Sometimes the way a man dies is more important than how he lived.
HE WAS BORN INTO A WORLD FILLED WITH TREACHERY, dark magic, and unresolved war.
His coming had been foretold, and his birth was a joyous event among the few mystics considered worthy to witness it. As his mother gave him life, she and her newborn were surrounded by an azure glow. Soon the glow faded to reveal the crying child for whom the hopefulPon Q’tar clerics had waited so long. They named him Vespasian Augustus I, and it was he who was destined to lead his country to final victory over Shashida, the southern nation that had for so long threatened Rustannica’s way of life.
Immediately after the child’s birth, his mother and father were taken away. Five veiled wet nurses would take turns suckling him, ensuring that no singular attachment would form in his heart and perhaps mar his later devotion to the clerics who would shape his life. The child was everything; the woman who birthed him and the man who sired him were little more than living suppliers of unique bloodlines. The boy would be raised alone by the mysterious clerics. One day those same mystics would grant him rule over their nation.
ThePon Q’tar had explained the boy’s sudden appearance and amazing blood quality to the citizens of Rustannica as wondrous gifts of magic that were to be welcomed, rather than omens to be feared. The citizens quickly took Vespasian to their bosom, and as he matured they hungered constantly for news of his upbringing.
He had been born thirty-two Seasons of New Life ago. Today, more of Rustannica’s enemies would die.
Small numbers of captured Shashidan soldiers were usually killed outright on the battlefield by the Rustannican Imperial Order. But if the captives were numerous, they were brought in chains to Ellistium, Rustannica’s capital city. There, most would be forced into slavery; the remainder would be condemned to fight one another to the death in the “games,” a lavish spectacle staged in Ellistium’s great coliseum.
Vespasian raised one hand and held it out to Persephone, his empress. Smiling, she placed her palm atop his, and they strode out into the morning sunshine.
As the couple entered the vast coliseum, they were showered with colorful rose petals gleefully tossed down by Persephone’s many handmaidens seated in the stands above. At the sight of their revered rulers, the crowd rose to their feet and roared.
The great coliseum was the largest structure in Ellistium. Its curved stone walls, four tiers high, were covered with colorful mosaic murals depicting a variety of fearsome beasts. On each tier, ivory statues of previous emperors stood in huge carved niches.
The coliseum could accommodate one hundred thousand spectators. As he surveyed the quickly filling stands, Vespasian knew that no seats would go unsold today. These were the first games in nearly three months, and the populace was eager for blood. The mighty Twenty-third Legion had recently been ordered home after a successful campaign, and many Shashidan soldiers had been taken prisoner-sufficient numbers for a full fifteen days of games.
Open arches built into the four tiers allowed light and air into the passageways by which the eager mob entered. Colorful banners fluttered atop the curving walls. Two great red canopies, unfurled from opposite sidewalls, extended nearly to the center of the arena. Their far sides were attached to towering solid turquoise columns that had been sunk into the arena floor. Each column was topped with a gold statue of Vespasian dressed in full military regalia.
The morning sun glinted off the statues and filtered through the red canopies, giving the sand-covered floor the appearance of having already been bloodied and whetting the crowd’s appetite for the spectacles that would soon unfold.
The emperor looked from one end of the arena to the other. Massive iron gates stood in the walls at each end, their twin doors guarded by stern Imperial Order centurions. Over each portal was inlaid an elaborate inscription in pure silver. Above the northern doors the inscription read: The Gates of Life. The southern one read: The Gates of Death.
The emperor’s private box was a lavish affair of elegant blue marble furnished with two ivory thrones, along with simpler chairs reserved for privileged advisors and guests. In each of the four corners, banners of purple and gold fluttered from onyx columns, and ivy vines graced the walls. A purple silk canopy lay stretched between the four columns over the box, shielding the emperor and his entourage from the hot sun. In one corner stood the nervous Games Master, the man responsible for the smooth management of the upcoming spectacle.
The emperor’s box was flanked by two other elaborate boxes. The one to the left was reserved for the Imperial Order’s eighty legion tribunes, though only those few not afield in the seemingly never-ending war against Shashida would attend the games.
The box to the right was reserved for the Priory of Virtue. All twenty seats were carved from solid ivory and lined with red velvet cushions.
The moment the emperor and empress sat down, Shashidan slaves appeared with a multitude of delicacies: wine, sweetmeats, shellfish, grilled breasts of game birds, and boiled eggs; piles of cakes, pastries, and tarts, all sweetened with honey.
As Persephone settled into her chair, the crowd continued to roar and the last of the rose petals fluttered down. She casually employed the craft, causing a golden wine goblet to rise from a tray and float toward her. As she took it in her hand, she turned to regard the man she loved more than life.
Although her marriage to Vespasian had been arranged by thePon Q’tar, Persephone had been smitten at first sight. To her initial dismay, the same had not been true of her intended; but with time, he had come to return her love. The only shadow over their marriage was her failure to produce an heir. Repeated physical examinations of the empress by thePon Q’tar clerics had produced no answers. Even their cleverly concocted fertility potions and specially designed enchantments had not helped her to conceive.
Persephone knew that she had been chosen only because of the unusually high quality of her blood. ThePon Q’tar had searched long and hard for a young girl of such highly endowed blood. Persephone had been forcibly taken from her parents at the age of three and, like Vespasian, had been raised and trained by thePon Q’tar clerics. Her instruction in the arts of magic, politics, and war had rivaled Vespasian’s in every way-but her specialty was palace intrigue, and some confidants dared to whisper that no one outshone her in that area, not even her husband.
She smiled as she regarded Vespasian beside her. He looked splendid in his dress uniform. Dark blue leather armor adorned with elaborate silver filigree covered a shiny black tunic. He wore dark blue filigreed leather greaves and gauntlets and black sandals. His purple and gold cape was attached to his armor at each shoulder, and a golden dress sword in a filigreed scabbard hung at one hip. In celebration of the games, the traditional crown of laurel leaves fashioned from solid gold sat atop his blond curls.
As she regarded him, Vespasian turned to look at his wife. His dark blue eyes met her light blue ones, and he reached to stroke a strand of her long blond hair. She was wearing a gown of vibrant red silk. Golden snakes wound around her upper arms, and matching earrings hung from her lobes. She looked radiant. Leaning closer, Vespasian gave her a conspiratorial smile.
“I hope that you don’t mind attending the games today, my dear,” he whispered. “I fear that they have become a way of life.”
Persephone smiled in return. “I enjoy the spectacles as much as anyone,” she whispered back. “You know that. Besides, my place is with you. The palace is wild with rumors that there is to be some form of entertainment today. I must say that I’m curious.”
Vespasian nodded. “Along with the usual lot of criminals and professional combatants, newly captured Shashidan skeens will participate today. They were recently taken by the Twenty-third Legion.”
“Did they give up any useful information?” Persephone asked.
Vespasian shook his head. “We heard little that we did not already know.”
As he looked back out over the massive crowd, Vespasian couldn’t help but be reminded of the immense importance of class structure in Rustannican life. There were four distinct levels, and one’s position in society was irrevocably determined at birth by the nature of his or her blood.
The “krithians,” those lucky few born with fully endowed blood that complete command over the craft of magic, were protected by special laws and privileges, and considered to be the cream of the Rustannican Empire. Below the krithians were those born with partially endowed blood. They were known as “hematites,” or simply “partials.” They, too, were able to call on the craft, but their gifts were limited to the craft’s organic side, such as herbmastery. The next class of citizens was comprised of those with unendowed blood. Called “phrygians,” they were unable to summon the craft in any form. The lowest class was the huge multitudes of slaves, also known as “skeens.” By way of continual captures and new births, the slave population had grown so much in recent years that it made up a full third of Rustannica’s population.
Regardless of age, gender, or blood type, all skeens were captured Shashidan soldiers, civilians, or their descendants. Those not chosen to supply fodder for the games were sold at auction by the government in Ellistium’s great forum on the first of each month. If they had once been magic practitioners, the craft was immediately used to wipe their memories clean of the ability to call upon their gifts, thus ensuring that they would never again present a threat to the empire.
As he surveyed the swelling crowd, Vespasian sat back in his throne, thinking. Most Rustannicans believed that their nation’s strength lay in her vast legions and her treasury of gold. But they were wrong. Rustannica’s real power lay in the continuing survival of left-leaning endowed blood. That was the true ruling factor here, and nothing would ever change it.
Twelve more people entered the emperor’s private box. The seven men and five women greeted Vespasian and Persephone warmly, then took nearby seats. These august mystics made up the reveredPon Q’tar. Protected by time enchantments, each was scores of centuries old, and some had even taken part in the ancient revolt against Shashida and the start of the War of Attrition. Their many responsibilities included ongoing craft research, advising the emperor and empress, and overseeing the day-to-day operations of the legions. Each cleric was dressed in a bright white robe, its folds gracefully draping from the left shoulder to the right thigh. A deep burgundy border ran all along the garment’s length, signifying its wearer’s lofty office.
Shortly after thePon Q’tar arrived, the crowd quieted-a sign that the women of the Priory of Virtue were filing into their box on Vespasian’s right. They wore diaphanous white gowns; matching veils fell from simple gold circlets to cover their faces. No other jewelry adorned them, and no badges or symbols of their sisterhood were evident. As they took their seats, the First Mistress of the Priory, also known as the Femiculi, bowed to Vespasian. He bowed in return, and the crowd quickly returned to its raucous ways.
Soon thirty of the imperial tribunes appeared. They were in full dress uniform, complete with gold and red horsehair-combed helmets and blood-red capes. Each man saluted Vespasian by thumping his closed fist against his golden breastplate, then quickly opening his palm and extending his arm straight ahead. They then removed their helmets and took their seats.
By law, each tribune and several of the centurions serving under him had to be krithians trained in the ways of magic as well as warfare. Groups of lesser mystics called Heretics of the Guild also accompanied each legion, to offer additional strength and guidance in the craft.
Once his officers were in place, the First Tribune came to join Vespasian in his box. Lucius Marius had been Vespasian’s closest friend since their earliest days when they took their military training together. After Vespasian, Persephone, and the leadPon Q’tar cleric, Lucius was the highest ranking person in Rustannica. With a smile and a respectful nod for Vespasian, Lucius placed his helmet on the floor and bent over Persephone’s hand to kiss it.
Persephone liked Lucius. Despite his reputation as a rake and a great lover of wine and gaiety, Lucius was good company and a wise counselor. She returned his smile and handed him a goblet of red wine.
At last, Gracchus Junius, the leadPon Q’tar mystic, quietly rose from his chair and approached the emperor, a worried expression on his aged face. Vespasian placed a hand on the mystic’s shoulder.
“What bothers my old tutor?” he asked. “This is to be a happy day!”
Without answering, Gracchus produced a wax tablet diptych from the folds of his robe. The diptych’s covers were made of solid gold held together by two jeweled rings.
Vespasian recognized the unique book immediately. It presence meant only one thing: The Oraculum had word for him. If Gracchus was willing to present an Oraculum diptych to his emperor in public, the news had to be of the greatest urgency.
Taking the book into his hands, Vespasian gave Persephone and Lucius a wary look. Persephone pursed her lips; Lucius raised an eyebrow. Vespasian returned his gaze to his cleric.
“It has been some time since she has spoken,” he said quietly.
“Yes, Highness,” Gracchus said in his gravely voice. “And her newest pronouncements are not reassuring.”
Vespasian looked at the book to make sure that Gracchus’ personal red wax signet seal was still intact. “Is the news bad?” he asked.
Gracchus paused to look out over the restless crowd. In some areas, squabbles had broken out over the best seats, and the widespread drunkenness and debauchery that usually accompanied the games had begun sooner than usual.
“The news is distressing,” he said finally. “Perhaps you should start the games before reading the diptych. The crowd becomes restless.”
Vespasian shook his head. “I will read it now. Let the mob wait a little longer.”
With a snap of his fingers, he called Gaius, the Games Master, to his side. Once a slave and arena combatant himself, the grizzled old man had long ago lost one eye and several fingers to the games before being given his freedom by one of Vespasian’s predecessors. Granting freedom to a slave, criminal, or enemy of the empire who had fought well in the arena was rare, and only the emperor could bestow such an honor. In his twelve years as Rustannica’s ruler, Vespasian had never done so.
Now Vespasian looked up into the Games Master’s remaining brown eye. “Give them the bread,” he ordered. “That should placate them for a while.”
“My liege,” the man answered with a small bow. He turned and quickly walked to one corner of the box. There stood a series of tall golden staffs that could be easily seen from the arena. Mounted on each staff was a three-sided gilded sign that could be swiveled to signal various commands to ever-watchful centurions prowling the arena floor. Selecting one of the signs, Gaius presented one of its faces to the arena floor.
At once the centurions started walking toward a group of male and female slaves performing acrobatic tricks. Each wore nothing but a simple white loincloth and flowers in their hair. Their oiled bodies glistened in the reddish light filtering through the canopies.
After getting their new orders from the centurions, the slaves disappeared through the Gates of Life. They soon ran back out carrying huge baskets of freshly baked bread. As they tossed the loaves into the stands, the crowd went wild. In honor of the spectators, Vespasian sometimes ordered that thousands of such loaves, each branded with the letter V, be given away. Such royal bread was rarely eaten. Instead it was taken home and displayed proudly as a personal gift from the emperor. There it would remain in some domicile or shopkeeper’s window until it molded and fell to dust. The loaves had become so revered that stealing one had recently been made a capital crime. For most Ellistiumites, owning such a loaf of bread was as close as they would ever come to touching royalty. In honor of highly special events, Vespasian sometimes enchanted the loaves, ensuring that they would never spoil. Such was the case today.
With the crowd distracted for the moment, Vespasian opened the diptych and began reading the beeswax pages. The elegant script had been deeply etched with a stylus. As always, Gracchus had personally put the Oraculum’s verbal pronouncements in writing, and Vespasian recognized the cleric’s unique hand. As he read, his anger rose. He snapped the diptych shut, then handed it to Lucius. As the First Tribune read the pages, his expression mirrored Vespasian’s.
Persephone touched her husband on the arm. “What does it say?” she asked.
“TheJin’Sai lives,” Vespasian whispered. “Despite all our efforts, that son of a thousand fathers escaped Crysenium and returned to Eutracia. Moreover, he now commands the gift ofK’Shari. He killed Xanthus, the being thePon Q’tar created to lure him to our side of the world. That Vigors bastard seems to have a thousand lives. Perhaps even worse, the Conclave now possesses both the Scrolls of the Ancients and their indexes. I can see no end to the trouble this defeat will cause.”
Lucius handed the diptych back to Vespasian, and the emperor angrily tossed it to the floor. “The one blessing in all this is that we were able to kill the traitorous Envoys of Crysenium,” he breathed. “But only time will tell how much Tristan was able to learn from them before he fled back to his homeland. Now he is untouchable.”
Vespasian turned and glared angrily at Gracchus. “It was thePon Q’tar ’s plan to lure theJin’Sai here!” he growled. “In the end, not only did your idea fail, but we were forced to trick Serena into killing herself and her child! In doing so, we lost the last of our Vagaries allies who shared Tristan’s blood! The failure is yours!”
“We must accept our misfortune,” Gracchus answered. “Our sudden need to summon the Borderlands was regrettable, but no one could have foreseen it. It had to be done because of the Shashidan cohorts that were approaching. I admit that the timing could not have been worse, and had we been permitted to leave the Borderlands dormant, Xanthus would have certainly delivered theJin’Sai into our hands. But what’s done is done. Sadly, the azure pass was an amazing opportunity that will likely never come again. We made the best of it that we could. But with the pass gone, just as we cannot threaten Eutracia, those in Eutracia cannot threaten us. And Crysenium and its traitorous Envoys have been destroyed. So it would seem that theJin’Sai lost as much as we. The stalemate persists.”
Vespasian thought for a moment. “Directly after the games, I will call for a meeting of the Suffragat,” he ordered. “We must discuss this turn of events. I will not tolerate another failure.”
“I understand, Highness,” Gracchus answered. “And although it grieves me to mention it, there is another urgent matter that we must face. The latest treasury count-”
“I am aware of the treasury count!” Vespasian snapped. Trying to calm himself, he sighed and gave Gracchus a hard look. “ThePon Q’tar does little else but whine about it! Do you think I wanted to pay for these games with public funds? But what other choice did we have?”
He angrily rubbed his brow. “I’m sorry, Gracchus,” he said. “It seems that I’ve heard all the bad news I can stomach for now. But you’re right about one thing. I doubt that the crowd will be willing to wait much longer. The last thing that we need is another citywide riot on our hands.”
As Gracchus nodded and returned to his seat, Vespasian looked at the Games Master and clapped his hands. At once the man walked toward the edge of the box and swiveled another gilded sign. When the crowd saw the centurions again unlock the Gates of Life and hurry through, they stood and shouted, their rising clamor quickly becoming deafening.
Persephone turned to look at Vespasian. Normally at the start of the games her husband showed the same eager excitement as the mob, but now he only looked concerned. She did her best to give him a reassuring smile.
Below, the customary processional sounds rang out. The massive Gates of Life swung open, and dozens of Imperial Order horse-drawn chariots charged into the arena. Driven by accomplished centurions, they began speeding around the arena wall in opposite directions, narrowly missing one another for the amusement of the crowd. Following the chariots, a large band of Imperial Order musicians entered, dressed in their finest uniforms and beating on drums and blowing into trumpets, fifes, and flutes.
Today’s killings were special. Seeing the usual lot of common criminals ruthlessly butchered always held great amusement for the Rustannicans of Ellistium. But watching Shashidan fighters taken fresh from the battlefield and forced to fight to the death held a special appeal. By watching the Shashidans die in the arena, the crowd could share in the legions’ victories. Vespasian knew that this united his countrymen like nothing else, and so he too welcomed the coming slaughter.
Trying to forget his troubles, Vespasian took up that day’s handbill and read it. As usual, the Shashidan prisoners of war possessing low military rank would be killed first. Because of their relative unimportance, they would be creatively tortured and murdered without the right of combat. These first killings served to whet the crowd’s appetite for the fighting that would follow later in the day.
As he read further, what the emperor saw on the handbill stunned him. No wonder the crowd was in such a heated frenzy! More than three thousand Shashidan fighters were slated to die during the first act of the games alone. He had never seen such a huge number. Looking angrily out toward the arena, Vespasian shook his head.
“What troubles you?” Lucius asked.
“Look at these tallies,” Vespasian answered. “They’re far too high! Although I do not object to the way skeens die, I must protest this terrible waste! Most of these slaves should have been branded for sale at auction! Imagine the tax revenue they would have provided to the treasury! Did you know about this?”
Lucius’ expression darkened. “I assumed that thePon Q’tar had informed you, as usual, of the number before the handbills were printed.”
For the second time that day, anger roiled up inside Vespasian. “Apparently the lead cleric didn’t see fit to inform his emperor,” he growled. He glanced over at Gracchus, then back to Lucius again.
“I have called for an emergency meeting of the Suffragat to take place directly after the games,” he said quietly to his friend. “We have much to discuss. I plan to dress down those willful clerics-especially Gracchus. And I want an audience when I do it, so that my words cannot be misconstrued. For such a supposedly learned mystic, Gracchus sometimes possesses an amazingly short memory. But mark my words-before this day ends he will experience my displeasure.” Vespasian sat back in his chair, scowling.
Lucius took a long sip of wine, then smiled. “So be it,” he said. “In the meantime, I suggest that you not let the tail wag the dog.”
Vespasian nodded. “I couldn’t agree more.” As he considered his friend’s words, a plan started forming in his mind.
Just then more oiled slave boys and girls in loincloths entered the box. Each one carried an elaborate gold tray laden with jewelry, which they presented for the emperor and empress’s perusal.
After looking over one tray, Vespasian declined. He glanced over at Lucius. “Spoils from the Twenty-third’s recent campaign?” he asked.
Before answering, Lucius watched Persephone select a diamond and sapphire ring. Smiling, she slipped it onto the little finger of her right hand.
“Yes,” the First Tribune answered. “They sacked many Shashidan towns before the Borderlands were activated.”
“How much raw gold was brought home?”
Lucius shook his head. “Not enough to make an appreciable difference,” he answered. Understanding, Vespasian returned his attention to the arena.
As the chariots charged dangerously around the inner walls, the musicians played and the acrobats leaped and whirled. Vespasian quickly ordered the Games Master back to his side and held up the handbill.
“There are far too many slaves marked for execution, you idiot!” He raised his voice to be sure that Gracchus and the otherPon Q’tar members heard him. “Have you gone mad, you ignorant son of a street whore? I want the women, children, and one-third of the healthiest men spared for sale at auction on the new moon!” Finished, he lowered the handbill and calmly returned his gaze to the arena without bothering to turn and look at Gracchus.
The Games Master simply stood there, stupefied. Such a huge last-minute change in the program was unprecedented. He turned to look open-mouthed at Gracchus, but the lead cleric seemed strangely unperturbed.
With a shaking hand, the Games Master nervously wiped the sweat from his brow. He had no wish to become a pawn in a dispute between the two most powerful men in Rustannica. But Vespasian had given him a direct order, and he had no choice. Swallowing hard, he looked back at his emperor.
“It will be as you command, Sire,” he said.
The Games Master also knew that this immense and unexpected change in the program would have to be handled personally. He would not be able to communicate this new order to the arena centurions by signal. He would have to go down there himself. His greatest fear was how the audience would react when they learned that the first-act killings had been so severely curtailed. Surely the clever emperor had some way to make it up to the crowd, he reasoned.
Just as the Games Master turned to run down to the Gates of Life, Vespasian again surprised him by reaching out and grabbing his wrist.
Calling on the craft, Vespasian augmented the strength in his arm and violently spun the man around to face him. The pain in Gaius’ shoulder was excruciating. Vespasian drew the Games Master so close that their faces almost touched. Then he looked over at Lucius.
“Tell me, First Tribune, was this huge group of captured Shashidans first discovered by Blood Stalkers?” he asked.
“They were,” Lucius answered.
“And are those stalkers quartered here at the coliseum?” Vespasian asked.
Lucius nodded. “As you know, we must keep them caged when they are not deployed or they would rampage through the streets, killing every Shashidan skeen they could find. The one hundred stalkers assigned to the Twenty-third Legion are locked up below the arena floor. And as your highness also knows, after the huge number of captives was taken, I ordered the entire Twenty-third back to Ellistium. They had been on constant campaign for more than two years and they deserved a visit home.”
Vespasian smiled. “Good,” he said. “Then we will do something else today that the crowd won’t expect. We will publicly honor the stalkers by watching them do what they do best.”
When he glared back at the Games Master, Vespasian could see the astonishment in the man’s eyes.
“Force one hundred Shashidan skeens into the arena at a time,” Vespasian ordered. “Bring no females, for we need them for procreation. Then I want fifty of the Twenty-third’s Blood Stalkers turned loose on them. When the first group of skeens is dead you will bring in one hundred more, and so on. See to it that all the skeens are armed. I doubt that we will lose many stalkers, and it will add to the flavor of the first act. Tell the stalkers that they are not to start the bloodletting until they erect their legion standards and form ranks before my box.”
The Games Master couldn’t believe his ears. Before today, stalkers had never been allowed participation in the games. Although they remained partly human, they were also products of the craft and largely uncontrollable by anyone except an experienced magic practitioner.
“I understand, Sire,” Gaius finally answered. “It will be as you order.”
Vespasian finally released his grip on the man’s wrist. “Good,” he said. “See to it at once. And have the crowd informed of the program changes their emperor has made.”
Vespasian didn’t need to tell the slave twice. As fast as his legs could carry him, Gaius left the emperor’s private box and hurried toward the arena floor.
Seated among his fellow clerics, Gracchus smiled as he heard Vespasian give the unexpected orders about the skeens and the Blood Stalkers. Well done, he thought. I couldn’t have produced a cleverer countermove myself.
Benedik Pryam, one of Gracchus’ most trusted fellow mystics, sat beside the lead cleric. Casually grasping the shoulder folds of his white and burgundy robe with one hand, he leaned closer. The look on his face was not reassuring.
“Sometimes you push the Blood Royal too hard!” he protested under his breath. “We all agree that he should be continually tested so that he learns how to deal with unexpected pressure-we have done so since the day that he was born. And I agree that such tactics have made him into the strongest and most beloved ruler that the empire has ever seen. But when you defy him in public-and before the entire coliseum audience, no less-you go too far! Hemust have the continued respect of the mob if he is to conquer Shashida for us!”
Smiling, Gracchus turned to look at his friend. Despite his great age, Benedik remained an attractive, vigorous man, because the time enchantments had been granted to him when he had passed only fifty Seasons of New Life. His dark eyes were sharp, and he had a full head of iron-gray hair that he kept cropped close.
“Worried about our young prodigy, are you?” Gracchus asked, as he popped a grape into his mouth. “Don’t concern yourself unnecessarily, my old friend. He is everything that we could have asked for and more. If I’m right, this unexpected order of his will do nothing but further embed him into the public’s heart. Vespasian knows what Rustannica is. It’s the mob, pure and simple. They will soon love him even more for the unprecedented spectacle that he is about to grant them.”
“Be careful, Gracchus,” Benedik pressed, “lest this monster that we have created get out of hand.” But Gracchus only smiled and turned his gaze back to the arena.
As he waited for the news about the change in the program to reach the crowd, Lucius also found himself curious about Vespasian’s motives. After taking another sip of wine, the First Tribune turned to look at his emperor.
“What are you playing at?” he whispered. “Blood Stalkers in the arena? That’s a first, even for you.”
“My guess is that Gracchus planned to take full credit for the huge number of slaves who were to be killed today,” Vespasian answered quietly, “even though he is not personally paying for them. I intend not only to spare most of the slaves and sell them, but to upstage that old cleric and steal his thunder at the same time. I’ll give the mob something the likes of which they have never seen. We’re about to see how Gracchus enjoys having the tables turned.”
“And not a day too soon, I might add,” Lucius whispered with a smile. “I know that he is your and Persephone’s mentor. But he is also your servant, and he sometimes forgets his place. This is not the first time he has openly defied you. He taunts you, but for what reason, I do not know.”
Persephone sat back in her chair, waiting for the arrival of the Shashidan prisoners and Blood Stalkers. She knew what Blood Stalkers were, and she was eager to see them in action. Stalkers were captured Shashidan mystics who had been transformed by the craft to serve the Rustannican Empire. The transformation from Shashidan prisoner of war into Blood Stalker changed the captured Shashidans into something less than human. Their sole purpose in life became one of detecting and destroying other Shashidans possessing endowed, right-leaning blood. They also made for excellent legion scouts. It was said that the Coven of Sorceresses used them to great effect in their war against the Vigors wizards that took place several centuries ago on Eutracia. It had been long assumed that Failee-the late Coven’s mistress-found the needed forestallment calculations to create Blood Stalkers in the Vagaries Scrolls. Rustannican mystics, however, had possessed the formulas for much longer.
By now more slaves were scurrying around the arena wall, shouting out the changes in the program. Just as Vespasian had expected, the crowd first quieted as they absorbed the news, but almost immediately they became more eager than before. Many started stamping their feet and calling out Vespasian’s name in appreciation of their emperor’s cleverness.
Just then a shrill bugle call rang out, ordering the chariots, musicians, and slaves to hurry back through the Gates of Life. As the tension in the coliseum mounted, the massive gates closed for a moment. When they opened again, the crowd came to its feet, and its thunderous roar could be heard in the farthest reaches of Ellistium.
The first group of one hundred male skeens was being prodded into the arena by Imperial centurions holding brightly lit torches. If a skeen hesitated he was immediately burned. To the crowd’s delight, this happened dozens of times. The smell of burned flesh started drifting its way up into the stands, to the spectators’ uproarious approval.
The skeens wore only white loincloths, and their skin was oiled to highlight their bodies for the crowd. Just as Vespasian had ordered, they were armed; some held short swords and shields, others brandished tridents and nets. As they neared the center of the arena they huddled together and stared in wide-eyed terror at the towering stands.
Their jobs done, the centurions retreated through the Gates of Life and locked the iron doors behind them. As the crowd stamped and shouted, the privileged few who were able to command the craft to augment their hearing soon heard the sounds of clanking chains.
An iron trap door in the arena floor slowly opened, revealing stone steps leading into the darkness of the coliseum’s subterranean workings. Then, one by one, fifty of the Blood Stalkers attached to the Twenty-third Legion walked up the steps and into the light. Like the skeens, they had never been in the arena before, so they too looked around in bewilderment.
When all the stalkers had surfaced, the trap door closed. Leaning forward on her throne, Persephone regarded the stalkers. She had to admit that they were the most gruesome beings she had ever seen.
At first glance they seemed too large to be men, though they had two legs and two arms like men. Their elongated heads held bloodshot eyes, but there were no noses, only slits in the skin where a man’s nostrils would be. On each side of their bald heads lay elongated ears that ended in ragged points of skin. A white fang protruded down from each corner of their mouths. Lathered drool ran from their mouths to their chins and slithered down their hairy chests in long white strings. Their only clothing was fringed leather warriors’ skirts, which did little to hide the misshapen male genitals beneath them. Dried excrement clung to the backs of their legs, and each of their elongated fingers and toes ended in a sharp talon. Each stalker wore a collection of dried eyeballs hung around its neck on a leather string-Shashidan war trophies, Persephone assumed.
Each Blood Stalker was armed with a terrible battle-axe the like of which the empress had never seen. The long black helves were randomly patterned with dried blood, and each was crowned with a human skull. From each of the skull’s temples a shiny silver axe blade extended outward at right angles. The sunlight filtering through the coliseum’s red canopies glinted off the axes’ highly polished edges.
Besides their battle axes, two of the stalkers carried the familiar standards of the Twenty-third Legion. The standards were sumptuous red flags, hung vertically from golden crossbars secured at the tops of long golden staffs. Atop each staff sat a magnificent golden eagle, its wings outstretched in triumph. The flag itself bore the gold-embroidered image of a great bear, the mascot of the mighty Twenty-third. Beneath the bear appeared the number XXIII, also embroidered in gold. At a signal from one of the stalkers, the monsters formed ranks, and the two standard-bearers among them plunged the golden staffs into the sand, allowing the red flags to wave in the breeze for all to see.
Persephone peered closely at the stalkers. She could sense more than ordinary insanity in these creatures, something she could only describe as a crazed need to kill. A shiver of excitement shot through her.
Suddenly the stalker ranks started moving. As if the one hundred armed skeens didn’t exist, the stalkers marched around them in lockstep toward their emperor.
Vespasian stood and walked to the front of the viewing box. When he raised his arms, the massive crowd stilled. For the first time today, absolute silence reigned in the arena. He smiled down at the Blood Stalkers. Calling on the craft, Vespasian used his gift to augment his voice.
“Kill them,” he ordered.
At his words, the stalkers raised their axes and turned on the skeens. The crowd went wild.
At first the skeens tried to use their superiority in numbers to surround the stalkers and kill them. But it was no good. The drooling monstrosities swung their axes in wide circles, making any approach by their enemies impossible. Realizing that their only viable strategy had failed, the skeens broke ranks. The stalkers chased after them, and the killing started in earnest.
Several skeens died immediately, their blood gushing into the thirsty sand. Only when the survivors finally turned and formed up in numbers against an individual stalker did they have a chance of killing it, and even then their victories were few. Breathless with excitement, Persephone eagerly watched one such struggle unfold.
Waving their tridents and swords wildly, four skeens managed to force an enraged stalker up against a section of arena wall. With a shout, one of the skeens threw his net over the drooling monster. But just as the other three skeens started rushing in for the kill, the stalker unexpectedly laughed.
Reaching up, the stalker gripped the net with his hands and tore it down the middle as if it had been made of parchment. After tossing one half aside, he threw the remaining piece over one of the approaching skeens, trapping him. With one swing of his dark axe the stalker took the skeen’s head off at the shoulders and sent it tumbling to the sand. Blood spraying from the gaping neck, the skeen died where he fell.
Screaming wildly, the three remaining skeens tried to rush the stalker all at once. The first to reach the monster raised his sword and shield. But the stalker was much faster. As the bloody axe blade came down it cleft the skeen’s shield and plunged into the man’s chest. Transfixed, Persephone watched the stalker pull the axe from his victim. With it came the skeen’s heart, impaled on the axe blade.
After tearing the smashed shield and bloody heart from his axe, the stalker dispatched the remaining two skeens with equal ferocity. He severed the legs from one and the sword arm from the other. Then, leaving the wounded skeens to bleed to death, the semihuman monster let go a victory scream and lumbered off to find fresh quarry. Persephone took a gulp of wine, her heart beating wildly.
At last the fighting neared its end. All the skeens lay dead save one, and only two stalkers had been rent asunder. Persephone quickly calculated the score. For every stalker that had been killed, nearly fifty skeens had died. She had to admit that she was impressed. Just then she heard the crowd roar with laughter, and she soon saw why.
The last surviving skeen had been surrounded. Rather than kill him outright, the stalkers were taunting him for the amusement of the crowd. But as one stalker moved in a bit too close, the skeen lunged swiftly and plunged his trident into the thing’s chest. Impressed by the skeen’s courage and skill, the crowd stamped and shouted gleefully.
Knowing that his fate was sealed, the skeen did something entirely unexpected. In a last act of defiance he dropped his net and trident and ran to where a stalker had shoved one of the Twenty-third’s standards into the arena sand. Pulling the standard free, he charged the nearest stalker. As the surprised monster tried to parry the blow, the skeen deftly sidestepped and impaled him with the standard’s pointed end. Screaming wildly, the stalker fell to the sand and died, taking the red flag and golden staff with him.
The crowd was stunned into silence. For a legion standard to touch the ground was unthinkable, much less that such a travesty might be caused by a worthless slave. The incensed stalkers stood there for a moment trying to absorb what they had seen. Then they collected their wits and charged en masse. Standing his ground, the unarmed skeen screamed out a degrading epithet that he knew would be his last.
Suddenly an azure bolt shot through the air, thundering skyward with pinpoint precision through the gap between the two red canopies. Its explosive sound drowned out even the bloodthirsty mob. Recognizing the signal, the stalkers stopped in their tracks and turned to look toward their emperor’s private box. His chest heaving, the condemned skeen also glared upward.
Vespasian was standing at the edge of his viewing box. It was he who had sent the bolt into the air. One azure bolt launched during the games always signaled that the emperor commanded the action to stop. The stalkers had immediately complied, and the crowd quieted. An eerie combination of tension and silence filled the stadium.
Vespasian turned to look at the Games Master. “Send out the branders,” he ordered.
“Yes, my liege,” the man answered.
Walking to the edge of the box, the Games Master quickly swiveled another of the signs. The centurions manning the Gates of Life opened the gate doors and hurried through. When they reemerged, each man was holding a branding iron. The irons’ tips glowed red hot.
The centurions wandered among the vanquished Shashidan slaves lying on the sand. One by one, each victim was branded with the image of the imperial eagle. When the bright red iron touched the slaves’ skin, those feigning death were immediately exposed. Seven were found to be still alive, screaming in agony at the unexpected pain. As the crowd cheered, the centurions quickly put them to the sword. When their grisly work was done, the centurions saluted their emperor, then went back through the Gates of Life and closed the iron doors behind them.
Vespasian extended his arms and levitated up and over the wall of his private box, his purple and gold cape fluttering behind him. Every eye in the arena was on him as he landed gracefully before the sole surviving skeen. He turned to look at the dead stalker lying impaled on the Twenty-third’s bloodied standard.
Raising one hand, Vespasian pointed at the stalker corpse. At once the monster and the standard rose into the air, the stalker’s arms and legs dangling toward the sand, his body dripping yellow, acidic blood where the standard had entered his chest and exited his back. As the blood hit the sand it hissed and smoked.
Vespasian beckoned with his fingers. The standard slowly pulled free from the dead stalker and floated in the air. Then Vespasian pointed downward and the standard plunged itself into the sand to stand upright once more. Vespasian released his hold on the dead stalker, and the monstrous corpse crashed to the ground.
Turning back toward the skeen, Vespasian walked closer. The skeen looked to be about forty Seasons of New Life, with dark hair and a ragged beard grown during his months of imprisonment. Vespasian watched the man’s muscles coil as he neared, and he sensed the intense hatred the skeen had for him. Despite the skeen’s deadly circumstances, there was a sense of commanding authority in his eyes. This had once been a man of some note, Vespasian guessed. Stopping about two paces away, the emperor folded his arms over his chest.
“What is your name, skeen?” he asked quietly. Vespasian took care to employ the skeen’s native dialect, and he used the craft to make sure their words would reach the ears of every spectator.
“I am Tanjiro of the House of the Six Rivers,” the man answered.
“What was your rank in the Shashidan army?” Vespasian asked.
“I am the First General of the Twelfth Cohort,” Tanjiro answered. “And I do not answer to you.”
Vespasian smiled. “Ah, but you are wrong,” he answered. “Not only do you answer to me, but you are no longer a general. As a once high-ranking officer, you must also have been a craft practitioner.”
“Yes,” Tanjiro answered bitterly. “But my gifts are gone, courtesy of your endowed Twenty-third Legion’s centurions.”
“That’s only fair, don’t you agree?” Vespasian answered. “After all, your forces do the same thing to our captured officers who are trained in the craft.”
Enraged, Tanjiro stepped menacingly toward the emperor. The stalkers lunged to protect Vespasian, but he knew he was in no danger. He stopped his grotesque servants with a wave of one hand.
“We don’t murder our captives,” Tanjiro growled, “or sell them at auction like cattle! Nor do we work them to death, or use them as sexual playthings! We treat them as respected prisoners of war! Shashida has but one class of people! All people-be they of endowed blood or not-are treated equally!”
His chest still heaving, Tanjiro tried to catch his breath. “That’s a concept with which you Rustannican Vagaries worshippers seem to be unfamiliar.”
Tanjiro was surprised to see Vespasian’s expression soften a bit. Then the emperor stepped closer.
“You Shashidans are as skillful at lying as you are at fighting,” he said. “Even so, I find that I like you. Under different circumstances we might have been friends. You have courage. Moreover, you are the first skeen to send one of my standards tumbling to the ground during a coliseum spectacle. You risked everything to dare that last act of defiance. You could scarcely have asked for a larger audience! Had I been in your place, I would have attempted the same thing. But that does not change the fact that we are mortal enemies.”
As his words echoed throughout the arena, Vespasian looked out toward the multitudes. Every spectator was on his or her feet, eager to know what would happen next. The emperor decided. He looked back at the slave.
“Get down on your knees,” he said.
“No,” Tanjiro growled. “Not today, not ever. If you’re going to kill me, I demand a warrior’s death. Let me remain standing so that I can see it coming.”
Vespasian was in no mood to barter with a slave-especially with one hundred thousand citizens, thePon Q’tar, the Priory, and the Tribunes all watching. He extended his hand again. Calling on the craft, he forced Tanjiro to his knees.
“I’m afraid you have no choice in the matter,” he said softly.
Reaching to his side, Vespasian drew his dress sword. When it came free of its scabbard, its razor-sharp blade glinted in the reddish light. The crowd held its breath. Persephone leaned forward in her chair.
Vespasian employed the craft to force the slave’s head down, exposing the back of the man’s neck. He raised his sword, then decisively brought it down.
A collective gasp went through the crowd. Rather than separating Tanjiro’s head from his shoulders, Vespasian had buried the sword in the sand before the slave. Tanjiro hadn’t flinched. But when he saw the shining blade standing upright only inches from his face, he looked up at Vespasian with unbelieving eyes.
“I free you,” Vespasian said. “You fought well, and you were ready to accept death with equal bravery. You are now a Rustannican freeman of the Phrygian class. Arise, Tanjiro. You have but to take possession of my sword to claim your freedom.”
The slave was stunned, as was the crowd. Letting the air rush from her lungs, Persephone sat back in her chair. When an emperor gave his sword over to an arena slave, the gesture granted the slave perpetual freedom. From that day forward, the newly minted freeman needed only to show the sword to prove his status.
Lucius smiled to himself, then turned to look at thePon Q’tar. As he expected, they were huddled together, anxiously discussing this unexpected turn of events.
Then the First Tribune remembered what Vespasian had said about wanting to dress down Gracchus. As he took another gulp of wine, he realized that freeing a Shashidan general whom Gracchus had personally marked for death had just done that very thing. And as Vespasian had said, one couldn’t have asked for a larger audience!
Well done, my liege, Lucius thought. This is indeed a day of firsts.
Vespasian released Tanjiro from his enchanted hold over him. The freeman stood and looked his new emperor squarely in the eyes, then reached down and pulled the sword from the sand. He admired it for several moments. Then, to everyone’s astonishment, Tanjiro tossed it away. The mob gasped.
“I reject your offer,” Tanjiro said. “Better that I should be killed this day than to live in this monstrous dictatorship and watch my fellow comrades die for your pleasure in the arena. Kill me, Vespasian. Kill me and let’s be done with it.”
Vespasian respected Tanjiro’s answer. As a fellow warrior, he had half expected it. He looked Tanjiro in the eyes.
“Are you sure, Shashidan?” he asked. “I will not ask again.”
“Kill me or send me home,” Tanjiro answered.
“Very well,” Vespasian said. “I have tried to be merciful. Let your death be on your head.”
Vespasian opened his palm and held it out toward the sword lying in the sand. At once the weapon obeyed and jumped into his grasp. He stood there for a moment, thinking. After wiping the blade clean he calmly sheathed it.
Tanjiro glared at him. “What are you waiting for?” he demanded. “Get it over with!”
The spectators were again restless for action, and they began shouting and stamping once more. The chant “Kill, kill, kill!” started thundering through the arena.
Vespasian looked around at the decorated arena walls. Choosing an image, he pointed toward a place on the wall just to the right of the Gates of Death. An azure bolt left his fingertips and tore toward it. It struck the stone surface, then flattened out, blanketing the beastly image that Vespasian had selected.
The creature represented on the wall started to come alive. The sight was terrible, mesmerizing. Crying out in agony as it emerged from the dark stones that seemed to give it birth, the thing took form. On recognizing the beast, the crowd roared in approval. The azure glow faded, and the newly born creature launched itself from the wall to pounce, snarling, onto the arena sand.
It looked like a giant wolf, except that it stood on its hind legs. Spotted tan fur covered its body. Its teeth were long and sharp, and its eyes glowed bright red. Its hind feet were padded like a wolf’s, but its front legs had five long, taloned fingers. Like the Blood Stalkers, it drooled copiously. Dark armor encased its torso; greaves and gauntlets protected its lower legs and forearms.
Vespasian looked at Tanjiro. “It’s called a Rustannican Heart Wolf,” he said quietly. “And the heart it wants is yours. You did say that you wanted to see it coming, did you not?”
Vespasian looked over at the hideous creature and then pointed at Tanjiro.
“Kill,” he ordered. His menacing whisper reached to the far corners of the arena.
The snarling wolf bounded in gigantic leaps across the arena. Calmly, Vespasian stepped aside. Knowing that there was no escape, Tanjiro stood his ground. Just before the wolf took him, he gave Vespasian a final, defiant look.
The Heart Wolf pounced on Tanjiro, pinning him to the sand and disemboweling him in seconds. Eagerly rooting around in the screaming man’s ravaged chest cavity, the wolf latched onto Tanjiro’s heart with its jaws and tore it free. With the Shashidan general dead, the monster devoured the heart and then started gorging on the rest of the corpse.
As the giddy crowd chanted his name, Vespasian returned to his private viewing box and reclaimed his seat. Persephone gave him an admiring look; Lucius respectfully tipped his wine goblet toward him.
“Well done, my liege,” the First Tribune said. He turned to look at thePon Q’tar clerics. Unlike the overjoyed crowd, they sat in stony silence. Lucius barked a short laugh.
Vespasian called out for the Games Master. The nervous man was at the emperor’s side in an instant.
“As usual, your highness no doubt wishes the dead bodies to be dragged away through the Gates of Death?” he asked.
Thinking for a moment, Vespasian sat back on his ivory throne. “No,” he answered. “Let us start another new tradition this day. Bring the next one hundred skeens in, but do not arm them. Have centurions bind them to the corpses and body parts littering the sand-including whatever might be left of their beloved general. For the next fifteen days we will watch them starve to death as they are forced to lie there in the heat, bound tightly to their dead, rotting comrades. As that is taking place, send some centurions into the arena to deal with the Heart Wolf. That should provide some interim amusement for the crowd.”
“As you wish, Highness,” the Games Master answered. “And if I may say so, your idea about binding the living to the dead is an excellent one. It is a fine new tradition, indeed.” Without further ado, he hurried away to tend to his orders.
Suddenly pensive, Vespasian watched as the next one hundred skeens were shoved into the arena. The centurions roughly pushed them to the sand and carried out their orders, first binding the skeens hand and foot and then lashing them to their fallen comrades.
Sensing Vespasian’s mood, Persephone gave him a worried glance. “What is it, my love?” she asked. “All in all, the day goes well.”
Vespasian turned and looked into her eyes. “It is not this day that bothers me,” he answered cryptically, “but all the days to follow.”
He looked down at the Heart Wolf greedily feeding on what was left of the Shashidan general. Blades drawn, several centurions were cautiously approaching the beast. As Vespasian watched the wolf rip and tear at the mutilated body, admiration showed in his eyes.
“That man died well,” he mused. “Part of me wishes that he had accepted my offer of freedom. When my time comes, I hope I can meet death with the same courage that he displayed. They are a tough and determined lot, these Shashidan Vigors worshippers. Often of late, in my nightmares I see us losing this war. Then I awaken, shaking and bathed in a cold sweat.”
“I know, my love,” Persephone answered quietly. “But we will prevail, I promise you.”
The crowd cheered again as one hundred more armed skeens were prodded into the arena to face the vicious Blood Stalkers, and the carnage resumed. For a moment Persephone took her gaze from the games and again looked at her husband’s profile.
It will be a long day and an even longer night, she thought. But most interesting of all will be the meeting that follows the games. It seems that the Pon Q’tarhave some explaining to do.