Echoes of light, p.10
Echoes of Light, page 10
"But I don't even know if you still live," she whispered into the shadows.
When finally she slept, she dreamed that she broke out of the Ludus Magnus, that she found him again, that she leaped into his embrace, and that they fought Aelar together until its walls shattered. Yet in her dreams, when the walls fell, they became the walls of Gefen, falling into the sea as Seneca laughed, as her father hung on the cross under a storm.
Leyla woke her at dawn. The gladiator trainer yanked the barred door open and entered the chamber. As always she wore the armor of a gladiatrix, armor for show, the breastplate molded to accentuate the breasts, the navel bare, the pteruges showing more thigh than they protected. Such armor would not protect a soldier on the field, but it wowed the crowd. Only the guards wore proper armor here. The collared slaves wore showpieces.
"Are you ready?" A whip hung from Leyla's side, but she did not move to grab it, and her voice was soft. "The time is near."
Atalia rose from her bed. She nodded. "I'm ready."
Today was the day Atalia had dreaded for weeks. The Ludi Victoriae. The grandest day in the Aelarian calendar. It was today, in the last days of winter, that Aelar celebrated its past victories, a day to honor savagery and bloodshed. Around the Acropolis, the chariots would race for laurels. Across the Empire, backyard slaves would battle for coins, and the dead would pile up in arenas. And in the glorious Amphitheatrum, where the emperor himself celebrated, the finest gladiators of the realm would battle to the death.
Atalia stepped into the bathhouse, where slaves washed her, shaved her body, oiled and perfumed her skin, and braided her black hair a hundred times. Here she dressed for the show: a manica of scales across the right arm, a strip of cloth for her loins, and metal cups for her breasts. It was lurid armor, ridiculous armor, the kind that always drew delighted roars from the crowd. Today, unlike many days in the arena, Atalia bore no dulled blades. The slaves placed a sharpened sword into her one hand, a small shield—no larger than a dinner plate—in the other. Finally they placed her helmet on her head, her old helmet, the one Berengar had given her, shaped as a lion's head.
When Atalia gazed at herself in the mirror, she did not see the brave soldier of Gefen nor the warrior of Gael. She saw a caricature. A slave. One whose death would not be in glory but for the entertainment of bloodthirsty spectators.
She hefted her sword. It was well balanced. Good steel. A better sword than she had ever wielded in Zohar's army. Today it would drink much blood. Because Atalia refused to die this day. Refused to die without seeing her husband and her home again. She would cut them all down. She would cut through every gladiator in the world until she had nobody left to fight, and then she would plunge her blade into Tirus's heart.
That morning the training yard was subdued. A few gladiators halfheartedly banged swords together. Most were silent. This day, they knew, many of them would die. Atalia spent the morning swinging her blade, forcing all memories and thoughts out of her mind, until all that remained was the sword.
It was noon when the horns blared from the Amphitheatrum, signaling the start of the festivities. The gladiators lowered their weapons and stared. From here in the training yard, they could see the top tier of the amphitheater and fluttering banners. They could hear the buzz and hum of the crowd taking their seats.
The bald, hulking Uro turned toward Atalia. His wound from Leyla's whip had healed, leaving only a thin scar across his face. He clasped Atalia's shoulder.
"Fight well today, lioness. May you shatter your enemies or die in glory and rise to the gods."
Atalia had no god but Eloh, and even Eloh seemed to have abandoned her, but she nodded. She clasped his arm. "Fight well today, you stinking brute. Shatter your enemies and all that."
A gladiatrix approached, her red hair strewn with braids, her face painted with blue stripes. Breeana stared at Atalia, sneered, and spat on her feet. "You won't last five fucks in there, rat. Get ready. Our blades meet today. Mine is thirsty." She walked on, knocking into Atalia as she passed, shoving her back.
"Good to have friends," Atalia muttered.
Uro grunted. "Better to have enemies in the Ludus. Makes it easier. May our blades never meet in battle. Come now. It begins."
Horns sounded again from the arena, and Leyla cracked her whip, herding the gladiators forward. They left the training yard, entering a tunnel that delved underground. The gladiators walked in darkness, passing under the city streets, until the tunnel sloped upward and led to a doorway. Beyond the doors Atalia could hear the roar of the crowd. Beyond the doors she would triumph or die.
The doors opened. The games began.
Uro was first to enter the arena, and Atalia watched as he battled a man on an elephant, finally slaying the animal with a sword between its ribs. The crowd roared and cheered as the mighty beast fell, then laughed as Uro slammed the rider's head against the ground, killing the man without the use of steel. Next, fifty criminals from the city were crucified in a great ring around the arena, their corpses set on fire as the crowd cried out in wonder. A chariot battle followed. Breeana rode in one chariot, and twenty more raced through the arena, until all had shattered and Breeana stood over the wreckage and the corpses of her enemies. As the games continued, Atalia stood in the tunnel, watching, her nausea growing with every death.
Throughout the battles, Atalia kept raising her eyes and staring across the arena. Tirus sat there in splendor, his imperial terrace worked into the tiers of seats. The emperor sat on an ivory throne between red-and-gold columns, guzzling wine as nude slaves lounged around him. With every death in the arena, Tirus leaned forward and cheered. Atalia remembered a stern, laconic ambassador, a man who had often frequented the villa on Pine Hill, speaking to Father of trade and politics as his daughter sneaked loving glances at Epher. But this Tirus seemed a different man, surrendering to excess and bloodlust while his daughter, they said, hunted Epher in the ruins of Zohar.
The corpses of several criminals, at least what remained after the tigers had feasted, were dragged out of the arena. Horns blared again, shrill cries like dying men. Atalia was the last gladiator in the tunnel. Domina Leyla, who stood at her side, nodded to her.
"It's time, Atalia," the trainer said softly, and Atalia was surprised to see true concern, true softness in the fierce warrior's eyes.
"What will happen to me?" Atalia asked. "Who will they have me face?"
"I don't know." Leyla placed a hand on Atalia's shoulder. "I was once much like you. Be brave, Atalia. Be strong. Survive today. Live. Someday you might be a trainer like me."
Atalia did not wish for that. All she wanted was to go home. But she nodded, then stepped out into the arena.
Thousands of spectators surrounded her. Some chanted her name. Others booed and tossed refuse into the arena. Tirus rose to his feet and spread out his arms. He cried out in a booming voice that filled the amphitheater.
"Behold! Here before us stands Atalia Sela!"
"Atalia! Atalia!" chanted some in the crowd, and Atalia raised her eyes toward them and gasped. Zoharites! Zoharites were in the amphitheater, some wearing slave collars, others free citizens. They were chanting for her.
But most in the crowd booed. They pelted Atalia with rotten vegetables and what she hoped were clumps of mud.
"Desert rat!" they shouted.
"Barbarian!"
"Demon!"
Atalia stood still, clutching her sword, letting them curse, letting them pelt her. She was a segen in the hosts of Zohar—even here. They could not take her pride.
Tirus waited for the commotion to die down, then continued speaking. "Atalia Sela is sister to Epheriah Sela, the rebel who spits on our Empire in the desert province of Aelaria Orientalis." The crowd erupted in more boos. "Atalia Sela is sister to Ofeer, the whore who escaped from the Lunapar and now plots against us." The crowd tossed more refuse. "Atalia Sela is wife to Berengar, the barbarian who led the horde to our walls!" Now the crowd overflowed with hatred, shouting, spitting.
Atalia looked toward the Zoharite section in the amphitheater, hoping against hope that Ofeer herself would be there, maybe Koren too, that maybe both still lived. But she could not see them. Hope rose in her—hesitant, barely there at all—that Ofeer and Koren were here in this city, that she could someday still find them. For that chance she had to survive today.
"Atalia and Berengar fought against us!" Tirus boomed. "Side by side, the lovers sought to topple our walls. Yet now, here in the arena—behold the lovers torn apart! Behold Atalia and Berengar, doomed lovers, fight as enemies!"
As the crowd roared, Atalia's head spun. She could not comprehend those words. What could he mean? What . . .
Doors opened across the arena, and he emerged.
Berengar rode into the arena as Atalia's tears streamed. He sat astride his white stag, which drew gasps from the crowd. He wore the same armor he had worn throughout their invasion, the breastplate worked with silver elks. His beard flowed, long and golden, and he held his mighty war hammer.
Yet Atalia saw at once that something was wrong, that he was different, that he was still wounded, perhaps still dying. His armor hid the wounds of the arrows, but his skin was still sallow, his eyes still pained. His hammer rested against his thighs, not held overhead.
"Berengar," she whispered. "No." She turned toward Tirus, and her voice rose to a shout. "No! Stop this, Tirus! We are not your playthings!"
She stomped toward him. He leaned across his pavilion, smiling down at her. "Oh, but you are, sweet Atalia. You are mine to torment, you and your husband. Though tomorrow, only one of you will remain my toy. Fight him, Atalia. Fight him or you will die slowly on the cross. I will make it last for days—long days of your screams rolling across the city."
Atalia's breath trembled. She had once seen a gladiator who had refused to fight. She had seen him whipped, his arms dislocated, his hands nailed onto the cross. She had seen him force-fed, kept alive on the cross, tortured for days before finally left in the sunlight to slowly die. There were fates far worse than a death in the arena. This she knew. This all gladiators knew.
She turned back toward Berengar. His elk trudged closer, and Berengar slumped in the saddle, sweat on his brow. Atalia wept to remember those times she would ride with him on this elk, her arms wrapped around him, as the wind whipped their hair and the landscapes rolled around them. That had been freedom. That had been joy, even in a burning world, even lost so far from home. His elk nickered and pawed the dirt, and Berengar looked down at her from the saddle. He reached out a trembling, pale hand.
"My beloved," he whispered.
She clutched his hand, tears on her cheeks. "My love."
Horns blared across the arena.
"Fight!" Tirus cried, and the crowds roared.
Atop his elk, Berengar struggled to raise his hammer. His mighty arms, which had once wielded it with ease, now trembled under the weight. He gave the hammer a labored swing.
Atalia leaped back, dodging the blow.
"Are we defeated?" she whispered, tears falling. "Has the horde fallen?"
He swung his hammer her way again, but she still saw the love, the grief in his eyes. "The warriors of the forest ride now in the realm of the gods. Soon I will ride with them across the endless moonlit plains."
She retreated from another swing of the hammer as the crowd booed. "Fight!" they chanted. "Fight!"
"Fight," Berengar whispered. "We must do this."
She shook her head. "I cannot."
"Let me die in honor, Atalia." He smiled at her, a trembling smile already yearning for his last ride. "Let me rise to them in battle."
Atalia wept as she swung her sword toward him, as the blade cut his leg, as he fell from his saddle.
Many in the crowd howled for more violence, demanding a proper fight. But some, Atalia saw, gazed in silence. Some had tears in their eyes. As Atalia stepped toward her fallen husband, the amphitheater seemed unusually subdued. The odd cries of scorn seemed magnified, echoing, too loud.
Berengar knelt in the sand, gasping for air, sweat on his brow. Blood seeped from beneath his armor—perhaps the old wounds of the arrows had opened, or perhaps Tirus had tortured him before this fight.
"Don't die here," Atalia whispered.
With a grunt, Berengar rose to his feet, nearly fell, and swung his hammer toward her. Atalia leaped back, parrying, nearly snapping her blade as she diverted the hammer's blow.
"I will not die upon a cross," Berengar said, swinging the hammer again, tears in his eyes. "You fought me once, my love. You bested me in the forest, the day I learned that I loved you. Fight me again. Best me again. I would gladly die falling to your blade, seeing the triumph of the woman I love. I can think of no better death."
Again she stepped back from his hammer. The crowd was silent now. Watching. Listening. Some were weeping. Tirus stood above, leaning forward, eyes glittering.
Tears in her eyes, Atalia swiped her blade. She let out a sob as the blow hit Berengar's armor, sparking against the iron.
"Stronger!" Tirus cried from his pavilion. "Give us a real fight or suffer the cross!"
Berengar rose taller. His back straightened. His arms no longer shook as he raised his hammer. He stared into Atalia's eyes, once more the mighty warrior. She was a tall woman, yet she felt small as a child before him. His hammer swung again, and now the blow caught her arm, shattering the scales of her manica armor. Atalia's sword again hit his armor. Again. Again. She chipped into the iron, knocking him back step by step, dodging his swinging hammer. Dust rose around them. Iron and steel clanged. The crowd roared now, and again they were chanting her name—not just the Zoharites but all of them, a hundred thousand spectators.
Yet the hammer began to slow. More blood leaked from Berengar's armor, and weariness filled his eyes. Another swing from Atalia's sword dented his armor, and Berengar fell to his knees.
He knelt before her, panting, and his hammer thumped into the sand. He looked up into her eyes.
"Kill!" chanted the crowd. "Kill! Kill!"
Atalia looked up at Emperor Tirus, her blade lowered.
"Mercy," she whispered.
"Kill!" chanted the crowd.
Mercy, Atalia prayed silently.
Tirus stepped toward the ledge of his pavilion between the crimson columns and golden eagles. He held out his fist . . . then pointed his thumb downward.
The crowd roared. A hundred thousand people stretched out their arms, thumbs pointing downward.
Atalia looked back at her husband. The world suddenly seemed so quiet. She could barely hear the crowd, barely see anyone but him. He knelt before her, love in his eyes. He nodded.
"I'm ready," he said.
"I'm not." Atalia shook her head, her sword still lowered.
Her husband smiled. "I will see you again, my love. We will ride in fields of eternal glory, and the sound of our horns shall forever fill the forests. Farewell, lioness of Zohar, warrior of Gael."
He reached out a trembling hand and caressed her cheek, and her tears wet his fingers. Then he grabbed her hand, the hand holding her sword. She sucked in air, tried to resist him, but he pulled her sword toward him, plunging the blade into his neck.
He still lived. He gurgled. His eyes filled with pain. Atalia wept as she shoved the blade deeper, letting him die quickly, letting it be her—a woman he loved—who sent him on his final journey.
You fell in battle, she thought. Rise now in honor.
When she pulled the blade free, he fell to the sand. She knelt by him, cradled him in her arms, and stroked his hair. Her tears splashed him.
"Farewell, Berengar. I love you. Always."
She realized that the crowd had fallen silent. No cheering. No horns. A deathly silence. Atalia raised her eyes, looking toward the crowd, and there—there she saw her. A young woman with olive skin, a hood covering her head, a baby in her arms. And though the face was shadowed and distant, Atalia knew her.
"Ofeer," she whispered.
OFEER
She waited for a long time outside the Amphitheatrum, watching the crowd drain back into the city. Ofeer kept her hood raised, shadowing her face, but who would recognize her aside from Tirus, a man who never walked among the people?
Ariel gurgled in his sling, and Ofeer kissed his forehead. He was three months old today, but he should have been only a month. Every time she gazed at him, she smiled. After weeks of frailty, he finally looked like any other baby. Gone were the wrinkles, the red skin, the hair on his body, the fragility and miserable wails. He could suckle from her breast now, and she no longer needed to feed him from her fingertip. He cried in a strong, clear voice when he needed her, and sometimes when he slept, he gave the briefest of smiles, perhaps dreaming of her. Three months ago, all who had seen him would recoil. Now people smiled to see her Ariel, cooed, and spoke of his beauty.
"You're beautiful, my child." She kissed him again. "We're going to find your Aunt Atalia now. We're going to save what remains of our family."
Ofeer took a shuddering breath, still scarcely believing what she had seen. The rumors had been true. Atalia was alive!
"I thought she drowned," Ofeer whispered to her son. "When the ships sank, when Atalia wasn't here when we arrived in Aelar, I thought . . ." She sniffed back tears. "But she's alive. She's a slave, but she's alive. And Koren might be alive too. And the others—Epher and Maya too. You'll meet them, Ariel. We'll be together as a family again. I promise."
He cooed in his sling, closed his eyes, and fell asleep. Shaded by the amphitheater's soaring arches, Ofeer reached into her cloak's pocket. She caressed the iron collar there, the one Noa had forged her, the one that contained a skeleton key. Ofeer had used this key to escape the dungeon and find the imperial lumer. Noa had sworn it could open any lock in the city. Ofeer would test this today.
