Down to the Sea (27 page)

It was the day of celebration of the ascension to the throne, and since dawn the city had been a madhouse. Free food, from ten thousand human sacrifices butchered since midnight, had been distributed to the mob, and the feasting had gone on for hours. A thousand barrels of drink laced with mild doses of gava had been set up at nearly every street comer, thus inflaming the passions of all.

The crowd in the arena, the lucky hundred thousand who could cram their way in, were wild in anticipation for what was to come. The all-night revelry and now the promise of the show had stilled the few voices that had questioned the surprise announcement of a new war to be fought in the North.

Those who were to entertain stepped out from the archway beneath the emperor’s box, and the cheering redoubled as they paraded around the perimeter of the arena. All of them were of the Shiv, armed with swords and a variety of exotic weapons: throwing daggers, curved scimitars, poisoned spokes, bows, even modern rifles.

The parade circled and reentered the archway. There was a moment of silent expectation, followed by a renewed roar as the first fighters came out. Stripped naked except for a loincloth, they bore the traditional short swords, which harkened back to the days long before the Shiv, when human slaves were selected to fight over the body of their master. The fallen then served as their servants in paradise.

A dozen fighters formed a circle, evenly spaced like spokes on a wheel, their blades ceremonially pointed to the center. All turned to look at the emperor, who gave a nod.

The action exploded. Several banded together, others stood alone, others turned to rush upon an opponent to the left or right. Within seconds the first man was down, clutching at his bowels as they spilled out. His victor didn’t bother to deliver the coup de grace but instead raced off. Cheers went up as the wounded man, one hand holding his guts, threw his sword, catching his opponent in the back and sending him sprawling.

The knot of three who had joined together systematically maneuvered as one, taking down three men in quick succession, until they encountered two others who had banded together.

The disemboweled fighter retrieved his sword and waded into the melee, taking the leg off an opponent before falling to a decapitating blow, his death triggering scattered cries of sympathy.

The three were down to two, but in so doing had defeated the others. In an instant the last two turned on each other. The one swung a split second faster than his former companion, neatly taking his head off with a single blow. The fight had lasted barely longer than a minute.

Applause broke out. Some of the patrons rushed to the galleries below to collect their winnings from the money dealers, for each of the fighters had been numbered and bets had been placed on the order of their death or who would survive.

As ritual demanded, the lone warrior approached the box, saluted and then fell upon his own blade, choosing the slow method of cutting into his stomach rather than through the chest or throat. It took several minutes for him to die. He didn’t utter a sound. His eyes gazed straight ahead, facial muscles barely twitching as he cut across his stomach, and then finally drove the blade up through his own diaphragm and into his heart.

As he collapsed, an ovation erupted. The emperor looked back over his shoulder at Hazin and nodded, a gesture all of course would see.

At the far side of the arena two more Shiv had been led out and tied to stakes. Their ordeal would, if properly conducted, last until midday. Neither cried out or even flinched as the inflictors of the Test laid out their tools, knives, pliers, pincers, and hot braziers filled with glowing coals.

One of the two set directly to work, gouging out the eye of his subject with a stilettolike blade, holding the orb up before his victim, then crushing it between his fingers. The other was more subtle, a blade heated to a glowing white, lightly flicking against bound fingertips, lips, then drawn slowly across the stomach so that the smoke curled up.

Gasps of approval echoed as the two who were bound did not move.

Hazin stood up and withdrew from the imperial box, going to the section of the arena where those of his order sat. He spotted who he wanted and sat down by his side.

O’Donald’s features were pale, his eyes wide with horror.

“Do not show revulsion,” Hazin whispered in English. “Do that and you will forever lose face and any hope of survival.”

“Merciful God, what in hell are you people doing?” Sean gasped.

“First, there is no god, and if there was, what is happening here proves he is without mercy. It is entertainment, but also a lesson.”

“Entertainment? Torturing people?”

“There are two things neither your species nor mine can resist watching. The first is the act of love, the second the act of annihilation. Curious, don’t you think?”

A gasp went up from the audience. The second torturer, after long minutes of subtle play, had gone for the cruelest of cuts and now stepped back so that all could see the results. His victim lowered his head and then let out a shuddering sob of agony.

His cry triggered an eruption of loud cries of derision and jeering taunts. Even those of the Order rose to their feet, though they remained silent. Most of them turned their backs to the arena floor in a show of contempt for the victim.

The first torturer, whose victim had yet to cry out, finished his subject within seconds, driving a blade up under the jaw and straight into his brain until he slumped over. Freed from his task, he now joined his companion. The two threw themselves into a frenzy of mutilation. Their victim’s shrieks were tauntingly echoed by the mob.

Sean lowered his head and gagged.

“Watch it,” Hazin hissed.

Sean looked up at him, features drawn.

“Watch it.”

“Why? What in hell is this?”

“It is the ritual. Those of the Shiv down there are selected to die as a demonstration of their strength, of their devotion to the emperor. Every man you saw in the parade will die this day. The question is how they will die. What you are seeing is power, O’Donald. That they face pain unflinchingly, that they go to their deaths without a murmur of complaint, is what they have been trained for. Most of them see it as an honor to die thus. They have been allowed to breed. They know their sons and daughters will be told of their glory, and thus the next generation is strengthened yet more.”

The shrieking of the dying man was all but drowned out by the cries of derision from the crowd.

“That one’s children, however, will have their throats cut within the hour, and his consort will be the one who does it. His seed will be extinguished, his immortality denied. Listen to his cries of pain, O’Donald. That is the real agony, not what they are doing to his flesh, but rather what they are doing to his soul. He let weakness show just for an instant, and his soul is now condemned forever.”

Sean looked at him wide-eyed, and Hazin smiled.

“And yet you just said there is no God,” O’Donald whispered.

“I know that, I have allowed you to know that, but the lower orders? I give them something to believe in, to die for. I cannot lead a holy war and promise nothing to those who die. Instead, I want them to rush to their deaths gladly, believing, as the others who just died down there believed, that it is but a flicker of pain that will be followed by the fulfillment of every desire imagined, forever. The garden, O’Donald, that is the pleasure they aspire to.

“Imagine such power. What could a hundred thousand of these men, believing that, do against anything the Republic could put in the field?

“It is too bad your friend Cromwell fled. I must admit that I actually liked him. He did not quite have your frightfully cold intellect. Instead, it was his spirit, to lead, to fight, which appealed to me. If I could have but convinced him, what a commander he might have made.”

Even as the torture continued, another act came forward, a demonstration of poisons. Subjects were tied to stakes, and a priest of the third order cut each man with a dagger.

Leather-voiced announcers explained to the audience the type of poison on each blade, its effects, the pain produced. Some were poisons that acted quickly, the victims barely convulsing before gone. Others were poisons of vengeance, designed to produce unspeakable agony and dread. The crowd watched fascinated, as one of the victims writhed convulsively, white foam dripping from his mouth.

Hazin could see that O’Donald was slowly being drawn in, repulsed and yet fascinated, unable to look away no matter how he wished to. He knew as well that though the crowd was fascinated, they were also terrified, for such poisons were known to be reserved for special enemies of the Order. The captain of Yasim’s guard of the Green Gate had tasted one just last night, for Hazin’s original decision to be merciful had been replaced with one that inflicted several hours of agony before death.

“The writer Vasiva described these games five hundred years ago,” Hazin whispered, drawing closer to O’Donald, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “He wrote of a man of supposed virtue by the name of Sutona, of the school of self-deniers, who believed that pleasure must be controlled and moderated, and who denounced these spectacles. Vasiva challenged him, declaring that this supposed man of virtue was a hypocrite, for he denounced that which he had never seen. Sutona went to the spectacle with Vasiva, and do you know what happened?”

O’Donald looked away from the dying man and slowly nodded.

Hazin smiled. “Yes. He became addicted. Within the hour he was racing to the money changers to make his bets, and he lost all his fortune by the end of the day.”

Hazin laughed and shook his head. “Understand it without passion, without judging, with the realism to see into the hearts of your race and mine, O’Donald, and to thus see them for what they truly are. But do not let it control you. That is the secret.”

He could see that the gava that Karinia had dosed O’Donald’s morning meal with was taking effect. His eyes were becoming glazed, breath coming more rapidly. The drug was seductive, subtle. The receiver was never really aware of its onset.

Even as he spoke, O’Donald’s gaze was drifting away from Hazin, looking back at the show. The man being tortured with knives and hot irons had dissolved into incoherent babbling. The crowd, growing bored with the mewing cries, were taunting the torturers now.

From under the emperor’s arch more combatants emerged. These were matched pairs, fighting with identical weapons in. tests of skill and cunning. Though all the fighters moved with lightning-like speed, the crowd fixated on one pair in particular. Both of them were armed with two razor-sharp double-edged blades, which were indistinct blurs, flashing in the sunlight as they danced, weaved, parried, and thrusted.

Two others fought barehanded, coming together for an instant, slashing blows exchanging, then leaping apart, warily circling before closing again. Karinia, who sat on the other side of O’Donald, was lightly toying with him, brushing his hair, kissing him on the cheek, whispering something, and he smiled, nodding, his attention still fixed on the fights, drawing in his breath when one of the knife fighters made a cunning backhanded sweep, cutting his opponent’s throat. The dying man, however, leapt forward, even as blood fountained like a geyser, driving his blade into his opponent’s chest. The mob erupted with a roar of approval for the double kill. Both of the men drew apart and amazingly stood erect, struggling to bow to the emperor before they collapsed. Their gesture brought the crowd to its feet in an ovation.

The last of the matched pair died. This bare-handed fighter had broken the back of his opponent, leaving him to thrash about. Picking up a blade from the knife fighters, he then disemboweled himself.

O’Donald rose to his feet, mouth open.

“Watch what comes next,” Hazin whispered. “It is a more practical demonstration.

A line of men, dressed in the black battle fatigues of the Shiv, rushed out from under the arch, carrying no weapon other than bayonets. From another archway at the east end of the arena a team of two men came out carrying between them a gatling gun mounted on a tripod. They were not wearing the black uniform of the Order, but instead were dressed in the blue jacket and khaki of the Republic. They set their weapon in place as the twenty fighters went to the west end of the arena and spread out into a line. Those in the stands behind them scattered in every direction, jumping into entryways, fleeing like a receding wave. Roars of laughter erupted from the rest of the crowd. In front of the emperor’s box, guards set up what appeared to be heavy sheets of glass, slipping them into place around the imperial chair.

The twenty saluted, holding bayonets high. Out in the middle of the arena, the torturers and the poisoners took off, running for cover.

The gatling opened up. The twenty rushed forward with a wild cry: “Shiv! Shiv! Shiv!”

They had gone barely a dozen feet before the first was bowled over, the gunners swinging their piece, to try and stitch up the line. The men around the first to fall went down, hugging the packed sand. Others farther out continued their rush.

The gunners quickly shifted, catching several on the left flank. A few high rounds plowed into the stands above them, triggering pandemonium. Those in the middle were already back on their feet, one of them picking up the body of the first fallen, holding it in front like a shield even as he ran.

The gunners desperately played their fire back and forth. But as they focused on one flank, the other flank, or the middle, sprang up, crouching low, sprinting forward. Three made a desperate rush, racing along the edge of the wall under the emperor’s box and then straight in while the gunners tried to finish off the other flank.

O’Donald, still standing, began to shout, cheering the attackers on. At the very last instant the gunner swung his barrel around, dropping all but the last man, who had been running behind the other two. He leapt over the fallen even as he was hit, and flung himself onto the gun, knocking it over. The assistant gunner, with drawn revolver, shot the man in the head. But the gun was momentarily down.