CHAPTER NINE KAI
My fists thud into a training dummy carved from wood, sending splinters flying into the air.
I dance around it, trying to imagine an opponent in front of me, making sure my defenses are still in place even as I throw my attacks.
I stay light on my feet, lashing out with punches and kicks in the yard of an old, abandoned villa that some of the fighters use to train.
A couple more are working nearby, hitting the posts with padding wrapped around them to make sure they won't be hurt.
I don't need to do that, with a layer of magic forming an invisible shield of force across my hands.
Another couple work with weapons, sparring with wooden swords which click together rather than ringing out the way steel would.
Of course there are onlookers here; there are those who like to watch the practice sessions the way someone else might watch a racehorse run in the paddocks, trying to get a sense of what it will do on race day.
A couple of fat, wealthy men sit beneath an awning, watching us while being attended by servants.
There are hangers on looking from windows, the women who try to get the attention of some of the fighters, the men who say they can find us the best fights, occasionally the toughs from the gangs who offer us money to guard this merchant or beat up that rival.
It feels a long way from the honor of the games, a long way from the cheering crowds at the arena and the gleam of blood-smeared swords in the sunlight.
I take up a trident next, working with it against the post, trying to copy moves I remember from the days when gladiators fought in earnest. I find myself thinking of Lyra, who fought with this as her weapon before she took up the spear during the Champions’ Trials.
I saw her fight several times, and now I copy the smooth, evasive movements of her style.
“You're better off putting that down and focusing on your fists,” a fighter named Hansa says.
He's kicking at one of the posts, trying to condition his shins to take the impact. He’s tall and whip lean, dun hair shorn close to his skull, with tattoos worked across his back from years at sea.
He has the barest flicker of illusion magic, which means he can create a kind of blur around his body.
It's a small thing, but in a fight, it can make him harder to read.
“I want to be skilled with all the weapons, as well as my fists,” I counter.
“There's no point. Oh, some of the older ones do it for old times’ sake, but the games are dead as they were.
The republic put a stop to the killing, and we're never going to get those kinds of games back again.
You're not going to fight in a match with a trident and net, so why waste time training with them, when you could be working to get better with your fists and feet? You could make actual money that way, Kai.”
I suspect we have different definitions of actual money.
The pit fights I’ve been in have earned me enough to live on but I'm not going to fool myself into thinking I'm going to get rich doing them.
I'll fight and earn a few coins but it's a long way from the prestige successful gladiators in the colosseum would receive once they completed their five seasons.
They would have jobs waiting, or offers of marriage from noble houses determined to bring their magical talents into their blood, or chances to join the emperor's personal guard.
Now, if I want to fight for the city I need to join the uninspiring ranks of the city guard.
“I'll keep training anyway,” I say. “Maybe one day there'll be a chance to fight again properly.”
Hansa laughs. “That's never going to happen. But sure, keep playing around with that trident. Every moment you spend training with it means I pull further ahead in case we ever have to fight.”
I ignore him and keep working, training until sweat pours down my chest. I finally step away from the practice posts, heading to the side to get some watered wine.
One of the women there hands it to me, looking me up and down and leaning forward in a way that emphasizes the tightness of her simple dress.
“Hmm, you’re looking good out there,” she says. “Maybe we could meet up later, and you could buy me a couple of drinks.”
It seems I’m starting to get the kind of attention some of the other fighters take for granted. Even as I open my mouth to say yes to the offer, though, one of the noblemen beneath the awning walks up to me.
“Sadly, young Kai here won’t be available tonight,” he says. “He has better things to do.”
He jerks his head in a command for the young woman to leave and I must hold back from snapping at the noble. I have a lifetime of learning etiquette and deference to fall back on, and I know better than to upset the kind of man who could probably have me killed, even in the Republic.
“What do I have that’s better to do?” I ask him. I think about the receiving rooms of the colosseum, and the expectations of the nobles there. Is this man trying to become my patron, or does he want something else from me?
“I couldn’t help overhearing you,” the noble says. “You like the idea of maybe fighting in a true fight, rather than these pit brawls?”
I try to decide whether to be offended by that insult to the fights I’ve had so far, but honestly, it’s only a step away from the kind of thing I’ve been thinking. I nod.
“Well then,” the noble says. “There’s a meeting you need to come to tonight.”
***
I wait and watch in the dark as I approach the entrance to the meeting.
I’m used to slinking into unseen spaces for my fights, but doing so has made me cautious.
I want to make sure that I’m not just walking into a trap.
I want to know that this meeting is a real thing before I walk into anywhere I don’t know.
Especially when it means walking into the crypts and tunnels beneath the city. A lot of fights are in these spaces, but usually, we access them through the cellars of taverns and inns, the backrooms of abandoned houses and small homes.
This is just a gateway leading down into the tunnels.
It’s the kind of place that might contain rogue beast whisperers or the remnants of nobles plotting against the Republic, strange creatures or just kidnappers waiting to take a popular fighter to a neighboring kingdom.
Slavery might have been ended in the Republic, but there are still plenty of places in the world where I might be sold on if someone captures me.
I wait until I can see others heading down there, in ones and twos at first, but then in larger numbers.
I slip in with them, confident that at least I’m not being lured to my doom alone.
I follow the crowd down into a large space, lit by flickering torches, with the remnants of a couple of statues holding gladiatorial weapons.
One has a short sword and buckler, while the other holds a double bladed staff.
A crowd is waiting there, and I can recognize several fighters from the pits, but also others.
There are gladiators there, real gladiators, who fought in the colosseum in the days before it closed.
There are people I recognize from my time serving in the colosseum: trainers and armorers, beast tamers and guards.
There are others I don’t know, and many others are wrapped in cloaks.
One such cloak-wrapped figure steps up in front of the others, pushing back his hood to reveal the senate member, Domitian.
"Most of you know me," he says. "And maybe you can guess why we're all here. I'm pushing in the Senate for the return of the games to the colosseum."
Chatter erupts around me, with people calling out from so many directions I can’t make out all the words.
“What do you mean, the return of the games?” a former gladiator named Glacius demands. He’s in his forties, heavily muscled, with streaks of icy white in his hair that owe more to his power to create freezing cold than to his age.
“I mean what I say,” Domitian says. “The games will return to the city. We’ve already persuaded Rowan to rebuild the colosseum.”
“For civic events, triumphal marches, that kind of thing,” a noble in the crowd says.
"That was the original suggestion," Domitian replies. "But we're trying to persuade the Senate to bring back fights. That will work better if all of you start to put pressure on the senators. And when it happens, we'll need the people in place to bring the games back to what they should be."
“What do you mean, what they should be?” Glacius demands, obviously unhappy. “Are you talking about exhibition bouts with blunted weapons? Unarmed pit fights?”
“All of those,” Domitian says, “and that might be where we have to start, but that isn’t where I plan to finish.
The games were glorious, and that glory came from the chance of blood being spilled.
If we work together, we can bring back lethal combat.
We can feed the stones of the city and renew the honor of Aetheria. ”
Around me, some people look shocked, while others look hungry, eager for the opportunity to return to that past. Glacius looks anything but convinced.
"This is madness," he says. "Foolishness. You want to squander the lives of Aetheria's citizens for nothing more than your own advancement within the Senate."
“Well, I think it’s a good idea.” The words are out of my mouth before I even realize I’m saying them.
Glacius rounds on me, looking me up and down. “And what do you know, boy? I don’t see the brand of the gladiators on your shoulder.”
“I never got the chance to fight,” I explain. I can’t keep the excitement out of my voice. “That’s why I want the chance to fight in the arena. I want a chance for the same glory you won.”
Glacius snorts. “You don’t even know what the arena is.”
“I saw more of it than most,” I say. “I served there, before I was freed when the Republic overthrew the emperor.”
Glacius laughs. “So now we’re meant to listen to a slave whose contribution to the arena was probably just sleeping with any noble who snapped her fingers. Or his.”
I stand up in front of the others, determined not to back down in the face of Glacius’ bullying.
“I’m a pit fighter,” I say, “and a good one. But that isn’t enough.
You’re right, I never got to fight in the arena.
And now you’re the one arguing that I shouldn’t even have the chance.
Why should you get to have that honor, that glory, and the rest of us don’t?
Why shouldn’t I get to follow in the steps of Lyra and Vex? ”
Glacius snorts. “As if you could last ten seconds in there. As if any of us should listen to a pathetic little former slave boy who should be on his knees, not-”
I hit him then, putting the full weight of my magic over my fists to lend them power. I hit him with all my weight behind the blow, hit him with everything I have.
Glacius looks shocked, then stumbles, toppling back into the crowd.
The people there don’t move to catch him, but instead step out of the way, letting him fall with a sound like a boulder crashing to the ground.
The crypt we’re in is dusty enough to send a cloud of it into the air as Glacius falls, unconscious.
People move around me, slapping me on the back. Domitian is one of them.
“Don’t worry, boy. You’ll get your chance to fight in the true games again. I’ll make sure of it.”