Blood Eagle

Enclosure

Waking up, Arn felt as much himself as could be expected under the circumstances. His body still ached from the fever, along with fatigue despite sleeping. But any acute pain was gone, and his wound barely felt sore. Another day or two, and he should be back to his full strength.

"You're well again," Mahan declared, entering the room. "That's a relief to us all."

Arn looked up from his sickbed, sensing the weapons master had more to say.

"Except one, perhaps. How did you get wounded?"

Arn shrugged.

"Give me a real answer. Don't hide behind your lack of words."

Clenching his jaw, Arn grabbed his tablet and wrote, Accident.

"Hardly. The wound was deep and bigger than what could be caused by accident. Did someone have a weapon in the ludus?"

Arn shook his head.

"You truly claim that a nail injured you in such a way?"

Arn nodded.

Frustration filled Mahan's face. "Northman, tell me who attacked you!"

No reply came.

"I have to send you back to the ludus. You can't stay in the inner house now you're on the mend. Are you thinking about taking your own revenge, Tyrian?"

'No.' Obviously not, considering nobody in the ludus had harmed Arn. Ironic that for once, he was telling the truth, yet the weapons master seemed disinclined to believe him. He gestured the word again, trying to convey his sincerity. He wanted this matter forgotten as fast as possible.

"Execution awaits any gladiator who attacks another. I would believe your tale if you told me who attacked you and why," Mahan urged him. "Gods know these Aquilans don't always take kindly to foreigners. But if you take matters into your hands, you'll be the one facing the noose."

'I don't have quarrel with anyone,' Arn signed.

The weapons master sighed. "Very well. Get up. I'll take you back to your cell."

*

When Arn appeared in the common room for the evening meal, some of the other gladiators got up and nodded to him, including Sigismund, the champion of the ludus. Arn gave the same courtesy in reply before he felt a heavy hand slapping him on the back, and he had to take a step forward to regain his balance. "Northman!"

Arn coughed and turned his head to acknowledge Domitian.

"Sorry, you're not still delicate, are you?" The big Aquilan grabbed his shoulder to stabilise him, albeit unnecessarily.

Arn shook his head.

"Come on, let's get some grub in you. You look thin, mate. Well, you did that before, but you need sustenance to get your strength back." Domitian pushed through the queue of fighters to grab two bowls of barley porridge, ignoring any protests; none of those still waiting had sufficient standing to feel confident about challenging him.

Finding seats on a bench, the pair sat down, and Arn accepted the food. It struck him that if he had died from his injury, Domitian was probably the only person in the world who might have mourned him for even a moment.

*

As night fell, Arn waited in his room. It could be risky to leave as soon as he was back in his cell, but he needed resolution concerning his last task for the criminals of the harbour. Despite the complications, he had finished his work, and they owed him a rune token. Days had already passed, and while there was no reason for the stone to be gone – it was too valuable to throw away, and Helgi had no other uses for it – Arn would not feel at ease until he had been paid, his rune power restored. The thought of his wing-clipped magic irked him, like a pebble in the boot felt with each step taken; it left him vulnerable.

Arn had only just opened his door when he heard steps in the hallway. He froze his movements except to slowly pull the door back. The footfall increased until it passed him by. Waiting a few more moments, Arn dared to stick his head out and saw one of the guards, patrolling down the ludus.

Mahan. It had to be the weapons master. He suspected Arn would do something, and while his reasoning might be wrong, his conclusion unfortunately proved correct, as did his preventive measure. Trying to sneak out and scale the wall of the training yard with guards on the prowl was a step too far, especially as the moon had grown over the last nights, providing illumination.

Suppressing his disappointment, Arn retreated to his cot. He would have to wait.

*

Next morning, he returned to training, though as after his recovery the first time, he did not spar, but went through the exercises meant to restore and build up his strength. During a quiet moment, he approached Mahan. 'I want to leave tonight,' he signed and quickly added, 'to give thanks to the gods.'

"Denied. Back to training."

'Why?'

The weapons master's eyes moved from Arn's hands up to stare him in the face. "I don't answer to you!" he growled. "If you're well enough to argue, you can get back to training!"

Grumbling, but keeping his hands quiet, Arn did so. He was being punished, clearly. If he could speak to Ignius, the dominus would undoubtedly lift this restriction, but the man was still away on business. For the time being, Arn was once again a prisoner of the ludus.

*

Days passed. Arn resumed sparring with the others, no trace of illness or injury on him. Despite being untrained, Helena's magic had cured him as best could be hoped for, albeit with their cordial relations as the price paid. She had served the purpose Arn had intended; he doubted he would see her again, except when she might throw an insult his way, communicated with signs. He did his best to suppress the voice inside of him that regretted how he had treated someone who had only shown him kindness; in his current situation, and in a city like Aquila, kindness was a vulnerability that left one easy to exploit.

Feeling guilty towards an Aquilan nun of all people seemed most absurd of all; yet that was how he felt.

Training helped; it required his full focus, or he would be punished with a smarting blow and an insolent grin from his sparring partner. Afterwards, the full exertion of the body left the head too tired for self-doubt or other such useless feelings.

In the solitude of his cell, Arn practised his newest regained power. Being wounded straight after killing the one-eared woman, leeching her life force, had pushed it from his mind while being sick; feeling hale again, he rejoiced in the return of another ability. Using the jar of water in his room, he commanded drops to separate and rise up, floating in the air, straining against their nature that demanded they plummeted back into the pot.

Finishing his little flourishes with the water, no more impressive than what the simplest apprentice could do, Arn drank the water instead. Training body and practising magic both made for thirsty work.

When a fiveday had passed, a rumour went through the ludus; the dominus had returned from his trip.