“The writer Vasiva described these games five hundred years ago,” Hazin whispered, drawing closer to O’Donald, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “He wrote of a man of supposed virtue by the name of Sutona, of the school of self-deniers, who believed that pleasure must be controlled and moderated, and who denounced these spectacles. Vasiva challenged him, declaring that this supposed man of virtue was a hypocrite, for he denounced that which he had never seen. Sutona went to the spectacle with Vasiva, and do you know what happened?”
O’Donald looked away from the dying man and slowly nodded.
Hazin smiled. “Yes. He became addicted. Within the hour he was racing to the money changers to make his bets, and he lost all his fortune by the end of the day.”
Hazin laughed and shook his head. “Understand it without passion, without judging, with the realism to see into the hearts of your race and mine, O’Donald, and to thus see them for what they truly are. But do not let it control you. That is the secret.”
He could see that the gava that Karinia had dosed O’Donald’s morning meal with was taking effect. His eyes were becoming glazed, breath coming more rapidly. The drug was seductive, subtle. The receiver was never really aware of its onset.
Even as he spoke, O’Donald’s gaze was drifting away from Hazin, looking back at the show. The man being tortured with knives and hot irons had dissolved into incoherent babbling. The crowd, growing bored with the mewing cries, were taunting the torturers now.
From under the emperor’s arch more combatants emerged. These were matched pairs, fighting with identical weapons in. tests of skill and cunning. Though all the fighters moved with lightning-like speed, the crowd fixated on one pair in particular. Both of them were armed with two razor-sharp double-edged blades, which were indistinct blurs, flashing in the sunlight as they danced, weaved, parried, and thrusted.
Two others fought barehanded, coming together for an instant, slashing blows exchanging, then leaping apart, warily circling before closing again. Karinia, who sat on the other side of O’Donald, was lightly toying with him, brushing his hair, kissing him on the cheek, whispering something, and he smiled, nodding, his attention still fixed on the fights, drawing in his breath when one of the knife fighters made a cunning backhanded sweep, cutting his opponent’s throat. The dying man, however, leapt forward, even as blood fountained like a geyser, driving his blade into his opponent’s chest. The mob erupted with a roar of approval for the double kill. Both of the men drew apart and amazingly stood erect, struggling to bow to the emperor before they collapsed. Their gesture brought the crowd to its feet in an ovation.
The last of the matched pair died. This bare-handed fighter had broken the back of his opponent, leaving him to thrash about. Picking up a blade from the knife fighters, he then disemboweled himself.
O’Donald rose to his feet, mouth open.
“Watch what comes next,” Hazin whispered. “It is a more practical demonstration.
A line of men, dressed in the black battle fatigues of the Shiv, rushed out from under the arch, carrying no weapon other than bayonets. From another archway at the east end of the arena a team of two men came out carrying between them a gatling gun mounted on a tripod. They were not wearing the black uniform of the Order, but instead were dressed in the blue jacket and khaki of the Republic. They set their weapon in place as the twenty fighters went to the west end of the arena and spread out into a line. Those in the stands behind them scattered in every direction, jumping into entryways, fleeing like a receding wave. Roars of laughter erupted from the rest of the crowd. In front of the emperor’s box, guards set up what appeared to be heavy sheets of glass, slipping them into place around the imperial chair.
The twenty saluted, holding bayonets high. Out in the middle of the arena, the torturers and the poisoners took off, running for cover.
The gatling opened up. The twenty rushed forward with a wild cry: “Shiv! Shiv! Shiv!”
They had gone barely a dozen feet before the first was bowled over, the gunners swinging their piece, to try and stitch up the line. The men around the first to fall went down, hugging the packed sand. Others farther out continued their rush.
The gunners quickly shifted, catching several on the left flank. A few high rounds plowed into the stands above them, triggering pandemonium. Those in the middle were already back on their feet, one of them picking up the body of the first fallen, holding it in front like a shield even as he ran.
The gunners desperately played their fire back and forth. But as they focused on one flank, the other flank, or the middle, sprang up, crouching low, sprinting forward. Three made a desperate rush, racing along the edge of the wall under the emperor’s box and then straight in while the gunners tried to finish off the other flank.
O’Donald, still standing, began to shout, cheering the attackers on. At the very last instant the gunner swung his barrel around, dropping all but the last man, who had been running behind the other two. He leapt over the fallen even as he was hit, and flung himself onto the gun, knocking it over. The assistant gunner, with drawn revolver, shot the man in the head. But the gun was momentarily down.
The surviving attackers charged forward with wild cries. The gunner and his assistant struggled to right the piece. The distance closed, only feet separating the lead attacker from the gun.
The gatling stuttered to life, slicing across the closest man. He staggered, came to a stop, and then stood there for several long seconds, legs braced to the ground like oak trees, shuddering, flinching as each round hit, but continuing to absorb the blows.
The assistant gunner stepped around to one side, leveling his revolver, putting a round straight into the man’s head. The bullet finally caused him to collapse, but it was too late. The half dozen survivors surged at them, the next man in carrying the body of a comrade as a shield.
The assistant gunner emptied his weapon, dropping two more while the gunner continued to fire, rounds exploding into the shield of flesh. The attacker closed, flinging the body onto the gun, knocking it over again. The final rounds arced up into the audience as the gun fell, and then he was in with bayonet held high.
The arena roared in a mad frenzy, and O’Donald was part of the insanity, the lust for blood and for killing, screaming as bayonets flashed, rose and fell, rose and fell.
A lone attacker staggered to his feet, holding a bloody knife aloft, and even those of the Order erupted into applause.
“Who were you cheering for?” Karinia asked, still hanging on O’Donald’s arm.
Sean, eyes glazed, look over at her. “For those who would win,” he said, voice choked.
Hazin left him, drifting back down to the imperial box. The emperor was on his feet, hand held up in salute as the lone survivor, gasping for breath, stepped to the middle of the arena. The man held his blade aloft in salute and in a gesture so rare as to be remembered years afterward, the emperor extended his hand, palm up, a sign that the man was not to take his life.
“You will need such leaders when this is for real,” the emperor said, looking over at Hazin.
Hazin said nothing, sensing yet again the game within the game. It was he, after all, as the Grand Master, who selected those who were to be sacrificed on the sand. The survivor had been one loyal to the last Grand Master. Now he held a potential that was unknown, a supporter of an opponent whose name would be spoken of throughout the city this night, who would be greeted by his brothers as one returned from the dead in glory. He was fetahid, one who has returned, and to try and take him another way would be folly.
There would be time enough later, Hazin thought, wondering which of his rivals within the Order would see this human as a possible tool to be turned to advantage.