On the ground, I look out over the mass of people, their faces as numerous as grains of sand. Tarek takes my hand and lifts it into the air. Our audience hurrahs, and then he and I lead the court procession through the entry and into the dim corridors of the amphitheater.
The imperial box is at the center of one of the narrower ends of the oval stadium, set apart from the other tiers by solid stone walls. A flat marble platform—the podium—spans the area below us. Tarek’s wives and courtesans gather on the first tier, vying for the best view of the arena. Two more tiers rise to our right and left, circling the stadium. The benefactors occupy the second tier. Most are already deep into their cups, despite the morning hour. The third and highest tier is for the lower class.
A tattered canopy shades a portion of the tiers, and above its flimsy ceiling, brass gongs gleam as golden moons. I stare in amazement at the incredible breadth of the amphitheater and sea of people. The whole population of the City of Gems must be here. Tarek sits on his throne and motions for me to occupy the one to his left. Lakia takes the throne to his right. The rest of his court will watch from the terrace below.
Drummers emerge from an underground level through metal gates. They strike up a marching cadence and cross the arena, their music silencing the audience. The hand drummers form a line before the imperial box and thump their final beat.
In the sudden stillness, Rajah Tarek approaches the banister and addresses his people. “Welcome to my hundredth viraji’s rank tournament!”
Thousands of spectators answer with deafening applause. The benefactors are the loudest, pounding their feet. They are why Deven did not want me to think that he enjoyed attending the tournament. He is not the sort of man who belongs here.
Tarek waits for the commotion to settle and continues. “The Tarachand Empire prepares to enter a new reign of supremacy. Soon, I will be the most powerful sovereign on the continent. I swear to you our time of leniency will end. My first act will be to rid our great empire of the demons plaguing us. Then we will move on to the rest of the world, until we are free from bhutas once and for all!”
His people thunder their feet against the floor in approval, hammering fear into my chest. The Tarachand Empire has the most powerful army on the continent. So long as Tarek is at war with the bhutas within his borders, his resources are tied up. Exterminate them here, however, and he is free to expand his conquest elsewhere.
“Let the tournament begin!” the rajah shouts.
Men stationed in the towers strike the gongs, clanging them in unison. Through the lower gates, two courtesans march into the arena, armed with metal shields and helmets. They may choose to duel hand to hand, with staffs, or with blades.
A tournament official announces the challengers, Ameya and Shanti. Each woman thrusts her weapon to the sky when her name is called. I scarcely recognize them this far above, but their names are familiar. Ameya looks especially small. She is armed with a haladie, the double-bladed dagger. Wise selection. I doubt that she is strong enough to swing a heavier blade. Still, I do not anticipate her outlasting her larger opponent. I pray that she proves me wrong.
Asha explained the tournament rules this morning. Four duels will take place each day, starting with eight contenders battling in pairs. The four winners of those duels will then face off in a victors’ match. The last woman standing wins the finalist title for the day. This goes on for three days, and on the fourth day, the three finalists will battle me in a championship match. The odds sicken me. Only three challengers out of twenty-four will survive to face me in the arena.
“Faster,” Lakia snaps at the servant fanning her with ostrich feathers. Lakia does not fight until the last day either. She and her challengers will battle as the opening act for my match.
More servants fan the courtesans and wives below. Those contenders not slated to fight today sit forward in their seats. Soon it will be their turn. Any of the women in the arena could someday be their adversary, or mine.
The gongs ring, signaling the start of the duel. The taller, stronger fighter, Shanti, dives at her opponent. The little courtesan, Ameya, is nimble and spry. She dodges her opponent’s khanda and blocks blows with the haladie. Shanti slices the little one’s hand, and Ameya retreats. I want to shut my eyes and shield myself from the blood, but even though these women battle each other, they are challenging me. I will not be able to look away in the arena, and I will not now.
Shanti circles Ameya. My fingers curl down on the armrests of my throne. Ameya slashes forward, and her smaller blade grazes Shanti’s back. Shanti assesses her uncritical injury and then retaliates. Ameya evades Shanti’s blade, but Shanti anticipates her lateral move. Shanti swings back around and drives the sword into Ameya’s stomach. The slighter woman crumples like a paper doll torn down the middle, dropping in a bloodied heap.
Unshed tears burn my nose. I had anticipated it would be like this, but I am struck by the carnage, the horror, and the nauseating stench of blood rising up from the arena floor.
Lakia yawns. “I hope all your courtesans aren’t defeated so easily.”
“Yes, it will make for a tedious day,” Tarek replies, sipping his flask.
I cut them a glare. Ameya just sacrificed her life. She wanted freedom from being a courtesan so much that death was a better alternative. I want to shred Tarek’s pampered face with my nails, but I do as Mathura said. I absorb my hatred and let it feed me, transforming it into something bigger, meaner, uglier.
I will wait.
I will crouch in the dark until the time is ripe, and then I will eat Rajah Tarek alive.
Servants wheel a handcart into the arena and pile Ameya’s body onto it.
“Where will they take her?” I ask.
“Where do you think?” Lakia considers her painted nails. “The rajah has no use for her now. She’s refuse.”
Indignation snarls through me. “Her body must be prayed over before she’s laid to rest.”
“The gods don’t care about dead whores,” Lakia replies, bored.
“The gods care about honor and sisterhood, not this spectacle of death.” I lower myself from my chair to my knees and bow my head.
“Get up,” Lakia hisses.
“Not until I pray.”
“Kalinda.” Tarek’s voice is deadly low. “Sit.”
Hanging my head, I look through the slats in the banister at the lower balcony. Natesa peers up at me, her eyes teary. She must be thinking of her older sister, wondering if anyone prayed over her body.
I lower my chin and speak. “Gods, bless Ameya’s soul to find the gate that leads to peace and everlasting light.”