Chapter 39: The Emperor of Sand

The day of the Blooming had come, and Quentin sat at his locker, staring at his armor on the wooden mannequin. The skull mask stared back at him, grinning at a joke only it knew. All around him was the clamor of gladiators getting ready for their big night. All while he sat and stared and thought about what was to come. Quentin was no stranger to taking his time getting dressed, but rarely did he just sit there.

“What if I fuck it up in front of everyone?” said one of the gladiators, Patrick. He and Bruce were sitting a few feet apart from Quentin, whose armor and changing station were slightly apart from the rest. Ostensibly it was for him to stand out as the star. In practice, it was so others weren’t too close to him. It didn’t stop him from overhearing, but the degree of separation often had him stay silent. Not today.

“You won’t,” Quentin said, tearing his gaze away from his mask. “You’ve been doing drills for the past two weeks, same as everyone else. If Demetrius shouted in your ear while you were asleep you’d be doing your forms before you’d even woken up.”

Bruce chuckled, and Patrick stared at him before an uneasy smile crossed his face. They often saw him, but rarely heard him. They didn’t seem to know quite how to react. “What about you?” Bruce asked haltingly. “You nervous at all?”

Quentin thought about it. “I’m nervous every godsdamned fight,” he admitted.

“Well, of course you are,” said Patrick. “Sure one of us could get killed if there’s an accident, but we’re not fighting to the death. Most of the time. Worst that happens to me is I make an ass of myself in front of twenty thousand people. Sure, dying is embarrassing, but,” he smirked, “at least you wouldn’t have to live it down.”

That got a good laugh out of Quentin. He turned around, straddling the bench and facing the other two. “This is your first major event, isn’t it? Honestly, if you fuck it up and embarrass yourself, people will love it.”

“They will?”

“Yeah,” Bruce said, nodding along. “They go nuts when the show doesn’t go as planned. Of course, if you fuck it up Demetrius is going have you run laps until you puke, but he usually puts you in a match soon after to show you learned from your mistake.”

“Exactly,” said Quentin. “Just relax, and enjoy yourself. There’s nothing quite like seeing a packed house and hearing them scream for you and demand more.” He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. This was a good reminder to himself as well. “You’ll be dreaming of this night for weeks afterward, win or lose, smooth or not.”

Patrick smiled widely as he imagined it. He nodded, liking what he saw in his mind’s eye. “Yeah. I’ll do that. Thanks Quentin.”

A surge of warmth spread through Quentin’s chest. That was a pleasant surprise. He nodded and turned back to his armor. Maybe Demetrius and Razia were right. Maybe a lot of his anxieties about the way people saw him were just that. Quentin pulled off his shirt and began putting his armor on, piece by piece. After ten years of this, the bulky black chitin was almost like a second skin to him. All except for the mask.

It simultaneously protected his identity and dehumanized him. It was hard to be seen as just another gladiator when wearing it. Sure, all of the helmets were highly stylized, but this was the only one that covered the face entirely. No one liked that skull grin staring at them, let alone wanted to have a conversation with it. Sighing, he put it on too.

A shout arose from the front of the locker room. The noise made its way closer as the gladiators made a fuss over a non-fighter among them in their states of undress. Most of it was a joke, but they announced the Colosseum slave long before he stopped before Quentin. “Amicus wants you, Butcher,” he said. “He says it’s urgent and to not fuck around or take your time.”

The executioner stood. “Thank you,” he said, leaving his corner. The other gladiators, including Patrick and Bruce, instinctively edged away from him as he passed. The slave followed close, tugging on the chains around his neck as they left. They parted immediately outside the locker room, as the executioner climbed to the top of the Colosseum, dreading having to deal with Amicus before the matches.

The entire Colosseum was alive and bustling with activity as everyone fought to make sure they were ready for the massive crowd they’d be serving tonight. The kitchens cooked up a storm, and vendors stocked up on bottles of wine and mead and water to pass out during the show. Stalls were set up on every floor, selling toy swords and gladiator dolls. The executioner walked through all of them, for once glad that he repelled those closest to him.

The first sign that something was different came at the halfway point. Two guards were stationed there, and they stopped him. “Mask off,” one of them said.

“You know it’s me,” said the executioner. “I’m pretty sure I’m distinctive enough to be hard to imitate.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said the other guard. “We were told to confirm, and that’s what we’re gonna do.”

The executioner pulled away his mask, scowling at them. The guards looked at each other, and then down. “Yeah, it’s you. Go on up, but...Careful, Butcher. Things are serious up there.”

That gave the executioner pause. Amicus was a vain son of a bitch, but he’d never been overly concerned with security. A good deal of that vanity came from how beloved a figure he was to Orchrisus. Everyone knew his rich, rolling basso voice and his distinctive belly laugh. The only people who wished him any harm were those who knew him personally. Four more guards stood outside his office, leveling their weapons at the executioner.

“Give us your weapon,” one of them said.

The executioner pulled his sword off, belt and all and handed it over. Another guard took it while the rest kept their weapons trained on him. “A few ground rules before you enter,” the leader of them said. “You will keep at least a few feet away at all times. Get too close and you will be skewered. You will watch your mouth around his excellency. If you don’t --”

“You’ll skewer me,” said the executioner. “Noted.” His heart began beating fast. There was only one reason why the security would be this high, and specific instructions given to him. Gods, he hadn’t prepared for this.

“Just so,” the guard said, almost smiling. “Just don’t do anything stupid and you’ll be okay.” He motioned with his head and another of the guards knocked on the door three times. The doors opened and the executioner was ushered in.

Amicus, for a change, was not at his desk. He was off to the side, leg still bandaged and raised up though it must’ve been almost fully healed by now. No, behind the enormous high end desk sat the emperor of Orchrisus and the warden of the great desert. The emperor stood, looking up into the executioner’s mask directly. He was an ordinary looking man, old even, and not anywhere near as impressive as expected. But he didn’t have to be if he could snap his fingers and have the executioner torn to pieces in seconds.

“Welcome, welcome,” Amicus said in a voice so friendly the executioner was startled to find it was directed at him. “Your excellency, may I introduce to you --”

“The Butcher of Orchrisus,” said Emperor Caragalla, in a voice that was clearly excited but restrained. “The man who’s been carrying out my justice for the past decade. Welcome.”

It was only after a few long, awkward seconds that the executioner remembered his manners and dropped to his knee, bowing his head respectfully. “Sire,” he greeted cautiously, throat suddenly dry and closed up.

“Rise,” Emperor Caragall said with a wave of his hand. “There’s no need to stand on ceremony with just the four of us in here.”

Belatedly, the executioner realized the supreme arbiter was there as well, standing to the side and as quiet and serene as usual. “Hello Omar,” he said. “I trust you’ve been well.”

Omar bowed his head in acknowledgement. “As well as can be expected with the stress of all of this hanging over us. I’ll be glad when Kassim Nadir is dead and gone and we can rest easy. Have you been staying out of trouble?”

“Not even a little bit,” the executioner answered automatically. It was less weird, now that he knew about the compulsion. His answer served to make Omar laugh, a genuinely pleased and surprised sound. The emperor and then Amicus joined in, though it never reached Amicus’ cold eyes.

“Before you came in here, we were talking about some of your past exploits,” Amicus said. “The Emperor would love to hear some stories, if you have any.”

The executioner tilted his head. Suddenly, he couldn’t remember a single execution he’d ever done. All of them were gone, and he was painfully aware that everyone was watching and waiting. He cleared his head, straightening up. “It’s been a long ten years,” he said, “and in that time I’ve nearly died, seriously came close, only a handful of times. One of those times was when a gladiator was arrested for rape and murder of a senator’s son.”

That was hardly a light topic, and the executioner regretted bringing it up as soon as the words left his mouth. But they were watching and listening intently. The emperor hadn’t even asked him to take his mask off. They wanted a lurid story, he realized, not anything especially real. Emboldened, he continued, “Of course I knew him personally. I trained with him for years. Even sparred against him more than a few times.

“So we knew how each other fought. He knew my weaknesses, and I knew a bunch of his. Something you might not know, excellency, is that most gladiators fight dirty. Anything to win a fight, and that goes double when your life's on the line.”

The emperor was rapt with attention. He leaned forward with his elbows on Amicus’ desk, not making a sound. “So what happened?”

“Well,’ the executioner continued, “he had a friend who didn’t want him to die, and who didn’t like me. We allowed him to fight in his armor and use his weapon and we made a real match of it, but his friend slipped him an extra weapon, a shiv. We fought, he and I, and I managed to disarm him. He jumped me and we grappled. When he got close enough, he pulled the shiv out and stabbed me, right here.” He pointed to a spot to the side of his stomach. Stuck me like a pig, nearly perforated my guts.

“It hurt worse than almost any other injury I’ve had. It didn’t drop me, but it came close and it put a timer on the rest of the fight before I dropped and he walked away a free man.”

The emperor nodded enthusiastically. “But he didn’t. Obviously.”

“Yeah,” the executioner grunted. “Because I knew his weaknesses too. He knew I wouldn’t see the extra weapon coming, and I knew he had a bad knee. I let him get close and I kicked his knee like this.” The executioner raised up enough to kick out sideways at nothing.

The guards nearest him jumped and aimed their weapons at him. The executioner held his hands up, completely frozen. The emperor barely seemed to notice the tension, waving the guards off without looking up. Relieved, the executioner continued, “Broke his knee, and his leg crumpled. I jumped on him and hit him a few times. He hit me too, but we’re both hurting so bad it’s coming slower now. He hit the shiv, still stuck in my side and I nearly passed out.

“If I wasn’t careful, I was still going to lose. So I did something I knew would hurt him and make him panic.” The executioner extended his thumbs and mimicked jabbing them forward. “I sat on his chest and gouged his eyes out. He screamed and clawed at my wrists but it was too late. Then I pulled the shiv out of my side and stabbed him through the neck, right here,” he tapped a spot on his breastplate where his chest met his neck.

Amicus and Omar remained as silent as death for several seconds that dragged into forever. Then the emperor burst out laughing and clapping at the story. The executioner let out a relieved breath. “Excellent, excellent!” Emperor Caragalla crowed. “Stabbing him with the knife that he stabbed you with? That’s cheeky. I want that kind of fire tonight when you end my would-be assassin.”

The executioner bowed his head, smiling behind the mask. “It was cheeky, but I nearly died of blood loss after. Demetrius, our trainer, nearly tore my head off for that one. I promise you the savant will die tonight, even if it kills me.”

The emperor looked satisfied. “Then it pleases me to present you with a special gift, Quentin Quintius.” He snapped and one of the guards lifted a box. He set it down in front of Quentin and retreated to his position. “A gift worthy of the man who carries out my justice. The Emperor’s justice. This is what I want you to kill my enemies with tonight.”

Body buzzing with nervous energy, Quentin bent over and flipped the latch. The box opened to reveal one of the most gorgeous weapons he’d ever seen. It was a mace, made to look like a king’s scepter. It was made of a deep black material he was unfamiliar with, and it glittered in the bright light of the office. Along the shaft was the word ‘justice’ lad in almost glowing red. He lifted it up and tested the heft. It was heavy, but balanced well. Quentin gave it a roll of his wrist, feeling the way it moved as part of him.

“This is a wonderful gift, your excellency,” he said, genuinely in awe of the fact that the nation’s leader gave him a personalized gift. So maybe it was meant to pad his own ego and be used as a symbol to Kassim’s allies, it was beautiful and felt right in his hands. It had no spikes, but the way the head of the scepter was shaped it would do the job well.

Then he realized what he was going up against. Four (three, he reminded himself) people with spears, working together to take him down while he had a heavy stick to beat their heads in with. This was already going to be difficult, but he was going to have to get close to have any chance of hurting them, and they were well equipped to keep him at a distance. The executioner looked up and saw Amicus smirking, as if he’d been thinking the same thing.

“It will make for a fine spectacle tonight, I promise you that, your excellency,” Amicus said, removing all doubt. “Quintius here is one of our best. Live or die, he’ll give you a wonderful show, befitting a legendary ruler of your stature.” Amicus bowed his head graciously.

“One of?” The emperor cocked his head to the side. “And here I was promised he was the best. He looks the best,” he laughed, motioning at Quentin.

“There’s one or two other gladiators who could give him a run for his money,” Amicus said, nasty smirk growing wider and wider. “After all, by his own admission the other gladiators are a match for him. And my man Cervenka is easily his equal. He’s been wanting to test himself against Quintius for a while. I think you’ll be most impressed with him tonight.”

So that’s how it was. Everything was going to be stacked against him so that Cervenka could take over. He was one of the few house gladiators that would do fights to the death. Most matches weren’t lethal, as the Colosseum’s gladiators were there to put on a show. But privately funded gladiators had time in the arena as well, and the more mercenary of them were willing to risk their lives for a bigger payday. It was honestly probably easier to execute prisoners in the ring.

“Your excellency, I have nothing but faith in Quentin,” Omar said, rising to his defense. “He’s been a faithful servant to the courts for a long time and he’s never failed us.” He gave a pointed look to Amicus. “He will put on the best show of all. Won’t you?”

The executioner nodded. Even with the odds stacked against him, he had a better reason to fight than normal. He had a reason to win, and to pull out all the stops. There would be no intentional mistakes, no giving his opponents the chance to win, or even strike him. He’d do anything to make sure Maria survived until the end. It was then the executioner realized the trap Amicus set.

He promised a good show, and then dangled a different gladiator in front of the emperor’s eyes. If the executioner asked for clemency for Maria, as had just now occurred to him, it would be the same as admitting he wasn’t equipped to handle fighting four opponents at once. But there was still the bargain he set with Amicus.

“Amicus,” he said. “We had an agreement about one of the prisoners. You will honor it, yes?”

Amicus’ brows furrowed in confusion. “What? Oh, right. That. Yes yes, Quintius, I’ll keep my end of the bargain. Put on a good show and everything will be good.” There was that smile again. Like he was laughing at his own personal joke.

No, the executioner didn’t trust him at all, but at this point he had little choice but to go along with it. When the time came, if Amicus tried to force his hand by announcing to the crowd that he’d do it to try to force him, he was in for a rude awakening. The audience loved it when things didn’t go as expected. When Maria was the last one left, he would refuse no matter what Amicus said. The crowd would eat it up and the fat bastard would have to choose between letting Quentin win and salvaging what he could of the night or risk his reputation.

The executioner bowed his head at all of them. “Tonight will be a night to remember, your excellency.”