The Wings of Ashtaroth

Chapter 2: Strangers: Section I: Kirin

Kirin: Lorar: The Arena Venaris

His name was Kirin. He was of average height, and he was strong, and capable, and fast. He preferred a gladius, but was more often given an axe to wield in the arena. He didn't mind; he was adaptable and he was fierce. Women threw him petals, and gold, and sometimes more personal items, and so Kirin thought he must have a good face. He was clean-shaven and light-haired, and that was unusual in Lorar, though less so amongst his fellow slaves. He was blue-eyed and came from somewhere far away and cold. He knew it was cold because he'd come swaddled in mink as a screeching babe—swaddling he still wore now, sewn into his short tunic. He'd known no mother, certainly no father, and this was no trouble to him, Kirin having learned long ago that he preferred to remember his past in his own way, and not always the way it had happened.

He'd been bought as a gift for Alinaea, the barren wife of a gladiators' trainer. At Alinaea's knee he'd learned his letters and languages like a noble's son, until he'd grown old enough to be useful in new ways, and then Alinaea had borne a real son, with blue, northern eyes, and her husband had supposed it wasn't Alinaea who was barren after all.

When her husband had buried her, Kirin had been barred from attending.

Kirin had become a gladiator then, and he'd learned he had a talent for fighting the way his owner, Themus, had a talent for finding men for him to fight.

He was about to fight now.

In the tunnels beneath the arena floor, he waited with his fellow brawlers on a pair of wooden benches lined up opposite one another against the stone walls.

Like many Lora spectacles this one was arranged thematically, its fighters representing Lorar's traditional enemies. Six and six—a team of men dressed as southerners from Ajwata, ek-Anout, Kemassen, and Indas on one side, and northerners on Kirin's.

Light filtered down past the bars of the gate that led onto the arena floor above, but it was cold in the underground. Where Kirin's arms were bare—his show armour only covering his shoulders, part of his thighs—his pale hair stood on end. A change from the sweat of the practice yard anyway.

Further down the tunnel leading away from the steps, Themus was arguing with an arena attendant about the fighters who'd been rented for this afternoon's games. Themus was red in the face, waving his hands around like big flapping wings. Kirin smirked.

"Four noxii—four." Themus shoved four of his skinny fingers in the attendant's face. "Marianus paid for four noxii and eight fighters. Not nine." Noxii—undesirables. Not proper gladiators, but prisoners and criminals who'd been condemned to death. Real fighters were more expensive, of course.

There'd been four noxii mixed in amongst the gladiators on the benches—two Masseni soldiers from Kemassen and a criminal on the bench across from Kirin's team. One of them had been led to the communal shithouse.

"And one of your noxii is dead in the toilet with the sponge down his gullet." The attendant wasn't backing down. Themus couldn't threaten him with a beating like he could his gladiators.

Kirin grinned as the attendant continued. "You're telling me you'd short Marianus a man? You're telling me you don't think the senator will repay you? Come now." He slapped Themus's shoulder. "You're a Red, aren't you? A full-blooded Redder—the pride of Lorar you'll be, if you do Marianus a favor like that. You wouldn't want the people saying Themus was a crook of a lanista with shit for fighters. Do the Reds a favour, will you? He'll pay, he'll pay. You know he'll pay."

Of course Marianus would pay. A Red Faction man was a man of his word. With Marianus leading Red Faction this season, they'd pummel the other factions into submission come election time. A slimy lanista—a supplier of gladiators—was nothing next to that.