They were almost at the gates now, bodies pressing in on them from all sides. Cathan eyed the dwarf and the ogre- Rockbreaker was yelling about the contests to be fought today, listing the past victories of the various gladiators. One warrior, a man named Talim Two-Blades, would not be appearing, having won his freedom at the Yule tourney.
“Everything’s in place?” Cathan asked his sister in a whisper as they passed through the gates into the cool shadows of the Arena. They started up a broad, shallow stair, leading to the nobles’ boxes high in the stands. Several knights stopped them to check their identities, then let them pass without comment when Wentha lifted her mask. “Have you talked to Idar?”
She shook her head. “We’re meeting with him today after the seventh bout. You can join us if you like. Tell the Kingpriest you need to be excused-Idar’s message this morning said he would be waiting at the Square of Six Swords.”
Cathan nodded. “The seventh bout,” he murmured. “I’ll be there.”
“Don’t let anyone follow you,” said Rath.
“And stop playing with that thing,” Tancred added.
Cathan realized his hand had strayed back to the amulet. He lowered his band, clenched it into a fist at his side as they reached the top of the stair. A long tunnel curved ahead of them; it was lined with archways with sunlight shafting through, dancing with dust. The shouts of the crowd were loud, bloodthirsty.
Gritting his teeth, Cathan followed his sister out into the heat and open air of the imperial gallery. With little enthusiasm, he waited for the first bout to begin.
Chapter 16
The trumpets blared, but they were almost inaudible for the shouting of the crowds-tens of thousands of voices all raised as one, fists pounding the air as the gladiators strode out onto the sands. Vendors hawked spiced cakes, fruited ice, and watered wine. Here and there, pockets of gaudy color marked the spectators: Men and women who rooted for particular gladiators, and wore gold or green or violet to show it. Some even dyed their hair to match the colors of their favorite combatant. But most were common citizens, commonly dressed, who had come to watch men fight and die-or pretend to die-for their amusement.
There were thirty-two gladiators in all. When the last of the numerous bouts was over, one would emerge triumphant, to be lavished with all manner of luxuries for the next season, until the Midsummer Games arrived. At the year’s end, the four seasonal champions could battle for the greatest prize of alclass="underline" a golden key that would open the iron collars they wore around their necks. For today, though, the reward was glory, not freedom.
The “sands” were, in fact, large wooden platforms erected on the floor of the Arena, each dusted with sawdust. Between these were pits of fire and boiling oil, spanned by narrow wooden bridges: these were more show, concocted to make things more interesting for the audiences. No gladiator had ever died in the Death Pits.
Sitting between his sister and Lord Tithian, Cathan watched the gladiators take their positions on the platforms; they wore scanty armor of gold and jewels, useless when it came to stopping real blows. Their weapons-swords and tridents and knives-looked no different, at a distance, from those used in true battle. They flashed in the late morning sunlight as the warriors raised them high. The cheering grew even louder than before.
Amid the tumult, Rockbreaker and Raag emerged to stand together at the center of the sands. The dwarf flashed a wicked grin; the ogre folded arms like tree trunks across his chest and glowered. A hush fell over the crowd as Rockbreaker raised his stunted arms.
One by one, the dwarf introduced the warriors. There was Pheragas of Ergoth, a brawny, dusky-skinned man with a shaven head; Kiiri the Sirine, a broad-shouldered woman whose greenish skin was either paint or proof that she was one of the fabled merfolk who dwelt in the oceans off the Seldjuki coast; a man named Rolf who was more than seven feet tall and wore nothing more than a breechclout of metal scales; the Red Minotaur, whose horned head towered above the rest and whose snout curled in disdain as he regarded the crowds. These four, the most exotic of the bunch, were the crowd favorites; the rest were men assembled from all over Istar. Several looked terrified, but most grinned and strutted as Rockbreaker called out their names. When all had been named, they turned as one and looked up at the imperial box, at the gleaming figure sitting close to Cathan.
“Pilofiro, tam coledamo!” they cried, clapping their hands over their hearts.
Lightbringer, we salute you!
Merciful Paladine, Cathan thought, staring at Beldinas as he rose from his satin couch and signed the triangle over the assemblage. With a movement like the waves on the sea, the folk of Istar fell to their knees before the Kingpriest.
“Hear me, children of the god,” Beldinas declared, his voice easily carrying without shouting. “This is a great day for the empire. Our greatest hero has returned to us-a hero who was at my side from the beginning, who fought for me at Govinna and Lattakay, who strove for years to put an end to the darkness that lives among us, who even sacrificed his life to save my own. These Games shall be convened in his honor.
“People of Istar, I give you Cathan MarSevrin, the Twice-Born!”
Cathan felt the blood drain from his face as all eyes-spectators’ and gladiators’ alike-turned to gaze at him. He felt sick. He didn’t want this farce dedicated to him!
Tithian’s elbow dug into his ribs. “Don’t just sit there,” the Grand Marshal bade, grinning. “Wave to them, or something.”
“Oh,” was all Cathan could manage to say. Grimacing, he got halfway to his feet and raised his hand.
It was enough to set the mob off again, and then it was some time before they calmed down enough to hear the Kingpriest. “Bamenas fionant!” he cried.
Begin the Games!
Cathan sat back down, started to reach for the amulet, then stopped himself. Tithian touched his shoulder. He wore a mask shaped as a hawk’s head.
“Are you all right? You look ill.”
Cathan shook his head. “A little too much wine last night.”
“Again?” The Grand Marshal shook his head, chuckling. “You’d think you’d have learned, after that night in Chidell. Oh, look-they’re starting the first bout.”
Cathan stared at Tithian. His old squire was grinning, leaning forward as two gladiators strode out onto the sands. One was the Ergothian named Pheragas, which prompted a lot of hollering from the pockets of sea-blue in the crowds (and some jeers from the other colors). The other was a frightened-looking youth named Ajan, who looked like he’d been given his sword just this morning. They raised their weapons to each other, then to the crowds. Rockbreaker held a curving dragon’s horn to his lips and blew a long, thunderous note. Tithian cheered as loud as anyone. He was enjoying this!
By rights, the duel should have been over as soon as it began. Pheragas was a fine fighter, if a bit wild, and the Yule champion besides; as a warrior, Ajan left much to be desired. His footwork was atrocious, and he couldn’t keep his shield in line. Watching him, Cathan counted six fatal missteps in the first minute of the fight, but Pheragas-who surely noticed his opponent’s mistakes too-did nothing to capitalize on his advantage. Slowly, it dawned on Cathan: the fights weren’t just harmless, but were scripted as well. When Ajan exposed the flesh beneath his left arm, Pheragas held back; when he stumbled and fell to one knee, Pheragas’s finishing stroke went wide; when the younger man got frustrated and threw his shield at his foe, Pheragas actually backed off long enough for him to dive and get it back. The Ergothman drew out the performance with expert patience, toying with his opponent. Their swords came together, high then low, high then low, in a pattern so rhythmic it was ludicrous. The masses devoured it, gleefully crying Pheragas’s name.