Page 17 of Rise of a Fallen Man

A fallen man could never claim the crown princess for his own.

Ari wasn’t mine and could never be.

THE HELMET DID A GREATjob, concealing my face from the audience in the arena. But on a hot day like today, it turned impossibly stuffy inside. I grunted with relief when taking it off upon our return to the gladiators’ quarters.

The three wings of the two-story building framed a large courtyard in the middle. In the summer, the men preferred to take lunch outside. A wide awning hung from the tall fence poles to the left, shading several long tables with benches on both sides. The cook and her helpers brought out huge platters with food from the kitchen and put them onto the wooden tables for our midday meal.

The aroma that drifted from the platters made my mouth water. I got up late that morning and only had a few gulps of hottea and a slice of bread for breakfast before Lerrel, the games master, dragged me into the practice rink to get ready for the ceremony in the arena.

Marching in the arena required far less strain and energy than hauling bricks or rocks as a slave, but I was used to eating my fill, even as a slave. A single slice of bread was not nearly enough to sustain me for the entire morning. By now, I felt famished, looking forward to finally getting some food.

I hung up my helmet on the hook on the fence, next to the props and costume pieces of the other men.

Raob, a stout man with copper-red hair braided in long pleats and a beard that reached down to his chest, carefully placed his elaborate headdress on the shelf nearby. His helmet was decorated with a wide strip of thick brown fur, a pair of tusks, and a snout pierced with a thick bronze ring in the middle.

“This fucking thing gets boiling hot like a teakettle in the sun,” he muttered, running his hand over his sweat-slicked braids. “You must be cooking under that hide, too, boy?” He tipped his chin at the bear fur over my shoulders.

I nodded, unbuckling the belts that connected the hide to my shoulders.

“I’ve been waiting to get rid of it all morning,” I admitted.

The fresh breeze blew over my sweaty back the moment I removed the hide. I stretched my shoulders, reveling in the relief it brought.

The rules of modesty and propriety didn’t seem to apply to gladiators. Many of us remained topless, both in the arena and here now. A few men threw on their light shirts or robes after removing their armor, and I wished I’d brought my shirt down here too. I wasn’t used to being half-naked like this, even less so when taking my meals. But I was way too hungry to run inside for a shirt now.

I took a seat at the end of the bench, grabbed a plate, and piled it high with food from the platters. I’d never felt this hungry, not even as a slave. It wasn’t in the owner’s interest to starve us. But the watery potato stew and the undercooked barley normally served to the slaves had been barely eatable compared to the gladiator’s fare of roasted ribs, steamed vegetables doused in buttery sauce, and freshly baked bread. I tried not to drool, breathing in the appetizing smells.

Regit, the young gladiator, originally from Tresed Queendom, slid onto the bench across from me.

“So, what did you think about the arena, Reab?” he asked before biting into a piece of bread.

Reab.

That was the name I gave to the games master when she asked how I wished to be known to the public. The less people knew about me, the safer I was.

“It’s a big arena,” I replied, tearing a piece of warm bread from a thick slice.

Somehow, Regit managed to stuff his face with food and chat simultaneously without choking.

“I bet it feels different when standing in it than when looking at it from the audience during the games,” he said between the bites of the meat and forkfuls of the vegetable dish.

Before that morning, I’d never been to the Royal Gladiators’ Arena either as a performer or a spectator. I grew up in a small village, quite a distance from Egami. Lady Lana’s estate was deep in the country, too, far away from the capital. I’d first arrived in the city when I was already a slave, and of course, the owner never took her slaves to see the games. Why would she?

Obviously, I wasn’t going to explain any of it to Regit.

“It’s different,” I agreed, bringing the bread to my mouth.

Falo, another gladiator, dropped his plate on the table next to mine and stepped over the bench on my right.

“Make space, big boy,” he growled, squeezing between me and Raob. “This place was just right for the forty-eight gladiators. And now, it feels way tootight.”

He slid along the bench, slamming his side into me. Not expecting it, I lost my balance and nearly fell off the bench. Dropping the bread, I grabbed on to the table, shifting the whole thing toward me.

“Hey!” the other gladiators yelled, catching their plates to stop them from sliding off the table.

I jumped to my feet. Falo rose from the bench, too, jerking his chin up in challenge. The midday air sizzled with tension around us. Even the clanking of the dishes stopped abruptly.

A single clap came from behind us, sharp like a crack of a whip. Lerrel, the games master, propped her hands on her hips, glaring at us as she approached the eating area.

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