The Czar's hand shot out. His fingers gripped Amalia's and broke her magic with a jolt.
"My spirit... is well."
Bloodied spots appeared through the bandages, white becoming red. He did not relent.
"You think amends are apt? That you have failed, where better healers would not? That in your folly you have wounded me?"
His other hand moved out of sight, beneath her eyeline, disturbing the edges of her dress. She felt its chill pass her thighs, her knees, near brushing her flesh.
"And your only recourse is this. To remind me how you pale next to others."
The hand flashed back and Amalia was wrenched, her spine arched to expose her throat. And exposed it was, to a larger shard of glass which Lukesh had picked from the bowl. The bloodied fragment pressed against her skin, a pinpoint pressure on the jugular. He hissed,
"You come to my court, and explain to me why you should die?"
"My Lord, I..." It was the start of something: a plea, a supplication. Amalia searched for words to placate him - some manner to affect to spare his cruelty or win his sympathy. There would be neither. In a fluid motion Lukesh pushed up from the throne and stood with his grip unchanged. His disrobed body was against her's, hardened by the moment.
"Women like you once gave power to gods." It was delivered with the weight of gravest insult. He held her as the hiss echoed, wall to wall in the penthouse, between unmoving soldiers and head-bowed ministers. Silence lingered, then was broken.
WHACK!
Amalia hit the floor several feet from the throne, and slid with the impact. For a moment there was nothing - no feeling - then like a burning rash the truth was told. She had been struck. Her cheek blossomed violent red. Her jaw ached. Her ears rang.
And as she curled to compose herself the Czar slipped on a fresh robe and tossed the shard away.
"A real Kaustiran woman would have grabbed my balls and twisted."
He turned as Amalia's vision whirled. Someone had seized her by the hair and was dragging her backwards over blood-flecked, marble floors.
* * * * * * *
Word had spread like wildfire. K'Jol had entered the games. At last, the real entertainment would begin.
In every street of Avarath the vortex grew - urchins, traders and nobles gravitating to the coliseum. A canvas ring of merchant stalls, laden elephants and roasting meat would block the way of all spectators before they reached it. The merchants knew best where to cry commerce. Streets not swamped with peddlers were prowled by whores, the finest silks of indigo and umber promising the flesh beneath. Brothels and the bath-houses were full; inns were crammed. And on every corner there was music.
The Burning Czar moved beneath a turban, distinguished only by his bandaged hands. A retinue of two dozen followed, in parallel streets, equally veiled. By this anonymity he mingled with the people and passed into the inner wards.
From these streets a general; from the filth a hero. Who better to ride into the killing fields of Pegulis and Viridos than one who had swallowed the shit of these gutters and thirsted beneath the desert sun?
Within the hour, Lukesh pressed his face to the bars of the Magistrate's Entrance. Of the seventy-six numbered archways of the Grand Coliseum, this alone bore no markings and boasted double guard detail. Recognition was made, and the gates briefly opened to admit the Czar and his retinue. Dusty footfalls took him thence through the shadows of the western sector - that quarter of the Coliseum where shade was perpetual. Lukesh moved with singular purpose, as silent as the assassins who ghosted him. Three flights of stairs, and he was on the podium circle, a terrace fifteen foot in width that commanded imperial view of the arena.
Senators bowed low. Concubines perked up. Aux sat and perched in disciplined rank.
The Czar took his seat.
"Thank you for not waiting."
As his shout echoed back across the Coliseum, it burst once more into motion. Gladiators who had paused mid-swing now battled again with twice the vigour. Lions leashed at the Czar's arrival were sicked again upon their prey. Chariot horses were whipped afresh and the bustling crowds that swarmed the lower seats erupted into thunderous furor.
Fifty men had perished so far. The contestants were thinning out. The general's election was coming.
Lukesh flexed one bandaged hand.
"Bring me Nassad. This fighting stirs my appetite."
