Down the middle of the room ran a line of well-made litters. By the head of each litter sat two of the men told off by lot to act as litter-bearers and first-aid men in today's Games. Each had a leather pouch slung across his back, holding bandages and medicines. The medical care the fighters in the Games received was definitely on the rough and ready side, as not only the first-aid men but the «doctors» were entirely self-taught. However, they got plenty of practice, and they had to learn fast. If they didn't, they were likely to die in their next fight or even in a «brawl» in the barracks. Blade hadn't seen anything like the Shield of Life in Gerhaa, but he was reasonably confident of receiving decent medical care if he had the bad luck to be wounded.
From beyond the mouth of the tunnel Blade heard the swelling rumble and murmur of the crowd as it gathered in the amphitheater overhead. Women's voices rose high and shrill, vendors praised their fruit, wine, and sweet cakes, pet dogs and monkeys barked and squealed. Just as the din seemed to be getting out of hand, a drum began to roll. Then horns sounded and two huge brass gongs began to boom.
No words were needed. Except for Blade, all the men in the room had gone through the ritual many times, and Blade had heard it described until he could have done it all in his sleep. They marched out of the waiting room, onto a wooden drawbridge forty feet long and thirty feet above the water. Underneath two boats full of soldiers rowed back and forth, and Blade saw Ho-Marn sitting in the stern of one. The officer recognized him and called out cheerfully, «Good blooding, Englishman.»
«As Hapanu wills it,» Blade shouted back. It was a ritual response to a ritual good wish, but then Ho-Marn could hardly do or say anything for Blade here that would call attention to himself.
Blade looked over his shoulder at the amphitheater. Not quite a full house-no more than half of the ten thousand seats were filled. A good crowd, though, for a Game where the Protector wasn't attending. The nobles' seats at the front of the great bowl carved into the side of the cliff were almost filled. Blade saw ranks of colored silks and velvets, veils and scarves floating in the breeze, noticed the sun winking from brooches and jeweled rings, could almost smell the heavy perfumes. The only thing the noblemen of Gerhaa spent more money on than their own vices was the vices of their wives and mistresses.
The gladiators carefully avoided keeping in step as they crossed the bridge. This was a point of pride with them, for each man to march at his own pace. It showed they were not the soldiers, let alone the Protector's Pets!
At the other end of the bridge a flight of stone steps led down to the sandy arena covering most of the Island of Death. A low fence of pointed iron stakes surrounded the sand. It did not block the spectators' view of the blood and death on the Island, but it kept gladiators from falling into the water lapping around the Island.
In the water lay a more certain death than any a man could face in the arena. The waters of the Great River around Gerhaa swarmed with hungry life-a variety of Horned One, sea snakes, giant eels, things like sharks and barracuda, dozens of kinds of smaller creatures with large appetites. Anyone who found himself in the water would die quickly if he was lucky.
As the last man reached the arena, the drawbridge rose with a clatter of chains and a creak of timbers. The cheers of the crowd drowned out the drumrolls and horn blasts. Blade looked across the arena as the gladiators spread out along the railing. The trampled yellow sand was beginning to blaze like a pool of molten gold as the sun grew brighter. Out there on the hundred-yard circle lay the only way back across the drawbridge for every man now standing by the railing. Some would return on their feet and others on the litters, to live or die as their wounds and their comrades' skill dictated. Those whose lives ended on the sand would not return at all. They would still be lying on the sand when darkness came. Then the Horned Ones would also come, slithering and snuffling through the gaps left in the fence just for them. When they slipped back into the water, the bodies would be gone.
The whole system of the Games in Gerhaa and the Island of Death was an ugly one, reeking of a sadistic imagination. No doubt it was supposed to fill the gladiators with terror and a degrading sense of being doomed and helpless. In fact, it only gave the gladiators an even stronger sense of being men apart, standing together against that doom, only able to trust one another. Blade wondered how long it would be before someone outside the fighters' barracks discovered what a deadly thing the people of Gerhaa had created in the pursuit of their own amusement.
The Captain of the Games was always an experienced fighter, often one of the Ten Brothers. Today the Captain was Kuka of the Banum. He was assisted by two Lesser Captains and the Crier of the Games. The Crier was always chosen for his loud voice, and was given a large gold-mounted seashell both as a badge of office and a sort of megaphone. He was supposed to be heard in the most distant seats of the amphitheater and usually was.
Kuka marched out into the center of the arena while the Crier climbed back up the stairs and announced the first fight. «Three on three, with casting spear, short sword, and shield. Wearing the red-«three names Blade didn't catch. «Wearing the green-«three more names, the last one producing a mixture of cheers and boos. There was a short pause as the six fighters marched out onto the sand. Kuka stepped back, and the last bets were made in the audience. Then Kuka raised his spear of office and the fight began.
After a short time Blade stopped paying much attention to it. The six men were all well-matched, past the beginner stage but none of them real experts. One of the men wearing green seemed to be fond of tricky swordwork. No doubt he was the one who'd been cheered and booed by the crowd. He was spectacular to watch, but Blade suspected the man would soon be crippled or dead if his skill didn't catch up with his desire to show off.
The first fight of the Games was seldom more than a warming-up for later, bloodier events. When it was over, four of the six fighters walked out of the arena on their own feet. Neither of the two who came out on litters was dangerously hurt.
Two more fights went by without any spectacular bloodshed, and Blade began to expect trouble. His fight was the next but one, and he could hear the rumble of the crowd growing behind him. They were beginning to want a little gore and guts on the sand. If they didn't get it before he came on, they might be howling for his.
Blade was lucky, although his good luck was bad luck for one of the men in the fight before him. The unlucky man took a sword cut across the thigh, thought his manhood was gone, and suddenly went berserk. The other three fighters had to turn against him and almost hack him to pieces before he died. The yells of the crowd showed that their taste for blood was satisfied for the moment.
Blade still felt five thousand pairs of eyes riveted on his back as he marched out into the arena to face his first opponent. He'd have more than his share of the attention, too. A new fighter making his debut was always matched in single combat.
Blade's opponent was a Kylanan peasant sold to the Games for debt. He was as strong as an ox and not much smaller than one, but still fast enough on his feet to be a thoroughly dangerous opponent. If Blade hadn't already known this, he would have learned it with the man's first swordcut. It came at him like a flash of lightning, and there were more flashes in front of his eyes as the sword clanged off his helmet.
The other man stepped back to give Blade a chance to recover. This wasn't a fight that had to end in blood. Blade listened to the mixture of cheers and catcalls from the crowd, and tried to interpret it. What kind of show were they expecting from him and the peasant?