Blood Eagle

Among the Ranks

Running through the woods. Snow covering the ground. It was winter, but the forest had pine trees with branches still clad in green to conceal him from unfriendly eyes. His sword was sheathed for now, but not much longer.

*

Arn woke up, blinking and trying to shake the dream from his mind. Discomfort from his injuries flooded him, but he welcomed it as a distraction from the dream, hoping it would fade from his thoughts swiftly. He looked around in his cell, located in the quarters where the fighters lived, including himself for the past few days, recuperating.

It had a bed and some shelves for clothing. His old, ragged tunic had been taken away to be burned and new garments provided. He wore no chains, golden or iron, except for the arm ring he had yet to identify. The physician had seen to him a few times, and an Aquilan official had also paid him a visit without explaining his purpose.

A guard appeared in the doorway. "You're awake? The medicus says you're ready for the master."

Looking up, Arn made no attempt at hiding his disdain. The guard seemed indifferent and made an impatient motion, beckoning him to follow.

The skáld got up and left his room to walk down the hallway that ended in a closed gate. His guide unlocked it, and they continued up a staircase. From the change in surroundings, Arn surmised the house was divided in twain. An inner part for the gladiators, an outer for the master and his family.

They reached a modest study, where the lanista sat behind a desk, rifling through pieces of parchment. Quintus Ignius looked up as they entered. "Leave us," he told the guard before wrinkling his nose. "Open the window on your way out." The armed servant raised an eyebrow but did as commanded. Once alone, the lanista leaned back in his chair to stare at the Tyrian. "What do you know of gladiators?"

Arn shrugged in ignorance.

"To be expected. I have three sorts of men in my ludus," Ignius explained. “Volunteers, convicts, and prisoners of war." Ignius looked up and down at him. "You haven't told anybody about your past, I presume."

If that was meant as a jest, Arn was not amused.

"You have been entered in the public records as a Tyrian prisoner of war released to me, which is true enough. Never tell any of your first visit to the arena. An official has examined you and declared you void of magic – those with the talent can't be gladiators." Ignius gave him a knowing look. "But once your strength returns, so could your magic."

Looking at the man in his chair, Arn saw his meaning. A fighter with the gift would be invincible in the arena. Given the worn look of his clothing, the lanista had need of a few victories.

"Now before you consider running away – that piece of metal on your arm will let the inquisitors of Sol find you and hunt you down."

Ignius nodded at the arm ring that currently adorned Arn. Strange magic, the skáld thought to himself, but conceivable.

"But I'm a man of business first and foremost," the lanista continued, "and I'll offer you a fair barter. You fight for me, you get a place to sleep, food to eat. You make champion at the solstice games, I'll even find a healer for you to restore that tongue. Refuse, or prove a waste of my silver, and I'll return you to the Imperial administration." Ignius cocked his head, waiting for a reaction.

Being returned meant Arn would either be chained to a galley or simply executed. He had no faith in the promise dangled before him; someone who dressed in worn clothing would not have access to a healer with the skill to restore the skáld's missing appendage. But given the arena would provide him the best opportunity to regain his magic without raising suspicion as to all the corpses left in his wake, Arn had no intention to refuse. He slowly nodded.

"Good. I have prepared a contract. Once it is signed, you will be added to the official list as a gladiator of Ludus Ignia." From a drawer, the lanista pulled out a sheet of parchment, already filled with scribbles, and pushed it across the desk towards Arn. "Does a barbarian like you understand proper Aquilan?"

Arn grabbed the parchment and ran his eyes across it. It stipulated the responsibilities of each party. Ignius would provide everything a gladiator needed, and Arn would fight for his house in the arena while obeying the rules of his ludus.

It did not make an impression on him. These Aquilans placed so much faith in parchment, as if such could bind a man. An oath sworn by spoken words before the gods – the Tyrian skáld would respect that. But this was just ink.

He placed the parchment on the desk, grabbed a quill, and shakily signed his chosen name.

"Good." Ignius grabbed the contract and returned it to a drawer. “Guard! Take him to the clerk." The lanista made a dismissive motion with his hand, his attention already on the papers in front of him.

*

Arn was brought through the locked doors that separated family home from gladiator school and shown into another study, much smaller and absent decoration of any kind. A writing desk and shelves with scrolls were all, along with a chair occupied by a small man. "You're the Tyrian?"

Given the colour of his hair and eyes, Arn found no reason to reply.

"I'm Gaius, the clerk of the ludus. You'll address me with the respect I am due – well, I guess that's not necessary."

The skáld worked hard to keep disdain from appearing on his face.

"You train every morning and afternoon. Eventually, you may be allowed to leave the ludus some hours in the evening – once you have proven yourself worthy of such privilege. But don't even think about running. Our hunters are highly skilled and never lose the trail of any runaways." The scrawny man looked up and down at Arn's deeply scarred body and his hair colour, making him stand out. "Especially one as easily identified as you."

An odd warning, given the band on his arm was meant to track Arn, but this fellow did not seem aware. It suggested the artefact was not commonly used in this house, which made sense; this was a valuable little trinket, far too costly for every gladiator to be equipped with. It begged the question of how this grubby lanista had acquired it in the first place.

Gaius took out a small wax tablet – two halves tied together with leather string – along with a stylus and handed it over. "You can keep that. Can't have you communicating purely through grunting. Guard! Take him to the training yard." He looked at Arn. "Get out, before your stench settles in the furniture."

Arn stared at the scrawny man for a moment, feeling confident that he could leap across the desk and with one blow crush his windpipe. Restraining himself, the skáld simply left with clenched fists.

*

While old and in need of repair, the home of Ignius had the size and everything else required for a gladiator school. A large yard stood filled with all the objects needed to train weaponry, including plenty of men currently thus occupied. Arn blinked, stepping into the sharp sun after being indoors for so many days; it reminded him of walking into the arena, and the unpleasant memory threatened to seize him until he pushed beyond it.

The smell of sweat lay heavy in the air, as did the sounds of wooden weapons striking shields and men making noise with effort. Arn's presence caused a brief disruption, which a few used to land a quick strike at their sparring partner, causing outbursts and consternations.

"No distractions!" yelled a powerful voice that could only belong to the weapons master.

The skáld glanced him over. He stood taller than Arn, with the dark hair and eyes that most Aquilans had, but his seemed more intense; in addition, his skin was bronze in colour of a deeper shade than the locals. Given his strong physique and the scars on his arms and face, Arn suspected he had spent his years on the sands before taking up this position.

The weapons master stalked over to him. "You're the Tyrian. I'm Mahan, and my task will be to whip you into shape for the arena." Now it was his turn to give Arn an inspecting look. "Slender frame – I hope that means you're quick, since you'll never be as strong as some of your opponents. Though we'll add what muscle we can to those bird bones you call arms."

Arn had never had to worry about physical strength ever since receiving his rune of force on his skin; nor speed, for that matter, after the rune of swiftness was bestowed to him. Absent both, he would have need of the weapons master's instructions, though he intended to get his markings back eventually. And the faster he got back into the arena, the faster he could regain his magic.

He felt blind without his supernatural senses. No blessing of eagle eyes to let him count the leaves on a tree against the horizon, no sensation of tremors that warned him of footsteps made by others. Not even the ability to sense what manner of accursed artefact adorned his arm, acting like a magical chain.

Arn took out his tablet and wrote with shaky words, When do I fight?

Mahan laughed, attracting attention again with the same result as before, though the weapons master did not notice or give reproach this time, himself distracted by his mirth. "When I think you got a chance to survive meeting a gladiator! Given you were at death's door only a fiveday ago, I don't expect that anytime soon!"

Arn scratched another word. Ready.

"Listen to me," Mahan sneered. "In this yard, I am emperor, and my word is law. You will not question me, my methods, or my judgement. Put aside your scribbler's weapon and begin training if you ever want to wield a real weapon again! Now follow!" he barked.

Arn stuck his tablet into his belt and walked behind Mahan to various strange contraptions. They looked like tools or simple machinery, yet with no purpose that the Tyrian could deduce. One was simply a pulley, through which a rope held a large bag. Another seemed like a yoke, which made little sense, so far from fields. A third device looked to be a large rock, polished to be smooth.

"Pull it." Mahan pointed at the rope going through the pulley.

Failing to see the purpose, but knowing he could hardly refuse, Arn grabbed the rope and pulled. The bag at the other end was heavy, maybe a hundred pounds or more. After just a few moments, his arms ached, and he felt a burning sensation in his muscles. He felt compelled to keep holding the weight, as the weapons master had given no command to release, yet after a few more moments, reality proved stronger than will, and Arn had to let go of the rope. The bag fell to the ground with a loud thud, causing laughter from those nearby.

"As expected. I don't know if it's injuries or natural weakness, but you've a far way to go." Mahan spat on the ground. "All of these tools will build your strength. Work with each of them for a while and then move on to the next. Have the medicus massage your arms tonight – you'll need it."

Objections seemed useless; Arn would have to do as commanded, though this only further incentivised him to seek a return to the arena as soon as possible. With a clenched jaw, he grabbed hold of the rope again and once more pulled up the sack.

*

At the evening meal, Arn felt ready to collapse. Despite harsh words, the weapons master had allowed him plenty of breaks rather than risk overexerting his still healing body, but even with this small kindness, the exercises had run Arn ragged. He was no stranger to physical hardship, but mostly of the sort that demanded endurance, whether travelling swiftly on foot for many hours or fighting a prolonged battle. For pure strength, the minor rune on his skin had lent him what he needed, and now his muscles protested at being abused to such a degree. The injuries he had sustained in the arena did not help either.

Another exercise awaited him at the evening meal, this time dealing with frustration. The gladiators ate together in a simple room with no furniture other than benches, where they lined up to receive a plate of the same fare. Arn noticed the hierarchy; some walked straight up to grab their food, ignoring the men waiting to get theirs, who in turn made no objection. As a newcomer, Arn figured he would be the last, which proved true.

When he finally had his plate, he found it full of vegetables and barley bread with only a few slices of meat. That seemed an odd choice, given they all worked hard and needed to build up their strength, but he was in no position to complain.

As Arn began eating, seated on a bench, his patience was further tested by one of the other fighters. Setting his own plate aside, the gladiator walked over to stare down at the Tyrian. "Enjoying the food, straw head?" He laughed at his own witticism, which further demonstrated to Arn that he was dealing with a simpleton. The man had only been a few spots ahead in the line, suggesting he was also lowly placed in the hierarchy. "What's the matter, cat got your tongue?" He prodded Arn on the shoulder, where a large scar ran through one of his tattooed runes.

Glancing at the finger touching him and moving his eyes up to the arm connected to it, Arn saw the word Damnatus branded into the flesh. A convict, which explained both his crude behaviour and low status in the ludus. With the eyes of everyone else turned on them, Arn figured they were waiting for his reaction. There could only be one way to respond.

Making a fist, Arn struck the man right below where his ribcage ended, making him buckle over in pain. This put his chin within easy reach of Arn's knee, which shot up to strike him and make him stagger backwards. Taking care not to spill anything from his bowl, Arn leapt to his own feet and pushed the man with a flat hand on his chest, which proved sufficient to make him fall on his back.

Arn gave a challenging stare around the room; everyone else shrugged and returned to their own meal, except for the fighter on the ground, who pushed himself up and stumbled away. Taking a deep breath, the Tyrian sat down and finished his meal.