LETENS IS A STRANGE CITY.
Here at the southern edge of civilisation, more than fifteen years after joining the Hierarchy, Catenan influence still mixes uneasily with the old world. The lamplit streets are twisting, muddy, and narrow, ill-suited to the Will-powered carts and carriages that occasionally squeeze along them. Buildings veer sharply from barely functional wooden boxes to citizens’ towering, walled mansions of stone. The many-arched Temple of Jovan soars above it all in the distance, crowning the Tensian Forum. It’s surrounded by the last of the sacred druidic grove that once formed the heart of the city. There are no druids, anymore.
While Letens Prison is not exactly on the outskirts, the city is vast, and I’m still heading toward its centre after more than ten minutes. This late, there are more red-cloaked soldiers about than anyone else, though a few others do still brave the icy wind sweeping in from the south. Octavii, mostly. You can tell from the way they trudge, avoiding eye contact as they murmur wearily to one another in their native Tensian. A few of the women wear stolas with their children’s names sewn into the cloth above the left breast, proud proclamation of their contributions to the Hierarchy. Their clothes are threadbare and stained, otherwise.
Even so, there’s less of the Hierarchy this far south than almost anywhere else in the world. I sometimes tell myself that’s why I stopped running.
Of course, if I’m honest, the hunger and loneliness contributed.
At least the hunger’s no longer a problem.
The quiet streets finally lead me into the unlit deep of an alley that’s almost invisible beside the ugly curvature of the long, sloping building next to it. Mud squelches beneath my boots. Side streets like this would have been dangerous once; crime in Letens does still exist, but now it caters far more to the thrill of the forbidden than the violence of need. The Catenans are nothing if not serious about Birthright, their set of laws ostensibly meant to safeguard human life. Anyone desperate enough to challenge it inevitably finds themselves in a Sapper.
Just as the light from the main road behind threatens to become too dim, there’s a short set of stairs that descend to a door sunken below the street, all but hidden from view. I push it open without announcing myself. Inside, three men and a woman break from their conversation at the table in the corner of the small, stuffy room, the hint of tension dissipating as I’m recognised.
“Vis, my boy!” Septimus Ellanher rises as she utters the words in her rich, aristocratic voice, a hawkish smile splitting her angular face. She’s powerfully built, a head taller than me, with a mass of wavy raven-black tresses that fall freely to her waist. Her arms are bare, glistening in the candlelight from the sweat of some exertion or other, highlighting both muscle and scars. “Just who I was hoping to see!”
I carefully close the door behind me and stop dead, giving her a flat stare. The welcome’s too warm for Ellanher by far.
She rolls her amber-flecked brown eyes, joviality only slightly diminished by my response. “Come, now. Can’t a lady be enthusiastic about the arrival of her favourite fighter?”
“I’m sure a lady could.” I nod politely to the three men at the table. All are bigger than even Ellanher in height and brawn, if not in presence. Two, Caren and Othmar, I recognise from previous nights. Their eyes glitter resentfully as they nod back. “What do you want?”
Ellanher chuckles throatily, unfazed. She knows I’m partly joking, and the other part she takes as a compliment anyway. “You are a rascal. But I suppose I do have a special bout for you, tonight.”
I don’t like the way the three men are watching me as she speaks. Anticipating… something. Like most people they’re Octavii, normally ceding half their Will to a Septimus’s command. My skin crawls to think of it.
Tonight’s different, of course. Usually Will is ceded in perpetuity; the Hierarchy organises and tracks all such arrangements with fastidious care, and only whoever controls someone’s Will can return it. But these men’s Septimii have seen fit to do exactly that for the evening—presumably in exchange for a share of any earnings. Illegal, of course. But the sort of thing that would incur only a small fine if discovered.
Any of the three could break my back with an embrace. But ceding day in and day out has slowed their wits, their reaction times, whole again though they temporarily are. Something has been taken from them. They’re broken in ways they don’t understand, and it makes them fodder in a fight.
They’ve never liked that I, smaller and younger than they, am not.
“A special bout,” I repeat, my attention returning to Ellanher.
“Yes, dear boy! I was approached a few days ago by an older gentleman. I shan’t tell you his name, but he’s rather well-known up in northern Tensia. A knight, if you’d believe it. He had heard of our little shows here, from an acquaintance who has enjoyed our hospitality from time to time. This man had a very interesting proposition. His son has accrued some unfortunate debts, and—” She sees me yawning exaggeratedly and scowls. “He’s a Sextus,” she finishes somewhat tetchily, disappointed I’ve ruined her build up. “You’ll be fighting a Sextus tonight.”
I don’t think I’ve heard her correctly at first, but the smug expressions on the Octavii’s faces tell me otherwise. I’m to be meat for the grinder. It feels as though the air has been sucked from the room.
“What are the rules?” I’m relieved to find my voice is level, neither fury nor fear showing through. Ellanher’s had this arranged for days. She’s sprung it on me because she knows I’m not going to pull out, not when the fight’s set and the crowd is waiting. I’d never be allowed to see the inside of this place again.
“No weapons. No killing.”
“I’ll do my best,” I mutter, though the bravado rings false in my own ears. I stare at the ground, coming to grips with what’s about to happen, then straighten. Look her in the eye. “Triple pay.”
“Double.”
“Quadruple.”
“You’re supposed to meet in the middle when you haggle, darling.”
I say nothing, but I don’t break the gaze.
There’s silence, and then Ellanher gives a small, acceding laugh. Delicate and refined, still so strange to hear emerging from that powerful physique of hers. “Triple, then. But no extra for a healer, even if that handsome face of yours needs it.”
And it probably will, but this is the best deal I’m going to get. I gesture toward the narrow hallway leading farther inside, somewhat curtly, indicating both my acceptance and that she should lead the way. Ellanher smiles serenely, murmuring a farewell to her companions. The three men are glowering again as we depart. They’d hoped to get a better reaction from me.
Inwardly, I’m still reeling.
We make the short journey to Ellanher’s “office”—her dressing room, during the day and early evening—without talking. Once inside, I’m struck again by the incongruity of the space. A well-lit mirror, a dresser with vials of makeup. Feathered hats and soft fur cloaks and a rack full of wildly different dresses. It’s surreal to imagine Ellanher readying herself to sing and dance and boldly act out her lines on the same stage where she’s about to send me to get my head caved in.
The Septimus strides over to the safe on the wall, taking the Will key from around her neck and inserting it into its slot. The granite latch clicks aside, revealing rows of carefully stacked coins. Will-locked vaults, even small ones like this, are a hundred times more secure than anything mechanical. Priced accordingly, too. Ellanher’s late-night side business is paying handsomely.
She counts out my compensation—six silver triangles, worth sixty coppers—and presses them into my palm.
“I admit to being curious, Vis,” she says as she locks the vault again, some of her grandiose act faded away now we’re alone. She knows it doesn’t impress me the way it does the others. “What you earn here… it’s hardly riches, but it is a lot for an orphan. And you’re willing to go through so much pain to get more. So what is it all for? Debts? A woman? Some vice that you cannot bring yourself to give up?” Her tone’s light, as it always is with me, but she’s far from joking. It bothers her that she doesn’t know.
“This Sextus I’m to fight. I assume he’ll be ceding?”
“Of course.” If Ellanher’s fazed by my pointedly ignoring the question, she doesn’t show it. “I don’t want you dead, my boy.”
“Just badly beaten.”
She sizes me up, coming to a decision. “Yes.” There’s neither apology nor regret. “A little fight from the underdog can be fun, Vis, but too much becomes a statement. The sort of statement that gets Catenan attention.”
I close my fist around the coins in my hand, the sharp points digging into my skin until they threaten to do injury. I’ve been testing my Septimus opponents more and more during the months I’ve been fighting here. Won more than I’ve lost, over the past few. To think, I was actually feeling good about that. I should have realised it would be noticed. Commented on. Disapproved of, in certain quarters.
“I’ll see you onstage,” I growl, wheeling and leaving before I say something to make my situation worse.
The dimly lit passageways here seem tighter than ever. The bowels of Letens’s largest auditorium are a warren of private rooms and preparation areas, most of which have been shut off since the last of the actors left more than two hours ago. I don’t pause at any of the many branching paths, though, heading almost inattentively for the stairs leading up to the very top of the seating area. I’ve been here three times a week for more than six months. I know my way around.
I’m accompanied only by my apprehension at what’s to come until I’m almost at the very top of the stairs, when the murmur of voices bleeds into my consciousness. The first arrivals of the night have trickled in. In about thirty minutes, that murmur will become a rumbling, expectant buzz as seats fill. Then a primal roar as the first fight gets underway.
I emerge onto the top row of the semi-circular white stone amphitheatre, my entrance unremarked by the smattering of people already present. The stage below is distant; this place can hold several hundred spectators at capacity. Once open to the air, a vaguely foreboding, sound-deadening dome now sits overhead. Three layers thick, it’s a special design by Catenan architects, who were commissioned several years ago by some of the wealthier citizens migrating from Caten itself. Apparently, the disturbance rowdy Tensian plays caused to their evenings was becoming simply unbearable.
The curved mass of stone was not exactly popular with the Tensians—it’s hardly aesthetically pleasing, and the crass nickname the locals have given it very much reflects that—but it is effective. Even the most raucous of noise from in here won’t escape.
I scan the crowd nearby and spot the man I’m looking for quickly enough, familiar black notebook clutched in his hand as he talks animatedly to someone. Gaufrid’s energetic for an Octavii, even if the effects of more than a decade of ceding have him looking closer to fifty than his late thirties. What he likes to refer to as his receding hairline is well into the realm of balding, though at least he keeps the remaining sandy-coloured strands neat and close-cropped. He’s dressed entirely in an off-putting shade of green tonight, for some reason.
I loiter near the exit, mostly out of sight from the gathering crowd, waiting patiently until I catch his eye. When he notices me, he excuses himself and hurries over.
“Vis!”
“Gaufrid.” I eye his attire. “Lose a bet?”
“Ha. Ha. My wife’s choice, if you must know.”
“One way to make sure you’re faithful, I suppose.”
“You’re an ass.” Gaufrid’s grin shows he doesn’t think much of the outfit either. He grabs my arm, draws me conspiratorially into the shadows. “Your admirer’s back.”
I follow his nod to the sparse crowd, spotting the girl soon enough. A thick dark cloak still swathes her, despite the relative warmth indoors. My age, at a guess, maybe a few years older. Dark skin and long, curly brown hair. There’s something unsettling about the way she leans forward in her seat, ignoring those around her, gaze fixed on the empty stage below. Though as we watch, her concentration breaks and she frowns around before abruptly drawing her hood up, concealing her face. As if she can somehow sense our examination.
“Lucky me.” I’ve never spoken to her, but she’s been here for every fight over the past two weeks. Quietly asking around about me. Gaufrid thinks it’s romantic. I’m concerned she’s recognised something about me. “Still not interested.”
“And good friend that I am, I continue to tell her that you are as enigmatic as you are handsome.” As usual, though, Gaufrid looks vaguely disappointed. “So. Come to make an early wager?”
I feel the weight of the coins in my pocket. Calculate. Gaufrid is the unofficial bookkeeper for these evenings: if you want to make a wager that will actually pay out when you win, you go to him. “Last fight of the night.”
“Octavus or Septimus?”
I grimace. “Special circumstances. This one’s against a Sextus.”
A frown of confusion, then the blood drains from Gaufrid’s face. He grabs my arm and pulls me deeper into the passageway, completely out of sight of any spectators.
“Are you mad?”
“I didn’t find out until five minutes ago. Not much I can do.”
I see Gaufrid’s mind working, see the moment where he understands that this is a punishment being meted out.
“Go to Ellanher. Tell her that you’ll lose to every Septimus you’re put up against for the next month. She’ll accept the compromise.” Gaufrid looks genuinely troubled. “One wrong hit from a Sextus could cave your skull in, Vis. It probably wouldn’t even be deliberate. Even if he—he?” I nod. “Even if he is ceding, he’ll have the strength of ten people behind every punch! You understand that, right?”
“Nine and a quarter people, actually,” I correct him in irritation. “And he can’t be particularly skilled with Will if he has to earn his money here. With weak Septimii ceding to him as well, he might only be self-imbuing worth three or four.” Something similar to Gaufrid’s suggestion had already crossed my mind. Call it pride, call it stubbornness, but I’m not going to do it. I’ve worked too hard, suffered through too many injuries and too much mockery to return to constant defeat.
Besides, I’m not here for the coin alone. I gave up on dreams of exacting revenge on the Republic long ago, but that doesn’t mean I’ll never have to defy them.
This is practice.
Gaufrid growls something under his breath. I’m not sure whether it’s concern for me, or concern that he’s about to lose the benefits of this mutually beneficial deal we have. I can’t guarantee wins and I won’t guarantee losses, but most of the Septimii fighting here are regulars: those I haven’t already faced, I’ve studied. Which means I know my chances, more often than not. And, importantly, can usually drag out a match to any length of my choosing, even if the result doesn’t go my way.
So I bet largely on how long I think I’ll last, and Gaufrid uses that information to… adjust the odds he offers everyone else.
“What will you give me on three minutes?” It sounds ludicrous even as I ask it, but I’m here now. In this mess. I may as well try and use it to profit.
Gaufrid chokes a disbelieving laugh. “Vis, when this is announced, I won’t be able to sell odds on you lasting more than three seconds.” When I don’t back down, he sighs. “Twenty to one.”
“For three minutes?”
“Those are the best numbers I’m going to give you,” he assures me. “For all I know, you could have an agreement in place with this Sextus to split the winnings.”
“I wouldn’t do that to you,” I say, offended.
“I believe you. Doesn’t change the risk.”
“What about for two minutes?”
“Same odds.” Gaufrid fixes me with a serious look. “Same again for one minute.”
I scowl, but I know Gaufrid well enough to know he’s not going to budge. He thinks he’s helping me, forcing me to shorten the fight rather than aim for a big windfall. I draw four silver triangles from my pocket, holding them out. “Longer than one minute, then. Less than one and a half.”
Gaufrid whistles between his teeth as he takes them. “Stupid and rich today. Alright.” He slips the coins into a pouch at his waist. There’s no entry into his small black notebook, no receipt listing the amount or the odds he’s given me, but that’s normal. The man has a remarkable memory, and I know he’s good for it. If for no other reason than Ellanher’s aware of our arrangement, and though she takes her cut, she’d tear him limb from limb—perhaps literally—if she ever thought he was cheating one of her fighters.
I turn to go, business complete, but Gaufrid grabs my shoulder.
“No shame in calling it at first blood.” He looks frustrated, almost angry, that he’s issuing this advice. Given how people are likely to bet, that’s unsurprising. “I know it’s not in your nature, but Vis—if you’re ever going to swallow your pride, tonight’s the night.”
He releases his grip and strides back into the amphitheatre, still looking faintly ridiculous clad in green.
Gaufrid’s warning echoes uncomfortably as I descend the stairs again, heading this time for the waiting area just offstage. He might be right. Once there’s blood, either fighter can concede the bout—and there will almost certainly be blood before the end of the first minute, no matter how fast I move.
But it’s one minute. One minute for eight gold. That’s almost double what I’ve managed to save since I started here.
It’s not just the amount of coin on offer, either. I’ve been feeling the inexorable press of time on my shoulders lately. I’m seventeen years old in truth, as of two months ago, even if the Hierarchy’s records for Vis Solum say that milestone isn’t for another ten weeks. Part of me regrets not stretching the lie further when I first came to the orphanage, but the risk of the claim drawing notice was too great.
Regardless of whether it was a mistake, it means I have little more than a year before the law demands my Will. Either ceded after a trip to the Aurora Columnae, or taken by a Sapper.
And all the ways I can think to try and avoid that involve significant expense.
I navigate the back hallways and arrive at the room the Octavii are given to prepare, still deep in thought as I enter. It’s to the right of the main stage, an austere stone box that’s large enough to comfortably accommodate the dozen men within. A small, temporary shrine to Mira is, as usual, erected by the door. I ignore it. The room already stinks of stale sweat and animal fat as men grease their arms and run on the spot, or jump repeatedly, or do whatever they can to expel the stiff cold from their muscles.
None stop their exercises, but eyes surreptitiously fix on me as I find an open space to warm up. They’ve heard, then.
Like Othmar and Caren earlier, none of the gazes are especially sympathetic. I’ve always been an oddity here, I suppose, even before I started winning. The youngest by at least two years, and easily the least physically imposing. Not that I’m weak—the Theatre, not to mention my time prior competing in the gladiatorial competition of Victorum, has made me leaner and stronger than I’d once thought possible—but these men were singled out for their physiques. They’re mountains of brawn, without exception.
And now I’m to fight a Sextus. It will be an insult to some; they’ll see it as an acknowledgment by Ellanher of my successes, rather than the castigation it is. Others will just be delighted that I likely won’t be around for a while.
Time passes at an interminable crawl as I suffer their constant sideways glances, each one only adding to my concern. The buzz of excited murmuring from the amphitheatre builds steadily, muffled though it is in here, until finally it’s cut short by Ellanher’s voice. Warming up the crowd. There’s laughter, cheers. She’s beloved out there.
Ten minutes go by, allowing enough time for bets on the first fight after its announcement. Then the stage door is opening and Idonia—Ellanher’s younger cousin, supposedly, though with her short-cropped blond hair and bright blue eyes, they bear no physical similarities whatsoever—peers through. “Pabul.” A giant with long reddish-brown hair and a front tooth missing slips through the door after her.
It’s a parade of names called and men departing after that. They don’t come back the same way; we never know how any single bout has gone until the end of the night. Though you can usually guess. There’s a certain feel to the crowd noise when a match is close. Or when an injury is particularly nasty.
I block it all out tonight, formulating a strategy. I’ve thought about this plenty of times before, albeit in the most abstract terms. No weapons is a good start. Still, most Sextii can imbue things—a simple touch and he could make my shirt start to strangle me, or if he doesn’t want to look like he’s cheating, just pull me off-balance at the wrong moment. Unpleasant though it is, there’s only one way to avoid that.
He’ll be strong, of course. I briefly consider the tactic of letting him imbue something; Will is a finite resource, and however much he infused elsewhere would leave him with that much less to bolster himself. But I immediately dismiss the idea. An errant punch to the head might only maim rather than kill, in that scenario. Not much of an advantage.
Then there’s the question of his speed. That’s harder to predict, and the one area which gives me hope. The Will being ceded to him improves his reaction times, but it’s a marginal enhancement over a Septimus. Training and experience play more of a role, there. And if this Sextus is only fighting tonight because he thinks it’s an easy way to make coin, then it’s possible he may not have the discipline of others I’ve already faced.
As I assess and reassess my logic, around me, the room gradually empties. Quietens. The heavy stench lingers. The roars of the spectators out front ebb and flow.
Finally, suddenly, I’m the only one left.
I strip, carefully and methodically. Cloak, tunic, underclothes. Folded neatly and put in a pile. I have to believe that I’m going to need them again. Then I use the pot of animal fat to grease my entire body. It’s disgusting, but if the Sextus gets a good grip on me, he’ll be able to snap or crush bone. And the substance won’t keep its form, so it can’t be imbued.
The door opens just as I finish.
“Vis, you’re…” Idonia sputters as she sees me. Gapes, then glances away. She’s more shy than her cousin. “You’re up. I mean, you’re ready. It’s your turn. To fight.” She’s red. Almost flees back toward the stage.
I chuckle to myself as I pad after her, though mostly to avoid thinking about my own discomfort. Living on the run meant that propriety and advantage were rarely companions, that first year and a half, and any reservations I may have once had were beaten out of me long ago. Still, there’s something inherently unsettling about being naked. Some part of me that can’t help the embarrassment, feel exposed in more than just the physical, regardless of whether it’s the smart thing to do.
It’s a short walk down the corridor to the stage. Ellanher’s making the big announcement about the Sextus. There’s a renewed thrill in the air, gasps and excited chattering. Ahead I can see Idonia has dashed onstage, cheeks still flushed, whispering in Ellanher’s ear.
The burly woman’s dark hair swings as her gaze snaps to me. Those brown eyes of hers are fathomless as she watches me stride onto stage, expression not changing as the first of the crowd notices my lack of attire and starts to whistle and laugh. I walk past her toward the onlookers seated in the dim beyond the stage, a broad grin on my burning face, raising my arms as if they’re cheering me. The laughs increase, but they’re mostly approving, not mocking. Confidence, real or perceived, has a peculiar power over people.
I look back over my shoulder at Ellanher. Her eyes are fixed on me, but something’s changed. They’re puzzled. A hint of shock. I realise she’s seeing my back for the first time. The terrible mass of scars upon scars upon scars. It doesn’t matter. I doubt she knows what they mean, and I have no intention of sharing.
My breath shortens as I catch movement from the other side of the stage.
The Sextus is… imposing. Perhaps a decade older than me. Tall. Athletic—not built of muscle like the Octavii but with more of a graceful power to him, a litheness as he saunters out onto the stage, giving an easy smile and waving at a crowd who are now cheering in earnest. He’s handsome into the bargain, brown hair cut fashionably short, square jaw covered in dark stubble. An automatic favourite.
He removes his tinted spectacles—proof positive that he’s a Sextus; no one of lesser rank is allowed to wear those—and hands them to Ellanher. His self-assuredness falters when he spots me, only for a second. Then his smile returns. It’s harder this time, though. He’s not pleased.
I smile back.
Idonia’s already darted away. Ellanher glides to the front of the stage, raising her hands and gazing up into the back rows of the amphitheatre as if she can see every single person sitting in the shadows. She holds that pose. The whispers stop, the murmuring fades. It’s as if the entire building is holding its breath. Everyone is focused on her.
Blood thunders in my ears as I turn and face the Sextus, moving to the balls of my feet, readying myself. There will be no introductions, no names. Not here.
Finally, satisfied that the tension is at its peak, Ellanher drops her arms again. Steps lightly off the stage as her voice rings out, a dagger into the eager silence.
“Begin.”
