“My friends, these are troubling times. When I announced my intent to stand for a fourth term as consul, I was plagued with doubt. But continued attacks against our magistrates, our administratii, even the children of our noble senators overseas, have convinced me the threat to our glorious Republic is not yet ended. And I will not abandon Itreya, or you, in such an hour of need.”
Scaeva called louder as the crowd erupted.
“We must stand together! And with your support, we shall stand together! From myself, my beloved wife Liviana, my son Lucius…”—Scaeva was forced to pause as the cheers overwhelmed his voice—“… from my familia to yours, friends, we thank you for your vigilance, your courage, but most of all, your faith! In God, and us!”
Mia’s eyes were locked on Scaeva, boiling with hatred. Her fingers slipping unconsciously to the gravebone dagger hidden beneath the iron encircling her wrist. The gravebone dagger Alinne Corvere had once pressed to Scaeva’s throat, the turn he took Mia’s world away.
Patience.
Mia’s fingers slipped away from the dagger. She could taste blood in her mouth.
Patience.
Scaeva beamed in the crowd’s adoration, playing the part of the humble one, the grateful one. Reaching out to his wife, the consul placed his son Lucius on his shoulders, held out his three fingers again in blessing. Mia watched the little boy lean down, whisper in his father’s ear.
“My son says ever I speak too long,” he smiled, laughter rippling among the crowd. “He reminds me we are here at purpose. So, shall we begin?”
The crowd roared as one.
“My friends, I asked, shall we begin?”
A single, deafening cheer, rising all the way to the sky.
“I will now hand over to our beloved grand cardinal, and my dear friend, Francesco Duomo, to lead us in prayer.”
All eyes turned to the ministry of Aa in their ringside seats. Grand Cardinal Duomo stood at another pulpit, dark eyes fixed on Scaeva, glittering with veiled malice as he bowed low. He spoke into a mekwerk horn, his voice ringing across the arena, thick as toffee, sweet and dark.
“My thanks, glorious Consul,” he said, bowing deep. “May Aa ever keep you in the Light. May your reign be long and fruitful.”
Scaeva’s smile turned sharper as he returned the bow.
“Beloved citizens, please bow your heads,” Duomo said.
The entire arena fell still, silence ringing in the air and on the wind.
“Almighty Aa, Father of Light, creator of all, on this your most holy feast, we thank you for your love, your vigilance, and your many blessings upon us. Remain ever watchful of our hearts, and bless those who here die for the glory of our Republic.
“In your name, this we pray.”
The crowd replied as one.
“In your name, this we pray.”
Duomo spread his arms, a smile brightening his eyes.
“Let the magni begin!”
The crowd roared, stamping and hollering as Duomo returned to his flock of cardinals and bishops, smug as a groom after his wedding night. Mia’s gaze returned to Scaeva, watching as he took his seat, the consul’s dark eyes fixed on Duomo. The pair watched each other like a pair of vipers over the corpse of a single mouse. But Scaeva’s son whispered something in his ear, and the consul suddenly laughed, bright and loud. His bride leaned over, kissed him on the cheek. Scaeva broke his gaze from Duomo’s, instead beaming at his familia. Mia felt her legs trembling.
They didn’t deserve to be so happy. For Scaeva to have a wife and child when he’d left her with nothing. For Duomo to play at piety and speak of love when he’d destroyed her entire world. She looked to the gladiatii around her, every one of them an obstacle, every sword a hindrance, every throat a stepping stone on the way to those bastard’s hearts.
“I can feel it…,” Furian breathed. “Your hatred…”
Mia blinked, looked to the man beside her. Furian was looking at her with a mix of horror, fear, pity. Glancing down to the shadow at her feet.
“Almighty Aa … what did they do to you?”
“Citizens of Itreya!” came the cry. “Behold, your battleground!”
The crowd stilled as a great, trembling groan ran the length of the entire arena. The four groups of gladiatii, red, white, gold, and blue, were positioned at opposite points around the arena’s oblong, clustered together in mobs of sixty or so. As Mia watched, the ground before her split apart, sand cascading down into the arena’s mekwerk belly. The crowd were on their feet, straining for a better look as four great shapes loomed up from beneath the floor. Fifty feet long, heavy ironwood hulls, fantastical beasts carved at their prows, their flanks studded with dozens of gleaming oars.
“Those are war galleys,” one bewildered gladiatii murmured.
“But…,” another said. “But…”
“Gladiatii, attend!” the centurion barked, pointing at the rope ladders dangling from their ship’s flank. “All of you, climb! Now! Move!”
Mia did as she was told immediately, and Furian followed without question, scrambling up the ladders to the deck above. Others climbed along behind, but yet more gladiatii simply stared at the centurion in undisguised bafflement.
“Ships?” one asked. “Almighty Aa, we’re standing on fucking sand!”
The ground groaned again, trumpets blaring.
“I’d do as commanded, were I you,” the centurion said.
The man turned, and with the rest of his cadre, beat feet back across the sand. Some gladiatii began climbing onto the galleys, others looking about in bewilderment. Mia heard another mekwerk moan, the groan of metal under pressure. Heavy iron shutters clanked down over the cells skirting the arena’s edge, a series of circular grates rose from beneath the sand. And as the crowd watched in wonder, those grates shivered and, with a last hollow metal cough, began spewing water high into the air.
The mob sighed, cheered, water vapor caught on the swirling breeze and bringing a merciful cool to the arena’s oppressive heat. But within moments, those sighs became delighted roars as the water began gushing forth harder, higher, flooding over the arena floor and swirling about the ships. Soon it was six inches deep. Eight. A foot, rising up the gladiatii’s shins in an inexorable flood.
“This is salt water,” one said.
A Lion of Leonides leaned over the railing, shouting at the top of his voice.
“It’s a naval battle, you stupid bastards, climb, climb!”
The gladiatii obeyed now, dashing to the ladders and scrambling up the sides. Mia stood at the prow, watching the water rushing and crashing around their keel. Ten feet deep and still rising, their ship beginning to rock in its wooden scaffold as it was buoyed up on the flood. Thanks to Ashlinn’s reconnaissance, Mia had some inkling of what was in store for her on the sands, but to stand among it all …
The girl shook her head, simply awed by the power on display. The ingenuity. The sheer fucking hubris. Instead of sending its citizens to the ocean, the great Republic of Itreya had brought the ocean to its citizens.