The Sixth Life of Medusa

17. Burning Blood

"We plead that you attempt to escape."

The speaker possessed an accent Perseus couldn't place, and it felt like he was speaking inside his head.

"We also plead that you cling to the delusion of returning to your former lives," the man continued.

Former lives.

Perseus wiggled his toes in the mud. The rain wouldn't relent. They had led him off the ship several horai ago with his hands and feet manacled, head covered with a sack, and speech still impossible.

"Make this interesting for us." There was a sneer in those words. "Try to resist your new station, revered blood carriers."

They transported him and other captives from the shore in a horse-drawn wagon, one that bumped and bounced from how madly they drove the animals. All through the jostling ride, Perseus could think of nothing but that terrifying encounter. The things the mysterious goddess had suggested about his life and her offer which he promptly refused.

"A bold but ignorant choice. I shall await your pitiable return."

The sack covering Perseus' head was snatched away. Light flooded his vision as rain pelted his now-exposed face. He dragged in a lungful of cool air, catching nothing but the smell of rain and damp earth.

They were in the arena of a stadion. Tall poles lined its high round edge, and the attached flags hung limply, their colour muted by the rain.

When Perseus shivered, it wasn't from the biting cold. Another stadion came to mind, this one much larger. The excited roar of wild spectators. The scent of blood in the air, how the hot sand turned red, and the clicking sounds the beasts made as they rushed at his father.

Blinking away the memory, Perseus' gaze roved over the gathering. The females were significantly fewer than the boys and all were young and stone-faced. The absolute silence of the spectators was somewhat unnerving. That air of wild merriment one would expect in a colosseum was missing. Instead, there was a tension in the air and for some reason, Perseus felt like cattle. The watchers were the butchers.

A glance to his left and right and Perseus confirmed he wasn't the only one who received a beating upon his capture.

The large boy at Perseus' side stared blankly ahead, his face a map of bruises and cuts. And to Perseus' right was a girl with a body more fitting for a brothel than a fighting arena. Her face had also not escaped a beating, and her clothes—whatever remained of it—were stained with blood and dirt. Another quick glance around and he found there were at least twelve others. And if he was to go by what the man had said earlier, they must be blood carriers as well.

"You shall give a performance," the voice carried on. "A fight for your station according to your abilities."

Perseus sought out the speaker.

Ahead, a tall slender man stood with hands held at his back, and next to him was an occupied canopied dais. Perseus counted eight of them. Servants carrying jugs and large trays bearing delicacies attended to the guests with fluid efficiency and reverence. The guests' fine clothes and stiff posture showed some noble background.

Mood souring, Perseus immediately marked them as the enemy. Crushing the rise of bitter emotions, he returned his attention to the speaker.

Judging from how the rain formed an outline around his body instead of wetting him, it was either he was a topmost blood carrier or a low deity.

As for Perseus' kidnap, he came to a conclusion. News of him carrying Zeus' blood must have reached the ears of some royal or wealthy family. His kidnapping may have been years in the making.