Blood Eagle

Bonds of Brotherhood

There was a ceremony, of course. Arn had to return to the platform, and surrounded by bodies, they placed a wreath of laurels upon his head. Rituals followed before Arn could finally escape the sands, though he and his companions were stuck in the arena a while longer; the thousands of spectators were leaving, and if any of them saw the champion, it was liable to cause a frenzy as everyone would try to touch or get near him.

Because of that, it was close to evening when their cart rumbled through the streets, flooded with solstice celebrants. The noise was pure cacophony, though compared to the thunderous roar of the audience inside the arena, Arn was not bothered. Singing and drinking, shouting and dancing, along with every other kind of revelry could be seen wherever one looked.

At House Ignius, the other gladiators gave them the welcome owed to conquering heroes, especially Arn. Tables stood arrayed in the training yard, preparing for a feast. They were given time to bathe, losing the sweat, dust, and blood of the arena; afterwards, Arn dressed in a long, white tunic while wearing his green laurels. As he returned to the yard, the fighters shouted his name, stomped their feet, and slammed their hands against the tables, making plates of food and jugs of drink jump up and down.

Only gladiators sat at the table; Mahan celebrated with the other residents of the inner house. No servants waited on them, but they had no need either; they served each other, filling cups endlessly. Arn gave half a smile taking a seat at the end of the table, but before he could eat, a guard appeared.

“Northman! The dominus summons you.”

“Now? Let the man drink!”

“Yeah, he’s champion! He earned his meal!”

“An ill deed to steal a man away from his own celebration.”

“You are summoned,” the guard reiterated.

Shrugging, Arn got on his feet and followed.

*

Walking through the corridors of the inner house, Arn could hear sounds of festivities, though his guide did not take him in that direction. Instead, they went to Ignius’ study, where the lanista waited., sitting on his desk. “Leave us,” he told the guard. Once alone, he looked at Arn. “As hoped, you became champion.”

The Tyrian looked at the bald, clean-shaven Aquilan, whose eyebrows seemed to loom larger in the absence of all other hair.

“Your winnings have been placed in your ledger. And as promised, I shall look for a healer to restore your tongue. Obviously, the emperor’s physician is not available to us, but I will find another.”

Arn cared about none of that, and he assumed Ignius would simply make up excuses as to why a healer could not be procured as time went on; if Arn were to stay and wait around for that, which he did not plan to. So he simply bowed his head, pretending to agree.

“You’re not required to fight in the regular matches anymore, naturally. We’ll arrange suitable fights for you, perhaps against multiple opponents – you proved yourself more than capable of dealing with them,” the lanista smiled. “Your winnings will reflect the added challenge.”

Looking up, Arn could practically see the avarice in the man’s eyes. Typical for someone motivated only by greed to think that coin did the same for others. But Arn had to continue the charade just a few days longer, until Helgi could craft the rune of unbinding and free him of his armband. So he bowed his head again.

“I’ll let you return to your celebration, but speaking of that, I’ll need you tomorrow and a few evenings next fiveday. The various magistrates involved in the games are hosting their own celebrations, and your presence is required as the champion.” Ignius gave him a quick look up and down. “Make sure you’re presentable. Otherwise, you simply have to stand. Nobody expects you to make conversation, after all.” He smirked.

Arn clenched a fist before relaxing again. Just a few more days. He bent his neck one last time.

“Guard, take our champion back to the ludus!”

*

When Arn reappeared in the yard, the gladiators greeted him as before, except in more drunken fashion. He was quickly ushered to his seat and his cup filled. Looking around at their faces, Arn saw only mirth.

In this moment, the hierarchy that usually ruled the ludus had been dispelled and personal enmity banished. Volunteers, prisoners of war, and damnati sat next to each other. Domitian was at his left, Sigismund at his right, having deserved those seats by fighting alongside him today. Like a jarl looking at his hird, his most trusted warriors, Arn raised his cup and saw the gesture reflected by all. Hector, Cornelius, Andrew, and more. Even Marcus, the damnatus who had picked a fight with Arn in the first days now sung his praises higher than any other.

The Tyrian understood what he had been reluctant to accept. He shared home, circumstances, and fate with these men; they lived together within these walls and died apart, sent to the sands to satiate an ever-hungry crowd. Soon, Arn expected to be gone, which had caused his reluctance to acknowledge the bond between them; they would remain here, while he would not. But tonight, they were his tribe.

*

As morning came, the ludus resembled the camp of a defeated army, except they had been laid low by wine rather than weapons. A handful of gladiators never made it to their cells, sleeping on the benches or slumped over the tables.

Arn woke as the first, even though he had indulged as much as any; his rune of recovery reinvigorated his body faster, taking the sting off the hangover. He still felt tired after yesterday morning’s fight and evening’s feast, but looking at his fellow gladiators, he considered himself fortunate.

Mahan appeared, walking through the ludus like a soldier overlooking the fallen on the field of battle. He shook his head seeing Marcus asleep with his face still in a bowl, amplifying his snoring. “Arn,” he spoke in greeting, keeping his voice low, perhaps as a courtesy to the others.

The Tyrian responded with a nod. As the weapons master made to move on, he added, ‘I need something.’

“What is it?”

‘My winnings, in the ledger. Give half to Domitian.’

“Alright, it’s your money. But why?”

Because Arn would not be around much longer, and besides what he needed for Helgi, he wanted his friend to have the rest, but he could not say that; instead, he went for a lie to alleviate any suspicions. ‘He gave me coin earlier when he was ill. Just repaying him.’

“Ah, yes, I recall. Certainly.” Mahan glanced around. “You still have your wreath, I hope? The dominus will expect you to wear it tonight.”

Arn had happily forgotten about that, being paraded around like a prize cow. ‘Yes, yes. It’s in my cell.’

“Good. I’ll let the boys sleep it off a while longer before I start training. You’re excused, given your other engagements.” As Mahan left, Arn stretched his neck and went for the baths. Time to wash off last night’s celebration and make himself presentable for the one that lay ahead. Just a few more days, he told himself. A few more days.