Reign of Shadows - Deborah Chester [105]
On the following day, the lone victor would again be a member of twelve gladiators. The same procedure would be followed. Usually the least trained men fought first, with the veterans coming in fresh on subsequent days. Each week was called a rotation. At the end of the seventh day, the survivors would draw lots to see which day of the next rotation they would fight. And so on, until the end of the season.
In Caelan’s barracks, the trainees were quiet. Most looked frightened. Tomorrow was looming larger and larger. Word had gone round that this was the last day they would see the sun except in the arena itself until season ended. Tonight they would go into the catacombs beneath the arena, a dark mysterious place that the veterans seemed to dread.
And what was the initiation this afternoon? None of the veterans had mentioned it before, nor would they discuss it now, which was odd.
Caelan ignored the whispered worries of the others. Standing in the doorway of the barracks, he stared out at the sandy jogging track and the wall towering beyond it. The sun beat down on the dry earth, and only a slight ragged breeze stirred the dust.
He thought of the glacier of home, the ice-capped mountains, and fragrant pine forests. He thought of the dazzling lights in the winter sky, of the apple harvests and the smoky smell of peat. All that seemed a hundred years in the past. Now he stood here, in a place of death. The smell of it already lay in his nostrils, although combat would not commence until tomorrow. He felt cold and shivery as a strange feeling passed over him. Glancing over his shoulder, he took in his comrades. He had not troubled to learn most of their names, and now as he gazed at them he saw their flesh fade away. They were a collection of skeletons sitting, standing, lolling on their pallets in unexpected idleness. The vision faded, and Caelan wrenched his gaze back to the jogging track.
Breathing hard, he wiped clammy sweat from his forehead. He’d had such visions before. These men were doomed. they would die tomorrow, or the next day, or the next.
And him?
He did not know, but his own death seemed to be the most certain thing of all.
Chapter Nineteen
THEY WERE FED a midday meal—an unheard-of luxury.
While they ate, Caelan heard a clamor outside. Half the men went to the window to look. The rest, Caelan included, took the chance to grab all the food available. In minutes guards appeared at the door, yelling for them to assemble outside.
Squinting in the glaring sunshine, they milled around uncertainly while all the veterans filed out from their barracks as well.
“Form ranks!” Orlo shouted.
In the broiling sun, they divided themselves into two lines. Veterans on one side, trainees on the other, facing each other. The guards were extra vigilant today, keyed up even more than the fighters.
Caelan felt increasingly nervous. His stomach knotted up, and he wished he had not eaten so much. He kept swallowing, trying to ease the dryness in his mouth. He tried not to think of tomorrow, and yet it was impossible.
While they stood lined up, the gates to the compound opened, and a procession of priests entered, swinging incense holders that burned with crimson smoke. The priests were chanting something unintelligible that sent eerie chills up Caelan’s spine.
The priests wore long brown robes with leopard hides across their shoulders. Their heads and faces were shaven. Still chanting, they walked between the two long rows of fighters, then circled around and headed up the steps into the arena itself. Prodded by the guards, the fighters filed after them.
Caelan wasn’t interested in what the priests were doing. Their incense stunk, and he tried to