Chapter 21: The Aggrieved Executioner

Although it had been just under a week, it felt like forever since Quentin had seen the Colosseum. Making his usual trek around sundown, the dim shape of the Colosseum was a welcome landmark as he traversed the emptiness between it and the city. There was always this irrational fear whenever he took a few days off to heal and rest, that he’d show up to work and the job wouldn’t be his. Or he’d suit up and then suddenly forget how to fight right as Amicus shouted for them to begin. It was silly, but it was all part of the pre-work ritual, getting into the right mindset before he put on the mask.

The familiar anxieties came and for once, didn’t linger. Quentin was too happy to be back in a place where everything made sense and he knew his place. It was easy to forget the chaos of the past several days when he was back where everything was familiar and orderly. Despite being the place where he put his life on the line, the Colosseum was safe. Quentin circled around the outside, eyesight returning in the shade of the sun, until he was let through the servant’s entrance.

This close to sunset, the stands were filling and the crew was getting everything in place for serving thousands of people. Quentin pushed his way through the crowd and made for his office. The clamor of work faded away as he climbed upwards, until the only thing Quentin could hear was the faraway sounds of people finding their seats outside his window. Just as he expected, a scroll awaited him. Quentin shed his cloak and sat down in his well worn chair, unrolling the scroll and taking a look.

Attention! By the decree of His Imperial Majesty Emperor Caragalla, GRAHAM CALHOUN is to be put to death in the Grand Colosseum.

The writ of execution went on to detail Graham’s crimes and the penalties associated with each. This prisoner was sentenced to death nine times over. The more he read, the more Quentin’s lip curled in disgust. Most of the time he couldn’t quite ignore the guilt that came with taking a life. Every so often he relished the chance to dish out justice. This was one of those times.

He put away the scroll. That was one thing taken care of for the night. Having read over his crimes, it also meant there was no way in hell he was going to spend any extra time showing him kindness. All that was left was talking to Demetrius and getting some practice and exercise in, to stay on top of his game.

The door creaked open slowly. Quentin looked up to see a small, scared looking face peeking at him through the crack. Upon being caught, those eyes widened and the door quickly shut again. Quentin sighed and called out, “Giselle, please come in here.”

Silence, and then the door opened slowly and the young slave entered. Giselle kept her eyes on the floor and small hands wrung the bottom of a dirty, shapeless tunic. She fidgeted in place, growing more and more pale. Quentin doubted she was older than thirteen. Still a child, and forced into years of service, probably for something as trivial as stealing food.

“This really needs to stop,” Quentin said slowly, in a low voice he hoped was nonthreatening. She immediately flinched. “I’m not going to hurt you. Ever. I have nothing against you and no reason to hurt you. You don’t need to be afraid of me.” He thought about smiling, but thought better of it.

Giselle’s eyes crept up to his, making contact before going back down to the floor. She swallowed and nodded. “Yes, sir,” she said in a voice as tiny as she was. “Of course, sir.” She didn’t sound convinced.

Quentin sighed and motioned for her to come closer. “What were you coming to my office for in the first place?”

She held up another scroll, this one too tiny to be anything other than a quick note. She closed the distance to his desk and dropped it there, hopping backward. But she hadn’t run out of his office yet. She stood there, wringing her hands, waiting to be dismissed. Quentin picked up the note.

Quintius, get to my office as soon as you get this. We need to discuss plans for The Blooming. - ATB

Quentin frowned. He’d really hoped to go the night without having to deal with Amicus. There was no getting around it. He stood, and Giselle took a step back. Sighing, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a one qala piece. Quentin took her trembling hand in his and pushed the shard of glass into her hand and closed it. “I mean it, Giselle. Get yourself a nice dinner tonight.” She looked up at him, confused. Quentin just smiled and left her alone in his office.

“Enter,” Amicus called upon hearing Quentin’s sharp rap. Quentin entered, closing the door behind him quickly.

The Colosseum’s owner was sprawled out on his chair, his injured leg raised on a cushioned footstool and bandaged up. Next to him an ornate cane rested against his desk. He had a bowl of jellied grubs and a bottle in front of him. Seeing who it was, Amicus grimaced and pushed his snacks away. He motioned for Quentin to sit, folding his hands together.

“You wanted to see me?” said Quentin.

Amicus cleared his throat. “The Blooming. It’s two weeks away, and we’ve had something sprung on us. Emperor Caragalla himself is coming and will be watching from my box. That means we’re going to be under the heaviest scrutiny of our lives, Quintius. Do you know what that means?”

Quentin shook his head. With Amicus, it was better to say as little as possible and let him wear himself out.

“That means,” Amicus said, basso voice drawing out the last word, “that in two weeks we’re going to have one of the most important shows we’ve ever put on and we absolutely cannot risk you fucking it up over sentimentality.”

“I understand,” said Quentin, sighing. “I have no intention to --”

“There will be no courtesies, no last requests, no anything other than satiating our dear Emperor’s thirst for blood. And I mean that for any of the executions you perform that night. I don’t care how harmless it seems.”

Quentin grit his teeth, fighting to not snap at the bastard. Then Amicus’ words sunk in and Quentin looked up. “Any of the executions?”

Amicus smiled then, a nasty sneer of a smile. “Yes. Since Caragalla will be there, we’re upping the stakes and adding more events. There will be a short play about the holiday, our gladiators will go up against each other in a recreation of the Emperor’s greatest military victory, and then you will go up against as many condemned souls as we can get by then. We’re hoping to get four. One for each decade of his reign. It will be the four of them against you.”

“Are you joking?” Quentin scoffed. “Even on my best day I’ve never fought more than two at a time.”

“Are you saying you’re not capable of it?” Amicus challenged. “Should we get someone else to do it? I’ve had this idea of letting Cervenka try filling your shoes, some time. I think he could put on a better show.”

That gave Quentin pause. This confirmed his fears about being replaced, and with Cervenka? The man was a dirty fighter who, at best, was divisive. If he ever got the chance to put the mask on, he’d probably draw things out and flat out torment the condemned in the ring. He more or less did that already with the foes he kept alive.

“So,” Amicus concluded, looking smug. “We’ll have no need of your services until the Blooming. Whatever writs of execution get passed our way will be saved for the show and used then. I suggest you take this time to rest, stay in shape, settle any last affairs, pray to the gods, whatever you need to do before you perform. You will not ruin this for me, Quintius. Either you put on a good performance, or die trying. Either suits me.”

Quentin stormed out of his office, mood darkening by the second. It was one thing to have a job that put him at risk every time he performed. That was old news, and something Quentin grew comfortable with early on in his career. It was knowing that the manager was actively trying to set him up to fail. Amicus was basically trying to murder him and told him that right to his face. How long could Quentin hold out when the person after him made the rules?

“You look like hell.” Demetrius say by way of greeting. He motioned for Quentin to join him as he jogged around the perimeter of the practice yard with half the other gladiators.

“Just saw Amicus,” he replied, falling into a light jog beside the much shorter man. “He wants me fighting four people at once for the Blooming. Including a Savant.”

“Pick up the pace you useless scabs!” Demetrius barked at a fighter lagging behind the rest of the pack. To Quentin he said, “so he’s definitely trying to kill you. You need to quit while you can.”

“Or you can give me some extra training and make sure I survive. If you can spare the time.”

Demetrius looked up at him sharply. “Of course I can spare the time. But this is getting ridiculous. You don’t have to prove yourself to anyone. Maybe now’s a good time to retire. If you did, you’d be setting Amicus up for failure. He’d look like a fool.”

Now there was a reason to retire Quentin could get behind. Almost. “Yeah, but after what happened with the Supreme Arbiter, they’re offering me 10% of the take.”

Demetrius stopped jogging. Quentin slowed to a stop as well. The other runners went around them, leaving the two behind. “Seriously? Okay, that’s a lot but it’s not like you give a shit about the money.”

“You don’t know that,” Quentin said in a deadpan drone. “I could be looking to spend it all on prostitutes, booze, and nice clothes.”

That got him a harsh laugh, and then they were jogging again. “Speaking of prostitutes, you ever settle things with the one you said found you?”

Immediately, Quentin stopped again. At the look on his face, Demetrius understood. “Alright maggots,” he bellowed. “Sword and board training. Run through the basic forms until you puke. C’mon,” he said, motioning for Quentin to follow him.

Once inside Demetrius’ office off the locker room, the aging trainer grabbed a bottle of whiskey and one glass. “Alright. What the hell happened?”

Quentin told him, in exhaustive detail. From setting out to look for her from Demetrius’ home all the way to meeting Mr. Cicero. The more Quentin spoke, the more absurd it all sounded. Demetrius coped by taking a drink each time he seemed surprised. By the time he was done, there was little wonder Demetrius’ response was just, “you’re fucking with me.”

“No fuckery. Honest.”

Demetrius rubbed his eyes, looking older than Quentin had ever seen him. He braced himself for anger, or another stray hand upside the head. The trainer did neither of those things. All he did was look Quentin up and down and ask, in his tired, gravelly voice, “Quentin. How do you see this ending? Realistically.”

It was a good question, and one Quentin had no answer for. “I don’t know,” he said with a crooked smile. “I have no idea what’s going to happen. It’s stressful and a bit exhausting.”

For that he got a sigh. Demetrius worked his mouth open and closed silently as he wrestled with the words. “Do you have any idea how unsafe you’re being? You might actually be more reckless in your personal life than in the ring.”

Quentin shrugged. “If it makes you feel any better, I think this makes me more likely to take my fights seriously. You know, so I can go out and test fate out on the streets instead.”

“Dammit Quentin, I’m serious!” Demetrius gesticulated wildly, growling in frustration. “Are you really willing to trust your life to a whore you flat out said is a serial liar?”

“When have I ever shied away from gambling with my life?” Quentin scoffed, sitting up straight. “I just want to see what happens. It beats coming here, killing a couple of people and then going home and drinking myself into a stupor. This is something different, Demetrius.” Quentin frowned. “I’ve never had...Whatever this is, before.”

Frustration and irritation warred on Demetrius’ face. In the end he just sighed and grumbled, “We could’ve gotten you a whore years ago if that’s what you wanted. One who won’t get you dead.”

Quentin ignored him. “I’m not planning on dying until my curiosity is satisfied. I promise. Now, you can give me shit for it or you could help me.”

Demetrius made a face. “Obviously I’m going to help you. Get your ass here well before sundown and I’ll grab Jonas and have him be a training dummy for you. Maybe take the time to teach him some moves and get him some practice too.”

Quentin smiled. “You’re really trying to groom him for stardom, aren’t you?”

“He’s a good kid. He just needs to have the stupid knocked out of him, and maybe some time seeing what he shouldn’t be like will be good for him.”

With promises of additional training secured, that left only one thing left to do before Quentin could turn back and meet up with Razia out on the Boulevard. Truth be told, he didn’t have to do it but the idea of going to the Colosseum and checking on his duties without also checking on the prisoners was unthinkable. Quentin stopped by the locker room to grab his mask and wore it, sans the black armor.

When he got down to the cells there were two men posted at the doors. At the sound of his footsteps they put hands on their belts, but relaxed when they saw it was the executioner. “Be careful,” the woman on the left said, surprising him. “He’ll drive you nuts. We’re on rotating shifts in and out of the room so we don’t kill him.”

The executioner nodded sympathetically, unsure of what she meant. When she opened the door and he stepped through, he understood. Kassim Nadir lay on the cot in his cell, humming while a copy of him paced up and down the length of the room, letting out an unending stream of profanity. The two guards in here were at the table and appeared miserable. Upon seeing the executioner, Kassim stood up.

“Welcome back, moonkissed filth,” he said, wrapping his hands around the bars. “Quentin, wasn’t it? That’s what the traitor called you.”

“The Butcher’s moonkissed?” A man on the opposite end of the cell called. “Huh. I’ll be damned. Again.” He let out an unhinged giggle.

The executioner ignored the savant and headed for the cage of the latest occupant. Graham Calhoun was a jovial, grandfatherly looking man, with tiny spectacles and a long beard. The executioner let his breath come out as a hiss. “The child rapist.”

The old man smiled. “That’s me.”

There were few times he wished he could execute a prisoner quick and quietly, and not let the world know they even existed. Amicus had this one saved for the Blooming. He wouldn’t be a threat. “Why?” he asked, the only question he could think of. The only question that mattered.

Graham Calhoun shrugged, letting out a giggle. “They scream better. They cry more. They think someone’s going to save them, right up to the end.”

“Let me kill this one,” Kassim said, sitting up. His face was a stone mask as he and his copy stared at Graham. The old man either didn’t notice, or didn’t care.

“Tempting,” the executioner muttered. “But no. He’ll get a fair death, same as everyone else.” Normally he tried to show compassion and maybe even kindness towards the end. There was none of that here and now, only revulsion and resignation. He turned back towards the Ramali captive. “How is your nose?”

“What do you care, monster?” His copy spat a glob of nothing on the ground at the executioner’s feet before winking out of existence. “Your kind delights in pain.”

“Other executioners maybe,” he replied. “I don’t.”

Kassim’s eyes narrowed. They were still puffy and tender looking. “I’m talking about your curse. You’re an abomination that should’ve been given back to the Darkstar as soon as you let out your first stolen scream.”

It was easier to deal with this now, while wearing the mask of the office. There was a layer of separation that kept his anger at a low simmer. It wasn’t the term, although he hated it. It was knowing that no matter how silly those beliefs were, Kassim was a zealot and meant every one of them. Being hated and feared was a given, but few prisoners hated him with this intensity. “You’ll get your chance to do just that soon enough.”

“How did a disgusting creature like you become the emperor’s attack dog? Quentin.” Kassim leered. He seemed to delight in knowing the executioner’s name, even if that was all he knew.

“Quentin,” Graham tittered from his cell. “Quentin, Quentin, Quentin the executioner.”

“Um,” one of the guards at the table cleared their throat. “Is he going too far? You want us to shut him up?” The other patted the club on her belt.

“No,” said the executioner. “That won’t be necessary. If you were to beat him every time he was annoying, how much would there be left for me on the Blooming?”

One guard snorted. “Not much.”

“Is that what matters to you, Quentin? How much of me is left for you to kill?” The air in front of Quentin shimmered and Kassim faced him. His copy, funny enough, didn’t have any of the scrapes or bruises on his face. “Does the attack dog like meat that struggles?”

The executioner sighed. This was pointless. He turned to the guards. “Has Amicus given any special instructions about the prisoner?”

The guards shared a look. “He’s on half rations,” the woman said.

A twinge of annoyance. “That would be for the wound on his leg. That ends today. I want him on rations and a half. He’ll be in good health when we fight, is that understood?”

“What do we do if Amicus looks into it? Asks us?”

The executioner shrugged. “Lie.”

“Is that why you came down here, Quentin? You want to feed me and nurse me back to health so you can enjoy my death?” Kassim sneered.

Yes, but also no. “Trying to make sure you’re being taken care of and aren’t treated like animals,” the executioner said through grit teeth.

Kassim burst out laughing. It was forced and overly loud. “I know what this is. You’re trying to make yourself feel better. You’re trying to pretend you’re not a soulless killer.”

Quentin’s throat tightened. He didn’t have to be there, he reminded himself. He could leave at any time and just...Wait out the two weeks and come back and put an end to this. But he couldn’t. “You don’t have a lot of room to judge me, Kassim. You’re a killer too. How many men did you kill trying to get to your target?”

If Quentin thought it would do anything, he was wrong. Kassim just looked amused, and even Graham let out another nervous giggle watching the argument. “We’re not the same,” Kassim said, offended. “I kill for a reason. I choose my targets based on need and the belief that their death would make the world a better place. You kill whoever they tell you to, and I serve something greater than myself. Tell me, Quentin, do you believe in anything?”

Listening to the prisoners was foolish. They had every reason to try to hurt Quentin and this one seemed to know how. He should’ve just shrugged it off, but the question sunk its teeth into him and wouldn’t let go. “I believe in justice,” said Quentin. “Compassion. That no matter how much of a bastard you might’ve been out there, I’ll treat you the same. That’s what I try.”

The real Kassim spat on the ground and the copy followed before flickering out. “To make yourself feel better,” he repeated. “I once watched you spill one man’s guts and remove another’s liver. Held it up while people cheered. I’m sure he felt comforted in the end.”

Quentin remembered that. Ibrahim...something. Something that started with an M. He was an alcoholic and a snitch, so the bounty was to make an example out of him. That had been just last year. He had no one to send money or last words to and he’d rejected every attempted kindness. Quentin had felt sick for taking that money, but he still took it. “He felt nothing. I killed him quickly and pulled his liver out after.”

“So compassionate,” Kassim sneered. “You really are just handling meat. I think maybe you aren’t Quentin afterall. Butcher suits you better.”

The entire world burst into flame. Quentin’s face burned and tingled, and his breathing caught in his chest as his heart worked overtime.He became painfully aware of the three other people in the room, listening in on their conversation. The guards would talk. Just whispers at first, but they’d spread. This would be just one more way of confirming that he was a monster and Quentin wasn’t sure he disagreed. He remained silent.

“I’ve killed my share of imperialist scum,” Kassim said, dropping to just a whisper. His copy lazily flickered into existence on top of him, overlapping him until it looked like he had two heads. The second head continued, whispering, “You wanna know what you are?” Quentin couldn’t help but lean in closer. “You’re a bloodthirsty monster who wishes he was human. And this is what I think of your compassion.”

The copy disappeared. Quentin had just enough time to see Kassim’s hand on his exposed cock before he was hit with a stream of piss. He jumped back. Kassim continued pissing on the floor. The puddle oozed in Quentin’s direction, making him step back until the table stopped him. His leg and part of his tunic was dark and damp.

The prisoners howled with laughter. The guards looked away from him, and that said more than laughter could. Quentin wanted to laugh, wanted to rage, wanted to cry. He settled for freezing, fighting to steady his breathing. Since he did nothing, the guards took it on themselves to act.

“Alright, that’s it,” the man said, drawing his club and the keys. The woman followed, getting in close. They opened the door and set upon Kassim, clubbing him over the head while he howled. With each hit a copy of him materialized and disappeared in a flash. Quentin watched it happen and said nothing. His fists were balled up at his sides so tight they shook.

This wasn’t what it was supposed to be like. This was the only place he felt happy, at home. Where was that place? Gone. Whether it was Amicus’ death threat or Kassim getting under his skin, Quentin was engulfed in this horrible feeling of loss. He didn’t have to be here, but he was because he cared. He wasn’t a monster. Unless Kassim was right, and it was just to make himself feel better.

Quentin left Kassim to his beating. He could’ve stopped it and he knew he should’ve. But with Kassim’s piss still dripping down his leg, Quentin wasn’t feeling especially charitable that night. All he said was a quick, “Remember, rations and a half,” to the guards before he took the ramp back up to the Colosseum proper.

Back in the locker room he threw the mask at his chest, slumping onto the bench in front of it. He buried his face in his hands and breathed in and out. He felt like shit. Defeated. Quentin had won a round and now Kassim had evened the score. He thought he was above being baited by the prisoners, but this was too raw to ignore. This was going to linger with him, long into the night.

Then he remembered Razia. At the start of the evening she’d told Quentin where she and Samantha would be working that night. He escorted her out of the neighborhood and before they parted ways, she’d said, “Come on by after you’re done. Sam and I want to show our appreciation.”

It wasn’t something he seriously considered, but now...It was better than storming off home and being angry all night until he drank himself to sleep. The night was still young, he had a friend now, and maybe things could get better.

After he washed off the piss.