‘The pitz ball game,’ Jeffrey murmured. ‘I’ve heard about this.’
As had Fletcher, for Baker’s journal had waxed lyrical on the subject.
In between two sloping stone bleachers filled with cheering spectators, two teams of blue orcs leaped and dived across a long field of sand. On either end, a stone hoop was embedded in a wall, almost twelve feet off the ground. The hoop was turned sideways like a perfectly round ear, and Fletcher knew that the aim of each team was to get the ball through the opposing team’s to win the game.
He had seen many sketches of these pitches from Baker’s study of orc villages, but had never imagined how the game itself was played, nor that there would be more than fifty players battling up and down the pitch.
Most fascinating was the ball itself: a heavy sphere of rubber, the same material the gremlins used for their harpoon guns. It was bounced from orc to orc as they batted it around with wooden clubs, which they also used to batter aside their opponents. Blue dye and red blood spattered the sand, the two colours blending together as they did on the neck of a cassowary bird.
‘It’s brutal,’ Sylva whispered as an orc’s tusk was knocked from its mouth in a spray of crimson. The crowd jumped to their feet with a roar that reached even the confines of the chamber.
‘Nah,’ Mason said, pointing to the edge of the next pitch along. ‘There’re far worse things than the pitz. Look. The venatio.’
Ebony’s eyes turned to the next pitch, where the red on the sand far outweighed the blue and the watching crowds were much thicker. Three orcs were chained together by the ankles, surrounded by a pack of hyenas. A fourth was being savaged on the ground not too far away. Armed with nothing but spears, they stabbed and whirled at the baying animals.
In the corner of the field, a pile of blue bodies had been left for the vultures. Among them, the corpses of animals could be seen, including big cats such as jaguars, tigers and lions. Hyenas and wild dogs seemed to be the most common, with crocodiles and even baboons appearing here and there.
‘The pitz ’onours the wind god. The venatio ’onours the animal gods. And then there’s the skin-pull, for the god of fire and light.’ He pointed at the next pitch, and Ebony’s view swung once again.
There could have been a hundred blue orcs on the next pitch, though there was no blood on this one. Instead, a great pit of flames burned fiercely in the centre, dividing the grounds in half. A great rope of knotted animal skins was stretched above the fires, while two teams of orcs strained, slipped and staggered in the sands in a desperate tug of war.
‘Surely they wouldn’t …’ Jeffrey whispered as the front row of one side stumbled, their feet scrabbling frantically against the edge of the pit.
‘It’s for their gods,’ Mason said dully, averting his eyes. One after the other, the defeated orcs were dragged into the flames, falling away until all that came out of the other side was a blackened rope of skin.
More pitches stretched out into the distance, where other games were being played. The nearest was a pool filled with water, where orcs in canoes beat each other with oars. Stone weights were tied to their ankles, so that the losers would drown if they fell. If that was not bad enough, the black bodies of crocodiles were thick in the pool, and already the water was tinged red around the remains of an upturned canoe.
‘That’s called naumachia. It’s to honour the water god,’ Mason whispered.
‘Who needs to kill orcs?’ Sylva said, shaking her head with a mix of wonder and disgust. ‘They’re doing the job for us.’
A cheer filtered through the walls of the chamber and Ebony’s eyes flicked back to the pitz. A team had managed to score. The winning orcs fell to their knees in gratitude, chests heaving with exhaustion. Many embraced each other, while others simply lay on their backs, tears streaming from their faces. The losers were swiftly rounded up by the crowd and marched away from the pitch and into the plaza. Spectating orcs hounded them on their way with leashed hyenas, until the animals nearly choked themselves to death in their attempts to attack.
‘You’d think they’d just lost more than just a game, the way some of those boys are going on,’ Verity said, for the losing orcs were sobbing bitterly as they were pushed to the base of the stairs. ‘Not so tough after all.’
‘They ’ave lost more,’ Mason murmured, shaking his head. ‘You’ll see. This is where we find out if there’re any adepts this year. Let’s ’ope that …’
He stopped. The shouts and drums had silenced. On the scrying stone, the crowds no longer milled to and fro. They began to part like a multicoloured curtain, as a parade entered the plaza from a ziggurat opposite the pyramid.