Chapter 76: Raise Your Cups

In hindsight, Quentin should’ve expected the wake for Demetrius Buros to be big. At fifty eight years old, Demetrius had spent forty-one years at the Colosseum before dying in battle. At the very least Quentin expected the current gladiators to come and pay their respects, and maybe some of the recently retired men and women who had fond memories of the head trainer. But Demetrius was more than just the curmudgeonly trainer: he was a Colosseum legend.

They had to rent out the entire tavern to fit everyone who came to Demetrius’ favorite place to drink, and still some people had to sit at the tables outside rotating in and out to pay their final respects. When Quentin arrived the place was lively and people were laughing and drinking. He recognized the people outside, if not by name, and most of them knew him well enough. Their eyes met his as he passed and they raised a drink to him while Quentin gave a polite nod in return.

Inside was a pleasant dull roar of people laughing and shouting. At first, Quentin stood in the entrance, scanning the room for anyone familiar. One table in the center of the tavern was turned sideways and pressed up against the wall. There sat a portrait of Demetrius, a gift for his fiftieth birthday. His hair and beard were more groomed than normal, and he had a peaceful smile Quentin had never seen in his life. Two more years and they would’ve given him another. In front of the portrait was the urn where his ashes rested.

Pain bubbled up from his stomach, sudden and overwhelming. Quentin held his breath as it washed over him, making his eyes sting and his chest hitch. The loss of his best friend had been…Easy wasn’t the right word. There was nothing easy about a vibrant life snuffed out, nor all the lives torn apart in the wake of that loss. Quentin knew the other side of that well, but feeling it himself was a new, unpleasant experience.

It had been easy to grieve for Maria, and for his job, back when that mattered to him. Although he’d only known the woman a short while, she was kind and good and soft. When he failed to save her, he had to join in the pain of all the other girls and her daughter. It was effortless to let it out and be hurt, and then move on. Now, there was pain, but it stuck there in his chest like some wine he swallowed wrong. It ached and that ache spread and spread and seemed to have no end. It lingered there, never getting any better or any worse.

Being here at the wake, now, with all the people around there reminded him painfully of the worst part: Demetrius didn’t need to die. It was Razia’s fault for her past and it was Quentin’s fault for asking him there to look out for the girls. All the people there to mourn him and celebrate his life knew how he died, but did they know why? What would they say to him if they knew? Chances were it would be worse than an entire career of being ignored and snubbed.

“Hey, you made it,” Jonas spotted him from one of the tables and came up. His left arm was still in a sling, wrapped up tight while the nasty cut healed. His eyes were red and puffy, but he looked to be in good spirits overall. “I was beginning to wonder. I know you didn’t go out drinking with the guys much, but he would’ve wanted you here.”

It was amazing how tight his throat could get. Quentin shook his head, not trusting himself to speak at first. “I wouldn’t have missed this for anything. He…He deserves better than he got.”

Jonas nodded, smiling sadly. “Why don’t you come over here? There’s a spot over at my table that’s free. I won’t take no for an answer.” The teen put his arm around Quentin’s shoulders and all but dragged him past Demetrius’ portrait over to one of the tables with some of the other rising stars in the Colosseum. Half of them were young enough that Quentin didn’t know them, but there was one harsh looking woman about his age (Scarlet, maybe?) and two men who were closer to Demetrius’ (Brock and John, he thought).

“Hey, look who I found,” he announced to the table, releasing Quentin and sitting down. He pushed Quentin’s chair out with his foot, beaming.

The rest of the table looked at him, and for the life of him Quentin couldn’t figure out what they were thinking or whether or not they wanted him there at all. But Jonas wanted him there, and Jonas was more or less a friend. Quentin sat down and grabbed the bottle on the table and poured himself a drink. He raised it up, looking around. One by one the others raised their cups, waiting for the toast.

“To Demetrius Buros,” Quentin said quietly. “A giant of a man, famous for his humility, his compassion, and temperance.”

Silence.

Beside him, Jonas snickered. The woman across from Quentin bit her lip, but the burly man next to her burst out laughing. Then the tension was broken and the rest of them added to the toast.

“To the most patient of us,” Scarlet said, smirking.

“To the wisest of us,” said John.

“To the kindest!” Brock barked.

“To the warmest!”

“To the most eloquent!”

“To the longest lasting bastard in the whole Colosseum.”

Jonas raised his cups, eyes glistening. “To the man who took in orphans and troubled teens and turned them into disciplined warriors.” The laughter died down, but the mood remained high.

“To Demetrius,” Quentin repeated, “May the Darkstar recruit his sadistic ass in helping the wicked atone for their sins.” Together they drank away the tension, the toast cracking some of Quentin’s anxiety. He settled back in his chair, sighing. Quentin let himself relax, shrugging off his cloak. All eyes were on him.

“The hell happened to you?” Brock grunted. “Have a little fight in the Turtle’s honor?”

“Something like that,” Quentin said, looking away. He was still busted up from fighting in the pits. He knew now he could speed up the healing, make it happen in just hours or just minutes maybe, but he wasn’t sure he trusted it. And even if he did trust it, his gift hurt like a motherfucker to use. It was like all the cumulative pain of healing happened all at once in one agonizing, full body flare. And it seemed to leave him drained and ravenous afterwards. “You should see the other guy.”

“I don’t even know who you are, to be honest,” One of the two other younger gladiators said. He was probably close to Jonas’ age, but much bigger and he looked like he was still growing. “You weren’t a gladiator, were you? I watched the fights for years and never saw you.”

Jonas and the older three gladiators exchanged a look. Back when he was working, his identity was easy enough to keep secret through intimidation. No longer being a part of the Colosseum made that trickier. “Quentin here was Demetrius’ right hand man for years,” Jonas said, sounding mostly convincing. “Just this last year he gave me private lessons. Learned a lot from him in that time.” Jonas gave him a silent toast, which Quentin returned.

“Like what?” One of the other two young ones said suspiciously. “How to cheat death and have to avoid the sun?” He burst out laughing and his friends joined him. No one else did.

“You best watch yourself, son,” John drawled over his drink. “First time I saw Quintius fight it was against a bunch of punks like you. It took four of us to drag him off of them and then he started fighting us until we all jumped on him to stop. I nearly got a tooth knocked out for my troubles. That sumbitch was loose for a month.”

Heat flooded Quentin’s face. He couldn’t say he knew John well, but he could only be referring to the incident that got him in the training yard to begin with. “Should’ve let me at them. They had it coming.”

That earned a laugh from John and Brock. Scarlet and Jonas smiled, but the two teenagers just stared at him as if they couldn’t believe it. Whatever, their opinions of him weren’t his problem. After today he’d probably never see them again. Not like he was going to be spending any more time at the Colosseum after this. Quentin just shrugged and poured himself and Jonas some more wine.

“We were just trading stories about Demetrius,” said Jonas. “You have to have some worth sharing. You knew him longer than just about anyone.”

“Not as long as me,” said Brock, looking smug. “I was there for five years before your scrawny ass ended up in the infirmary. I think I retired halfway into your…” he trailed off, eyes sliding over to the young trio. He didn’t need to finish the sentence. “And I think there’s a few of the old timers around here who are even older than the Turtle was.”

“Anyway,” Scarlet said, elbowing Brock in the side, “tell us a story, Quintius.”

It was the kind of thing that ordinarily he’d have trouble with. Quentin wasn’t comfortable being on the spot, but over the last few days he had plenty of time to think about the man who’d been in his life for half of it. “I don’t think it’s any secret I was an angry kid,” he said, to a couple of chuckles. “Not even working with Salim dimmed that at all. But when I switched over to training dummy, Demetrius decided he needed to set me straight.

“One of my first days there, he pulled me aside before we got started with training for the day. He had me suit up and he told me that my job was to get a clean hit on him. I’m sure you can imagine how that went.” That got a couple of chuckles. There was a reason why he’d been called the Turtle. “I’d attack and he’d either block or deflect it and then counter attack. Each time I failed to get in a good hit, he’d hit me with a stick. Again and again until I saw red and just dove at him. He threw me on the ground and pinned me until I thrashed. Then he lectured me.

“He said, ‘Hate me all you want you son of a bitch, you’re never gonna hit me if all you do is come out swinging. You want to be a good fighter? You’re strong, you’re healthy, and you got fire. Use your fucking head before you go for it and you might even win a fight.’” Quentin paused for a drink, remembering that day well. Demetrius had been kind enough to give him that lesson in private, far from the eyes of his peers who would’ve eviscerated him afterward.

“And then he helped me up and told me he was going to hit me, and I had to defend. I ended up very bruised that day, but by the end I was able to hit him a bit and lasted longer than thirty seconds when sparring. He worked with me every day after that, spending an hour with me before we’d break for lunch, and then he’d have me show what I learned against the gladiators he was training. He used to say it was just using me to make his job easier, but he paid me way more attention than he did anyone else.

“He was…He was a good friend,” Quentin said, that burning, choking feeling rising again. He controlled his breathing, keeping it as even as possible. He wouldn’t let himself break in front of others. “There’ll never be another like him in my life.” He raised his cup again, and people joined him. He downed it, letting the light burn of the alcohol bring tears to his eyes. He wiped them away with the heel of his hand while the others kindly pretended not to notice.

Jonas cleared his throat and then spoke. “He liked to talk about the different people he trained over the years. His favorites. He said that you were his boy. And…” Jonas’ handsome face screwed up as he gathered the courage to say what he was thinking, “that I had the potential to be just like you. But less stupid. His words.”

Quentin burst out laughing. “Yeah, that sounds like him. You keep at it, you’ll be better than I ever was.”

“How good could you have been?” One of the two snot nosed brats said to him. “You were just a trainer right? Jonas is going to be way more famous than you’ll ever be.”

John put his hand on the back of the teen’s neck and squeezed. “There’s a time and a place,” he growled. “Learn them.” He shoved the kid off his chair and to the ground. The rest of the table laughed at him.

Just as Quentin was about to let himself relax, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Jonas stared past him with a disgusted grimace. He was about to ask what was going on when a loud, boisterous voice cut through all conversations in the tavern.

“Quentin Quintius, you beautiful son of a bitch, I was wondering if we’d see you here!”

Oh. Oh gods no. Not here, not today. Sighing, Quentin stood and turned to see Cervenka there with a shit eating grin. He spread his arms as if he was going to run up and hug him. He stared the executioner down with every ounce of contempt and hatred he could bring forth. It seemed to do the trick; Cervenka stopped just shy of him.

“Is it true that Demetrius is dead because of you?” Cervenka called out cheerfully. The last vestiges of conversation died down as all eyes turned to the two of them. His words were like a punch to the gut. If things had gone according to plan, he would’ve been out of there long before anyone could ask many questions about how Demetrius died or why. Leave it to Cervenka to just say it. Now there were dozens of grieving warriors who would want answers.

Worst of all, Quentin couldn’t bring himself to lie or make excuses. Demetrius deserved better than that. “Yes,” he said, raising his voice. “It’s true. Demetrius died helping protect my business while I did a favor for him.”

“And what favor could you possibly have been doing for him that warranted him dying for you?” Cervenka smirked, eyes all wide eyed innocence. Not for the first time Quentin was tempted to just throw caution to the wind and take Cervenka down and see how much damage he could inflict before the others inevitably dragged him off. “Where were you that night? How do we know you didn’t kill him? Everyone knows what your kind is capable of.”

“Because I was there,” Jonas snapped, jumping to his feet. He stood between Quentin and Cervenka, looking up into Cervenka’s smug face with an expression that looked how Quentin felt. “Demetrius took a wound defending the Garden and succumbed to it. Anyone who says anything else is a liar and not welcome here.”

“The Garden?” Cerenka pretended to be confused before his face lit up with recognition. “Right, right. That’s your WHOREHOUSE, right Quintius? Demetrius died for your whores?”

Whispers came from every direction. Gladiators of all ages got up from their tables and wandered closer until there was a very clear desire to hear what Quentin had to say about the subject. Some of them had inscrutable expressions, others were sad or angry. At him, Cervenka, or the situation, Quentin couldn’t say. He took a deep breath, shackling that anger. Managing his temper was Demetrius’ greatest gift to him, and there was no better time to embrace that gift.

“Shut the fuck up, Cervenka!” Jonas growled, inches away from his face.

“Or what? You gonna make me, with one hand tied behind your back?”

Quentin pulled Jonas away before he could do anything. “You’re absolutely right, Cervenka,” he said loud enough to be heard. Speaking in front of A large group wasn’t comfortable, but it was becoming a habit of his. “Demetrius asked me to help him with something. In exchange, he and Jonas would watch out for my whorehouse. That night, a gang from the southside attacked my business, wounding Jonas and Demetrius.

“He ran after them. You all know how stubborn the bastard was. He said he was going to look out for my girls, and he took that seriously.” Quentin couldn’t stop the tear from trailing down his face. And then the other. He kept his voice strong, unable to stop now that he started. “If it wasn’t for him, my partner and lover would be dead now. He…He decided to chase after them instead of getting treatment. That’s a debt I could never pay back, not even if he was still alive.”

Cervenka looked pleased with himself, arms crossed over his chest as silence hung heavy in the air. Then came the flood of questions.

“Which gang?”

“Why did they attack you guys?”

“Did you get any of them?”

“That true, Jonas?”

The ring of people pressed in closer. Quentin wiped at his eyes. He motioned for quiet. Maybe it was foolish to open up like this in front of people who barely tolerated him for the last fourteen years of his life. Out of them, only Jonas and Demetrius had been a real friend to him. The others put up with him during training and avoided him when the mask was on. In the end, he couldn’t be anything less than honest. He took a deep breath.

“My lover has a history with the southside gangs,” he said. “The Warlords. Seven of them came after her while I was gone. Demetrius killed one, and I killed another three. Two of them were arrested by the watch and another two got away.”

“Are they going to come back for her?” Bruce spoke up, pushing past the crowd. Quentin nodded at him gratefully.

“Yes. We’re working on making sure this doesn’t happen again, but we expect the Warlords to attack again.”

There was a murmur through the crowd. “Is that why Demetrius was asking about guards?” A lean woman with silver in her hair asked. She was leaning up against a wall, the picture of lazy, alert grace. “Like a week ago he came and asked if I was up for some guard work.”

“He approached me too,” another man said. “Said it was easy pay for easy work.”

Cervenka snorted loudly. “Doesn’t seem like easy work afterall, does it?”

It wasn’t Quentin who punched Cervenka, or even Jonas. A short man more known for chariot racing than fighting jabbed the executioner in the kidneys. “Shut the FUCK up, Cervenka!” he growled. The bastard let out a surprised yelp and then another person punched him across the face. Soon everyone near him rushed to get a good blow in. Within seconds he was curled up into a ball as blows rained down on him. When they were satisfied people grabbed a limb each and dragged him out of the tavern. After, it was like he hadn’t said anything at all.

“How much are you paying for guard work?” Bruce asked. He flashed a smile at him. “I could always use some extra shards on nights I don’t fight.”

Quentin was surprised to hear the murmur of agreement in the background. The crowd pressed in tighter and the noise came back as people began talking all at once. He had to raise his hand for quiet again. “Three castura a night for standing around and looking menacing. Most nights, you won’t have to do anything at all.”

“If the Warlords come back,” Pete piped up, “would we have free reign to rip them apart?” He wasn’t alone in his sentiment. Another surge of noise told Quentin it was a very popular idea.

“We’re working on trying to keep the peace,” said Quentin, “but if any of them show up on our doorsteps without a flag of peace their lives are yours.”

When Quentin came to the wake, it had been with the intention of showing his respects and mourning alongside the people he’d once had a connection, however tenuous, with. There hadn’t been any thought on his mind about his request for guards, or how the other gladiators might have a vested interest in vengeance. Now that the words were said, Quentin realized how much of a fool he was.

“Well, sign me the fuck up!”

“Three castura to look mean?”

“I’m gonna crack so many godsdamned skulls…”

All around him people came up close to pat him on the back and talk to him. It wasn’t all of them, or even half, but enough gladiators came to Quentin to offer their services and promised their participation in any retaliatory strikes that for a moment, Quentin almost felt like Razia or Mr. Cicero. In that moment, at least, there were a number of people who would work for him or kill for him if he said so. It was a heady, frightening feeling, but not one he turned away from. By the end of the evening, nearly twenty people signed up for a shift here or there, with more promising their presence if it meant going after the Warlords directly. It was more than enough, more than Quentin had dreamed.

It was after another several rounds of drinks and shaking hands with new and familiar faces and answering questions that Quentin finally got to pay his respects. He found himself alone in front of Demetrius’ inaccurate portrait. Quentin chose to focus on the urn that housed the remains of his best friend.

“I…” Quentin swallowed hard. “I guess I can’t thank you enough. For everything. Without you, I’d probably be dead a long time ago. Without you, Razia would definitely be dead.” It was weird, talking to a jar. The priests of the Darkstar taught that spirits lingered until they were released and mourned. Was Demetrius there on the other side, listening in? Maybe he had to believe in it. He’d never get through this if he didn’t.

“It occurred to me. I can’t recall you asking anything of me. Not in fourteen years. I mean, you asked for plenty at work, but you never asked anything of me personally. You didn’t want anything from anyone. You just…You just lived your life and encouraged everyone else to, too. You just wanted us to be happy and safe, didn’t you?”

The tears came again, silent and slow. It was good to get them out. “There’s nothing I can do for you now, brother, but I can still promise you something. I promise you, I’ll always fight using my head first. I promise I’ll be less sloppy. I’m…I’m not safe, and losing you hurts, but I’m happy now, Demetrius. For the first time in my life I want to live. I just…I promise I’ll keep that up. I’ll stay alive as long as I can.”

He didn’t know when Jonas came up beside him, but the teen didn’t say anything until Quentin noticed him. “I’m not going to be able to fight for a while,” he said. “Obviously. But I want to be there, at the Garden. I…I failed him. I failed your friends. If I hadn’t gotten cocky and taken a stupid hit, maybe we could’ve driven them off.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Quentin said, awkwardly putting a hand on Jonas’ good shoulder. “What’s done is done. There’s only looking forward.”

“I want to be there, then,” Jonas insisted. “Let me make up for things. Let me continue the job while I heal up at least. I won’t let you down.”

With as many people who said they were in, Jonas probably wasn’t necessary. They could do it without him. But Quentin knew that wasn’t what it was about. It was so easy to dismiss the teenager after meeting him as being some starstruck newbie who wanted his job. In that time he’d basically ignored Jonas outside of training, all but disregarding him as a person. Now, Quentin could see how much Jonas needed this. Maybe Quentin needed it too.

“I’ll be glad to have you join me, brother,” said Quentin, squeezing the teen’s shoulder. “Together, they’ll never succeed again.”