Page 11 of Dominion
The seven gladiators obeyed the command, leaving Cervantes alone with the three prisoners. Normally, the doctore would tend to his men. But regular slaves there to prove themselves worthy of the test were not allowed to go into the gladiator’s Hall. So, they remained in the common slave area. Mateo looked around, seeing as they were in this room with two guards and their doctore.
There were three weapons racks along the far wall that contained what looked to be worn and damaged weapons not fit for any battle. The shields were dented and barely usable. It was as if all of the odds were to be stacked against them. Mateo’s heart sank even more when he realized that maybe he wasn’t supposed to survive this Trial of Fate test.
If that wasn’t enough to have on his mind, his stomach growled once more, making him feel nauseated a little. He so desperately wanted food and water, things he’d been in need of the day he had been captured. To keep them alive, he’d been told they’d been given both and stale bread on the ship. Of course, he couldn’t remember this, due to his high fever. But that would explain why they were still alive. His thoughts traveled back to his mother and sister, and he hoped they were not starving. Would they still be waiting on his return? Did they know he’d been abducted? Did they think he was still alive?
All of those thoughts captivated his mind and left him even more conflicted about his future. One part of him wanted to give up and just die. The other wanted to fight, so maybe one day, he could see them again. There was always hope.
Cervantes connected their chain to a hook on the wall, ensuring they wouldn’t be able to escape at all. Then he turned to address the three. “I will not give you advice. You live if you want to live. You three will fight Haraka at the same time. If you don’t survive, you were not worthy. That is all. When your moment comes, weapons will be provided for you, and you make of your fate what you will.”
The three men looked at each other, their expressions were of confusion, as not one among them had ever faced a man in combat, especially not to the death. All Mateo knew of were little skirmishes with his childhood friend, Dor, that ended with the adults always breaking them up. Dor passed away four years ago, because living in the badlands was unforgiving and most didn’t see forty winters or summers before the harshness of the land took their life.
Now, he would have to give it his all, or die trying. The three prisoners were of the same mind as they each shuffled closer to the entrance leading toward the arena. They were in what one could consider a waiting room. They looked out, spellbound at the grandeur of the arena, which was far more splendid than the outside. Mounted overhead was a huge bracket that held four large screens.
“What are those?” Jorome asked. He’d been the prisoner who’d spoke the most on the way there and who’d had the misfortune of drinking Kodac’s piss the night before.
“Screens for closer viewing. The cameras watch what the gladiators do and all of the people get to see,” Cervantes informed them, then he snorted. “I bet seeing electricity at work is new to you lot.”
He was right, Mateo had never seen such marvels. It both terrified and enchanted him. He stared up at the four screens and felt even more doom. Now everyone would be able to see everything as he fought for his life. On the screens was the crowd, the camera panning over several sections, and when they saw themselves on the screens, the people became even more ecstatic. It all sickened Mateo.
Cervantes kept his watchful eye on the three men, making sure they didn’t get away. He watched as they looked out into what may be the place where they’d die. He could see the uncertainty in their gazes, the fear in their bodies as they shook. He didn’t think they would survive a bout with Haraka, who was not even in the top ten of their best gladiators. Haraka would be what one could consider a mid-carder. Not championship material, but still entertaining and worthy to shed blood for the gods.
Still, those three prisoners already weaken by hunger would be easy kills for Haraka. And by making their deaths quick, the gods will get their appetite for blood quenched and the better matches of the day could commence. Cervantes smiled to himself as he watched the three men give each other terrified looks. He could hear them discussing what their strategy should be, as if that would help them.
When Cervantes first laid eyes on his master’s new slaves, he was not impressed, but then… he rarely was. It took a certain kind of man to give him pause and still be unrefined. If any of these men did survive to be trained, he didn’t see any of them rising above mid-carder status.
They just weren’t remarkable enough, in his opinion. Well, he paused on the younger one with the pretty brown eyes and full lips. He was a handsome one, and the only regret Cervantes had was that if the boy were to die in the arena, he wouldn’t have the opportunity to plunder his mouth and ass with his cock. But it wasn’t anything he was dwelling on. His master often rewarded him with female and male beauties for his services. As long as he continued to train some of the best gladiators in the world, he would always be in good favor of not only the gods, but his master.
Mateo leaned against the doorframe as he watched the arena continue to fill with people who came to see men and women die. Who would cheer if or when he fell under Haraka’s sword? These people didn’t care about the gladiators or their sacrifice. They only cared about being entertained. He hated these people who only wanted bloodshed. He hated the gods who desired it and allowed such atrocities to take place in the name of having a good time.
If this was what the civilized world looked like, Mateo didn’t want any part of it. Living in the badlands was hard, but at least they were free and the people didn’t kill each other like they did here. The only perk Mateo could see for one living in what was considered the blessed lands was having easy access to food, water, and other necessities. Nothing more.
With every second that passed, Mateo could feel his nerves getting more frazzled. The arena was full of people now and he could see the audience smiling and chatting among themselves, the noise was ominous to him because he knew they would not help him. They would merely be a catalyst to his death. He was appalled as he watched some people even fucking in the stands as if they were animals.
“Won’t be much longer now. Once the gods arrive, we can begin,” Cervantes said.
The sound of the doctore’s voice startled the three men. He’d been so quiet the entire time, they could almost pretend that he wasn’t there. Mateo looked at the screen again, seeing it showing the section of the arena that was more luxurious than the rest of it. There was an inset balcony with a blue velvet awning and four ornate, throne-like chairs overlooking the sands. Mateo swallowed hard as he both anticipated and dreaded the arrival of the gods.
For one thing, he’d never seen one. He had only heard the stories of their powers and beauty. He’d also heard the stories of their wrath, which was what he feared the most. These four gods had destroyed the world over two-hundred years ago, killing billions, it was said. The survivors had to rebuild, but only in the way the gods would approve. The celestial cities were huge masses of land on what was called the four corners of the world, and they were connected by the neutral land where the arena resided.
Mateo learned that much on their journey to the arena from one of his fellow prisoners. According to Jorome, the gods lived close to the arena and the people lived close to the gods. Those who lived the closest lived the richest. They helped the gods maintain control. Mateo had seen some of that wealth displayed as they made their way to the arena. Large homes of glass, wood, brick, clay, and stone. Some even had building materials he wasn’t familiar with, but Jorome had told him they were rice paper and chrome. There, homes were built on land that required a lot of maintenance and happened to have a lot of security. All of it had mesmerized Mateo and he never knew people lived this way, but he also wondered how much it cost, not in rubios, but in their souls.
He did enjoy the education he was getting, not that he thought it mattered in the long run, seeing as they had been walking to possible doom at the time. The conversation was nice to pass the time away. Jorome didn’t come from the same badlands that Mateo had. He was from Sill Delray, one of the badlands in the celestial city of Ocena.
Mateo didn’t know if everything Jorome had told him was true, but if it was, he’d learned more about the world around him. His eyes remained glued to those four thrones as if he could will the gods away from them in hopes of extending what little time he had left. Cervantes stepped up beside them, his cold gaze fixed on the thrones as well. Mateo saw him smile out of the corner of his eye and he knew why.
“About time,” Cervantes mumbled.
Mateo watched the screen as the four gods took to their respective thrones, each sitting down in a chair that appeared to be the color of their city’s flag. The cushions on the goddess Odessa’s chair were blue, as was the color of her flag with the waves of the ocean on it. Red was the color of Eloy’s throne, and his red flag held the flames. Green for Kijani, as his flag bore the tree with its long roots, and finally white for Simeon, and his white flag featured the artistic lines of wind on it.
Mateo’s mouth dropped open as he beheld the four gods in all of their celestial glory. The description of their beauty didn’t do them justice. In spite of the distance that separated them, he could still see the muscular and toned bodies of each male god and the soft, curvaceous lines and toned limbs of the delicate female god.
The color of their skin was also different, varying from the ebony tone of Simeon’s skin to Kijani whose striking flesh was the color of sand, which was all Mateo could compare it to. Odessa’s skin was deeply tanned brown, and Eloy’s skin was like Mateo’s, tanned as if by the sun’s kiss. They each had distinct facial features as well.
The shape of Odessa’s eyes were like almonds and Kijani’s were similar, but with more of a slant, making him look all the more beautiful and exotic. Simeon’s eyes were big, round, and warm, making him look compassionate, whereas Eloy’s eyes were narrow, sharp, and cruel… yet beautiful and thoughtful.
Mateo found himself staring at the god of fire, there was just something about the god that he found fascinating. Maybe it was the fact that he seemed to enjoy the atmosphere of the arena more than the other gods, save Odessa, who looked out over the audience with her piercing green gaze in a mixture of contempt and amusement. Eloy’s expression was that of pure lust, as if he was getting sexual gratification from the crowd’s excitement and his own.
Kijani sat quietly between Odessa and Simeon, and every once in a while, his gaze shifted towards Eloy. Simeon looked to be uninterested all together and Mateo wondered if his assessment was correct. To him, the gods seemed so… human, which was something he hadn’t expected. With the power they possessed and the control they had, he was expecting these beings to be like they were in some of the stories he’d been told.
