Chapter 40: Let the Games Begin

Security down in the cells was even worse than up top. Worse than it had been all the past week. Now, the executioner couldn’t walk more than ten feet without coming across another guard, most of them unfamiliar faces. They were taking this so seriously that for a few minutes, he genuinely thought about not going down to check on the prisoners. No amount of bother would keep him from making sure Maria was okay though.

“Fine, hurry it up,” the executioner sighed, raising his hands as the pair in front of the cells checked him, and checked his face as well.

“Everyone’s a bit on edge tonight,” one of the guards said. “So deal with it.”

The executioner grunted in return and walked past them. The holding cells were the same depressing place they always were, made even worse by how full they were. Maria remained in the cell closest to the door. She was curled up in a ball on the ground, as far away from the bars as she could get. Philus sat close to her, reaching out at her and coming up just inches shy. If that wasn’t bad enough, a copy of Kassim stood over Maria, whispering something the executioner couldn’t make out but was doubtless awful.

“Attention,” one of the guards he did recognize said. The other guards stood at attention, and even the prisoners stood up. It was almost time, and there was an energy in the cells, a buzzing that had everyone wired. Even Philus and Kassim stood at the front of their cells, glaring balefully at him. He ignored them and went to Maria. “Keep your hands where I can see them,” the guard said.

Maria slowly got up and went to the front of the cell. Ignoring the guard, Quentin took her hand and squeezed it. “I know this is a dumb question, but how are you holding up?” he whispered.

Of course, being the asshole with nothing to lose he was, Kassim decided to start making as much noise as possible, amplified by two other versions of him around the room. All three began talking over each other, making the guards sigh but they did nothing else about it. He correctly guessed that they weren’t going to damage him before the fight.

“They’re hurting me,” Maria said, loudly to be heard over the savant. “Every day since you left, they haven’t given me a moment’s peace. I’m so tired Quentin…” She was near tears. Quentin couldn’t blame her. Hearing her pain hurt him too.

“I haven’t!” said the child rapist brightly. Graham had finally gotten up and peeked out of his cell. In the few times he’d come by, Quentin had been borderline unnerved by how unbothered the man seemed by it all. “I’ve just been minding my own business. She’s too old for the screams to be any good.”

“Shut up Graham,” said Quentin.

“Right-o.”

Philus sneered at Quentin. “You’re damned right we’ve been hurting her. We may die soon, but she’s going to die spending the last hours of her life miserable. Just because she’s your friend.” He seemed pleased by it. No doubt it was his idea, and Kassim was happy to help along.

“You’re going to die,” said Quentin, letting the anger and growing hate wash over him but not overtake him. “But think of the bright side, Phil. You’ll get to see Gregor soon. I imagine as close as you two were, the Darkstar will let you take your atonement together. You probably share many of the same sins. Your other friend. What was his name again?”

“His name is Markus,” said Philus, seething. “At least he got away.”

Quentin nodded, grinning fiercely behind his mask. “For now. If pattern keeps, he’ll come after me and my friends by this time next week. When that happens, should I complete the set? Or do you think he’s smart enough to stay the fuck away?”

One of the guards put their hand on his shoulder and pulled. Quentin let himself be pulled away. The guard shook her head warningly. It was then he realized just how shitty he was being. He didn’t like Philus, and he was honestly glad to get him off the street permanently now that the bastard was in his territory and facing his rules. But just because Philus was cruel to Maria didn’t mean it was okay to be cruel to him.

“Fuck you, Quentin,” Philus said, sighing and looking away. “Markus didn’t want any of this. He warned me this would turn out shitty. He wanted out, and I dragged him and Gregor into it.” He retreated to the back of the cell and slid down the wall until he was sitting. “If I’m glad for one thing, it’s that he’s safe from you, but you’re not safe from him. He’ll avenge us. It’s what friends do. Not that you would know.”

“I’ve got friends.” Quentin was pleased to be able to say that and mean it. It must’ve come off as defensive, because Philus just snorted.

“Your friends are all whores.”

“It’s to be expected,” said Kassim, the real him speaking up even as his copies continued to make incoherent noise. The sound was beginning to give Quentin a headache. “Only the unclean would ever be friends with a monster like you.”

Quentin made his way to Kassim’s cell, wary of getting pissed on again. “Aren’t you supposed to be an assassin?” he demanded. “Aren’t assassins meant to be silent? What happened to that?”

Kassim grinned at him, revealing missing teeth this time. The guards hadn’t been kind to him for all his noise. “I was, yes. But I got caught. No point in being quiet now, is there?” He laughed, echoing in on himself in layer after layer of cacophonous sound.

The executioner sighed and cleared his throat. “I don’t know what all you’ve been told about tonight. I think it’s only fair if I give you a warning how this fight will be.” That was enough to silence Kassim. Even Graham perked up, eyes locked on him. He wasn’t going to be sloppy or careless, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have a conscience.

“You’ll be outfitted with simple armor and given spears. You’ll be taken topside and released into the arena, which has been converted into a large maze. From there, we will hunt each other. If I die, you all get to live and go free. You’re best off working together.” He looked over at Maria, who somehow managed to look more terrified than before. “And that’s all.”

The prisoners were silent. It was an improvement. The executioner nodded and went back to Maria. “I have your daughter,” he said. “And she’s safe. No matter what happens tonight, she’ll be safe. Okay?”

Maria swallowed hard and nodded. She forced a smile onto her face. “I know you won’t let anything happen to her. But if you have to kill me, just...Make it painless.”

He couldn’t just tell her his plan. Not with the rest of them there listening to everything he said. So instead he sighed and said, “focus on surviving. I’ll...I’ll save you for last.”

I’ll save you for last. Gods, what a jackass he was. Quentin berated himself the entire way back up the ramp. Of all the things he could try to say to make her feel better or be relieved, that was the stupidest and least effective. Maria had paled, but nodded as if that was a kindness in itself. Like she would be fine if he saved her for last. “GodsDAMMIT,” he growled, making a nearby slave jump and reverse direction to get away from him. He didn’t break his stride.

Maybe they could have a good laugh about it at the end. Remember that time I almost killed you and then didn’t at the last second? Good times. With great effort, Quentin banished the thoughts and focused instead on the upcoming games. He had work to do and it was going to be stressful and life threatening, but he still got to enjoy a show.

He headed for one of the observation rooms above the ramps leading down. This is where the people who operated the gates worked, and often where the slaves and off duty employees enjoyed a good view and a free show each night. At first his presence ground everything to a halt, people dropping what they were doing to watch him as he took the main spot in front of the window. For once, Quentin didn’t mind the cold fear they showed. He didn’t have to fight anyone for the spot, and after a few seconds they worked around him as he stood there, arms crossed over his chest.

Ten minutes or so until the events of the night started, and the stands were already packed to capacity. Even the steps beside the seats were packed with people standing, occasionally shoved aside by Colosseum workers selling food and drinks and souvenirs. Ten percent of the take was going to be ridiculous. Even if he didn’t truly care about the money, there was still a part of him that felt immense satisfaction at knowing that out of all of Orchrisus and its territories across the desert and beyond, he was the single highest paid performer in all the empire.

Thousands upon thousands of people, there to enjoy a show. His show. The worry about saving Maria and surviving were there but far, far away and getting further by the second. The sound of the crowd was like a drug, making him lighter and lighter on his feet until the executioner was all but bouncing from foot to foot as the time got closer. Louder and louder they got, until it was finally time.

“Welcome!” Amicus Brontes’ voice rumbled from above, reverberating throughout the Colosseum. There wasn’t a person within a half mile who couldn’t hear him. “Welcome welcome welcome, welcome one and welcome all! Are you ready for the show of your lives!?”

The noise rose to a joyous cacophony. “I can’t hear you!” Louder and louder it peaked until the executioner felt the crowd in his bones better than he could hear them. When the noise finally tapered down, Amicus continued. “What a LIVELY crowd we have here tonight! It’s the only way to kick off the Blooming right. One final time, welcome to the Orchrisus Grand Colosseum!

“It is here, the final night of winter, the last day spent in darkness and gloom, in the season of the Darkstar. One last long night before the Pierced Heart goes from twin to twin, bringing us the spring with their love and devotion. A promise of life after death, an eternity in the Darkstar’s realm. Tomorrow we honor the Pierced Heart with as much love and joy as we can muster, but tonight?

“Tonight we honor the Darkstar one final time before she rests, sated by the Pierced Heart’s love for another year. Four souls, weighed and judged and sent to our lady of the dead to attend to her. Four sacrifices, to show our faith.

“We have wine!” The crowd cheered loudly. “We have music!” Another cheer, accompanied by a completely arhythmic stomping as they tried and failed to make a beat together. “We have the finest fighters in the world, ready to give a brutal re-enactment of the final fight that saved our country and let the world know we stand triumphant; Orchrisus, the flower of the desert!”

The executioner couldn’t help but cheer as well, and he wasn’t alone. The nearest employees stood at the window as well, blocked from sight by most but with a perfect view of the entire Colosseum. It was one thing to just hear the energy in the crowd. Even with his bad eyesight, the crowd was a constantly shifting mass, writhing in excitement. He and the others around him let out wordless cries, adding their voices to the celebration.

“We have the Butcher, hungry for blood after WEEKS of having to wait to indulge in carnage. He’s waiting and eager to kill, eager to give us the Emperor’s Justice.” There was no room for resentment or irritation in the executioner’s heart then. There was only excitement, the feeling of all his hairs standing on end as the crowd began a chanter of his name. Butcher! Butcher! Butcher! They were godsdamned right he was the Butcher. This was his home, this is where he belonged.

“We have the Emperor himself here to watch over the fun and games! And it’s without further ado that I humbly demand you all rise for his Excellency, Emperor Caragalla!”

The audience reached their new loudest peak as people screamed and howled and clapped and stomped their feet for the ruler of Orchrisus. Most of them couldn’t give a fuck about him on any given day, but there at a special time and place there was a surge of patriotism. Which was exactly what this entire show was about, the executioner supposed. He couldn’t deny his own feeling of love for his country, as brutal and heartless a place as it could be.

There was the sound of whispers, and a low humming as Amicus passed his scepter over to the emperor, who cleared his throat right into it. “Welcome, my people, and thank you for being here to honor the gods, and to honor me.”

Immediately some of the fervor was gone. The emperor, the executioner noted, was a far less impressive speaker than Amicus. He had less energy, his voice was reedier and had a wavering sort of confidence that said people had to listen to him, but he wouldn’t be the ones making them. He hadn’t made it through his entire career being bad at speaking, but it was a step backwards from the Colosseum’s owner.

“My loyal citizens, you may have heard the rumors regarding an assassin. Tonight, I’m here to tell you they were true. Exaggerated but true. Yes, there was an attempt on my life. It was foiled easily by my guards, and now the coward will die before your eyes tonight. This was not the first attempt on my life, gods know it won’t be the last.

“There was nothing special in this last attempt, save that the would-be killer is a savant.”

A hushed gasp spread across the Colosseum. Savants were uncommon, and those who were open and up front about having an ability were prone to higher scrutiny and faced little tolerance of abuse. Orchrisus was hardly the worst place in the world to be a savant, but only because they faced the same cold brutality everyone else in the city faced. The only difference was who did the killing.

“Rather than have my mageslayer take care of it, I’ve decided to give him to you. Another year has passed, another year of fighting to live in the world’s most hostile environment. Orchrisus thrives. Another year of working and suffering for our dreams and our passions. Orchrisus thrives. An attempt on the life of the Emperor is an attack on Orchrisus herself. But…”

The entire Colosseum erupted with life. “ORCHRISUS THRIVES!” they cried back. The sound echoed as people came in late or repeated it. The emperor was silence as they went wild, screaming their defiance and vitality in equal measure.

“ORCHRISUS THRIVES!” The emperor bellowed one last time. “The season of darkness and death is over. Let us march boldly and swiftly into a season of life, love, and prosperity. Tomorrow, let us celebrate the Blooming! Tonight? Tonight the blood is spilled in tribute of the Darkstar, and in tribute to all of us. Take the blood of the wicked and wash it away for the fresh start of a new year!”

The crowded cheered again and again, refusing to die down this time. The executioner waited patiently, finding his own fervor dying as Emperor Caragalla finished his speech. It was easy to get swept up with it, until you really listened. Knowing one of his friends was considered unclean in multiple ways was enough to ruin his enjoyment of the spectacle. He’d do what he could to enjoy himself, but there was no relaxing until Maria was safe.

Outside the observation deck, the Colosseum came to life. Workers forced their way through the thick crowd, making a path for the musicians to come down to the stage. The stage was where the Arena was, laid on top of the maze seamlessly. All of the Colosseum slaves would be busy tonight, moving and arranging things for the show. It wasn’t easy transforming the Colosseum, but Orchrisus was an empire of artists and builders, and nothing could be too good for the show.

Alongside the musicians came slaves carrying smaller scepters, similar to the one Amicus used. The entire twelve piece band fit onto the stage in the center, surrounded by scepters propped up. They were little more than colorful blobs at this distance. The executioner found himself wishing he could wear his shades with the mask, but it was too late for that and too awkward besides.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Amicus, “allow me to present to you Orchrisus’ own...Dunewalla Feeding Frenzy!”

One of the slaves lifted and waved a banner. If he screwed up his eyes, the executioner could make out what looked like a black shape of one of the large lizards, surrounded by blood. The band started playing, drums and cymbals crashing loudly and echoing from the enchanted mouths hanging around the Colosseum. Then came the strings and three voices, singing together. They didn’t sound bad, exactly, but the executioner could hardly make out the words.

“They sound like shit,” a voice said from behind him.

The executioner grunted his agreement without turning around. He recognized that voice, and it was hard enough keeping his head on straight without giving in to anger and accusing the man of going behind his back with Amicus and trying to get him killed. Or just hitting the son of a bitch. The time for accusations was over.

“All right, Quintius?” Cervenka said, stepping beside him. He was a tall, rangy wolf of a man. Dark hair, dark sharp features on a face that were handsome, in a wicked sort of way. He was dressed for battle as well, and not in the Colosseum’s usual armor. That made sense. Half the gladiators were going to be putting on an exhibition match dressed as enemies from the past.

“No,” said the executioner, keeping his head forward while the band played energetically and the crowd cheered along. “I wouldn’t say so.”

“And why’s that? Nervous about the upcoming fight?” Cervenka said, suspiciously serious sounding. “Can’t say I blame you. It’s enough to make a lesser man run away.”

“So run away.”

Cervenka let out a hearty laugh, completely unphased. “I like your spirit, Quintius. For what it’s worth, I hope you succeed tonight. Four people, odds are at least one of them will inspire you to put on a show instead of just...Killing them and being done with it.” He made a face.

“I’ll succeed,” said the executioner. “I haven’t failed yet.”

“Ehhhhhhh,” Cervenka made a noise, wiggling his hand in the air in doubtful motion. “That’s up for some debate. I guess it’s kind of a good show when you just slit their throat and spray blood everywhere, but personally? It gets old. It’s over too quickly and you’ve only got one good arterial spray before they die.”

“I don’t recall asking you.” The executioner took a deep breath and let it out. That was the worst part of people like Cervenka. He could sound as pleasant as can be while saying nothing but incendiary things the entire time. More than a few other gladiators took a swing at him, only for him to retaliate far worse. At least two people had attacked him and ended up crippled over the last ten years.

Not that the executioner was truly tempted to try anything. If he did, it wouldn’t be the same as those other attempts. No, if Quentin lost his temper and went after Cervenka, he feared he wouldn’t stop until the other man was dead and this was absolutely not the time or the place for it. Which is why, naturally, Cervenka was having fun with him.

“You don’t ask anyone anything, Quintius. That’s your problem.” Cervenka crossed his arms over his chest and leaned sideways against the window, mostly facing the executioner. “What kind of a performer doesn’t want to improve their performance? Have you ever considered retiring?” He wore a shit eating grin on his face.

The executioner ignored him, but that didn’t stop Cervenka. “Not tonight, obviously. You’ve got four people to kill, or die trying. But after? Think of it. You could end after tonight and be considered the best the Colosseum ever saw. The one executioner to go undefeated. Well, until the handsome replacement beats your record, eventually. But that’s all in good time.”

“The problem with that,” the executioner said, taking the bait, “is that there’s no one currently worthy of taking up the mantle. If I quit, then chances are we’ll lose the next three arrogant jackasses who think they could do this job. And then the Colosseum’s reputation would plummet. We can’t have that, just because someone’s ego demands more.” He was actually proud of the way he kept looking past Cervenka to the band playing on. The executioner smiled, grateful for his mask.

Unfortunately, Cervenka wasn’t bothered. “The Colosseum’s reputation is already plummeting,” he said. “The thing is, people love a good winning streak. But they love it even more when that streak ends. You could quit and be a legend and people would be excited for you and love you forever, but when you die you’ll eventually be forgotten as just another executioner. No one wins every match, Butcher. Not even you. Strongly consider retiring. I’m just trying to look out for a fellow brother in arms.”

“Fuck you,” Quentin said. “You’re not looking out for anyone but yourself here. Same as you always do. You know why people don’t want to be partnered with you ever. You’re a glory seeking pissant who thinks you’re better than you are. Do you think me stupid?”

“Honestly? I --”

“I know you and Amicus have been trying to set me up. He doesn’t expect me to survive this fight. And neither do you, I’m guessing. That’s why you’re here, trying to psych me out and throw me off my game. It’s pathetic, Cervenka. You could be a great gladiator if you weren’t such a shitty person.” The more he spoke, the more the anger burned lower, until it was all but gone. Something like pity reached Quentin’s voice.

The smile and false joviality was gone. He said nothing for several long seconds, instead looking out at the band and the tens of thousands of cheering faces. The executioner almost thought he won this round until Cervenka shook his head and let out a low laugh. “Truthfully, I don’t give a damn whether you live or die tonight, Quintius.

“Your time is over, whether you live or not. This is just one last big hurrah until Amicus can shitcan you. Win? Lose? Whatever. Tonight you’re getting one final courtesy of your own before you’re gone forever. I’ll be replacing you.” He turned his smirk over to Quentin. “One way or another I’m going to come out on top and make my start by cleaning up the mess you’ve made of the position.”

Cervenka pushed away from the wall and stood in front of the executioner. He was very nearly as tall, and while he wasn’t built like the executioner was, he was still in top shape and had just a bit of reach on him. And most of all, he looked convinced, absolutely certain that what he was speaking was the truth.

“I don’t give a damn,” said Quentin, lying. “After tonight I’ll deal with Amicus. Omar, you might know him as the Supreme Arbiter,” he said, knowing he was being petty and not caring, “likes me too much to have me replaced. I get the job done in a humane way. You’d torture them for a good show. I’m not going to let that happen.”

Cervenka just smiled at him. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t make a show of mocking or doubting Quentin, and that was probably worse than if he had. All he did was smile and clap the executioner on the shoulder. “The Supreme Arbiter doesn’t manage the Colosseum. Amicus does. And Amicus likes me. See you soon, Butcher.”

It took every bit of Quentin’s control to not grab Cervenka by the arm and to throw him out the fucking window. Audiences like a good surprise, right? Chances are he wouldn’t even die, just suffer from -- Quentin closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He counted to ten and then let it out. This was beneath him. He didn’t need to get mad and rise to every barb from the Colosseum’s second biggest asshole. Cervenka was just trying to get under his skin.

And it worked. That was the worst part of all. He wasn’t exactly subtle in his attempts to be a massive prick, but it still worked and Quentin still felt like he was seething heat from all of his pores. Maybe things were stacked against him, but that didn’t matter. Unlike Cervenka, Quentin had something to fight for. He had people to fight for.

There was Maria and her daughter Tricia, obviously. Those were who he fought for most that night, but they weren’t alone. He was going to fight and survive for Demetrius and Jonas, the only people in the Colosseum who liked him. He was going to fight for Razia, who despite being shady and constantly up to something was probably his best friend. Most of all, he was going to fight for himself.

Because the Colosseum was his place, and Quentin was its king. He didn’t get half the respect he deserved and got way more than twice the crap he needed, but this was his home. There was no way Cervenka, or Amicus, or anybody else would take it from him. Looking out at the band, now playing a slower, morbid song of winter, Quentin promised himself that he would come out of this alive.

If only to stick it to the people who hated him.