“So they tell me.”
“I was not sure … how I would feel watching you. They were my brothers and sisters too. When they fell beneath your blades…” Furian sighed. “I could scarce believe it. I think I expected some ruse. Some ploy or play or last-minute reprieve.”
“Play?”
Mia shook her head, bewildered.
“Why is everyone still acting like this is a fucking game?”
“Gladiatii!” a guard cried. “Attend!”
The eyes of the assembled warriors turned to the iron portcullis. Mia saw three editorii, silhouetted against the glare outside. The eldest of the trio stepped forward, peering among the gladiatii. His long dark beard was plaited, his eyes mismatched, one brown, one green. A banded python was draped around his neck.
“Gladiatii of the collegia of Itreya,” he said. “Each of you and your masters have earned, through right of trial and combat, your place upon the sands of the Venatus Magni. The greatest spectacle in the Itreyan calendar is about to unfold, and you shall fight and die for the glory of the Republic before an adoring crowd. Those who fall shall still stand as legends. And the one among you who remains at magni’s end shall be granted freedom by the Hand of God himself.
“This magni is a battle grande; every warrior will begin the match upon the sands. Each will be given a colored armband, to designate initial loyalties. Gladiatii from the same collegia will be grouped together, though you are under no obligation to adhere to these allegiances throughout the match. Never forget; all must fall so one may stand.”
The man let his words hang in the air a moment, ironhard and cold.
“Once this portcullis opens,” he continued, “proceed to your designated starting position, and await instruction from the grand editorii. May Aa bless and keep you, and Tsana guide your hands.”
Mia sheathed her blades, still trying to rub the red off her fingers. As the guards roamed among them, handing out strips of cloth in red, blue, gold, and white, she could feel it. The fear. Welling in the hearts and minds of the warriors around her, leaking through the stone and hanging thick in the air. Every one of them was staring into the eyes of death, and all knew only one would survive. Some stalked up and down, pounding their chests, muttering to themselves. Some stood mute, battling their fear in silence. Others looked to comrades for some moment of solace, knowing all loyalties would fail before the final trumpet sounded.
Not long now.
A guard muscled through the mob, tied a strip of fabric around Furian’s arm to show his allegiance. Demanding that Mia stand, he bound another strip around her bicep. Both were as red as the stains she’d failed to wash away.
Trumpets sounded, the floor rumbling beneath their feet. The call of the editorii echoed across the arena, the crowd roaring in answer.
“Citizens of Itreya! Honored administratii! Senators and marrowborn! Welcome to the Venatus Magni of Godsgrave! From the finest collegia in the Republic, we present to you the mightiest warriors beneath the three suns! Here to do battle before your wondering eyes, to bathe themselves in blood and glory to honor the Everseeing, almighty Aa. We present, the Drakes of Trajan!”
The iron portcullis ratcheted open, and the first group of gladiatii strode out onto the sand, escorted by a cadre of Itreyan legionairies. There were perhaps two hundred and fifty warriors assembled in staging cells by now—far too many to call out individually. Stables were being marched out en masse: the Wolves of Tacitus; the Swords of Phillipi; the Lions of Leonides, one after another striding forth to the welcome of the crowd. As each collegium took their places in the arena, punters in the stands recognized favorites and honored champions, the volume steadily rising.
“The Falcons of Remus!” came the announcer’s cry.
“So it begins,” Furian whispered.
“And so it ends,” Mia replied.
She walked out into the blinding light, the Unfallen beside her. The crowd cheered, some for the Savior of Stormwatch (“Crow! Crow! Crow!”), others for the Champion of Talia (“Unfaaaaaaaallen!”). As the pair took their places among the other red armbands, the editorii’s voice rang in the air.
“Citizens of Itreya, please be upstanding!”
A bright peal of trumpets sounded as the crowd rose to their feet, the fanfare thrilling along Mia’s skin.
“Seven years have passed since the traitorous Kingmakers sought to bring our glorious Republic to its knees! Seven years of a glorious peace, seven years of reason and prosperity, seven years of justice and light!”
Mia’s heart beat quicker, her mouth suddenly dry. She knew what was coming, who was coming. Seven years since he’d destroyed her world, standing over her father’s scaffold like a vulture on a cairn. Seven years of bloodstained promises, of murder and steel, of wondering and praying. Furian looked to her, his shadow rippling as hers ebbed and flowed, reaching out with black tendrils toward the Senate, toward the Luminatii, toward …
“Your savior! Your consul! Julius Scaeva!”
It was like a punch to her stomach. The sight of him. After all this time, she thought perhaps it might have dulled. But the pain was a knife in her chest, making her stagger, her shadow ripple and seethe despite the three suns burning above.
He was tall, painfully handsome, his dark hair now shot through with the faintest streaks of gray. He wore a long toga of rich purple, a golden laurel at his brow. When he smiled, it seemed the suns shone brighter, the crowd roaring in rapture. Beside him stood a beautiful woman, dark of hair and green of eye, dripping in fine silk and golden jewelry. In her arms, she held a boy, six or seven years old. He had his mother’s dark hair, his father’s bottomless black eyes. He wore the emblem of the Luminatii Legion embroidered on his chest, though no trinity around his neck.
Scaeva put one arm around his bride, three fingers outstretched in the sign of Aa. The crowd returned the gesture, a hundred thousand people raising their hands and calling his name. Mia felt her jaw clench so tight her teeth ached. Holding her breath because it was simply too painful to breathe. To see him smiling beside his familia when he’d so casually put hers in the ground …
Surrounded by that sea of Luminatii, iron and sunsteel, Scaeva stepped forward to a pulpit in the consul’s box.
“My people!” he called, his words reverberating among the human sea. “My countrymen! My friends! On this most holy feast, we gather beneath the eyes of the Everseeing in this, the greatest Republic the world has ever known!”
The consul paused for a burst of giddy applause.