“O, think nothing of it,” the pieman said. “Butcher, they name me. The Butcher of Amai.” The Liisian looked them over with a smile. “Long journey from the Gardens? You must be hungrier than a breadline strumpet on the rag, neh?”
“Aye,” Sidonius nodded. “We’ve not eaten since yesterturn.”
“O, you’ll find your needs well fixed presently. No better pigswill in all the Republic than’s served by our domina.” He rubbed his chin, thoughtful. “The porridge can be a touch bland, though. But no fear, I’ve just the spice.”
The big Liisian reached into his loincloth with a grin. And without further ado, he whipped out his cock, and took a long noisy piss into the porridge pot.
The gladiatii erupted into howls of laughter, thumping the tables and calling Butcher’s name. The big Liisian looked Mia square in the eye and he milked the last drops from his bladder, then turned back to Sidonius. His grin had evaporated utterly.
“You call me ‘brother’ again, I’ll piss in your dinner and fucking drown you in it. My brothers and sisters under this roof are gladiatii.” Butcher thumped his chest. “Until you last the Winnowing, you’re nothing.”
Butcher strode back to his meal, slapped on his back by several others. Mia stood with bowl in hand, the stench of fresh urine in her nostrils.
“I find myself not as hungry as I first thought,” she confessed.
“Aye,” Sidonius said. “We’re of like mind, little Crow.”
The trio found an empty bench, Mia and Sidonius staring while the other gladiatii ate their fill. After one look at their mournful expressions, Matteo scooped a spoonful of his own meal into Sidonius’s bowl, another into Mia’s. The big Itreyan watched in disbelief, Mia stared into Matteo’s eyes.
“Are you certain?”
“Eat, Mi Dona,” he smiled. “You’d do the same for me.”
Mia shrugged, and she and Sidonius scoffed down the food without pause. The big mastiff wandered into the mess area, sniffing around on the floor for scraps. He mooched up to Matteo, eyeing his now empty bowl and wagging his stubby tail.
“Sorry friend,” Matteo sighed. “If I had a crumb left, I’d share it.”
Mia watched the boy sidelong as he patted the big dog, scruffing him behind his ears and grinning as his hind leg began thumping on the floor.
“His name is Fang,” said a voice.
Mia looked up, saw the little girl named Maggot sitting in the rafters above their heads. Mia could remember climbing those some gables when she was a little girl, her mother scolding, her father applauding. That had ever been their way—Justicus Corvere indulging her tomboyish impulses, and the dona trying to sculpt her into a prize fit to marry off one turn. Mia wondered how her life might look if things had been different. Where she’d be if General Antonius had become king by her father’s hand. Probably nowhere with a brand on her cheek and the stink of piss in her nose …
“Fang,” Matteo smiled, patting the dog’s shoulders. “A fine name.”
“He likes you,” the little girl said.
“I had hounds at home. I’ve a way with them.”
He smiled wider, dark eyes sparkling. Too pretty for this place by far. But Maggot seemed to approve, ducking her head to hide her blush as she scrambled away.
With the meal finished, the gladiatii were marched down to the cellars. Mia, Sidonius and Matteo shuffled along in the rear, no word spoken to them that wasn’t an order, no attention paid that wasn’t a shove or a sneer. After only a handful of hours living at the bottom of the barrel, Mia found the novelty wearing thin. She wondered where Mister Kindly was, if he’d yet made it to Whitekeep and met—
“Looks like our champion is too good to sleep with the rest of us plebs,” Sidonius muttered. “Effete wanker.”
Mia followed the Itreyan’s stare, saw Furian being escorted farther into the keep, instead of down to the barracks.
The Vaanian girl turned on Sid with a scowl.
“I’d watch that tongue of yours, Itreyan.”
“Normally women offer to buy me a drink first,” Sidonius grinned. “But, aye. You can watch it if please you, Dona. Where would you like me to put it?”
Mia rolled her eyes and sighed. The girl thrust her hand into Sidonius’s codpiece, squeezing tight as he squeaked.
“Up your arsehole, you dopey fuck,” she spat. “Furian the Unfallen is champion of this collegium. He sleeps apart from us, as is his right. You can speak ill of him when you best him in the venatus. Until then, shut your mouth, lest I shut it for you.”
“Move!” barked the guard behind them.
The girl released her grip on Sidonius’s jewels, stomped down the stairs. The big Itreyan sagged against Mia, and since she’d already kneed him in the dangles today, she was charitable enough to help him walk.
“You’ve certainly got a way with women, Sid,” Matteo sighed, propping up the big Itreyan’s other shoulder.
“J-just what your mother said,” the big man winced.
The gladiatii gathered in the antechamber, and with a twist of that odd-key in the mekwork on the wall, the portcullis opened to the barracks beyond. Mia was led into a wide cell littered with fresh straw, Sidonius and Matteo behind her. Once each gladiatii was in their allotted cage, the guard in the antechamber outside flipped a lever. Each door slammed closed, the mekwerk locks thudded home, and in a moment, every warrior was secured behind a lattice of iron bars over three inches thick.
Now Mia saw the reason behind the dona letting her property sleep down here in the dark and the cool. It seemed for all her love of her precious “Falcons,” Leona didn’t want any of them flying their coop.
The arkemical lights burned low, the gladiatii talking among themselves out in the gloom. Mia listened to the warriors murmur, noting the blend of accents and timbres. The Dweymeri woman with the extensive tattoos had her own cell across the corridor, with genuine stone walls that offered some small privacy. Beneath the door, Mia could hear soft singing.
Without warning, the talk died, silence falling like fog. Mia heard a familiar clink thump, clink thump on the stone. She saw the towering figure of the executus limping among the cells, that hateful whip in his hand. His long salt-and-pepper hair was arranged about his shoulders like a mane, his beard freshly combed. That awful scar cut down his face, casting a long shadow across his features.
“I’ve been away from these walls too long, it seems,” he growled. “If you’ve strength to sit up and chatter like maids at loom, you’ve obviously not been worked hard enough.”
Passing by Mia’s cell, he barely deigned to look at her. Executus limped back to the portcullis, blue eyes twinkling in the gloom.
“Rest your heads, Falcons,” he called. “Tomorrow will be a long turn. I vow it.”
The portcullis slammed shut with a mekwerk whine. Mia shook her head, mumbling under her breath. Sidonius grumbled too, voice thickened by his broken nose.
“I hope I get a chance in the circle with that bastard on the morrow. I’ll knock his block off and fuck his corpse before it’s cold.”