I’VE SEEN THE GREAT WHALING ships of Suus train offshore, manned and navigated by some of the most talented sailors in the world. I’ve seen men perform acts of daring and courage on small fishing boats in storms, riding waves twice the height of their vessels, that would defy the imagination. I can’t count how many times I’ve watched from my clifftop window and seen wild manoeuvres succeed that should have been impossible in the most ideal circumstances, let alone in the gales in which they were attempted.
The naumachia has none of that.
There’s no seamanship on show here. No waves, no wind. Vessels burst smoothly from their docks, led by the two giant triremes, water rippling soullessly away from prows, powered and steered by Will rather than oar and rudder. Every hull is fitted with a wicked ram in order to create spectacles of splintering wood and chaotic platforms of mock-death when they meet. It’s all choreographed, gaudy decoration for the screams and blood and desperation that will follow.
That’s never more evident than in the burst of hellish light that abruptly illuminates the lake, eliciting gasps of appreciation amid the thunder of voices that accompanies the starting signal. I flinch, squinting up at the thousands of mid-air lanterns. They’ve all sprung to life simultaneously, some Will-triggered mechanism lighting them. Unlike the warm gold of the lanterns in the stands, though, these all burn a deep, ugly crimson, staining ships and water alike.
There’s no need to guess at what the light symbolises.
As I watch, the hovering lanterns start to move. Sluggishly at first, barely noticeable, but as the ships begin to pick up speed so do the lights, each one tracing its own circuit around the centre of the arena. The vessels draw closer and closer and the lights move faster and faster. They’re quick, then urgent, then a swirling, wild maelstrom of red as the ships come within shouting distance of one another. Armoured naumachiarii stand in file on the decks, glittering darkly as they brace themselves. The crowd around me is screaming, cheering, voices already hoarse.
Their hunger can’t drown out the splintering crack of wood against wood, rams rending and tearing at hulls, men and women on the decks thrown into the air, losing their grips on whatever they thought would secure them. Many of them smash into masts or rigging, limbs suddenly protruding at awkward angles, or tumble over the side, splashing once or twice before being dragged down by their armour, vanishing quickly beneath the frothing chop.
The crowd roars louder.
Then the first bodies are flying up into the air, some of them flailing, others limp as their armour carries them up to vanish into the blinding crimson dervish. Signifying their shameful withdrawal from life, their erasure from history. Saved from drowning so that they can be fed to the Sappers. I don’t think I’m imagining the futility in every line of those helpless, struggling forms, even if I’m too far away to hear their screams.
The mob behind us are mostly standing, though at least these front seats—those filled with patricians and knights—have the decorum to remain seated as they cheer. The shouting is less deafening now, more sporadic as clumps of spectators spot one particularly impressive fight or another and renew their enthusiasm.
I glance across at Aequa. She’s watching the proceedings with interest, but there’s none of the savage joy others around us are displaying. If anything, she looks as though she finds the entire thing almost as distasteful as I do.
“How many people are out there, do you think?” I asked the question through the cheers, even as I try to make the estimate myself. Thirty or so ships all up. Biremes and the two triremes that have already smashed into one another.
Aequa continues to gaze at the carnage. “Two thousand, maybe?”
It’s close to what I would have guessed. Two thousand men and women. Some will be volunteers, I know: Totius Octavii, even Septimii looking to make a name for themselves. But the vast majority in the fight will be imprisoned Octavii.
The naumachiarii on the triremes have almost recovered from the impact, but more ships are streaming toward their position. They’re going to get hit again, and again, and again. It’s easy to make out which sides are which; one has the traditional red uniform of the Republic, while the other wears the brown and gold of… Butaria? I think that’s what the announcer said. A re-enactment of the Battle of Callage, from around fifty years ago.
I can see smears appearing on faces, glistening, too thick and dark to be water. They start to paint armour and blades, too. I see a monster of a man swinging feverishly, screaming as he scythes his way onto an enemy deck, crushing skulls in the process. Each strike jettisons another crippled fighter into the raging red vortex above. People in the crowd are pointing at him, cheering him on. They’re chanting his name. Vulferam?
Everywhere, the crowd bays for blood. I try not to show how sick I feel. The combatants are mostly fodder down there, prisoners gasping and terrified and swinging weapons for which they have only the most rudimentary training. Afraid of the Sappers, and desperate for a pardon. Some few, maybe one or two in every thousand, will even impress enough to achieve the latter. But like everything else, the Hierarchy dangles it. Always a way up, even for the condemned. Always a way out from under the misery they’ve heaped on you, if you work hard enough. Fight hard enough. Take your chances.
People start settling back into their seats as the last of the smaller vessels begin their journey into the chaos. Somehow that makes what we’re watching even worse. Men are still screaming and dying, still fighting valiantly or manically, still breathless and blood-slicked and doing all they can to survive. Yet they don’t do it to rapturous applause anymore. People shout encouragement, or gasp when something horrific happens, but it all combines to a low, muted rumble now. Something more mundane. The initial rush has worn off, and everyone is just enjoying themselves.
They’re not that way for long. It might be because I’m looking for it, but I think I’m among the first to notice that something’s wrong.
It’s a frothing in the water, initially. Ugly, red, bubbling lines from the edge of the arena to the very centre, where the triremes are. Five or six of them around the lake, evenly spaced, like spokes on a wheel. No one reacts, no one seems to think anything of it.
Then stone bursts from the water, sending a haze of fine dark liquid high into the air, huge swells rolling away from its emergence. Newly formed, jagged paths glisten in the lurid light as spray settles on them. People everywhere stand and exclaim and point as one of the triremes is tilted sideways, its keel lifted within view, naumachiarii screaming as they tumble from its sharply slanted deck. Other, smaller ships crash hard into the rocky peninsulas, the shrieking of tearing wood audible from here as wounds are ripped in their hulls.
Conversation buzzes at the development. Everyone’s assuming this is part of the entertainment, some unexpected wrinkle. A new, dramatic feature of the Arena on which the combatants can do battle.
After my conversation with Estevan, I’m not so sure.
Then something thunders. Faintly, as if distant, but deep and somehow encompassing, too. The air quivers.
“What was that?” Aequa echoes the question being asked all around us.
Another shuddering peal. This one closer. Louder. Rolling over the increasingly agitated mutterings of the crowd. I see fighters on the remaining trireme falter as the sound penetrates the haze of battle. Some of their opponents ignore it and take merciless advantage.
The lanterns floating above the water fall.
It’s a surreal, almost beautiful sight as the crowd hushes again, crimson lights raining silently down, reflections off the lake becoming brighter and brighter until most are abruptly extinguished. The remainder smash; some shatter and spread puddles of flaming oil across the long paths to the centre of the Arena, while others break apart on masts and decks, causing panic. The biremes are slowing, I realise. Still moving forward, but drifting through the water rather than ploughing.
“PEOPLE OF CATEN.”
The words roar around the Arena, spin and crash and echo as if one of the gods has taken it upon himself to speak. A shocked sigh escapes thousands of mouths. The combatants on the trireme freeze and then warily, at some unspoken agreement, disengage and back away from one another.
I spot him, my eyes drawn to him as others around me point excitedly. Striding toward the centre of the lake along one of the newly formed paths of stone, flame-tinted water still unsettled on either side of him.
He’s a good distance away—perhaps five hundred feet—but there’s no mistaking Estevan.
“MY NAME IS ARTURUS MELIOR LEOS. I AM THE LEADER OF THE GROUP YOU KNOW AS THE ANGUIS, WHO FIGHT FOR A BETTER WORLD THAN THE ONE YOU HAVE CREATED.” He pauses about halfway to the centre of the lake as he turns, taking in the crowd. “AND LET THERE BE NO MISTAKE: IT IS YOU—ALL OF YOU—WHO ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR CREATING IT. NOT THOSE IN POWER. NOT THE ONES WHO WIELD WHAT YOU GIVE THEM, BECAUSE YOU GIVE IT TO THEM. YOU LET THEM STAND ON YOUR SHOULDERS, ALL FOR THE DREAM OF ONE DAY BEING ABLE TO STAND ATOP OTHERS’. EVEN WHEN YOU KNOW, DEEP DOWN, THAT IT IS AN ILLUSION. AS UNATTAINABLE FOR MOST OF YOU AS IT IS SELFISH.”
Estevan’s voice splits the air like nothing I have ever heard, overpowering. I’m not alone in pressing my hands against my ears, fearful the painful noise is doing permanent injury.
“A PYRAMID’S STRENGTH IS IN ITS FOUNDATION, NOT ITS PEAK. SO I HAVE COME HERE TODAY TO JUDGE. I HAVE COME TO BRING A RECKONING FOR YOUR DECISIONS. YOUR WEAKNESS. YOUR BLINDNESS AND COWARDICE AND COMPLICITY.”
The crowd is rapidly swinging from thrilled to fearful to enraged. There’s shouting, more and more as Estevan’s lecture rumbles on. Obscenities rain down upon my father’s former adviser, curses rolling off thousands of tongues as onlookers scream and point and surge forward, as if to collectively leap the barrier and rush at him.
I don’t know what to do other than watch in horror. Is he mad? Most of these people are Octavii or Septimii, but there will be plenty of higher-ranked Will users. Not to mention the hundreds of Praetorians here. Assuming they recognise his name—and he’s infamous enough, here in Caten—he’ll be dead from a swarm of Razors within the next ten seconds.
“No one can use Will.”
Aequa’s leaning forward in her seat, eyes wide as she studies the Arena, her dismayed mutter barely audible over the tumult. I return my gaze to the lake, seeing what she’s seeing. The fallen lanterns. The ships drifting gently to a stop against the raised stone paths.
The absolute lack of an attack upon one of the most wanted men in the Republic.
“Rotting gods,” I breathe.
It shouldn’t be possible, and yet, Aequa’s right. I can see a red-uniformed Praetorian standing only twenty feet away. His expression is stricken. Utterly panicked.
Down in the middle, Estevan has turned toward the centre of the Arena, lit starkly against a still-flaming puddle of oil. He’s facing the ships, the majority of which have now grounded themselves against the spoke-like paths. Facing the fighters who have begun to cautiously disembark.
“HAIL, NAUMACHIARII. HONOUR AND GLORY. I AM SORRY THAT YOU HAVE BEEN SACRIFICED UPON THE ALTAR OF DISTRACTION. I AM SORRY THAT YOUR FELLOW MAN HAS FAILED YOU SO DEEPLY. TODAY, I OFFER YOU RELEASE FROM THIS DEGRADATION. I OFFER YOU A WAY OUT. BUT WHEN YOU GO, DO NOT FORGET HOW YOU GOT HERE, OR WHO IS RESPONSIBLE FOR IT. SEEK US, ONCE YOU ARE FREE. JOIN THE ANGUIS.”
A raucous cheer registers as the last words scream off the water and roll away. At first I think it’s in response, but then I turn at motion somewhere to my left, watching with heart in throat as a dozen Praetorians leap the barrier onto Estevan’s stony peninsula. Several men wielding stylii follow, no doubt eager to share in the glory of killing the Anguis’s leader. Hundreds in the crowd who have spotted their incursion are boisterously urging them on.
In the centre of the lake, where the ships have run aground, the naumachiarii are in disarray. Some few have resumed their fighting, as if unable to even conceive of anything else, steel flashing dark orange against the burning of decks and sails. Many are streaming along the far rocky paths toward the edge of the stadium, clearly intent on the freedom Estevan has just promised them. I can already see spectators fleeing from where they’re headed.
The rest of the naumachiarii are sprinting toward Estevan. Their blades are out and from the way they’re charging, they’re aiming for him rather than the Praetorians. Hoping to deal the killing blow. A reward, a pardon, would surely await whoever managed it.
Estevan has finished his speech, and he must see both them and the Praetorians converging on him. Still he just stands there, head bowed, as his attackers draw closer. A hundred feet. Fifty. Twenty.
A deep, discordant thrum screeches through the Arena.
There’s a flicker in the darkness around Estevan, like the afterimage of a lightning strike, and the men and women rushing toward him seem to just… evaporate.
A moment later, across the lake, the rear section of the eastern stand explodes.
It’s impossible to comprehend, in those first terrifying seconds. No one’s running or screaming or panicking. Just still. Mute. Stunned. Around the distant thundering of disintegrating stone, there’s… silence. A dark, roiling cloud of grit is rising; though the still-standing part of the stadium mostly prevents it from flowing down onto the lake, I can only imagine what it must be like in the city. Distant figures scramble to flee whatever’s just happened. The lanterns over there are winking out in rapid succession as they’re enveloped by dust. Darkness chases after.
Another thrum. A rippling in the air, closer this time, above the stand about five hundred feet to my left. There’s a compression. I feel my ears pop.
And every person in that section—four, maybe five thousand people—explodes as one into a sickening, violent haze of crimson mist.
Another second. Nothing but pounding heartbeat. I can feel fear building to a crescendo around me, thick and sharp.
Then there’s running and screaming and panicking.
Everything’s chaos. A blur. Aisles clogged, people falling down and others trampling them to flee. Bodies flail, scramble over seats. I’m shoved and elbowed from all sides as people force their way blindly past me. They’re stampeding toward the exit in the eastern stand, the only way out, though I’m almost certain that’s what has just been obliterated.
Aequa and I are both standing; she’s pale, breathing heavily, looking like she’s about to run too as she stares wide-eyed at the glistening, viscera-coated benches where people used to be. To her credit, she also seems to be assessing. Her refusal to give in to the panic helps, and I forcefully resist the pure, animalistic fear that’s crawling beneath my skin, begging for me to follow the crowd. The seats around us are already empty.
“What do we do?” Aequa’s voice quivers. Her attention’s turned to the cloud of debris on the far side of the lake. That’s why she hasn’t moved. She’s realised that the only way out is gone.
My gaze is on Estevan again, head still too full, too taut and overwhelmed to answer. The man is sitting now, cross-legged. Head bowed again. I can’t imagine how he’s doing any of this, but I don’t believe for a second that he’s finished here. Even in his passive position, even from this distance, there’s a palpable aura of menace radiating from him. A heavy, hostile layer that billows, drapes the entire stadium in dread.
The clarity’s sudden and sharp. I grab Aequa’s arm, pulling her against the flow of the fleeing mob. “Follow me.”
Aequa resists. Appraises where we’re heading—directly toward the stand where Estevan has just murdered thousands—and then me. “Are you insane?”
“However he’s doing it, he’s trying to kill as many people as possible. He’s not going to target an empty stand.” I can’t believe how calm my voice is. Even if it does sound as though it’s coming from far away. Someone else’s. “I think I know a way out.”
I turn to look at the frenzied masses still spilling past. The entire stadium is filled with screaming, shouting, cries of pain and confusion and utter, manic fear. There’s no way I’ll be heard over this noise.
“Don’t!” It’s Aequa, the shout in my ear somewhere between plea and command. She puts her head close to mine. “They’re not going to listen to you. And if they do, there will be a stampede, and none of us will get away.”
I clench my teeth. Nod.
We force our way westward, toward the last of the light in the sky. It’s not difficult; the seats ahead have all but emptied and only stragglers shove their way past, eyes glazed and faces set in rictuses of trauma. Dotted around the stands are those who haven’t yet moved, either. People just sitting or standing, staring blankly.
There’s another dark thrum, vibrating through stone and into my chest. I stumble, turn to watch despite the dread the sound carries with it.
Estevan is looking toward the north-eastern section of the Arena, which heaves with a crush of desperate bodies pushing vainly against one another. His right hand is outstretched, palm out.
He clenches it into a fist.
Again that flicker against the dark, a ripping of the air, this time streaking out from Estevan across the water. There’s something in it, I think. A distortion. An image, though it’s so fast it’s impossible to tell of what.
None of that matters amid what comes after. Bile burns the back of my throat as I take it in. I don’t even know how many people die this time. Ten thousand? Fifteen? Impossible to tell at this distance, but an entire wing of the stadium glistens a wet, dark red. Murdered. Massacred in a heartbeat.
Estevan was waiting for them to flee. To bunch together, exactly as they did.
The panic in the screaming, if possible, becomes harsher, more fraying. The press of bodies that had been flowing toward that stand ripples in hesitation. I see people start to leap into the water. Higher, I can see shadows scaling the back wall of the stadium. Vanishing as they fling themselves off toward Caten. The drop is hundreds of feet onto the street.
I shudder and press on, Aequa by my side. We’re approaching the edge of the stand which suffered the first attack, and despite the urgency, neither of us can help but falter. A faint steam rises from the scene ahead, bringing with it a salty, damp stench that hints of rot. There’s nothing to identify as bodies beneath it, nothing which could resemble human remains. It’s all just shredded flesh and blood. Mangled bones protruding through raw lumps of muscle and cartilage, draped across benches and ground, scattered randomly. An unendingly grotesque paste of death.
“Come on.” I make it an apology as well as an appeal, pulling Aequa with me into the red damp. I suspect only the chorus of terror behind us pushes Aequa enough to come with me.
Both of us choke and hack as the full extent of the hot reek hits our nostrils, creeps into our mouths. We pick our way carefully over rent flesh, me guiding Aequa to the stairwell. Our feet slap in the wet. Aequa’s not making a sound, but her eyes are red, tears on her cheeks.
It’s an eternity until we reach the welcoming tunnel down to the outer ring of the Arena. I risk a glance back after ushering Aequa ahead of me. Estevan is still seated, looking at the ground again. Recovering from his strike, bracing himself for the next one. More people have leapt the barriers and are charging toward him. It’s probably what I would do, in their position.
I don’t wait to see the result. I already know what it will be.
Another soul-shaking thrum chases me down into the passageway.
The stairs aren’t as coated in viscera as the seating above, though there’s still plenty of evidence of death. The same goes for the inner ring of the Arena. Stone is no shield against whatever Estevan is doing.
The area around the sewer stairwell is deserted. It’s quiet, the distant screams all but muted by the thick stone, though another juddering, dissonant chord soon growls its way through. Aequa and I both flinch. Who knows how many more Estevan just killed.
“Where does this go?” Aequa’s breath is coming in shallow, short gasps. I’m not much different, to be fair. She’s holding herself together remarkably well.
“Sewers.” I don’t see the need to elaborate, the faint smell from the opening—sickening and yet better than what we experienced above by far—backing up my statement. Aequa pauses for a half step; I can almost see the questions forming on her lips. Then she sets her jaw and forges downward.
The sound of rushing water greets us a full twenty seconds before we reach the bottom. The first two steps are underwater now, the flow not quite knee-deep. It’s fast, too, I quickly discover as I step into the current. Not pulling me off my feet, but strong enough to be worried about my balance.
“Careful.” I let Aequa grab my arm as we hurriedly wade. It makes it harder to stay upright and I nearly slip a couple of times, but she’s lighter than me, needs the extra support. It’s almost completely dark down here. I can hear her heavy breathing over the torrent rushing by. Another thrum vibrates the stone around us, eliciting a squeak from Aequa, though she never stops moving.
My heart pounds out of my chest, and I try not to imagine the water level rising. Estevan tore up the base of the Arena to create his paths across the lake; there’s no telling what damage that caused, what weaknesses it’s created in the Arena’s basin. This stream could become a deadly torrent at any moment. There’s nowhere to take refuge if it does.
Though it feels slow, it’s probably only a minute until we reach the narrow archway where I met Estevan. It’s almost too low to the water to duck under, but we manage; the torch within has gone out but there’s light filtering down the shaft where the stairs end. We splash our way over and I help Aequa up onto the first step. She sobs with relief as her feet touch dry ground again.
“These should lead out. Get clear of here. There’s no telling how far that thing he’s doing reaches.”
She stops. Shakes her head, unable to process the words. “What?”
I hesitate. The current’s not strong in this side room, just deep. I’m going to have to fight against it going the other way. In the dark. By myself.
I know I should leave with Aequa, and my every instinct is pleading with me to do just that. Not only from fear. If I walk away, I can actually think. Assess what the Anguis having this terrible power means. Understand the consequences, come to grips with Estevan’s intimation that this is why the Hierarchy invaded Suus.
And… for all I’m appalled by Estevan’s actions, his words resonate. These people are my enemies. The Octavii here did choose their side. That they didn’t expect there to be consequences is their failure, not anyone else’s.
But.
My father’s voice, like so often in my life, echoes in my head. The power to protect is the highest of responsibilities, Diago. When a man is given it, his duty is not only to the people he thinks are worthy.
He was talking about leadership then, but I know what he would say to me now. Know what he would want me to do. Know what he would do.
And if I had to guess, based on what Sedotia said, the stylus still tucked hard against my chest means I may be the only person here who can get close enough to Estevan to stop him.
“Luck, Aequa.”
I squeeze her arm in a vain attempt at comfort, then turn and plunge back into the icy water.
