82. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
T he next day on Planet Galgon
Tarrex
My days of nervous anxiety before a match are long gone. I haven’t felt fear over my impending death for annums .
Sliding my fingers under the edges of my bronze helmet’s eye holes, I circle my temples. It’s a useless habit. It gives me no relief.
I’m in the dank underground tunnel where they house the fighting flesh before the gladiatorial games. Games. That’s an interesting word for activities designed to end in death. But that won’t be my fate today, unless I’m lucky.
I’m slated for a cestus match. They occur early on the roster and are preliminary rounds before the fatal contests in the afternoon. They’re fought nude with no weapons. We fight until one is unconscious or gives the terrin sign to stop the fight and forfeit the match.
I’ve begged to be placed in a match to the death, but Barta, my trainer, hates me. I was stupid. I should have known that if I asked for something, he’d never grant my request. Instead, I should have begged for cestus matches and pleaded for my life. That would have ensured my entry into a deathmatch against an opponent even I can’t beat. I’m unable to accomplish the one thing I now desire in this lifetime—death.
“You’re going to win your match today, Tarrex. You’d better, or else I’ll make you pay. We’ve watched the vids of your opponent. You know exactly how to defeat him. A few more of these matches, an undefeated status for your last five games, and I’ll bet against you in your deathmatch. I’ll make good credits and you’ll get what you want—killed.” He laughs. It’s a hearty but heartless sound that echoes in the ancient stone hallway.
He saunters away to give a pep talk to Ligon, a fellow slave in my ludus .
When I’m occupied, it’s easier to keep the voices and emotions out of my head for short periods. Shorter every day, it seems. But now that Barta has walked away, I’m bombarded by a cacophony of sounds and a deluge of emotions coming from the other combatants.
First, a wave of fear blasts into me so hard it’s as if I’m hit by a meaty fist. Reflexively, my helmeted head slams into the wall I’m sitting against. The emotions are multi-layered, coming from many people at once. The most prominent one, so thick I can taste a tinge of it in my mouth, is coming from the male sitting directly to my right.
He’s a young Anthen, barely old enough to get hard. His fear is so palpable it gives voice to his thoughts.
My dear Lord, Alboss, save me, protect me, guard over me , he prays. Because his lips aren’t moving, the words come fast and hard. Sometimes they’re full of fervent belief, at other times, they’re rote. Every one, though, is desperate.
I stand and pace across the hallway, placing my back against the wall to get as far from him as possible without receiving a beating from Barta or the guards. The scant fiertos of distance do nothing to push his thoughts out of my head.
I’m sorry for any wrongs I’ve done to other living beings, sorry for my gambling debts that pressed me into servitude, sorry for leaving Gerta alone with a babe… His pleadings and atonement are endless. I hope his opponent goes easy on him, although that will never happen.
Softer waves of fear assault me from both my right and my left. I can’t think of a place more ripe with unsavory emotions than the bench where gladiators await their matches and contemplate their mortality.
I turn my face to the stone wall and start banging my head, hoping the noise created by my brass helmet hitting the stone will deflect some of the intrusive thoughts and emotions, but I know better. You’d think I would have stopped attempting this annums ago.
I turn back to face the males, all lined up, hip to hip on the ancient bench, then assess my opponent.
Barta had me watch some of his matches. He’s good. He fights like a machine. He doesn’t get distracted, never lets his guard down, and rarely relinquishes control to his foe. Against anyone else, he’s formidable.
But I have a secret weapon.
The young Anthen’s panic has destroyed whatever composure I had. His fear has ramped to the level of terror. It’s invaded not only my mind but my body to the depths of my marrow. I try to control my urge to vomit, but bile is crawling up the back of my throat.
I hate the taste, although as often as it happens, I should have discovered a way to make it my friend. It’s not the worst thing in the world to vomit in the holding area before a fight. It signals a weakness that, in actuality, I don’t possess.
“Asshole,” Barta says with a leer as he leans his head close. “If you’d quit pounding your head, I wouldn’t have to lock that helmet on to keep you alive, nor would I have to pay off the officials to allow you into a cestus match with it. I’m going to keep taking those bribes out of your rations until you get your shit together.”
Hasn’t he figured out I know he’s still giving me full rations to keep me in fighting shape? His threats have no bite.
“Time,” Barta announces, nodding at me even as the contents of my guts empty and splatter onto the floor—totally synchronized with the Anthen on the bench in front of me. My trainer approaches, grabs my upper arm, leans close, and says, “You must win or whatever that silver asshole does to you in the arena will feel like a trip to heaven.”
Quite the motivational speech.
My opponent and I stand at the arched opening, our bodies in the shade of the underground as we stare into the sun-drenched arena.
He’s big, but I can take him. What’s with the locked helmet? Why are the officials allowing it? Does he hide a weapon under there? I need to watch his hands at all times. If he’s concealed a knife underneath his helmet, I’ll need to be on guard for that.
He’s afraid. He just vomited. Keep him on the defensive.
Remember to keep him to my right. It was stupid of me to injure my knee last week in that sparring match with Zar.
Yes. My secret weapon. I’m a good fighter with a good record. But my silver opponent just gave me the information I need to go from even odds to 10:1. All I need to do is play with his mind by reaching to my helmet when I have a chance, making him pay extra attention to what’s in my hands. That and stay on his left, his bad side.
One more wave of the young Anthen’s fear blasts me, then the trumpets announcing our match sound as the workers stretcher an injured male off the burning sands. He’s in agony. It’s so thick I have no defense against it. If I hadn’t just emptied my stomach, I would do so now.
“Females and males!” the announcer’s voice reverberates through the arena. “This cestus match pits Steele, a free male from Anderon against Tarrex, from Coronis, owned by Arallik of Monravia.”
I take a slow, deep breath to regain my composure as the injured male is moved beyond my psychic range, then my opponent and I enter the arena. Our arms are raised as if each of us has already won and is accepting the adulation of the crowd. He runs the perimeter toward his left. I run to my right.
Although the match doesn’t officially start until we complete this circuit, it’s not unusual for the first punch to be thrown when we pass each other at the halfway mark of our adulatory run.
When we arrive in the middle of the arena, almost toe-to-toe in the hot sun, the announcer says, “Begin,” and I press forward, pushing his shoulders to see how much pressure I need to apply to throw him off balance. He stands firm, forcefully knocking both my arms away from his body.
From here, the skirmish starts in earnest. We’re evenly matched, but I haven’t put my plan into action yet. On Steele’s next assault, I reach to my helmet, which snaps his gaze to my hand. I pivot to his left as his focus is briefly distracted, allowing him to rush past me as I give a firm kick to his bad knee.
I hear his grunt through my ears. In my head I hear, Gods! Right where I got that sprain from Zar.
He’s limping now. Perhaps I’ve spent too many annums as a gladiator, too many annums training to go in for the kill. This is like child’s play and comes as naturally as breathing. On my next opportunity, I whirl and kick him again in the exact same place.
He falls to his knees but rises immediately.
This is going to put me out of commission for at least a lunar, he thinks. I haven’t felt this kind of burning pain since I was shot when we conducted a rescue almost an annum ago. I don’t know how he found my weak spot, but I’m going to kill this motherfucker.
Suddenly, it hits me. This male is strong. And mad. Mad enough to kill me even though it’s a cestus match. It’s the answer to my prayers.
“Steele,” I say, my sharp, pleading voice communicating my urgent need.
I pummel his stomach with so little force a toddler could withstand it. His eyes pop wide in surprise at the lack of impact behind my punches. The fight is for show now. My words are important.
“Steele, kill me. I’ll just stand here. Kill me, brother.”
“Is this a trick?” Although he’s suspicious, since I’m not harming him, he only pretends to pound me back. He must be at least partially interested.
“I’m in agony, brother,” I appeal to our common roots—the brotherhood of gladiators. “You have the skill to kill me with your fists. I won’t fight back, won’t harm you anymore. Just keep pounding my kidneys until I’m gone. Please.”
I give him a weak uppercut to his jaw and his head jacks back to give the impression my punch was violent.
“You’ve taken one too many blows to the head, friend. That must be why you’re locked in a helmet,” he says as he grabs my shoulders, pulls me forward, and pretends to knee me in the stomach.
“I’m damaged. Crazy. I can’t live like this anymore. You’d be doing me a favor.” My brass helmet obstructs most of my face, leaving just my eyes and mouth exposed. He can’t see my emotions, but my voice expresses my sincerity.
I grab his arm, twirl him around, place the sole of my sandal on his ass, and push. After he lands face down on the sand, I straddle him, leaning over to pin his wrists to the ground above his head.
“You’re a free male, Steele. I have family. Once I’m dead, you can contact them. Ask for my share of my inheritance. If you won’t kill me as a favor. Kill me for the credits. I’ll tell you who to contact, what to say.”
I roll him over and feign punching him in the face. Pretend blow after pretend blow have his head snapping right and left as if we’d spent hoaras choreographing it. All of this is punctuated by my pleas as I get more desperate.
“Stand down!” he says as he throws me off, rolls away from me, and rises, his actions showing his weariness as well as his wariness.
“Will you do it, brother?” I ask, again appealing to our imaginary fighting brotherhood. We face each other, circling as if we’re both looking for the next advantage.
“You really want to die?” he demands as he lunges, twists, and holds me in a headlock, his mouth now close to my helmeted ear.
Thank the Gods. I think he heard me. He sounds serious. Interested.
“With all my being,”I say with as much sincerity and conviction as I can muster while pretending to try and break his hold.
“I’m going to win this match, Tarrex. Then I’m going to buy you. And then I will arrange your spectacular death.”