Blood Eagle

Days of Summer

Trumpets rang, the sun reflected in the bronze. Across the sands, twenty-one raised platforms stood, scattered throughout the area, being smaller arenas within the larger, original one. The officials ushered two gladiators to each pedestal, sending them up the ladders to stand opposite their adversary, forty in total; the master of the games occupied the twenty-first platform on the middle.

“Good people of Aquila!” he called out, his voice magically amplified. “Today, we honour Sol with games in his splendour! Let the blood of the arena be a sacrifice to his name and glory!”

The crowd shouted and roared in response. Arn, wielding his long blade and buckler as usual, did his best to avoid the distraction they posed. He had one fight ahead of him, one opponent in front of him; he would kill the man, and his work for the day was done. Others would take their place on the platform, continuing the next round of games, but their fate was their own.

Despite his intention to consider only the battle awaiting him, Arn thought about the sheer magnitude of these games. Hundreds of gladiators would fight today, twenty pairs at a time. Tomorrow, half would fight again, and tomorrow, the half that remained of them, all the way until the fifth day.

Across from him stood a triarius, likewise ready. He fought with a spear, which all other things being even, would give him an advantage in reach. Fortunately for Arn, one other thing was not even.

A ritual took place, still on the main platform. Arn had never seen this before, as he had always spent the beginning of these days in the tunnels below the arena. A hint of the bard’s curiosity made him look over to see a bull be sacrificed, its blood splattering across the wooden planks; he wondered briefly how they had gotten such a large animal up there. Maybe the central pedestal had a ramp on the other side he could not see.

Some kind of chanting took place, holy words spoken or prayers invoked; Arn had no interest anymore, his curiosity already sated. He did not believe the Aquilan gods cared who won or lost in this place, or about the blood spilled in their honour to entertain the crowds; or if they did, they were cruel and unworthy of reverence. A man might take up arms and fight for a variety of reasons; doing so for the amusement of others seemed among the poorest.

The ritual reached its end, and Arn readied himself. “Fight!” came the command, and forty gladiators obeyed.

With so many battles taking place to entertain the crowd, Arn saw no reason to prolong the inevitable just to put on a spectacle. He called upon his bladesong, and spellpower took over his hand, making the sword move on its own. With preternatural skill and speed, he parried past his enemy’s spear and slashed him across the chest with enough force to cut leather, skin, and flesh apart.

Shocked, the triarius dropped his weapons and fell to his knees. His tongue lolled out like a dog’s, and he stared with wide eyes at his death.

Arn would have mumbled an apology if he still could he speak, though the reason for this sudden impulse eluded him; he did not know this man nor cared if he lived or died, and the Tyrian had already claimed plenty of lives in Aquila. All the same, he felt a strange twist of guilt as he struck his sword down for the killing blow.

The rush of power as he leeched the dying man’s energy pushed away such thoughts. Within Arn, his seiðr grew stronger, reinforcing his abilities and resistances. He dropped to one knee, the backlash taking its toll as always, but far less severe than when he first began. While it left him vulnerable for a few moments, and he would not relish if he had to fight afterwards, it no longer incapacitated him.

Getting back on his feet, he wondered if it would continue to lessen; could he one day kill a man and take his life force as easily as taking a breath? If he could transform it into spellpower, it would allow him to continue casting his abilities on end, never growing tired. He would become an unstoppable force on the battlefield – Arn exhaled, interrupting his own thoughts. That was not his aim. He took what he must, to fulfil his task. Distracting himself, he looked around at the carnage unfolding on the other platforms.

*

An official climbed up the ladder and glanced at the fallen gladiator before turning to Arn. “What’s your name and your house?”

The Tyrian gave him a tired look.

“Oh, are you one of the mute ones, or those who don’t speak Aquilan?”

Grumbling, Arn held up one finger to indicate the first option.

“Right.” The official ran his eyes over his tablet, containing a row of names. “And you look Tyrian,” he added with a quick glance up. “Ah, let me guess, you’re Arn? Sounds Tyrian. For House Ignius?”

The skáld nodded with a weary expression.

“Very well. Your victory has been noted. You may return underground. See you tomorrow.” The official swiftly climbed down the ladder and proceeded to the next platform.

Arn descended at a slower pace; around him, other gladiators also came down, and they made a tired march towards the tunnels while the people cheered.

Looking up at them, the Tyrian felt only contempt. A well-sung tale of battle could be stirring and entertaining, sure, but such a battle would have been fought by warriors each with their own reasons. Ambition, revenge, protecting their homes – all causes worth celebrating or mourning in song and tale.

This battle, this fight in the arena, was fought only to sate the bloodlust of those who would never pick up a weapon nor cared for any reason why a man might do so. With each step through the arena, Arn’s loathing increased. Thunraz, grant me strength to see this to the end, he prayed, welcoming the darkness of the tunnel as he left the sunlight of the open arena behind.

*

The next day, Arn fought in one of the latter rounds. Two hundred gladiators remained after yesterday’s initial culling. As the fights progressed, he watched them drag the dead into the furnace room; the dying were brought to the physicians, who gave them drops of laudanum to ease their passing. Those with minor wounds had them treated afterwards, grumbling about their defeats, but probably silently grateful that the arena workers were not shovelling their body parts into the furnace right now. As for those who had gained their second victory, their mood soared as could be expected.

Arn spent the waiting time with the other gladiators from House Ignius, those that remained, and Mahan. The weapons master gave them final instructions, as usual, except for Arn; perhaps he thought the Tyrian did not need them, or that he did not deserve them.

Watching Domitian return, head held high, Arn gave a vague smile and nodded in acknowledgement. “Show them why they should fear you!” the Aquilan shouted, causing others in the waiting hall to turn and stare, as he slapped Arn on the shoulder. Strapping the buckler to his wrist, Arn gestured with his head in acknowledgement; it was his turn.

He faced a legionarius this time. The man visibly paled seeing the scarred Tyrian enter the platform, and he began mumbling prayers.

The official gave the signal to fight, and magic proved stronger than any pleas for Sol or Malac to intervene. With a few swift strikes, Arn decapitated the man and took his energy.

*

Third day. A hundred left. Arn faced another triarius. As the man’s blood sprayed across his face, Arn felt a moment of remorse before the euphoria of the stolen life force took over, banishing any thoughts of guilt. The backlash still hurt, and he limped away, but the sensation of the power almost overtook the taste of bile in his mouth and the aching of all his muscles.

Back at the ludus, the mood felt suppressed; one of the gladiators had been grievously wounded during the day’s matches, and he died on the journey back from the arena. One by one, the fighters entered the physician’s workshop and bade Titus farewell. Tomorrow, his family would collect the body for the funerary rites; their solstice celebration had ended early.

Although Arn had no words to speak, he followed the custom, entering the workshop after Sigismund. He looked down at the fallen gladiator; part of him felt relieved to have escaped this fate himself, though he could feel sympathy with the woman made a widow and the children left fatherless. Several silver coins lay stacked on his eyes, given by Titus’ still living brethren to pay for his journey to the afterlife; they would be delivered along with the body to his family. Arn dug out a coin from his belt and placed it with the others before going to his cell, seeking sleep.

*

Fourth and final day of individual matches. Fifty left. Again a triarius. It suggested as Arn suspected that those with spears did better than the legionarii with their short swords or the velites with bucklers.

Once again, blood painted Arn’s face, slashing his opponent’s throat open. The rush of power, his seiðr growing and approaching its old strength, made him feel delirious.

Walking down the ladder, he became aware of the crowd chanting. “Blood Eagle! Blood Eagle!”

He looked up to see their smiling faces as their tongues showered him with praise. If any still disliked him for always ending his fights in violence, they had been outnumbered and silenced. The audience cheered for him and the bloodletting he promised; did none of them understand that if they stood before him on the sands, in this moment, he would happily give them the same fate?

Disgusted by the Aquilans and their endless thirst for blood, Arn returned to the tunnels. Tomorrow, the games would be at an end, and he could set his final plans into motion.