building, yet the row of banners snapping in the wind that blew across the top of the bulbous shape and the persistent roar of voices from within stirred him in a manner not unlike the way in which a suitor is transfixed by the woman he desires.
“I never know,” Styg said quietly, “whether I should stare in awe at that thing, or be scared out of my wits.”
“Aye,” Andreas murmured in response. Death was close, infecting his body and brain with a rich reminder of life. Making him overly aware of the inherent beauty of God’s touch in the world that surrounded them.
He dug his heels into his horse’s side, urging the nervous animal through the surging crowd. If they dawdled too long, they would be late.
The most direct path was filled with spectators and adoring fans, and so Andreas directed his horse off the main road and onto the alleys and paths between the ruins and the shanties in an attempt to shake some of the crowd. Some of the lanes were so narrow that he could touch walls and tents on either side of his horse as they passed. Circuitously, the Shield-Brethren made their way toward the arena.
As they approached, the grandiose impression of the arena faded, revealing the true fragility of the structure. Wood slats and tall beams were haphazardly slapped one atop another in an intricate creation that was no more or less than barely organized chaos.
A sudden chill made him shudder, and he turned away from the looming edifice and raised his face toward the warm sun overhead. Pushing aside a vision of fire, he set his focus on the task at hand: watching the fights, learning about his opponents, and preparing for when it would be his turn to walk on the sand of the arena. Fear was only of use insofar as it taught a man what was dangerous and what was not, and Andreas had lived through worse things than one-on-one duels for the entertainment of bloodthirsty crowds. As he rode, the taste of the brewer’s beer was a balm on his tongue, still fresh on the palate of memory.
Nearby, a horn called on the morning air and an ocean of voices rose from inside the arena. Sunlight danced across ramshackle rooftops, glinting off the tiny spires of adornments and fragmented curios the locals had mounted over their heads. The city’s rooftops had a gleaming newness strangely at odds with the muck and ash that layered the ground. Hunern was a ruin where the survivors of the horrors of war made do with what they could, scrounging for hope amid the ashes, and yet there was beauty here as well. Andreas guided his horse absently while he took the time to examine the tiny efforts the people had made to make the city livable again.
When the bone-heavy weariness of his oath and his duties threatened to overwhelm him, he only had to look to these unfortunates to be reminded of why he had taken up both oath and arms. Their plight fortified his spirit, regardless of the deep-seated knowledge that there would be no end of injustice and despair in the known world from which to draw strength.
The shadow of the stands and their waving banners fell over Andreas and his companions as they reached the open ground surrounding the arena proper. He shook off the last of his apprehension, squaring his shoulders and sitting tall in his saddle. Several young men, eager to earn some pittance, approached the riders. Andreas waved them off. The horses of the Shield-Brethren would not be tended to by local boys, even ones as eager as these.
Arvid and Sakse were clearly disappointed when told they were going to stay with the horses, and Andreas tried to explain why without going into too many details. There was some history with the Livonians concerning the disposition of some horses, he told the pair. It was important to be wary of Livonians who might take it upon themselves to thieve their horses, given the opportunity that insufficiently guarded horses might present.
Styg nodded sagely during this explanation, though Andreas could tell the younger man was fighting to hold back his laughter.
Leaving the horses with the two younger men, Andreas and Styg entered the arena through one of the narrow gates. They walked through a short tunnel that terminated in a short series of steps that brought them up to the first level of the audience. As they emerged from the unpleasant dimness of the tunnel, they were afforded their first glimpse of the sandy pit that was the arena proper, surrounded by the tall walls at whose crest began the stands in which the crowds sat.
Styg drew in a sharp breath at the sight of the filled stands, and Andreas felt a similar awe clutch his chest as he gazed upon so many different peoples clustered together for the singular purpose of watching men fight. The Colosseum in Rome had served a similar purpose once, and Andreas had heard his share of stories about the gladiators of old, but the sheer diversity of the audience here was much more
The sand had been raked, but there was still a shadow that resided in it, a ghostly smear of the blood shed in the last fight. The hint of blood in the sand had a tangible effect on the audience, and there was a pressing hunger in the air. The back of his throat constricted, and his tongue was numb in his mouth. It was not unlike battlefield nerves, but it felt so much more vile and wrong for the place and manner in which it crept into his blood.
“Remember why we have come today,” Andreas said to Styg. He swallowed heavily, pushing his revulsion back down into his stomach where it roiled angrily.
Styg pressed his lips together and gave Andreas a jerky nod. Andreas laid a hand on the younger man’s shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
CHAPTER NINE
In the long, flat valley between the Palatine and the Aventine hills lay the overgrown ruins of the Circus Maximus. It had been hundreds of years since chariots had churned across the sand, and the ground had slowly been reclaimed by wild grass and narrow stands of trees. The only reminders that the ground had once been trampled by frenzied horses were a squat tower and a series of low stables at the southern end. The stables themselves were vacant of horses now, but the largest stall was filled with a confused collection of dirty and agitated Cardinals.
Fieschi remained on the periphery of the bare room. The chamber was not unlike many of the rooms they had so recently inhabited not far from here; the main difference was the large opening at the north end that looked out upon the empty expanse of the Circus Maximus.
And the guards. A line of a dozen of Orsini’s men stood between the Cardinals and the open field, just to remind them that they were still prisoners of the Senator of Rome.
The Bear was on his way, they had been told, though Fieschi surmised that the delay had more to do with Orsini playing to their fear and confusion than any real conflicting activity.
The other Cardinals milled about in the empty stable, still congratulating themselves on their narrow escapes. Bonaventura, especially, seemed particularly enlivened by the experience. His cheeks were ruddy with excitement, and he was deep in his fourth or fifth retelling of the experience of having been lifted out of the Septizodium by a brace of soldiers. Da Capua, who had heard the story at least twice already, hung on every word like an eager sycophant, and announced that he would write a ballad about the ordeal. Dei Conti, meanwhile, kept his annoyance off his face as he listened to Bonaventura’s rambling story-he had been, from what he had muttered to Fieschi earlier, standing next to Bonaventura during the rescue. Torres, inscrutable as ever, held council with Annibaldi and Castiglione, while de Segni tried-yet again-to open negotiation with the guards, who remained unmoved by the tall Cardinal’s exhortations. Colonna fussed over his friend, Capocci, who was seated as comfortably as possible in this Spartan environment.
