Chapter 57: First Bout
Chapter 54: First Bout
The announcer’s hand dropped, and the platform erupted into chaos.
Fifty men collided at the center of the wooden platform with a sound like thunder splitting wood.
Swords clashed, shields splintered. The first scream came within seconds—a high, piercing shriek that cut through the roar of the crowd and ended in a wet gurgle as a Numidian’s throat was opened from ear to ear. He stumbled backward, clutching his neck, blood spraying between his fingers in rhythmic pulses. His foot found the edge of the platform and then nothing at all.
He hit the water with a splash that sent dark ripples across the basin.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. The man thrashed, choking on blood and water, trying to claw his way back toward the platform. Then the first crocodile struck.
It came from below, a massive bull, fifteen feet of armored muscle and teeth. Its jaws closed around the man’s torso with a sound like wet timber snapping. The man’s scream became a wet, crushed thing, and then he was gone, dragged beneath the surface in a swirl of red.
The crowd detonated.
They were on their feet, a hundred thousand voices rising in a roar that shook the stone of the pulvinar. Men who had come expecting spectacle had found something beyond their imagination. Women clutched their stolas and screamed in the particular ecstasy of watching death delivered from inches away. Even the senators, who had seen everything Rome had to offer, were leaning forward with expressions caught between revulsion and rapture.
On the platform, the killing continued.
A Syrian with curved blades was cornered by two Gauls near the edge. He parried one strike, then the other, his movements desperate and wild. The larger Gaul feinted high and kicked low, catching the Syrian in the chest. He stumbled. The second Gaul drove a shoulder into his gut. The Syrian went over the edge with a scream that cut off the moment he hit the water. Two crocodiles converged on him before he could surface. The water boiled red.
Near the center of the platform, a giant of a man from Hispania was swinging a warhammer in wide, devastating arcs. Every swing sent men scattering. One fighter—too slow, too exhausted—caught the hammer in the ribs. His torso caved inward with a sound like a clay pot being crushed. He didn’t fall into the water. He just collapsed on the platform, blood bubbling from his mouth, his chest a ruin of splintered bone.
The warhammer swung again. A Numidian’s skull exploded in a spray of pink mist and bone fragments. The body stood for a moment, headless, before toppling sideways into the pool.
The crocodiles were in a frenzy now. The water was no longer dark—it was red, churning with the thrashing of massive bodies and the remains of men who had been torn apart.
A severed arm floated near the platform’s edge. A crocodile rose from below, clamped its jaws around the limb, and dragged it under.
In the pulvinar, Aurellia watched.
Her expression was calm. The faintest curve touched the corner of her mouth as another body hit the water and another crocodile struck. The governor beside her was gripping the arms of his chair, his knuckles white, his face pale as old marble. She didn’t spare him a glance. Her eyes were on the platform, on the carnage, on the beautiful, terrible thing she had designed.
Behind her, Ignatius sat motionless. His face was stone, but his hands—resting on the arms of his chair—were clenched so tight the veins stood out against his skin. He had seen a hundred battles. He had watched men die in every way a man could die. But this was different. This was not combat. This was slaughter designed by a woman who had smiled at him across a pulvinar and promised consequences.
Beside him, Gaius was utterly still. The old medic’s bag was clutched in his lap, his eyes fixed on the water below.
Oseka stood behind them, his arms folded, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles in his neck stood out like cords. He had stopped looking at the water. He was staring at the back of Aurellia’s head, and his eyes held something that had nothing to do with fear.
On the platform, the fight was ending.
The Gaul with the braided beard and the twisted gold torc was still standing. His chest was slick with blood—some of it his, most of it not. Three men lay dead around him. He had killed them all. The warhammer giant was floating face-down in the pool, his back opened from shoulder to spine by a blade that had found the gap in his armor.
Only one other fighter remained. A young man from the eastern provinces, barely more than a boy, his sword trembling in his hands. He had survived the chaos by hiding at the edge of the platform, waiting for the killing to stop. Now there was nowhere left to hide.
The Gaul walked toward him, slow and deliberate. The platform groaned under his weight. The young man raised his sword, but the blade was shaking so badly it caught the light in fractured glints.
"Please," the young man whispered.
The Gaul smiled. It was the same smile he had given Alex in the holding cell—quiet, confident, utterly without mercy.
He knocked the sword aside with a casual swipe. The young man stumbled backward, his heels scraping the edge of the platform. Below him, the crocodiles were waiting. Their eyes caught the sunlight, their jaws hung open. The water around them was thick with blood and floating pieces of men.
The Gaul drove his sword through the young man’s throat.
It was not a quick death. The blade entered just below the jaw and punched through the soft tissue, through the windpipe, through the spine. The young man’s eyes went wide. His mouth opened, but no sound came out—just a wet, bubbling hiss as air escaped through the wound. His hands came up, clutching at the sword, at the Gaul’s wrists, at anything that might stop what was happening.
The Gaul held him there for a moment, letting him choke, letting him drown in his own blood while his feet scraped the edge of the platform. Then he wrenched the blade free and shoved the body backward with his boot.
The young man hit the water, and the crocodiles surged.
The crowd’s roar was deafening. They were on their feet, screaming, throwing flowers, women went wild; baring their chest, some lifting their stolas, revealing their vaginas. He stood at the edge of the platform, chest heaving, blood dripping from his blade into the red water below.
The announcer’s voice boomed across the arena.
"One man remains! Victor of the first bout!"
The Gaul raised his sword to the sky. The crowd answered with a roar that shook the stone.
In the pulvinar, Aurellia’s smile widened. Just slightly.
Ignatius didn’t move. His eyes were still fixed on the water, on the red stain spreading across the basin, on the platform where forty-nine men had died so that one could stand victorious. He thought of Alex, still in his cell below, still waiting for his turn.
The Gaul was still on the platform, still alive, still dangerous.
And the Ghost’s bout was coming.