Most of us long to "Be" but when the path gets too costly, or steep, we take solace in what we "Have." Remove the trappings of what we own and then what is the sum of us?
They were the survivors, abandoned by the allies who swore to protect, in...
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Aran recovered in the subsequent days, the rest and regular food did him the world of good. He had been interred in a small underground cell that was dark, dank, and smelled strongly of urine. This bleak holding faced looking down a small tunnel that opened out onto what looked to him to be a high-walled arena.
He was not the only one housed here he soon learned, there were other cells cut into the earth that bordered this arena as well as his own. He glimpsed dark figures behind the bars and heard the occasional anguished shout, or sometimes if he was quiet late at night the muttered prayers or the sobs of broken men. He called on all his inner strength especially at nights as he lay huddled in his cape; it was too easy to fall into a morass of self-pity and hopelessness imprisoned here.
His clothing had been taken from him, the garments were no loss, as they were caked in filth and rent in many places. He was now entirely naked but for the steel of his enslavement, his one golden ring, and his voluminous cape. The iron shackles had made a dreaded return, however, this time they were not riveted closed but locked for ease of removal. Aran found he had little else to occupy him than to linger by the bars of his prison looking out into the empty sparring area.
Keith was now his appointed jailer, though he was on every occasion accompanied by two capable-looking guards lest any of his dangerous charges desire to make trouble. He did not say much to his captive on his thrice daily visits, and Aran did not ply him with questions that he knew would not be answered.
This man oversaw all of Aran's daily needs. Bringing him food, and water, and applying salves to Aran's brand so that it had healed quickly and cleanly. The triangular scar left behind was some two inches in width and height. The brand had bitten deep. Aran would wear this indelible scourging mark on his flesh all his days.
He had spent much time examining its angry red presence on his upper thigh reliving again the heady and disturbing mix of thoughts he had had at the time of its application. In the majority though the stigma of the slave brand was still quite lost on Aran. He continued as before arrogant, stubborn, and resolute.
Only at nights when he was alone would any semblance of fear or helplessness encroach on his mental state. He dared to wonder if the mark he carried would somehow make him different or an outcast in the world of everyday men? Would the warriors of his clan know its significance? What about his worldly Brother? If they did would they shun him for it, would he be less? Aurianne, the creature of his desire would she know of its associations? He lamented with all his heart he had not taken her there and then after her capture, he was a fool to have waited.
*****
It did not take many days for Aran to guess his true purpose here and the reason behind his capture. He had been taken as a pit fighter. A brutal career that could have, and did have for the most part a decidedly short duration. A glorified death sentence in reality. For even if a man was brilliant at survival his owner usually deemed him too dangerous to ever be freed. Often deciding instead to execute or even poison the fighting slave, or if it would provide a good contest stack the odds so far from his favor he could not triumph.
If Aran had figured he would get practice time with his weapons he was sorely disappointed. He spent hours in his small cell, and any exercise he did get was in chains. Pit fighting and gladiatorial combat were not science to these men. They simply chose likely-looking candidates and threw them into the ring.
Blood sports like this moved most men of this new age and many women as well. The bouts Master Jacques hosted were popular, and large wagers were exchanged on the lives of these unfortunate slaves. It was not at all the Hollywood glamorized vision Aran had left over in his head from watching movies in his youth like Gladiator or Ben-Hur. It was ugly and savage, offering little hope to its participants.
The walls of the pit were straight and deep, some twenty feet in height with no footholds to provide easy passage to escape. There were also many black-clad guards stationed at the top and below in case a slave should become unruly. Pistols tucked into their belts they had been assigned to shoot to kill.
A large noisy crowd was assembled on the benches arranged above, the people who gazed down waiting for the spectacle that was yet to begin were dressed gaily. The entire event had the air of a spring celebration, or perhaps a pagan festival.
His keeper had come to him this morning and given him the dignity of a loin cloth along with his repast, allowing him to select one of three simple weapons. An Iron machete, a clumsy axe, or a simple short sword.
"You fight today," was all he said, as Aran perused his choices. There were no nerves to accompany this statement, any day could be a good day to die Aran ruminated. We have after all only now.
Aran could see very little of what was happening above from where he stood. It felt good to at last be freed from the weight of his chains. The bars were still down separating him from the expanse of the well-trodden arena floor. Carried on the breeze strains of music, a familiar tune. What was it? He could not quite recall. That music could be no other than that of his companion's twelve-string guitar played in Jhary's skillful hands.
The walls were too sheer Aran ruminated. He was too weighty to even attempt a possible foothold. He had made a study of those dirt walls for some weeks, there would be no opportunities of escape via that means. Even the most courageous and capable of men would not chance it. He would be summarily shot before he gained the top. He stood in the hallway fingering his very plain short sword, hoping it was a fair weapon he had been given. Desiring Blacksteel in his hands with a passion.
Master Jacques stood, cutting a fine black figure in the crowd in his impeccable suede attire. For all his barbarity he was the consummate showman. He raised his hands for silence, the music faded and the people looked at him expectantly. He cast about the sea of faces. Most were known to him, though some in the gathering were not.
"May we all give thanks to the anarchy that has allowed us to live so fully as we do today. May no government, religion, nor the specter of political correctness seek to deprive us of our true path to our passions." The crowd applauded loudly at his words. Aran listening from below to his speech that carried even here, twisted his mouth in a wry smile. He partly believed what the man had said, and knew his clansmen would have as well.
"Today my friends I have the good fortune to present for you two untried fighters for your enjoyment." The crowd again erupted into cheers. "The first man is Gregory from the south, today he will fight with the simple but as you can well agree brutal axe." More unbridled cheering and shouts of encouragement as the grill opposite Aran was raised.
Resignedly Aran looked across for the first time at his opponent, he was large and young, possibly not yet twenty, fidgeting with his hefty two-handed weapon. Selected more for his size than battle hardiness the seasoned warrior could already pick up on the young man's distress at the fight to win or die situation he had been thrust into. All before the young man had even set eyes on his opponent. Yes, Aran thought he was already marked as a dead man. This, his first untried bout would be swift Aran knew, as he waited to be announced.
"Our second fighter was recently acquired from the far northern wastes. May I present to you a truly stunning specimen of the warrior class, my newest acquisition Maximus of the Sands!"
Aran sniggered at the ridiculous title that had been bestowed on him. More wild cheering erupted as he stepped into the ring, with many exclamations over his size and exquisite musculature. He did not look at his opponent but for the briefest second, he had no desire to put more fear into the condemned man. He gazed up at the crowd who were clamoring to see him, hungering for the blood to come. All he was thinking of was her.
However, she was not there, her striking visage nowhere in the sea of alien faces. Disappointed he looked back to the arena floor and made ready to do what he must.
The start of the fight was called. Aran stood, the leather-wrapped pommel of the short sword clasped in his strong hand, knowing the beginning and assessment of his foe this day would be the longest portion of this bloody extravagance that those above him called sport. He would let the other man move first.
Gregory took his time, trying to find solace and courage in the weight of the axe he held all too tightly in both hands. The crowd was quiet waiting for the engagement to begin, feeding on the silent signals that passed between the two opponents. All Aran saw was trepidation and fear masked by the pretense of ferocity and bluster.
The big youth finally made his move, foolishly charging the more experienced man and raising the unwieldy weapon too high. Aran effortlessly sidestepped the move raking the large man with the tip of the short sword across his stomach, any deeper and he would have already been disemboweled. The axe had come nowhere near him at any moment in the brief exchange.
The crowd took a collective inward breath, they had not expected to see blood so soon, or so easily shed. Aran let Gregory circle him again but the damage was already done. On seeing his own blood and essence of mortality, the young man already had lost any belief that he may have housed in his own mind that he could be the victor in this contest.
Aran eyed him as he closed in on the youth wildly swinging the axe in panic. I will make it clean and quick his eyes said, but the fearful young man did not pick up on his voiceless promise. The axe did not strike Aran even once. It did not get remotely near.
Aran saw his window of opportunity and thrust at the frightened youth, getting his entire body up and under the axe's arc, in between the man's flailing arms. Embedding his sword neatly in his opponent's chest up to the guard, its sharpness protruding through the man's back. The placement so perfect it did not even collide with the bone. The last thing the frightened youth saw was Aran's rare green eyes as the two men shared the embrace of death.
Aran was for the most part unaffected by the moment, he had after all killed his first man at sixteen. Many such deaths he had witnessed, both at his own hand and by others. The crowd above him went wild with blood lust, he was decidedly calm. He had barely raised a sweat to dispatch his rival. It was he ruminated too easy to kill a farm boy. Hard as he was he was sickened by the wastefulness of human debaucheries, he was now only a tool in a coward's gratification.
He turned from the crowd. Master Jacques was talking. Aran did not linger to hear what was said. He threw the short sword into the dirt, noticing the guards relax as he did so. They all bore firearms, but they were afraid of him too. He grinned secretly to himself as he left the ring into the darkened tunnel to his cell, his expression masked by his mane of rampant golden hair. It was an emotion he allowed himself, and today it was only for him.
He ate well that evening and was even given some weak wine. Possibly years ago he would have spat it in the dirt as vinegar not worth his palette. Now it tasted good to him, very good. Times had indeed changed.
