Unspilled Blood

Trace

I counted breaths in the darkness. One hundred and twelve since they threw me in this cell. The moss between the stones smelled like decay, and somewhere water dripped, marking time in a maddening consistency. Above, the crowd roared, a sound that vibrated through the stone and settled in my bones.

“First time?” The voice came from the shadows. I didn’t answer, but he continued anyway. “You’re different than the others. Too calm. Most are either praying or pissing themselves by now.”

He wasn’t wrong. In the corner, a man rocked back and forth, lips moving in silent prayer. Somewhere down the corridor, a person wept. I should have been terrified, but all I felt was a strange sort of peace. They could force me into the arena, but that was all the control they had.

“Violence is a choice,” I whispered to myself. “Each time you raise your hand, you choose what kind of man you are, and the man you will become.”

“Ever killed a man before?” the old voice asked.

“No.”

“Not a warrior then.”

“Just a hunter. But the Emperor doesn’t seem to care.”

“Shhhh.” The owner of the voice slammed into the bars between us, grabbing onto them with both hands, face pressed into the metal. A veteran gladiator, his skin a map of scars in the dim light filtering through the high window asked from the cell beside me. “He can hear you. Anywhere. And he will not forgive.”

The torchlight came first, then the sound of boots on stone. Keys jangled, and the cell door creaked open. Two guards, their armor gleaming dully in the darkness, grabbed my arms and hauled me to my feet.

Their fingers dug into muscle, like they were accustomed to having to force people to do as they asked. One of them moved close, a grin showing his rotting teeth. “Let’s see how long you last.”

“Farewell,” the old voice echoed behind me. “May we meet again at Doom’s Gate.”

The armory was chaos and noise, smoke from the forge mixing with the metallic tang of blood being cleaned from returned equipment. They threw armor at me. Mismatched pieces that had protected and failed who knows how many men before me.

“For heaven’s sake.” Small hands knocked mine away from the buckles I’d been fumbling with. “At least try to look like a gladiator before you die.” The slave girl couldn’t have been much younger than me, but she handled the armor with practiced efficiency. Her dark eyes never met mine as she worked, adjusting straps and testing joints with quick, precise movements.

“First timer,” one of the guards explained. “He’s all yours, Ada.”

She said nothing, but her fingers paused fractionally at the guard’s words. When she reached across to tighten a shoulder strap, I caught the scent of herbs over the terrible smells of the holding cells. Rosemary maybe, or thyme. She worked with the focus of someone who had done this hundreds of times, someone who knew that proper armor meant the difference between life and death.

“I’m Trace,” I said.

“I don’t need your name. And this armor might not make a difference,” she said quietly, giving the chest piece one final adjustment. “But at least now you have a fighting chance.” Her eyes finally met mine, and I saw something there. I didn’t know her at all, so I couldn’t be certain. Concern maybe, or resignation. She’d probably watched too many men walk out these doors and never return.

The guard shoved me, breaking the moment. “Grab a blade, then.”

I turned to the girl as the guard forced me away.

“Goodbye, Ada.”

She froze for a moment before answering. “Goodbye, Trace.”

The weapons lined the wall. Swords, axes, tridents gleaming in the torchlight. But my eyes fixed on the spears. One in particular called to me, its shaft worn smooth by countless hands, its balance perfect when I lifted it. This wasn’t a weapon for killing, but for keeping space, for defense. The quartermaster raised an eyebrow but didn’t stop me when I chose it.

Through the archway, I caught my first glimpse of the arena. Dust motes danced in shafts of sunlight, and the roar of the crowd was louder here, expectant. A trumpet called, and my heart finally began to race.

In the tunnel, I pressed my palm against my chest. “Guide me,” I whispered to my Father. “Show me how to win without becoming what they want me to be.”

I really only had two options. Betray everything I believed in. Or die.

To defend one’s self wasn’t murder. But to kill another to entertain the masses?

Abhorrent.

The gates groaned open. Sunlight hit like a physical force, and the wave of sound that followed was even stronger. As my eyes adjusted, the arena came into focus. A vast bowl of sand and stone, ringed by faces. Rich and poor alike, male and female, young and old, they all wore the same expression of bloodthirsty anticipation.

There were already bodies on the ground. Those who’d gone before me hadn’t even been given the dignity of being dragged from the arena.

My opponent was already waiting. A veteran whose scars told stories of survival. He played to the crowd with practiced ease, lifting his sword and hyping the people up.

If I struck him down in the middle of a fight, my Father would forgive me. Self-defense was allowed.

The Emperor rose, his purple robes catching the light. “Citizens!” His voice boomed across the arena. “Today we witness the trial of new blood!” The crowd roared in response. “Livius, champion of the Eastern Gate, against an untested slave who dares to enter our sacred arena!” He raised his hands, and the crowd fell silent.

Livius moved to stand across from me, eyes tired under all of the bravado. He didn’t want to be here either.

“Begin!”

Livius didn’t wait. He was at me instantly. His first strike whistled past my ear. A killing blow if I’d been a heartbeat slower. The crowd’s roar faded to a distant hum as my world narrowed to the space between us.

I gave ground, letting the spear’s reach do the work. One step back, then another. Livius pressed forward, confidence growing with each advance. To the crowd, it must have looked like retreat. To me, it was reconnaissance.

Three exchanges told me everything I needed to know. He favored his right leg. His attacks followed a pattern: high cut, low thrust, diagonal slash. And most importantly, he was used to opponents on the offensive.

I wasn’t.

The next time he came in with his high cut, I didn’t block. Instead, I angled the spear shaft, letting his blade slide along to the ground. I whirled away when he stumbled, and rapped him across the back hard enough to send him into the dirt.

The crowd’s bloodlust began to turn to confusion. I wasn’t pressing my advantage. This wasn’t the show they’d paid for. No clashing blades, no sprays of blood. Just a deadly game of keep-away, with me always just out of reach.

Livius jumped up from the dirt. “Trying to humiliate me, boy? It’ll get you killed.” He came at me again, raining blows down hard enough to make the spear vibrate in my hands before landing a slice on my leg. I fell back away from him.

“Fight back!” he growled. “There’s no honor in killing a jester!”

I answered by spinning away from his thrust, using the spear’s butt end to tap his knee, the uninjured one. A reminder, not a wound. His face darkened. He’d figured me out. I wasn’t trying to survive him. I was studying him.

He launched into another blow. But this time, I met the high cut with an upward sweep of the spear shaft. The force of his own stroke carried his sword arm wide. As he moved to recover, I stepped past his guard and hooked his ankle with the spear butt. His weight shifted wrong, exactly as I’d known it would, and suddenly he was on the ground, my spear tip at his throat.

The crowd held its breath. In that frozen moment, I saw the next few seconds with perfect clarity. The emperor’s thumb would turn down. I would be expected to kill this man. The crowd would demand it.

His life, or mine. Someone was meant to die today. I panted as I looked down into his face. A person. And this was no longer self-defense. If I killed him now, it would be murder.

I looked up to the booth where all the important people sat. The Emperor saw he had my attention, and held his hand out.

The Emperor’s thumb turned downward.

I looked back down into Livius’s face. No fear. Just resignation. He’d been in this game long enough to know how it would end.

Or so he thought.

My voice carried in the silence. “I have a request, Divine One.”

The Emperor tilted his head, looking down at me. “Oh?”

The crowd’s confusion turned to murmurs.

“Let me prove my worth through another challenge. Any challenge of your choosing. And give me Livius as payment.”

I locked eyes with the Emperor. Even from a distance, his posture screamed he was unhappy.

Guards moved forward, but the crowd was invested now.

“Give him his challenge!”

“Let him fight again!”

“Livius has served me well,” the Emperor answered. “He deserves to die with honor in the arena where he spent his life. It’s the lot of every gladiator.”

I put the butt of my spear into the ground, and leaned on it. I was about to make an enemy. “Livius is not a negotiation for me.”

“You wish for a challenge?” The Emperor’s voice dripped contempt. “Then you shall have one. Return tomorrow to face a beast from my menagerie. Alone.” His smile was cruel. “Let us see if your mercy serves you against claws and fangs.”

As they led me away, Livius caught my eye. He nodded at me, but his face didn’t change. I didn’t know how to take that, but it didn’t matter. A life was worth whatever monster awaited me. I had chosen what kind of man I would become.