall. Clad in shining, golden armor, so bright it almost hurt to look at. Unhelmed, so that his sculpted features were on full display; as was his dark, slightly curly hair, his moss-green eyes, which glowed with an internal light, and the benevolent upward twist of his lips.

The Autarch.

The gateway closed behind him.

The Autarch levitated, rising ten feet in the air, then twenty, then fifty, before slowing to a stop. He hung there, suspended in the air, and in his gauntleted right fist was a heavy, black sword, its hilt elegant and winged, a gleaming ruby set into the pommel.

Sunlight, the most infamous weapon in the world. A sword that had drunk so much blood that some called it Bloodthirster—although never in the presence of the Terarch Guard.

“Ah, fuck,” Justinia whispered.

Felice, meanwhile, seemed frozen in terror. Her hand caught mine, but unlike before, she squeezed it in such a tight, frightened grip that I found myself wincing in pain.

When Marak, master of the Autarchy, opened his mouth and spoke, his voice came out like booming thunder, deep, and amplified so that all within the arena could hear it: “Sons and daughters of the Autarchy.” He revolved slowly in mid-air, glowing, green eyes taking in the hundreds of thousands seated around him. “I cannot express how happy it makes me to see you all before me, a legion of the faithful and the righteous. I have seen, my children, that not all is quite right here in the city of Tymora.”

Several moments of silence followed this proclamation. I glanced over at where Akios sat in his box. I could just make out his expression, or, rather, his lack of an expression—the man’s face had become an expressionless mask.

“Should we go?” I whispered to Justinia.

She shook her head. “Can’t. Would draw too much attention.”

“Here in Tymora,” the Autarch said, injecting sorrow into his voice, “there is, at the heart of this city, a seed of corruption. I have seen it. Heard it. As hard as it is to believe, there are those who would see me—and the Autarchy—undone. These people are traitors. These people are fools, heretics, and murderers. They do not care for order, or justice, or purity. What they want, my friends, more than anything else, is chaos.”

And now the silence that followed was grim, laden with dread. I could see that everyone was leaning forward in their seats, rapt, clinging to every second word that the Autarch uttered.

“And that,” said the Autarch, “is why we must strive, with every breath we take, to root out the traitors, the heretics, the sowers of chaos and discord. We must be vigilant. We must be strong. Any citizen who reports a seditious, treasonous, or otherwise criminal act to the Terarch Guard will receive a reward of one hundred syn. This reward will be increased to two hundred syn if the information pertains to a member of the group who call themselves the Thorns,” and this last part was said with a sneer, an injection of absolute malice that chilled my blood.

The Autarch raised his hand, then, holding Sunlight aloft.

The crowd cheered, exultant, almost manic.

The Autarch turned.

And his eyes found mine.