Chapter 2: The Butcher

“The Turtle swings and...OH! The kid will definitely be feeling that tomorrow!”

Amicus Brontes' rich bass rumbled in the air like thunder. His voice came from everywhere, broadcast from enchanted bronze mouths positioned around the Colosseum. When the owner and announcer spoke into his scepter, anyone within half a mile could hear him. Five thousand people filled the stands that night, and many stood outside and listened. For some, missing the fights was as unthinkable as missing temple.

The executioner watched the fight from the gladiator’s box above the arena, alone. The other fighters were crammed into the other box across the arena, watching from there. On any night he wasn’t scheduled to perform an execution, both boxes would be filled and the executioner would have company.

At this point in his life, the executioner didn’t care much. No matter what, his nights were all about the arena and the thrill of the fight. Either he would be an invisible part of the brotherhood for a couple of hours, or he’d be able to step into the arena himself and for a few shining minutes the world would be his.

“He regains his balance, but the Turtle isn’t letting up. He swings, and...OH! The new fish isn’t out of fight just yet, folks. Look at him move!”

Below, the newest recruit dodged one swipe from his opponent’s short sword after another. Clad in leather armor, he pivoted and twisted out of the way of his larger, heavier opponent like he was lighter than air. On the third dodged strike, the kid retaliated. The second his heel touched the sand he launched himself forward, thrusting his trident at his foe’s chest.

The sound of metal on metal could be heard, even from the viewing box. The Turtle’s shield turned the tines away. He used the kid’s own momentum against him and slammed his knee into his stomach. Even with the leather armor, the kid dropped.

“Ooooh…” Amicus groaned, and the audience groaned with him. “That makes eight, count ‘em, EIGHT times the new fish has gone down! Another two and he’ll match the Colosseum record. Can he do it, or is he done?”

It was a time honored tradition, going into the arena and getting the shit kicked out of you by Demetrius. The job of head trainer wasn’t an idle, cushy position. Though Demetrius rarely had any major fights at this point in his career, it was his job to make sure the new fighters could put on a good show, and for them to lose their first match. It kept them humble.

“New fish! New fish!” the audience chanted. He didn’t have an arena name yet. That would come when he earned one, either through deeds and acclaim or Amicus coming up with something to catch the attention of the ever fickle audience.

The new fish, or Jonas, the executioner recalled, forced himself to stand. Demetrius stepped back, bowing graciously. Back on his feet, Jonas saluted his teacher. The crowd erupted into a cacophony of cheers so loud, the executioner felt it in his bones. Quietly, he joined them, muttering the words with a muted smile.

“He may look scrawny, but he’s taking everything thrown his way and asking for more! Could the new fish outlast the Turtle?”

Demetrius circled Jonas like a lion closing in for the kill. Jonas hunkered down, weapon out and turning to keep facing his teacher. For now, he seemed content to let the attack come to him instead of going on the offensive. It was either the mark of fear, or patience. The executioner grinned, holding his breath and waiting for one of them to make a move.

It was Jonas who moved first. Not at or away from his foe, but in place. His sandaled foot went through the top layer of sand, and his entire body shifted with it. Demetrius didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward and swung low to high. It would be enough to ring the kid’s bell without killing him. Probably.

The sword cut through the air, but hit nothing. It was a feint, he realized, as the kid dropped even lower and struck back. A rookie would have tried to thrust their weapon forward, seizing on the opening. Ten minutes and nearly as many knockdowns and Jonas knew better than to think he was faster than Demetrius’ shield. Instead, he swung the trident like a club. The shaft connected with the back of Demetrius’ legs.

“What’s this? The Turtle’s on his back!”

The crowd screamed again, and this time the executioner joined them wholeheartedly, yelling so loud that the metal of his helmet thrummed.

Jonas didn’t stop to soak in the audience’s adulation. Before Demetrius’s backside even hit the sand, he was on his feet, trident raised. He thrust it forward then, right at his opponent’s chest. The executioner froze, heart soaring.

“This is it! His first match a victory, the first in -- “

Demetrius thrust his sword up. It wasn’t desperation, or even aggression. The copper sword caught the trident between two of its tines. The points stopped just inches away from the armor. Jonas set his feet in and pushed.

The trident inched closer. The kid was stronger, the executioner realized. He was stronger and he had leverage. All he needed was a few more seconds, and Demetrius would either yield or get mildly stabbed. Even now, his arm trembled.

Demetrius shifted. His arm faltered. Jonas shoved one last time. It was too late. Demetrius swung the edge of his shield into the side of Jonas’ head. The trident slipped from his hands and fell to the sand. Jonas followed soon after, dropping like a puppet with its strings cut. Demetrius rolled over and climbed to his feet. Jonas stayed where he was.

The crowd and even Amicus was silent, waiting with bated breath. Demetrius raised his sword in the air. The Colosseum went wild.

“Eight times! Eight times the new fish got back up and kept fighting. It wasn’t enough to win against the Colosseum’s oldest fighter, but give it a year and --” Amicus lowered his voice to a stage whisper, “the Turtle just might train up one last legend before he retires!”

Demetrius made a rude gesture up at the owner’s box. Amicus’ laughter boomed like thunder. He could never resist a chance to needle the fighters.

From beneath, four slaves poured out onto the sand carrying a stretcher. Together, they shifted Jonas’ unconscious form onto it and removed him from the arena. The executioner stirred. That meant it was his time to shine.

He looked up and made eye contact with a young boy, not yet a teen. The viewing box was mostly covered, but it was occasionally possible to get a peek of the fighters. The boy’s jaw dropped with recognition. The executioner smiled, then drew his thumb across his neck slowly and pointed at the kid. His eyes lit up with a boyish mix of excitement and alarm. He pointed and waved for his mother’s attention, but the executioner was gone by the time she looked.

He met Demetrius down on the ramp leading up to the arena, between a mural showing the Warcaller and Darkstar ready for battle. “Good fight,” said the executioner, as Demetrius limped down the ramp. “I almost thought you lost this one. It might do your ego some good to lose against a fish.”

“Funny,” Demetrius growled as he fought to catch his breath, “I was thinkin’ you could do to lose one too.”

The executioner laughed. He and Demetrius clasped each other by the forearm. Demetrius was one of three people in the Colosseum who didn’t fear or hide from him, and the only one he could call a friend.

“He’s looking like he’s got some potential.” The executioner nodded in the direction Jonas was carried.

“Or I’m just gettin’ too old for this shit,” Demetrius said, scowling. He had a good face for it. The trainer was five foot six, and looked like he was carved out of an especially craggy boulder. He had the olive complexion and thick, dark body hair common to most Policherans, though his beard was largely silver by now.

“Maybe Amicus is right. One of these days some cocky shit’s gonna beat me. That’ll be the day I quit.”

The executioner shook his head. “That’ll never happen. You love this place too much. The only way either of us is leaving is on our backs.”

“Maybe.” Demetrius shrugged. “Not like I’d have anything to retire to. Can you imagine trying to settle down and start a family at my age? The woman would have to be fuckin’ desperate to go for me.”

His words dampened the executioner’s spirit like an upended bucket of freezing water. His throat tightened. No, the executioner couldn’t imagine settling down or starting a family. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to speak. “Yeah…But miracles happen, right? You losing to a newbie is about as likely as you finding a woman who could tolerate you.”

Demetrius roared with laughter. “Eat shit, Quentin.” He punched the executioner in the arm. “Fight well tonight, brother. Fight well enough for the Warcaller himself to notice you.” Demetrius limped his way down the ramp.

The executioner nodded and watched his friend leave. His stomach continued twisting itself into knots. The last thing he needed was to think about his personal life before he was due to perform, but he could hardly fault Demetrius for bringing it up. The alternative was having no one to talk to at all.

“And now for the main event…”

There was no time for moping about loneliness or the future. The executioner had a job to do. He took a deep breath and walked up the ramp.

“Once a humble gladiator turned executioner, he died at the hands of the first man to ever win his freedom. His spirit wouldn’t let him rest.”

The little details changed every so often, but the story was the same. There was no room for a freak like him on any of the teams of gladiators, but when executions became entertainment, there was room for a monster. The executioner checked his armor, and then his helmet. Everything was in place.

“He crawled out of hell itself to be here tonight. Death can’t stop him, and neither can we. He exists only to punish the wicked, only to kill!”

The executioner took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It was hard to hear Amicus over the sound of his own heartbeat. Hundreds of performances, and the nerves still came. It was the only time he ever felt afraid, and he loved it. This was it.

“Who is he?”

The crowd came to life. “The Butcher!” the audience roared, voices merging into one. The executioner reached over to pat the mural of the gods. The Colosseum was built in tribute to the god of war and games and the goddess of death. It never hurt to have their blessings.

“WHO IS HE?”

“THE BUTCHER!”

The executioner entered the arena, arms spread wide. The colosseum went wild. Screams and cheers washed over him like a wave. He stood in the center of the arena, turning and breathing it all in. Row after row of bench seats were filled. Men and women, the rich and the poor alike all came for the privilege of seeing the Emperor’s justice carried out.

They were there to see him fight. The executioner drew his sword and let out a bestial roar, lost among the screams of his adoring fans. It didn’t matter that he only had one friend, or that the other gladiators did their best to ignore him or avoid him. It was all worth it, when he was standing in the middle of the Colosseum with people chanting his name.

At least, the name of his character. Two or three nights a week, it was his. The executioner took a deep breath and let it out, coming back down to earth. His heart pounded and lightning raced through his veins. He was more than ready.

“The Butcher is hungry tonight, folks! We have not one, but two damned souls, ready to be sent off to the Darkstar’s judgment! Between them, they’ve cost the world a dozen lives...so far. Bring out the first prisoner!”

The gate to the holding cells opened. Two armed men brought Horace up. His hands were chained together and they had a crushing grip on his arms, but Horace kept his head held high. The guards led him to the center and removed his bonds. They retreated down the ramp, and the gate closed behind them.

“Horace Secundes. Father, brother, court clerk, and a corrupt and GREEDY bastard! We get a lot of murderers, but Horace didn’t get his own hands dirty, oh no. He took money to arrange for the escape of three dangerous criminals, hours before they were due to go on trial. During the escape, they killed nine good men. Two of those criminals were brought to justice already, but their leader Christophe, believed to be the head of the street gang known as the Warlords, remains at large…

“Tonight, Horace will pay for what he did.”

Screams and jeers came from all around. Horace looked around. His quiet dignity faltered. Each second of people calling for his blood sapped his strength until he was trembling. More importantly, the executioner saw, there was still life and awareness in his eyes. He didn’t take the draught.

“Horace,” the executioner half-shouted over the boos, “what are you doing? This could’ve been painless.” He stalked forward, hunched over and menacing like the monster he was supposed to be. He stopped just short of the prisoner.

“I-I couldn’t,” Horace shouted back. His eyes darted around the Colosseum wildly. It wasn’t uncommon for prisoners to lose their will when they were down there with him. The crowd made it real. Even watching the fights out of the tiny window in their cell couldn’t fully prepare them for what awaited. “I’m guilty. I’ll face my death like a man.”

The executioner shook his head in pity, but he understood and even respected the decision. It was better than breaking down and crying.

“Like the coward he is, Horace has refused to fight for his life. He accepts his guilt and his punishment. You know what that means, folks!”

“Fresh meat!” The audience responded, turning it into a chant. “Fresh meat! Fresh meat!”

He hated this part. “I’ll make this as painless as possible. Just work with me, Horace.” Horace opened his mouth, but whatever he was going to say, he never got the chance.

“Freeeeeeeeeesh MEAT!” Amicus screamed.

The executioner surged forward. Horace took a step back, but there was nowhere to go. He stumbled, but the executioner caught him by the throat and dragged him. Across the stone center of the arena, to the ring of sand near the lowest tier of seats. Horace’s eyes widened. He was in a state of perpetually falling, only to be caught and pulled along as if he was nothing. The executioner flung him down on the sand.

Horace landed on his hands and knees. “Close your eyes. Don’t look at them!” The executioner barked. His stomach twisted into knots. “Think of your daughter, Horace. The first time you ever held her.”

The old man trembled on the ground. He nodded. The executioner grabbed him by his hair and pulled him back to his knees, throat angled up and outward. “May the Darkstar judge you fairly and take you into her keeping,” said the executioner.

He drew the sword across Horace’s throat ear to ear. Blood sprayed from the wound, arcing in the air and painting the sand and wall a dark, blackish red. The executioner held Horace there until the last of his life left him and the spray tapered off. Horace’s body flopped onto the sand.

The executioner held his bloody sword up for his audience’s approval. There was silence, and then a lone scream brought them all back to life. The sound lost some of its luster, but not all of it. The executioner threw his sword down next to Horace’s body and returned to the center of the arena.

“Justice is served!” Amicus Bronte crowed. “Remember this, my lovelies, whenever you even think of committing a crime. The Butcher waits for you, and he is eager to take your life!”

“Asshole,” the executioner muttered.

Once more, the team of slaves came out with their stretcher, Giselle among them. They collected Horace and the executioner’s sword. Giselle stopped five feet short of the executioner. She pulled out a large knife and lobbed it at him. It landed at his feet with a clang. She took off running back down the ramp as fast as her little legs could take her. The other slaves looked at her in alarm, then hurried after her.

Sighing, the executioner picked up the knife. It was larger than the daggers most commonly used in street fights. It was halfway to a short sword, with a gentle curve at the tip and a guard on the hilt. The executioner tested the weight. It suited him.

“Only eleven people have won their freedom. Six in the past 20 years! Tonight, we see if there will be one more free man. This man murdered three people in mere seconds! This monster had to be stopped from massacring even more innocent Orchrisans, but our brave men of the Copper Watch intervened in time.”

The gates opened again. Antonio was led out in chains by the guards. If the jeers from the crowd bothered him, he masked it well. His rags had been replaced with light armor of his own. He had the same leather breastplate that the executioner wore, along with guards on his wrists and shins. He lacked the leather skirt the executioner wore, and the executioner knew it was intentional. Looking half naked and with untamed, ratty hair, the audience wouldn’t see a person fighting for their life. They’d see an uncivilized, violent brute getting put down by their pet monster.

One guard unlocked his wrists, and the other freed his legs. They took it slowly, eyes locked on the prisoner. They needn’t have bothered. Antonio only had eyes for the executioner. Antonio’s gaze bore straight into him. A shiver of gleeful anticipation run up and down the executioner’s spine. One guard pulled the shackles away while the other retrieved Antonio’s dagger and threw it at his feet. They backed up down the ramp, and the gate closed behind them.

“Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present to you our newest potential pardon. Hailing from the far off country of Finsk, the murderer Antonio Brecklin!”

Antonio turned his baleful glare up to the owner’s box. “That’s not my name,” he said, halfway between anger and disbelief. “I’m talking to you,” he shouted at Amicus. “My name is - “

“Let the execution begin! FIGHT!”

The moment the executioner heard the signal, everything changed. The announcer and the crowd faded away to a distant buzzing in the back of his head. The world was still, calm, in his control. He reversed the grip on his knife and dropped into a ready stance. Antonio still faced away from him, yelling at the announcer. The executioner attacked.

With his back turned, Antonio didn’t see it coming. It would’ve been so easy to grab him by his wild hair and open his throat. It would’ve been the fastest fight against a willing participant in the executioner’s entire career. It would’ve been boring. The executioner planted his boot in the prisoner’s ass and sent him sprawling.

The prisoner hit the stone hard amidst a round of laughter from the audience. He was back on his feet in seconds, face red and bottom lip bloody. Antonio snatched his dagger and was up in a knife fighter’s loose, easy stance, glaring at his foe. The executioner held out his arms and bowed low, mockingly.

Antonio came at him with all of the grave of a charger beetle and half the subtlety. He was fast, and his blade an extension of his arm. The executioner could see why Antonio’s victims could’ve been taken by surprise. They didn’t know what to look for.

The attack came from low to high. As Antonio closed the distance, his entire body turned, ready to lend his strength to the wild slash. Ready to commit to it. The executioner saw this about the same time Antonio thought to do it. His body in motion was as simple to read as a children’s book.

The executioner’s body moved almost on its own. He fell away from the attack, stepping back. He pivoted away from the follow up he knew was coming. His heart thudded fast in his chest, but his breathing was calm. This is what he was made for. Antonio’s blade came within inches of his face, and then there was an opening.

His knife bit into skin as Antonio passed him. He whirled around in time to hear the prisoner cry out in pain. The executioner’s knife was red, and a thin line was sliced into the back of Antonio’s scalp, bleeding freely.

Antonio touched the back of his head and brought his hand back, wincing. It came away dark red. The executioner held up his knife.

“First blood!” Amicus screamed, and the audience joined in, turning it into a chant.

The prisoner looked around at the crowd with disgust when something else crossed him. For the first time since being arrested, he realized the gravity of his situation. He looked down at the blood on his hand, and then back at the executioner. Through all of the bluster and savagery in the man's demeanor, there was no hiding the fear. Antonio launched himself at the executioner.

Whatever the executioner was expecting, this wasn’t it. Antonio came in fast and low. He was still a foot away when he raised his arm. He thrust the dagger at his foe’s crotch. The executioner twisted in place. He caught the blade with his own and turned it away. He stuck out his foot as the prisoner’s momentum carried him past. Antonio went down hard.

The executioner took a step back and waited. Antonio scrambled back to his feet, sucking in air. The executioner bowed again, smiling.

“Fuck you,” Antonio snarled.

He came at the executioner once more. Antonio swung, and his opponent bent backwards. The knife whizzed past the executioner’s mask. Antonio pressed on, stepping into the next swing.

It was almost too easy. The executioner backed up a step and leaned away from the knife. The prisoner had no guile, no skill. Antonio slashed, and all the executioner had to do was twist out of the way. The third time he dodged, he snapped back and struck.

His attack sliced open a long, deeper line in the meat of Antonio’s left arm. Hot red blood dripped from the wound. Antonio stared at it slack jawed, as if only just now realizing that he wasn’t there to fight for his freedom. He was there to die and there wasn’t a single person there who expected anything more than that. The audience’s scream of approval at the new wound reminded Antonio of that.

The executioner loved and dreaded that moment when reality hit them. The dark, predatory side of him fed on that burst of fear. The fights ended about the time the prisoners understood that they would lose. Some fought harder, and the executioner’s guilt evaporated. Others gave up or started crying.

Antonio took off running.

Immediately, the executioner followed. Logically, he knew there was nowhere to run. There was no squeezing out of the gates, and no climbing the walls to escape via the audience. It was one last, sad attempt to survive. It was his job to make sure the prisoners didn’t. He stalked forward, grip on his knife tight.

Antonio made it to the ring of sand when he stumbled. Looking over his shoulder at his swiftly approaching death, he stumbled and fell onto the sand. He flipped himself over and scrambled backwards.

“Please,” he let out, voice breaking. “Please don’t do this.”

The executioner’s eye twitched. “What happened to you killing me?” The executioner shouted, slowing as he approached. “What happened to gutting me like a fish? You were doing so well. Stand. STAND!” It was so much harder when they begged.

“I...I…” Antonio looked around, as if searching for someone to save him. His fingers dug into the sand beneath him. “I’ll pay a fine, I’ll --” It turned out, Antonio would throw a handful of sand into the executioner’s face.

The mask blocked some of it, but the eyeholes weren’t small. The executioner’s eyes shut too late. Burning, itching blackness took over his world. He had just enough time to be alarmed before Antonio crashed into his middle, bringing them both to the ground once more.

His helmet hit the ring of stone, jolting and stunning him. Antonio’s knife slashed his thigh, bringing him back down to earth. He struggled, wriggling underneath Antonio as the prisoner propped himself up, ready to end it with one good stab. The executioner slammed his knee up into something soft.

Antonio let out a muffled yelp, and the executioner pressed on. He’d lost his knife with the fall, but that didn’t mean he was unarmed. He reached out blindly until he got a fistful of hair and yanked back. The executioner sank his fist into the man’s face. Once, twice, enough to flip them over.

That was when the pain came back, singing hot and insistent that his leg was injured, his eyes stung, the skin of his knuckles opened anew with each rough impact. The executioner didn’t let up. He punched the prisoner into the ground until he blinked enough to be able to see shapes and light again.

Antonio was down, if not dead. He shuddered on the ground, letting out quiet, weak hitches of wet breath. This was over. He just had to finish it. The executioner blinked rapidly, trying to see the world through brief flashes of vision before his eyes shut themselves again. He grabbed Antonio’s knife off the ground.

“May…” The executioner started with a growl. He cleared his throat. “May the Darkstar take you into her keeping.” He plunged the knife through the armor, through his chest, through Antonio’s heart. The shuddering breaths came to a stop.

The executioner stood, pain in his leg screaming at him, but it held. He held up Antonio’s bloody knife. The audience screamed and cheered.

“UNBELIEVABLE!” Amicus screamed into his scepter. “For a moment I thought we had a new freeman, and a vacancy in the Colosseum! But no, our champion prevails once more. Who is he?”

“The Butcher!” the crowd replied as once, voices raising to a fever pitch. “Butcher! Butcher! Butcher!”

The executioner closed his eyes. The name was stupid, but he never tired of hearing them chant it. It was his. When he finally lost a match, there would be a new executioner with their own dumb stage name, but there would never be another Butcher. The executioner could be proud of that.