Chapter 42: End of an Era

Maria’s chest hitched violently each time she tried to breathe. The bolts sticking out of her chest were grouped together tightly. Cervenka was, if nothing else, a good shot. A slow, shuddering hand reached up to touch one. She jerked from the pain, letting out a pitiful whimper. She had the realization in her eyes now. This was it, there was no coming back. Maria looked over to Quentin pleadingly.

Quentin was frozen in place, unable to do anything but watch it all play out in front of him mutely. He looked up to Cervenka, heart pounding and hate coursing through him. “You son of a bitch,” he whispered.

Cervenka dropped to the ground, grunting as his knees took the six foot fall. He pumped the bolter and aimed it at Maria. Quentin positioned himself between the two of them. “You son of a bitch,” he growled, all but shouting it.

“Just doing the job, Butcher,” Cervenka said. Quentin could hear the smug smile on his stupid face. Cervenka kept the bolter up, aimed directly at Quentin. He stood with his usual lazy grace, but he was not relaxed. He had reason to worry, and Quentin had half a mind to confirm those worries. “We knew you weren’t going to do it, so I did. Told you I’d have your job.”

“She was innocent!”

“So what?” Cervenka shrugged. “Not our job to care about that. Just smile and wave to the crowd and come on inside. I’m thinking we’ll alternate shows. With two of us, we won’t have to wait for the one executioner to heal up before the next fight. Amicus should’ve done this years ago, really.”

“Q-q-q…” Was all Maria managed to get out. Quentin turned and crouched next to her. She was pale now, horribly pale. When he took her hand, it was too cold. Still, he took it and squeezed it.

“I’m sorry,” said Quentin. It was the only thing he could think of saying and it was nowhere near enough. “I’m so sorry Maria.”

Her eyes were filled with tears, not quite falling down her face. Her entire body shook with minute convulsions. Maria didn’t have much time left. “T-t-trish…”

“I’ll take care of her,” Quentin promised. “She’ll be safe, educated, and well fed. I won’t let anything happen to her.”

Maria took one last shuddering breath before she went still. Still the audience cheered in the background, while Amicus was uncharacteristically silent. Quentin rose, breathing heavily. He turned back around to face Cervenka again, trying to will the bastard to die from the sheer power of his hate. Cervenka did no such thing. Instead, he opened his mouth and made sure Quentin wanted to kill him.

“Oh come on, Quintius. You going to take care of every brat these fuckers leave behind? That’s just not sustainable.”

Before he knew what came over him Quentin charged Cervenka, raising his fist. He got halfway there before Cervenka pulled the trigger and a bolt shot right through his armor and buried itself in his stomach. Quentin’s legs carried him forward another few steps before he stumbled and fell on his side, pain consuming him.

“Easy there, big fella,” Cervenka said, sticking his boot on Quentin’s side and pressing down. He pumped the bolter’s next shot into position. He only had a couple shots left before it was empty, but he pointed it right at Quentin’s chest.

“Oh, what wonders!” Amicus finally had to chime in, to keep the audience from wondering too much what was going on in the arena. “Our executioners already hate each other and want the other dead. Just wait until you see their matches in the future. There might not be room for two monsters in the Colosseum, but come back in a week and find out!”

“See, Amicus would happily bail my ass out if I killed you right here,” said Cervenka. The image of a fierce hawk’s hideous beak stared directly at Quentin, and for the first time he truly appreciated what the prisoners went through when talking to him. “And I’ve got you dead to rights. Give me a reason, Quintius. Just one reason to pull the trigger. No? Good boy.”

Rage, pain, and humiliation. That’s all that was left for Quentin. He wanted to reach up and pull Cervenka down and beat him to death, but the fucker was right. He already had a bolt planted shallowly in his guts and it hurt almost as bad as being cut open by a blade. That was on top of the other wounds he was bleeding from. Quentin surrendered himself to the loss and lay there.

Eventually, Cervenka let up, giving him a half hearted kick as he walked away. Only a few seconds later the Colosseum’s slaves came out with a stretcher. Quentin lay there, still fuming but otherwise feeling dead exhausted and completely out of the fight. He didn’t move or make a peep as they worked together to roll him from his side onto his back, and then onto the stretcher. They carried him slowly out of the maze, coming to a dead end a couple of times as the slaves bickered with each. At this point, Quentin wasn’t listening. He closed his eyes and surrendered himself to his exhaustion.

Quentin didn’t open them again until they were safely in the infirmary. His own body was starting to feel cold, which wasn’t the best sign. The slaves deposited him on the slab and let him there. Before too long, Salim’s face hovered above his. “You still with us, Butcher?” he asked, sounding permanently bored.

“No,” said Quentin, sighing. He reached up with his good hand and undid his mask and pulled it and the helmet off. They fell to the floor with a loud thunk, but at least Quentin could see and breathe properly. “How bad does the bolt look?”

A fresh burst of pain later and Salim nodded to him. “You’ll live. It’s not in deep, and it seems to have missed everything important. You’ll want to take it easy for a few days, and then you’ll be back to killing in no time, have no fear.”

“I don’t want to,” Quentin muttered, more to himself than to the physician.

“Live, or kill?”

“Both.” Quentin sighed, holding still as Salim inspected the stab wound in his arm. He helped roll himself onto his side, grimacing from the pain. Salim clicked his tongue disapprovingly at the wound on his back. It was almost directly in the center, missing his spine by maybe an inch. That wound hurt almost as much as his stomach, but after a while all the pain kind of blended together. It was still nothing compared to the internal pain. He could still see the look on Maria’s face when she...Quentin swallowed hard.

“Well,” Salim said after a thorough inspection. “You’ll be fine. I don’t think we can get your armor off with the bolt still in you, so we’re going to pull it out. Carefully. You’ll bleed more, for a short while, but we’ll get you on some medication to help with that.. Are you ready?”

Quentin grunted and braced himself. With skilled, steady hands Salim pulled the bolt from his stomach. Quentin let out another grunt through gritted teeth, but one more flare up and it was over. Salim quickly worked the clasps of the armor and pulled it off of him, where it fell to the floor in two pieces. Quentin’s stomach and arm were stained with crusty, drying blood while the wound in his stomach bled freely.

“Put some pressure on that,” Salim instructed. Quentin did so as Salim cleaned the wound on his back and packed and bandaged it. The little bit of numbing gel was a godsend. Then he was on his back again, and Quentin closed his eyes as Salim did his job. The Ramali physician was silent until he was all but finished patching Quentin up. “I didn’t realize they were giving the prisoners bolters now,” he said.

“They aren’t. This was from the new executioner. Cervenka got a promotion.”

“Motherfucker,” Salim swore, making Quentin open his eyes. “Him? Truly?” He shook his head vehemently. “That man is responsible for more fighters needing my attention than anyone else.”

“Good news,” said Quentin. “You won’t have to patch up his victims anymore.”

Salim looked at him for a long moment. He sighed again, taking off his spectacles and cleaning them on his shirt. “What a horrible night. If he’s to be executioner now, what’s to become of you, Quentin?”

“Realistically?” Quentin forced himself to sit up, groaning with the exertion. “I’m permanently benched and you don’t have to deal with me anymore. I go home and drink myself to death.” Maybe he was being melodramatic, but he wasn’t capable of much more right then.

Salim clicked his tongue again and retrieved a bowl of warm water and a washcloth. He set it down next to Quentin for him to clean the rest of the blood off himself. Quentin took it and carefully dabbed at his skin. Blood was hard to wash and it especially stood out on his pale body, but this was a familiar enough post-fight ritual. It was almost comforting.

While he did that, Salim went to his desk and retrieved a bottle and two small cups. He poured a small amount of an amber liquid into them and came back to Quentin, offering him one.

“What’s this?” Quentin asked, taking the cup.

“An apology and a toast,” said Salim, chuckling bitterly. “An apology because you were not the worst possible outcome for the prisoners after all. An apology because now I can honestly say I’d rather you waste your potential if it meant keeping someone like Cervenka away. A toast, to the first time I’ve been wrong in ten years.” Salim unceremoniously downed his booze.

Quentin laughed in spite of himself and shot it back. It burned, with an almost sickeningly sweet after taste that lingered in his mouth, not unlike some of the medicines the physician offered. “I wish I could say the same, but I feel wrong all the time.”

“Mm. In my experience, when you feel that way you should listen to it. It means you’re doing something that isn’t making you happy. It’s almost like I’ve been saying this for ten years now.” Salim refilled their cups then put the bottle away.

“Yeah yeah. Maybe you were onto something,” Quentin admitted. It wasn’t that Salim finally got to him. It was Salim, and Demetrius, and Razia, and the whole rotten night. It was a decade of doing the same thing and never knowing whether he should be proud of himself or ashamed. It was Maria’s last gasps for air, and her glassy, lifeless eyes. Quentin shot back the sweet liquor, welcoming the burn.

There was a knock on the infirmary door. Surprisingly, Salim turned to him and cocked his head questioningly. Quentin shook his head. The physician went to the door and opened it a crack. A short conversation later and he opened the door anyway, revealing Demetrius, Jonas, and to his surprise, Razia.

Razia had been crying. Just the sight of the crushed look on her face and her puffy eyes made Quentin’s throat tighten and breathing difficult. His eyes prickled, but he forced it to stop. The three of them stopped a few feet away. No one seemed sure who should be the first to speak, or even what to say. They stayed there like that until Quentin couldn’t take it anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice coming out as a croak. “Gods, I’m so sorry. I failed her.”

That broke the dam. Razia threw herself at him, heedless of his wounds and cried into his chest. Without thinking about it he wrapped his arms around her and positioned her away from the bandage near his belly button. He held her while tears of his own broke free and trailed down his face. Demetrius and Salim looked uncomfortable and silently agreed to move to the other side of the infirmary together, speaking in low voices.

“I’m sorry,” Quentin murmured as he held Razia close. It was the only thing he could think to say, and it paled compared to the roiling mass of pain and self loathing inside him. Razia squeezed him tighter, and the pain was welcome. Deserved, even. She didn’t let go until she’d cried herself out, a few minutes later. All he did was hold her and occasionally sniffle and wipe away tears of his own.

“I know,” she said, voice little more than a hoarse croak. “I know you tried. This wasn’t your fault.”

“No, it was,” said Quentin. “Amicus promised I wouldn’t have to kill her. I should’ve known he was setting me up. I should’ve known.”

“No,” Razia was vehement now, pulling back to look at him with a fierce expression. “Then it’s his fault. Promise me he’ll pay for it. Promise me he’ll regret it.”

Gods, how Quentin wanted to give her what she wanted. He had half a mind to go up to Amicus and just stab him in the gut. Once, twice, a couple dozen times. With enough fury and hatred in it for Amicus to understand just how badly he fucked up. But the morose, cynical, practical side of him just scoffed. All that would do is get him killed as well. “I’ll find a way,” he said. “Though it may take a while, he’ll suffer for that.”

As chance would have it, Amicus was the next person to walk through the door, along with Omar and Cervenka. Cervenka wore a smug smile on his wolfish face, and notably perked up when he saw how rough Quentin looked. “Ah, there you are Quintius,” Amicus drawled, not bothering to hide a smile of his own. “We’ve got some things to discuss.”

Quentin pulled away from Razia, who stared daggers at Amicus. Her fists were balled up and Quentin could see the fire in her rising. “I’ll handle this,” he said to her, knowing he had maybe one minute before she lost her temper and probably screwed them both over. He stood and went up to them haltingly, heedless of the fact that he was in his underwear. He was too angry to care about that.

“With our Emperor’s gracious permission, I’ve been allowed --”

“Before we begin,” said Quentin, stopping just a couple feet short. “Omar, what’s the fine for assault?”

Omar tilted his head to the side quizzically. “Is this a first offense?”

“Let’s assume no.”

Omar shrugged. “Ten aquilos if it’s a blatant assault without provocation, twenty five if it results in a real injury. Why do you ask?”

Quentin wasn’t subtle about the way he wound his arm up, heedless of the pain. Amicus saw it took, eyes widening in horror before Quentin’s fist slammed into his face. Everyone in the room could hear the crack. Amicus swayed in place before toppling backwards onto Cervenka, who got out of the way and let the owner of the Colosseum drop to the ground.

Cervenka looked up at Quentin with something halfway between disbelief and amusement. He notably didn’t hit Quentin back, or do anything other than halfheartedly try to help Amicus back to his feet. Demetrius ran forward and put himself between Quentin and Amicus as if Quentin was going to keep on going, but Quentin was satisfied for the moment. He rolled his hand on his wrist, savoring the burn on his knuckles. “You deserve that and worse you son of a bitch,” he said. To Omar, he said, “Take the fine out of my winnings.”

“You bastard!” Amicus screamed, clutching at his nose. “I’ll have you killed for this!” He got to his feet and had tears of his own in his eyes.

Omar coughed into his hand, and everyone turned to him. “Enough,” he said, completely calm and evenly. “Thirty aquilos will be deducted from your winnings and given to Amicus directly. The extra five because this was premeditated and in front of a godsdamned Arbiter. Really, Quentin.” He shook his head disapprovingly.

“We had an agreement,” Quentin said. “He misled me and is lucky I didn’t just fucking kill him now.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Omar said, sighing.

“Don’t pretend, have him arrested!” Amicus said, all but screaming in Omar’s face. Cervenka stayed in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest and a big grin on his face. “He just broke my fucking nose and you’re going to look the other way? I had full legal authority to carry out her death, and --”

“That’s exactly what I intend to do, Amicus.” A bit of heat entered Omar’s voice. “Regardless of the legality of your actions, what you’ve done is immensely shitty at best and dishonest at worst. Do you honestly believe your actions to be beyond reproach?”

“I am beyond reproach!” Amicus snapped. Blood oozed from around his hand and down his mouth.

Silence reigned in the room. Salim drank another cup of liquor, watching from a distance. Demetrius eased up and went to Quentin’s side. Razia came up to Quentin’s other side and wrapped herself around his arm, holding on so tight it stung. “You’re a disgusting piece of shit. You’re pathetic,” she said.

Amicus’ face colored in splotchy patches. He wiped fruitlessly at the blood coming from his nose. “Who the fuck even are you, and why are you in my colosseum? Quintius, take your bitch and get the fuck out of my sight. I was going to give you half the upcoming executions, but now you’re just gone.”

Razia jumped at him, held back only by Quentin’s anticipation and reflexes. Even held in place she reached for Amicus like she was going to claw his eyes out. “You motherfucker, I --”

And everyone began speaking at once.

“Quentin, you gotta stop her before she --”

“Razia, forget it, let’s --”

“....If you’re not out of this building in ten minutes I’ll --”

“ENOUGH,” Omar shouted. Everyone else fell silent. “I expected better out of all of you. Maybe not you,” he said looking at Razia, “but everyone else. Quentin, your restraint and control has always been one of the things I admire most about you. This is disappointing. Amicus, you got your wish and have a new executioner. Whether or not you deserved to be punched, the way you went about it brought it on yourself. This is what’s going to happen now.

“Quentin and his guest will leave here and go home. Amicus, you’ll get your nose set and cleaned up, and then you’ll go to after parties.”

“What am I going to say about this?” Amicus gestured at his nose, spitting a bit as more blood dribbled into his mouth. He tilted his head back, making an uneasy sound.

“Make something up, I don’t care.” Omar turned towards Quentin once more. “It is not within his power to fire you, it’s within mine. He may not give you executions but you will remain on the payroll and keep a retainer for each executed prisoner, same as Cervenka. If Cervenka is injured or unable to perform, I fully expect you to call on Quentin, or I’ll know the reason why. There will be no more courtesies or kindnesses for the prisoners. Executions will go on smoothly and without any difficulties. Is this understood by all?”

A chorus of half hearted and compulsory agreements sounded from everyone. Omar nodded in satisfaction. “Good. Then I’ll take my leave and I trust there will be no further hostilities. From anyone,” he added upon seeing Amicus and Quentin glare at each other. Nodding once more, he pushed past Cervenka and left.

“Well,” said Cervenka. “Tonight sure was exciting!” Everyone shot him a dirty look. He and Amicus got out of the doorway, with Amicus motioning for Quentin to leave. Quentin did so with Razia and Demetrius close behind. Quentin couldn’t resist making a sudden jerking moment in Amicus’ direction as he passed, inwardly laughing at the way the bastard jumped. It made the pain of moving quickly worth it.

The audience was long gone at this point. The Colosseum didn’t encourage people to linger after any match, ushering people out of the building to gush about the shows in the open sea of sand outside. That meant there were only slaves and guards left to see Quentin, bloodied and beaten, in his underwear walking around the Colosseum. Everything inside of him should’ve been mortified and wanting to hide, but mostly he was just tired.

“You’re never this quiet,” Quentin finally said, turning to face Demetrius as they made their way to the locker room. Razia stayed outside there, quiet as well and looking as exhausted as Quentin did. “You happy, knowing I’m not going to be working here much anymore?”

“Happy’s not the right word,” said Demetrius in a quiet growl. “Not when it happened like this. Not when you and…” He looked at the direction of the locker room entrance with a scowl. “You and your friend are upset. I brought her in for you. Thought that might help.”

“It did,” said Quentin, falling onto the bench in front of his locker. “She’s taking it harder than I am. They were friends for a while.” He stared at his clothes, hanging up. Sighing, he grabbed his tunic and wormed his way inside carefully, wincing at movements that pulled on his wounds.

“What are you going to do now?” Demetrius asked, helping pull the material down. It wasn’t the first time he’d helped Quentin get dressed after an especially rough match. And not once had he ever given his friend shit for the injuries. As much as Demetrius liked to bust Quentin’s balls, there was no doubt in Quentin’s mind that it was genuinely out of friendship and concern. “You could probably not need to work another day in your life, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said simply. But it wasn’t that simple. He had the shards that he could probably live off of for another thirty or forty years if he cut some of his more frivolous spending. More if he invested it, but that wasn’t the point. Money wasn’t the point. “I’ll probably take some time off and rest, heal up. After that? I don’t know.” He put on his boots and threw on his cloak, clutching it tightly around him. Some habits never really died.

“Well,” said Demetrius, “I’ll be around. Take some time to heal, get some rest, eat good food and hang around with those whores if you want. But if you want to get some drinks, or stay on top of your training, I’ll be there for you brother.”

Quentin looked at him, smiling crookedly. And then he pulled the much shorter man into a hug he halfheartedly protested before slapping Quentin on the back. “Thank you.”

Neither Quentin nor Razia said much on the walk home. As much as Razia could talk and talk for hours, she seemed to understand that when walking around at least, he was tense and tended to fall silent. She didn’t try to disturb him, and for all he knew she needed the quiet as much as he did that night. That ended when they reached the Boulevard. “We need to tell Tricia,” she said.

It was like a punch to the gut. Over the past busy two hours he’d nearly forgotten. “Gods, this is going to hurt,” he muttered.

“I’ll take care of it,” Razia promised. “You just…Need to be prepared for an emotional, hurt, moody teenager for a few days. It’s not going to be easy.”

Quentin shook his head, laughing bitterly. “Nothing’s easy, especially not life and death. I’ll do whatever I can for her. I promised Maria I would, and I will not break that promise. No matter what.”

Razia took his hand in hers and squeezed it. “Maybe you should take a few days to yourself before we go out again. You can stay home and watch out for Tricia, and me and the girls will stick to safer places for a few days. And then…”

And then. Quentin shifted uncomfortably. He’d already failed one of them as bad as it was possible to fail anyone. Was he really the person to look out for anyone? All he was good for was killing, not keeping people safe. “And then we’ll see,” he finally said. “I don’t know if…I don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” said Razia, hugging his arm as they turned into their neighborhood. “You have time to figure things out, and I’m not going anywhere.”