Page 12 of Dominion
He was expecting the gods to be ten or twelve feet tall with wings and have halos over their heads. Though, he had to admit, their clothing matched the image he had when he imagined what they’d look like. Odessa was wearing a long, ocean-blue silk gown with jeweled straps and halter, and side slits with jeweled clasps. Her ornate crown was made of blue jewels that sparkled brightly in the sun.
Two of the male gods each wore togas made of a shiny material Mateo had never seen before, but it looked like it would be soft if he ever got the chance to touch it. Which he knew he’d never have. Their togas had jeweled clasps and belts that also looked very lavish. Only Eloy was dressed differently. He wore a large gold and jewel necklace, arm and wrist bracelets, and his crotch was covered with a gold loincloth that had red strips of fabric draped over his front and back, leaving his powerful thighs exposed.
He was truly magnificent to behold and Mateo couldn’t take his eyes off the god, whose bared, oiled chest made Mateo feel things that awaked his cock. He hadn’t really seen a man—correction—god that made his body react that way. Even the gladiators at Rama’s ludus, though some were striking, didn’t have that effect on him the way the god, Eloy, did.
“The gods,” Cervantes said. His voice startled Mateo, who had almost forgotten where he was and what he was there for.
Mateo turned to Cervantes. “Are they as powerful as people say, sir?”
Cervantes nodded. “I have seen them bless us.” He turned to the three men. “In all honesty, you are not even worthy to die for them, but my dominus gives them your blood in tribute, so I keep quiet.”
Not really that quiet, Mateo thought. Those words cut through him the most, because it was confirmation they’d been brought to the arena solely to die. Something to satisfy the gods, the death of rogues who live in the badlands.
“It has begun,” Cervantes said, grinning as he looked out into the arena.
Mateo turned to see the crowd all rise, then drop to one knee, heads bowed to the gods who simply sat there, seeming unimpressed at the worship they were receiving. The four gods raised their right hands, then lowered them, and the crowd as a collective all took their seats. A man dressed in blue linen pants, shirt, and sandals, with a gold sash draped over his left shoulder, stood upon a platform on the second story that overlooked the sands and held something to his mouth that Mateo didn’t recognize.
“Welcome to the Day of Champions! We give this day to our beloved gods in our most humbled of worship,” the man said through the device he held in his hand, which made his voice boom over the crowd.
“What is that he speaks through, sir?” Mateo asked.
“A microphone. We hear his voice through the speakers,” Cervantes replied, though he didn’t know why he had. It wasn’t like the three prisoners would survive their bout.
“We have quite the offerings for your entertainment. Gladiators from all around have come to shed blood and life for your grace,” the announcer said, then he bowed once again to the four gods, who only nodded. “Let us not shed time.”
The many people in the crowd cheered and laughed at what Mateo concluded was a joke, though he was not laughing. He was far too nervous to feel anything but gut-wrenching fear. His palms were sweating and his stomach was doing flip-flops as the seconds ticked by.
“Before the real matches begin, let us give gratitude to the Honorable Aurelius Turetto, Chairman of the High Senate, for sponsoring this Game.”
The crowd cheered as an older man with short-cropped, white hair and a white Sherwani suit with gold trim stood for the audience to acknowledge him. He bowed to the gods, waved to the crowd, and then sat back down.
The announcer continued. “Dominus Rama has three prisoners from the badlands to put on display for the pleasure of the gods. They will face off with his gladiator, Haraka.”
The crowd erupted into cheers as they anticipated any bloodshed.
“If the three survive the Trial of Fate and receive the favor of the gods, Rama will train them to become full gladiators who will, no doubt, give this arena and his ludus much glory,” the announcer boasted to the cheers of the crowd.
“Begin it!” Eloy yelled out, as he had grown impatient with the pomp and circumstance after hearing about the Trial of Fate.
“Yes, God Eloy, of course,” the announcer said, then he held up his hand and brought it down. “Begin!”
With that one word, Mateo felt his heart leap into his throat. He probably would have vomited had he had food in his stomach to bring up. Cervantes unhooked their chains that kept them connected, then removed his sword from its sheath.
“Go or face certain death here,” he ordered as he aimed his blade at their throats.
The three men knew they had no choice but to face their fate, whatever it was. They walked out into the arena with the bright light of the sun beaming down on them. The crowd booed them and threw rotten fruit and vegetables at them, which pelted their bodies, leaving foul smelling juices and pulp dripping down their flesh. They tried to ignore the crowd as they walked towards the three battered swords that lay in the sand.
Mateo picked one up, as did the other two men. He felt the heftiness in his hand, trying to feel the balance. He looked at the dull, jagged blade and swallowed hard as he noted the disadvantage they’d been given.Was this really about to happen?He’d never held a sword before, but was quite handy with a knife. Unfortunately, he didn’t have one at the moment. He’d brought down a few pigs with a knife before. He was going to have to apply those skills to this fight. The disappointed roar of the crowd shifted to rabid cheers when Haraka entered the arena.
Again, Mateo felt his body stiffen with terror as the menacing gladiator approached them with a stride that was full of confidence. His torso was covered with a brown leather chest plate for armor, bearing the crest of Rama. Both wrists and shins were also covered with leather for protection. None of which Mateo and the other men had. Haraka gripped his sword tightly in his hand and held his strong bronze shield in the other. Mateo could see the gladiator’s eyes trained on them behind his bronze helmet, which completely covered the man’s head.
“Oh shit,” Marcus said, and Mateo turned to him in time to see the puddle of urine forming beneath the man’s feet as it streamed down his leg.
“Remember, we work together, we have chance,” Jorome said as he gripped the hilt of his sword.
Mateo’s mouth went completely dry as the roar of the crowd hit a new crescendo just as Haraka raised his blade towards him. As if on instinct, he raised his sword, blocking the first strike. Haraka stepped backward, pulling his sword back and thrusting forward, stabbing Mateo in his side, since he was not fast enough to block the second blow.
Mateo cried out as blood gushed from his wound and ran in rivulets down his leg. Haraka pulled the blade from his side and swung, but Mateo dodged the blow as he lunged to the side, gripping his wound. The other prisoners each attacked Haraka, hacking and slashing with their swords, trying their best to stay alive and kill the gladiator.
Mateo looked down at the gaping, bleeding hole in his abdomen. Was this his end? To bleed out in an arena as people cheered? And they were cheering. He looked up to see Haraka kick Jorome to the sands and slash at Marcus, cutting off his hand. Blood spurted from the wound as Marcus looked on in shock at his severed limb. Haraka grunted as he reared back and swung, slicing his blade through Marcus’ neck, separating his head from his body.
More blood rained down upon the sands as Marcus’ body collapsed to the ground, to the delight of the crowd who demanded more. Mateo looked around in horror, watching as thousands cried for their deaths, and he steeled himself from it all, blocking it out. He had to live, had to survive this test, this moment in time.
Jorome regained his footing and took his best defensive position against Haraka, who stalked towards him, the blade of his sword dripping blood on the sands as he approached the man. Mateo knew he couldn’t lay there and die. He wouldn’t die for their entertainment. Damn them! Damn them all! He growled as he struggled to get to his feet. He stumbled towards Haraka, pitting the gladiator between himself and Jorome. He swung his sword, but his blade was blocked by Haraka’s sword as Jorome’s blade was blocked by the gladiator’s shield.
They didn’t give up; both men continued to slice, hack, and swing at Haraka, hoping one of their blows would make contact. With every cut, nick, and slice their blades claimed on Haraka’s flesh, Mateo gained more confidence that he might survive. The crowd seem to grow in its excitement as the battle raged on longer than any of them had expected. Could these two prisoners actually win?
