Chapter 5
Chapter five
Marco: Welcome to Deathball
The arena’s starkly quiet, dormant in the morning sun, like a volcano about to wreak mass destruction.
I’ve never adjusted to the contrast. One day it’s screams and blood and agony and violence.
The next, peaceful enough for birds to land on the blood-stained field, hopping, dancing, singing, as if this thing has any place in nature.
The air’s thick with the kind of cloying, cool moisture that promises it will be burning hot in two or three hours.
I’m starting them early today to get the best out of them, but I’m already dreading the scalding, sweating heat of the midday sun when it creeps over the coliseum.
Blinding sand and tickling sweat. And the blows I’ll take today.
The cuts I’ll wrap tonight, wondering how many will scar permanently, a gallery of slavery etched into my skin for all the world to see.
Yet there’s something extra here today. Something simmering beneath the usual anticipation of pain and heat and thirst. There’s a thick gravel at the base of my heart, black and churning. And when the heavy wooden doors fly open, it rains solid stone.
He’s at the front of the line, hands shackled. They march in two by two, prodded by eight guards. Most new men look around the arena, take in the vastness of it, cower at the majesty of the terrifying spectacle. But this one walks as though he doesn’t see a thing, eyes dead to the world.
I force myself to turn away from them. I can’t be seen watching him like this. But his image is already burned into my mind.
Washed, he’s magnificent. The tangles of honey and caramel curling around his temple, shifting in the breeze like a sun-drenched field of barley. I can smell it. I can smell him. I can smell home.
The ghost of the past scratching at my ribs, I take up a wooden bat. We’re going to train hard today, so I may as well start strong.
I scoop up some sand, brown and dirty, and let it sift through my fingers to soak up the sweat that will come soon. My wrists and hands are wrapped tight in supportive binds, wound around my palms today to cover the spot where he bit me. The filthy sand turns the white bindings brown.
One by one, they’re lined up in front of me.
The doors of the arena bang shut, then the guards unlock the shackles on the latest recruits.
The clank of metal echoes loudly about the empty stone edifice, and the corner of my eye latches onto his movement, large hands rubbing his wrists now he’s free again.
I slam the end of the bat down into my hand—a call to attention, and a sharp pain to keep me on my guard.
“Gentlemen, welcome to the pit. You’ll live here, you’ll train here, and almost all of you will die here.”
There’s a small murmur down the line, and I lock eyes with Jason, the ever-present thorn in my side.
“I don’t care if you’ve heard it all before. You’ll keep your mouth shut, or you’ll be on lavatory-cleaning duty tonight. With a toothbrush.”
His eyes turn to fire on me, like I owe him something, but he knows better than to challenge me openly.
“You.” I point the end of the bat at a face I’ve never seen before, dark hair, green eyes. “And you.” I point the bat at him, his gaze sharp on me like a knife. “Welcome to Deathball.”
I stretch my arm out long to point at the far door of the stadium. “On game day, one of you men will enter the stadium there.” I turn to the other side, indicating the entrance opposite. “Another will come in there. Two enter, only one leaves alive.”
Their eyes meet, shooting one another wary looks.
“You’ll have precious seconds to locate the one thing that might save your life.
” I throw the lid back on the weapons chest, and the sharp gleam of hot sun on bright metal makes me wince.
The object is polished like a crown, the longest barbs extending three inches in every direction, brutally sharp, a more convincing statement of power than the soaring columns of City Hall.
Taking it up with my spare hand, I hold it high for the men to see, spikes sliding deep between my fingers.
“This is the Deathball.” I eye them all, one at a time, to see they’re paying attention.
Of course they are. “This ball has almost every one of your names written on it. When you die in this arena, you die by Deathball.”
I move to the end of the line and hold the Deathball out for the pretty captive to take.
He’s slow about it, like he doesn’t want to hold the thing that’s got him into this mess, the symbol of this vicious society that stole us all away from our homes and our lives for no better purpose than to be bludgeoned for entertainment.
But he does take it. All ten pounds of solid steel, careful not to cut himself on its many spikes.
I’m on my guard, in case he tries to attack me with it, but he only examines it with the sort of morbid reverence due the thing that’s likely to be lodged in his skull a few weeks from now.
“Pass it down the line.”
His eyes meet mine. I wouldn’t call it trust, but there’s a resigned acceptance in the order of things as he gives it to the other new guy.
“The object of the game,” I explain as they each examine the weapon, “is to get to that ball first. It could be at the top of a plinth. It could be at the bottom of a man-made lake. It could be locked in a box with golden chains and one tiny key hidden somewhere in this stadium. But you have to get it at all costs. Because you only win Deathball when you deal the killing blow with the Deathball.”
“What happens if I don’t?” says the other new guy.
I examine him a moment. Seems like an honest question. There’s no disrespect in his tone or his manner. “Your opponent will kill you with it. And if neither of you fight, you’ll be sent to Victora Prison.”
His left shoulder rises a little, the specter of a grin about his lips, like he just figured his way out of this maze.
I relieve him of his levity. “That’s a sentence worse than dying. It’s worse than the mines, it’s worse than the stone mill, and it’s worse than Deathball. Ever seen a man eaten alive by rats and maggots because he was too weak from hunger and beatings to fend them off?”
I don’t need to wait for his answer, but I do anyway. His skin turns a shade toward green, and I watch for the slight shake of his head before I talk again.
“They’ll be taking you there for a visit before the season starts, just so you’re aware of your options. But I’ll tell you this: I’ve never met a man who set foot in that place then refused to play Deathball.”
A rumble of laughter breaks out of the more experienced guys, a sound tipped with malice.
I take the Deathball back from the end of the line and return it to its box.
“René and Max are laughing because they made it through one season. They think they’re old hands at this now.
” René shrugs, while Max rolls his neck, the crack audible in the echo of the stadium.
“Jason here,” I stretch the wooden bat out toward him, “has survived two full seasons. That makes him the second most experienced player here today. You show him respect, and he can give you advice on how to survive a little longer, or at the very least, how to die well.”
They laugh off the joke that isn’t really a joke at all.
“This will be my fifth season. And, therefore, my final one.” I can’t prevent my gaze from wandering, drawn to the handsome newcomer’s mouth as his lips part, trying to read his thoughts in the shadow that falls across his brow.
“That’s why you need to listen to me. Almost every other man who’s stood where you are today is dead and in the ground.
There’s a very good chance I put him there.
He didn’t have a funeral, his family won’t ever claim his bones, and they won’t ever know what I did to him.
They’re gone now, just like your family, another life that closed behind you with the city gates. From now on, your life is Deathball.”
I let the gravity of it enshroud them, knowing that even the most belligerent players are thinking about the people they once loved, no more than shadows in a dust storm.
“We now have twenty men—a complete team. Only four of us will survive this season. Which means only four of us have any chance of making it home, wherever that might be.”
When I speak again, it’s from my heart. It’s to me, and it’s directly to him.
“There are only two ways out of this place. In a box, or with the blessing of your superiors. Impress them. Impress the sponsors, impress the fans, and above all, impress the Emperor. And one day, if you work hard, they will grant your freedom.”
A spark of hope comes into the faces of all the men, but none so bright or pronounced as that golden beauty.
His chest swells with the notion, and I watch it sink into him, the promise that’s going to protect him through every game, through every night in that dungeon, through every blow and humiliation that’s yet to settle over those great shoulders.
That promise is my faith and my saviour, and it’s as close as I ever get to satisfied to see it become the rod that straightens their backs.
“Until that time,” I tell them, “there are other perks. If the sponsors like you, you’ll be equipped with decent weaponry and armor for the matches.
You’ll last longer, get hurt less. And sometimes they’ll even give you some cash to spend on drink, once you’ve earned enough trust to be taken on escorted outings to taverns.
Not the night before games, obviously.” Another chuckle ripples through the line, and I cut it off, reiterating, “Impress your superiors.”
Out of nowhere, Max quips, “And if you impress Marco, you might get a night or two at his nice villa.”
My head turns sharply, just in time to see him dig his elbow into Jason’s ribs, the two of them smirking together. My voice comes soft. “That’s very funny, Max. Please come stand here.”