19. CHAPTER NINETEEN
The slave auction attracted dozens of townspeople to the raised stage where men and women, stripped of their clothes and dignity, stood in a line. A palpable frenzy of excitement washed over the gathered crowd, and among them, Kurush’s tall frame caught Katell’s eye.
She slammed a fist against the iron bars of her cage to no avail. The burnished gold manacles wrapped around her wrists and ankles somehow blocked her magic, preventing her from using her strength.
After the fight at the campfire, she’d woken up in chains inside one of the foetid wooden wagons, along with a handful of Non-Humans. Every day, try as she might, she hadn’t been able to bend or break the smooth, shiny metal. Powerless, she’d had little choice but to await her turn for the auction.
From what little information she’d overheard, the slavers had brought her to Bruna, the capital of the Rasennan Noric province. The area was famous for its high-quality ore, which produced the strongest steel armour and weaponry for the Empire’s legions.
A robust slaver, draped in vibrant green folds, stepped onto the stage. His voice boomed over the crowd, his imposing presence seeming to fill every corner of the dais. The hard sounds and singing rhythm of his words were distinctly Rhaetic, the official language of Rasenna and its Empire. Katell had heard it enough times in the camps to recognise it despite the Elders banishing all tongues other than the Freefolk one. Although she couldn”t speak it, she was glad Damocles had insisted Alena and her learn his native Achaean Koine. It was, after all, the predominant language spoken to the east of Rasenna.
“Next up, by Laran’s shield, we have a real treat for the people of Bruna.” The announcer switched to Koine. “Non-Humans, fresh from the Northern territories. Excellent for farming and mining, their strength is greatly valued for construction work as well. The women make fine house slaves as do the children, and despite their beastly nature, they learn fast.”
A family of Non-Humans were shoved onto the stage, huddling together like frightened animals. The father kept a protective arm around the mother, who clutched their son against her breast. The boy, no more than five or six years old, hid his face in the crook of her neck.
“This set is the best deal of the day.” He signalled the guards to bring them closer. “Parents with their offspring. Buy the family together, and the parents will be forever grateful. Threaten the young one’s life, and they will be forever obedient. Do I have an opening bid?”
Katell’s stomach churned, and she pushed away from the cage, refusing to watch the sickening auction any longer. Her gaze turned to her surroundings instead.
Bruna was bigger than any village or camp she’d ever seen. Flat stones paved the roads, large enough to fit two wagons side by side, while painted marble buildings enclosed the marketplace, so tall that they hid the horizon, which unsettled her.
And then there were the statues decorating every street corner, pedestal, and fountain. Painted effigies of Rasennan gods and mortals in all shapes and sizes.
The most impressive statue was of a stern-looking man with a short beard, adorned in a shiny, chiselled breastplate, and a purple cloak draping his form. Located in the market square, it exuded an aura of grandeur and towered over all.
Emperor Caius Tarquinius.
A Parthian slave had spat out his name when they’d arrived in the city.
Every slave auction seemed to bring forth a fresh wave of observers. A crowd of common folk stood squashed against the raised stage while a dozen noble men and women lounged in the shade on wooden chairs, chatting and laughing. Fine fabric in hues of blue, green and yellow wrapped their bodies, held together with gold pins. Protected by slaves and guards, they displayed their opulent wealth without a care in the world. While the women wore jewellery and garlands in their hair, the men chose glinting bracelets and necklaces.
The bidding for another Non-Human family began. A frantic show of hands accompanied by shouting rippled through the crowd. With a heavy heart, Katell watched the Rasennans bid for the frightened family like ravenous beasts.
It was a consolation that Alena wasn’t present to witness the horrid spectacle and the heartache it might have inflicted.
Kurush’s men came to grab her, and weakened by the scraps of food she’d been fed the past few days, Katell couldn’t fight them off. Dragging her out of the cage, they hauled her towards a small alley, away from the crowd. The shouts of the slave auction faded as they marched her down the path, and the pungent smell of piss and blood filled her nose.
Her mind wrestled with rising panic. She had no idea where they were taking her, but whatever they had planned, she doubted it would be pleasant.
“Almost there,” Kurush’s deep voice echoed behind her.
Katell glared over her shoulder. “Why did you lift your magic? Why return my strength and let me help my sister and so many others escape, only to capture me again?”
The questions had gnawed at her every day she’d spent in the wagon, and she needed Kurush to give her an answer.
The slaver leaned closer, his gaze alight with curiosity. “I used my Gift every day as we travelled. I never stopped. I’ve spent years ferrying slaves across the Empire, suppressing Gifts for weeks on end, and not once has a slave ever bested me.”
Despite the stifling summer heat, a cold chill crept up Katell’s spine.
“And yet somehow”—he lifted her dishevelled braid off her neck and peered at her Mark—“a strange Achaean girl was able to break through.”
Katell lunged, snapping her elbow at his face, but his men were faster. Their grips tightened, and they pinned her against the grimy wall, slamming the back of her head into the hard stone.
Her vision blurred, but Kurush’s thin frame still cast a foreboding shadow over her.
“Your sister had the most exquisite hair colour I’d ever seen. Every brothel in the province would have paid a fortune for her. The nobles, even more.” A lewd sneer broke over his parched lips.
With a visceral cry, Katell pushed against the guards, eager to drive a dagger through the Parthian’s heart. She’d snap each of the slavers’ necks before she’d ever let them touch Alena.
A rough hand grabbed her by the throat, and she fought for breath, her heart racing. A few beats later, the surge of anger coursing through her body fizzled out, and she slumped against the wall in defeat.
“I stopped the guards from touching your sister, but I’d never let her escape,” Kurush spat. The tight grip around her throat relented, and Katell crumbled to her knees as air rushed into her lungs. “I don’t know what trick you used to restore your magic, but that won’t save you in the Pit.”
Katell struggled to make sense of his words. Her magic had returned despite Kurush’s efforts to suppress it. How could that be? Was it stronger than his?
Her grasp of magic and Gifts was too limited to determine the truth.
In the corner of her eye, a man with long, greasy hair approached, followed by a brawny Non-Human male. Beneath the stranger’s cloak, a set of daggers glinted from his belt. He greeted Kurush in Rhaetic, exchanging a few words before holding out a leather pouch to the slaver. Kurush snapped at his men, who promptly picked Katell up and brought her face to face with the greasy-haired newcomer.
“This one should entertain Bruna for weeks,” Kurush said in Koine, assessing the coins in his grasp. “I doubt the Pit has seen anyone quite like her in a while.”
“A Gifted female fighter is always a treat for the public.” Her new captor grasped her chin, studying her face. “Green eyes and delicate features. Aurelius will be most pleased.”
She jerked away from his hold. “Touch me again, and I’ll cut off your hand.”
Behind her, Kurush chuckled. “Laran’s spirit runs through her veins. She’ll make a fine addition to the arena if you can train her.”
The man’s gaze roamed over her body, assessing her as one might when buying a horse. “She’ll learn quickly, as the others did. They all do once they’ve had a taste of the Pit.”
Kurush slipped the pouch into his cloak. “Pleasure doing business with you. Until next time.”
He left with his men back towards the marketplace, and her captor gave a sharp nod to the Non-Human male. He grabbed Katell without a word and tugged her down the cobbled road.
They trailed the greasy-haired man, navigating a maze of alleyways until he slipped through a wooden door beneath a stone archway. A tattered red cloth hung over the mantel, displaying the shadow of a man wearing a crested helmet and brandishing a spear. Inside was a stuffy storage space, illuminated by a handful of sconces on the walls.
The man hoisted one of the torches and headed towards a narrow staircase hidden in the corner. “Keep up,” he growled.
Katell recoiled, but the Non-Human’s forceful shove gave her no choice but to follow down the spiralling stone steps. The air grew hot and musty as they descended into a cavernous network of tunnels.
Her captor strode towards the opening on the far right and then opened yet another wooden door, revealing a circular corridor made of stone walls and vaulted arches. Although they were underground, rays of sunlight filtered through narrow slits carved high in the walls. Dust motes swirled in the faint brightness.
Dozens of iron-shod wooden doors and cages lined the corridor, and a brief burst of fear gripped her heart.
“Welcome to the Pit.” The man smiled, revealing yellowing, crooked teeth. “You belong to the arena master, Lucius Aurelius, now. This is the corridor where we keep the Gifted warriors, but you’ll get a tour soon enough. Let’s find you a cell.”
The Non-Human pushed her, and she staggered onwards while other workers shuffled past her down the dimly lit corridor.
Not workers. Slaves. Dozens of them, both human and Non-Human, carrying buckets of water, breastplates and helmets of all styles, and baskets filled with bloodstained bandages.
Behind iron bars, Gifted warriors from all over the Empire observed her with hardened expressions, their scarred faces and hollow eyes telling stories of enduring pain and despair.
Her captor unlocked a heavy wooden door and heaved it open. “In here.”
Inside, the cell was a damp and desolate space with uneven walls of weathered stones and a cold, hard floor. A sliver of sunlight shone through a single square opening at the highest point in the wall.
“I said, get in!”
The Non-Human shoved her in and slammed the door shut behind her. Katell covered her nose to block out the foetid air while her eyes adjusted to the dim light.
Two wooden benches lined the damp walls of the cell, and a woman covered in blood lay unconscious on one of them.
Besides her stained, scratchy tunic, she wore leather bracers and bronze greaves ill-suited for her thin legs.
A deep masculine voice called out behind her in Rhaetic. Katell spun around, spotting a barred window in the wall, separating her cell from the neighbouring one.
A man with dirty-blond hair tied in a short braid sat on a wooden bench. He lounged against the jagged stone wall, a muscular arm dangling from his propped-up leg.
He spoke again and cocked his head, waiting for an answer.
Katell hadn’t the faintest clue what he’d asked.
“Twelve be damned, another Western girl,” he muttered under his breath in Koine. “What is it with the tribes having such strong women?”
Katell arched an eyebrow. “Perhaps their gods favour girls. Or perhaps the women train twice as hard as the men, who sit around and lament.”
His face lit up, and beneath the stubble, his lips twisted with amusement. “The Giver’s tits, the new girl speaks Koine. The Amazon will be pleased. Listening to you speak is like music to my ears, although I can’t place your accent. Illyrian?”
She shook her head. Despite his crass manner, she inched closer to examine him in more detail. His legs were shackled, but unlike the woman on the bench, he wore no armour. A dark sleeveless tunic pinned at the shoulders exposed his sculpted arms and faint battle scars.
“Who are you?”
He dropped his leg and leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his knees. A beam of light hit his face, revealing clear blue eyes and sharp features.
His good looks were undeniable.
Or would have been—after a bath.
“My name’s Nikander, but you can call me Nik. Here they call me the Achaean.”
“Achaean? From Megara?”
“Perhaps,” he drawled, holding her gaze. “Tell me, sweetheart, have you ever been to the Sea God’s city?”
“I was on my way there until the slavers caught me.” She shot him a glare. “And the name is Katell.”