Reign of Shadows - Deborah Chester [104]
It also meant the age-old rule that an arena survivor was rewarded by receiving his freedom did not really apply anymore. Only the privately owned gladiators had a chance of that reward. According to the word in the barracks, several arena champions had won their freedom but continued to fight for plump salaries and special privileges.
Thus, men like Nux were forgotten or ignored. Having survived, they faced only another grinding season, when any unguarded moment in the ring could mean destruction or maiming injury.
Nux knew Caelan was privately owned by the prince. They all did. And while Caelan’s abilities seemed too poor to threaten anyone here, he at least had the nominal chance to leave, which they did not. Resentment flared hot in the practice bouts, and Caelan came out bruised and battered.
“Let him up, Nux!” roared Orlo now, seeing Caelan still pinned with the blunt practice sword on his neck. “Let him up!”
Nux slid the metal edge along Caelan’s neck, pressing hard enough to hurt. His eyes blazed with hostility. “Tomorrow it will be real swords, Traulander. Tomorrow, when I do this, your pretty head will fall on the sand and the crowds will cheer my name.”
He stepped back just as Orlo came striding up. Looking innocent, Nux slid his practice sword into the rack and walked away.
Orlo gave Caelan a kick. “Hopeless,” he said. “I knew it from the first. The prince sent you here to humiliate me. Stupid Traulanders, afraid to fight, afraid of the dark, afraid, afraid, afraid. Bah!”
Still breathing hard from the bout, Caelan knelt on the sand and found himself at eye level with the hilt of Orlo’s dagger. The hilt was wrapped with very fine copper wire and had a brass knob on the end. It reminded Caelan of the old dagger he had bought from the Neika tribesman the day the Thyzarenes attacked the hold.
Mesmerized by the sight of it, Caelan half closed his eyes and listened to the faint song of the metal. It was as though the weapon called to him in a low, nearly inaudible voice. He could almost understand it, and he wanted to hold it.
A swift whack of his outstretched hand recalled him to the present. Blinking, feeling dizzy, Caelan dodged another slap from Orlo and scrambled to his feet.
The trainer glared at him. “Try something that stupid again, and I’ll cut off your hand.”
Caelan tried not to look at the dagger and failed. It still sang somewhere deep within him. Try as he might, he could not shake it. “Your dagger looks very old and fine. Where did it come from?”
Orlo’s mouth dropped open, as though he couldn’t believe Caelan had dared ask a personal question.
Turning red, Orlo raised his cattail club. “Get to barracks! Wash your filthy hide!”
Caelan ducked his head and ran. Humiliation and rage at himself burned within him. He wouldn’t have taken the dagger from Orlo. He wouldn’t have attacked the man with it. He was simply curious. But slaves weren’t allowed to explain. They were judged and punished.
Slaves weren’t allowed to be curious either. No opinions. No conversation. No questions. No privileges.
It seemed he would never learn.
And now there was no more time. Tomorrow morning the games would commence.
As he jogged across the drilling field with the others, he glanced at the arena itself. Dozens of workers swarmed it, scrubbing steps and setting up railings to direct the crowd. Beyond the gates, concessioners congregated impatiently, with their wares and cooking grills stacked haphazardly. They were shouting offers at the guards, trying to bribe their way in early.
As yet, Caelan had not