Shadow War - Deborah Chester [118]
Caelan didn’t understand at first. He stumbled, found himself jerked up, and broke out in a cold sweat. One of them slammed him against the wall, and he managed to brace himself there.
“What?” he asked in bewilderment, not certain he had heard right.
“Gault, but you stink,” one of them said, wrinkling his nose.
“He’ll be crawling with lice. Watch him,” another warned.
“Arena scum—”
“No, no, Zoma,” a man said. “He’s a champion. I won money on you, Giant. But you’ll have to change your ways now.”
Caelan still couldn’t believe it, although slowly comprehension was beginning to sink in. He looked at their faces, seeing neither friendliness nor condemnation. “I’m not going to be beheaded?”
They laughed in a roar that made his head ring.
“He’s out of his wits,” Zoma said. “Move on. The sergeant will cut you down to size soon enough.”
Gathering him up, they shoved him onward, taking him out of the dungeons and out across the grounds toward the barracks. It was night, and very cold. Shivering and still wet, Caelan stumbled along as though in a dream. If he was to live, he found he could not let himself believe it yet. He was afraid it might vanish like ashes blowing through his fingers. It could be another cruel joke, a final measure of hope meted out to him before the axe fell. But with every step he began to believe despite his caution.
“Have I been pardoned?” he finally asked.
“From what?” Zoma asked, giving him another shove. “Is this man accused of any crimes?”
“No official charges.”
“No, just that he stinks.”
“You stink,” Zoma said with a smirk. “Your punishment is a bath and severe scrubbing. If I catch any of your vermin, I’ll peel your skull.”
Caelan grinned. He straightened, his legs suddenly finding strength. He was to be a soldier, he realized. After all these years, after all this struggle, it was finally coming true. He could not be a soldier unless he was free. No slaves served in the army.
His heart filled up fast, ready to burst with intense happiness. Right then none of his aches mattered. He went staggering across the immense parade ground, managing to keep up with their long strides. He couldn’t stop grinning, not even when they stripped him naked and threw him bodily into a trough of icy water.
“Get clean,” he was told.
Shivering and sputtering, he scrubbed until his hide felt raw. Then, wrapping himself in a blanket, he dashed indoors only to find himself surrounded by a circle of brawny men.
Every face looked hostile. Not a smile of welcome flickered from one of them. A set of clothing came hurtling through the air and smacked him in the face.
He caught it clumsily, still unable to raise his hands higher than his elbows.
“Get dressed,” he was told.
Someone else kicked a bucket his way. “The floor is dirty, slave. Scrub it.”
Caelan stood there his hopes and dreams dying away while they laughed in open scorn and turned their backs on him.
When he didn’t move, Zoma came over and gave him a hard shove that nearly overbalanced him. “Are you deaf? You heard the sergeant. Get to scrubbing.”
“But I—I thought—”
“You thought what?” Zoma asked him scathingly.
There was no answer. Caelan’s protest died in his throat. He looked down, his face hot, his hands clumsy with the clothing.
Zoma shoved him again, sending him stumbling against the empty bucket. It fell over with a clatter. “Get to work! Or you’ll stay up all night, scrubbing in the dark.”
Chapter Sixteen
When the morning bugles sounded, Caelan awakened with a start, forgetting at first where he was. Then the door to the barracks banged open, and an officer came striding in.
“Attention!” bawled the barracks sergeant, looking as startled as any of them.
The soldiers scrambled from their bunks and hastily assembled themselves in a line. Wearing only their nethers, their hairy chests pimpled with cold, their hair standing on end, and their jaws unshaved, they looked a bleary lot.
Caelan, who had slept on the floor in the uncaring slumber of exhaustion,