He wore the same toga and wreath from the video call on Dilophosaurus Island, but somehow seemed more imposing in person. Beside the throne stood another man Eric recognized as Siege Master Fuhran, in a red general’s outfit, and several attendants. The guards pulled them to a halt some twenty feet away, then one barked, “Pay respects to Caesar!”
Eric was shoved to his knees. Dulaine leaned forward:
“So you are the starmen who are meddling with my plans. What gives you that right?”
“You are a tyrant.” Selva met his eyes. “You may pretend you are something fancier, with your palace and fine robes and bowls of fruit, but you’re just a common warlord.”
One of the guards raised a hand and struck her on the mouth. Red spittle went flying. Dulaine raised a finger to forestall further beatings, and stood up. “I have heard of creatures like you: wolf-men, raccoon-men, winged men. I did not think you’d be as smart as a man.”
“You may find I’m actually a bit smarter. And there are stranger things out there.” She nodded up, Dulane glanced to the roof.
“Yes, you are from space. Come here in metal ships, sealed like jars of fine oil because you say there’s no air up there. What do you want with us?”
“With this world? For it to gain the same arts we have: electricity, indoor plumbing, wormhole travel.”
“Which you will give to us for free?”
“Not all once, but yes. We are not conquerors. Are you aware of the principles behind trade, that in a fair transaction both parties gain value?”
“What has that to do with starmen?” Dulane demanded.
“You have the mindset of a warrior fighting a battle: there can be only one winner, and one loser. My gain is your loss, and vice-versa. But there is another method of interaction, a positive-sum, where all benefit.”
Caesar Dulane replied, “That is impossible.”
“Really? I bet it happens to you every day. And your nation makes alliances with forces like the Dread Riders and Savage Hunters, you must both gain from that.”
“But there can be no such thing in the battle between nations. It is conquer, or be conquered. There can be no peace between this world and the starmen.”
“Not as long as you think like that.”
Dulane returned to his throne.
“Let me kill them,” Fuhran said. “Slowly, painfully.”
Eric almost fainted. In the corner of his blurring vision, he saw Wotoc rise and thunder:
“A man-of-honor does not die save in battle or of old age in bed, surrounded by the trophies of many victories!” He shrugged off the guards’ blows, then seized the spear of one and gave him a bloody nose.
“Enough!” Dulane thundered. He motioned to another man, perhaps a servant, and whispered to him. The servant nodded in response. “No. I have a better idea.” He spoke to the servant again, whose face twisted into an impish grin. “Take them away!”
Before Eric could so much as move, he was seized under the shoulders by guards, who dragged them from the throneroom. Another procession, this time silent, conveyed them to the Colosseum structure not far from the palace.
“Can’t you break free?” Eric whispered to Selva, when the guards were occupied muscling through a crowd. “Bust us out, make a run for it?”
“There’s too many!” she hissed. “We’d never survive, or at least you wouldn’t.”
Outside the ovular building was open ground, for people to gather before and after games, and under one arch a staircase led down. Two guards prodded them through, and blocked the way back up. At the foot of the stairs, a wooden door sat open. A bearded man stood beside it, a smile on his face.
“Welcome to the Bellodrome,” he said. “I can’t say this is a surprise.” He wore leather armor under a bronze chestplate, a sword like a Roman gladius in a scabbard at his belt.
“What makes you say that?” Selva said as they followed him inside. The Black Legionnaires banged the door shut. They were in a segment of space under the stands, supported by stone-brick pillars and with arched opening protected by bars looking out at the empty dirt of the Bellodrome floor. Other men stood about, inspecting weapons and armor.
The man continued, “When I heard a group of starmen had handed Caesar his first-ever defeat in battle, and then that same group was captured by the Legions, I figured he might sentence you to fight here. Consider it a form of metaphoric justice.”
A messenger boy came up to the door, rang a bell. “The starmen are to fight the beasts until death. Prepare them.” He scampered off with a smile.
“Call him back here!” Sir Wotoc demanded. “If I am to fight, I will do so with my own weapons, the blade my father had forged for me! Not these...” he slid a rusty sword partway from it sheath, “toys!”
The boy returned with the words “Yes, Fightmaster?” and carried off the message.
“What about you lot?” the Fightmaster asked.
“We’ve been through a few fights, but nothing like this,” Temerin said.
The Fightmaster frowned. “Then you will not last long.”
“Anything you can do to help us?” Cobb asked.
“I am Flavius, I equip all the fighters for the Bellodrome and send them out when needed.” He led them over to racks of arms and armor, all of it looking decidedly sub-par. “Choose what you want. No bows or javelins, obviously.”
Temerin gathered them into a circle. “We should choose spears and shields, for reach against dinosaurs. That’s probably what we’re up against.”
“Then what?” Eric asked. “He said we’re fighting until death.”
“If it’s anything like the ancient Roman games, perhaps we can win a pardon. Or at least a respite, until we work up a way out of this place.”
“No one condemned to the beasts leaves alive,” Fightmaster Flavius said.
“There is something more,” Selva said, and lowered her voice. “I believe there are Keepers still alive.”
“What?” Eric asked, incredulous.
“It would explain a great many things. How the Savage Hunters knew were coming, the activation of the replicator fleet after we start shaping up to get the entire Freeholds on our side, the long-distance communications network people still know how to use, and—most of all—the rise of Dulane and the declaration of the Panarchy just in time to mess with our recontact plans. It doesn’t have to be many Keepers, maybe even just one or two, using their advanced knowledge to subtly influence events. They want us off this planet.”
Eric wondered if it wasn’t time to oblige, assuming he survived death-by-dinosaur for the fifth or sixth time.
“But that was centuries ago!” Kadelius said. “Or are the legends true, and the Keepers could live forever?”
“They must still have regeneration technology. Or maybe it’s a left-over AI system or even an artilect, still trying to implement their will.”
“We’ll have to get out of here if we want to find out,” Cobb said.
“About that…” Selva turned to Flavius. “Have you ever thought of...revolution?”
He coughed. “Pardon?”
“You have a good dozen men in here, plus weapons. Surely there are more elsewhere you could call upon. I can find us a way to safety, out of the city.”
Flavius looked around, as if an Arztillan spy might be listening, then growled, “What could possibly make me believe you’d have any hope of succeeding?”
“We defeated Dulane once before. He’s keeping you under his thumb, dividing you and making you fight each other with promises of trinkets! But if we stand together in solidarity, we can beat him! We can escape, we just need enough people!”
“Speak not of this.” Flavius grumbled. A palace guard arrived with Sir Wotoc’s weapons and helmet, he took them and thrust them at him. “Take your weapons and be ready.”
Eric found some stale bread and ate it, hoping he’d have enough strength for this fight. He got some leather armor, sandals, a shield and rust-speckled sword, and a spear. From above came footsteps, the Bellodrome was beginning to fill. Soon there’d be the fight of the year—Caesar’s justice dispensed against those meddling starmen!
Kadelius was over by the door again, talking with a servant of some kind. He nodded and rejoined the group, picking up his helmet. “There’s a rich man, who’s heard we are to fight as gladiators. He will provide fine shields for us, if we do as he says.”
“Which is?” Selva asked.
“Speak the name of his product, Ricardius’ Rice.”
Temerin chuckled. “Best get ready, looks like the arena’s about full.”
Trumpets blew, and the door opened. A servant stood outside, flanked by guards. He said, “The starmen and their fellows will come forth!”
Eric donned his helmet. “Here we go.”
