Page 1 of Gladiator's Captive
Chapter One
Serena
Blood, sand, and death.
Death was in the air I breathed, in the stench of men soiling themselves in terror, in the shock of red painting the ground. It permeated the dust coming up from the arena in waves of abrasive clouds, making it hard to breathe.
Valcan was an ode to blood and despair, all the way to the planet’s climate, an endless desert where life had to fight for the right to live another day. Misery was the fodder with which my father built his fortune on the backs of gladiators condemned to a life of violence.
I pushed down my revulsion at the sight of the corpses being dragged away to the pit where they disappeared below the ground in a vast network of tunnels and chambers. The arena was a circular stone building sitting fifty thousand bloodthirsty spectators from all around the Galactic Empire. It was my father’s crowning jewel, his legacy as the governor of the planet and the most powerful and richest gladiator owner on Valcan, and even perhaps the entire Empire.
Those unfortunate enough to be sold as gladiators came from the far corners of the Galactic Empire to fight and die here, in the great arena of Villea, the Valcan capital. Tentacles, claws, wings, all were torn and shredded under the cheers of the crowd for the benefit of Arenius Celcum Horacius.
My father.
As the last of the previous fight’s corpses finally disappeared, the clamor of the crowd grew to a fevered pitch. A shiver traveled up my spine, covered my skin in goosebumps despite the suffocating heat. Anticipation was a living thing in the air as thePrimus, the most awaited fight of the day, approached.
Blood and screams, death and maiming. The crowd had had its fill, but it was a greedy animal, and it was never satisfied. With thePrimus, they would get their share of true warrior’s blood. Only this would satisfy their appetite. Only then would the beast be fed for another month, another week, another day.
How I loathe these massacres.
I turned to the short, round man sitting at my right, glad to give my eyes some reprieve from the horrors of the arena, but the sight of my father was no comfort.
“Rager is fighting four of Arlo’s best fighters for thePrimustoday.” Arenius awarded me with a wide and bright smile. Two small, vigilant brown eyes stared at me, missing nothing of my expression. I knew better than to react and maintained my usual polish as I stared at him. “Two Mandragos and two Agapits. It will be the fight of the year.”
Arenius’ smile widened impossibly until he looked like the snake he was inside. I stared at my father for long seconds, the feeling of horror making the hair on my arms stand up, goosebumps creeping under my skin. Surely he couldn’t be serious?
“Four against one?” I chuckled, but soon sobered. “It’s an unfair fight. You risk killing Rager. He’s the champion of Valcan, the best gladiator you ever had.”
“My dear.” Arenius frowned, his cunning eyes shining with something I didn’t understand. Or something I feared to understand. “Rager is a Muharib warrior. He is the best gladiator this city has ever seen. Perhaps the best on the whole of the eastern quadrant of the Empire.”
Hearing my father singing Rager’s praises didn’t make me feel any better. If anything, it only made me feel sick to my stomach.
“But this is thePrimus,” I insisted despite my father’s warning glare. He was getting tired of my questioning. “The crowd will expect a fight to the death. No mercy given.”
“Rager is a living legend, dear daughter. He won over two hundred matches in the last three years. I’ve even heard he used to be a great general in the Muharib wars at the western frontier of the Empire.” Arenius shrugged, a distant look in his eyes as his dark brown gaze returned to the arena he had ordered built over two decades ago, when I was a little girl. “The life of a gladiator is a glorious one, but not a long one.”
He was doing his best not to look concerned by the outcome of the fight, but I saw the telltale signs of excitement, of exhilaration on his face. Horror filled my mind as I stared at the man who called himself my father.
“He made a fortune for you.” I spoke without breathing, forgetting to be careful, to be silent. My father’s mouth twitched, a sure sign I was pushing him in the wrong direction. But I didn’t care. Not this time. “You can’t just send him to his death.”
Arenius’s small brown eyes lost what little warmth they had as he returned his attention to me and the monster he was within shone with all its madness.
“He is mine. I can do what I want with his life.”
The message was clear. Arenius owned Rager just as he owned all his other gladiators. Their lives were just a means to an end, a way for him to become richer, more powerful. On this small planet where the scum of the Galactic Empires came to witness violence and death, he was a king, second only to the Galactic Emperor in status and wealth.
My life was no different. I was Arenius’ daughter, but our relations stopped at the blood we shared. I didn’t even really know the man, having spent most of my life in the care of tutors in a faraway school for noble-born girls. Noble-born and unwanted.
There was no love between us, there never had been. At least, not on Arenius’ part.
“You have no shame.” I spoke the words low to be sure none of the nobles massed in the shaded podium heard. Arenius glared at me, his eyes speaking volumes of retributions to come, but I kept talking. I couldn’t let him kill Rager without saying something, even if it was useless.
“And you are forgetting your place.” Arenius’ voice was cold and sharp. The edge in his tone was dangerous and I knew I had to back down. I was my father’s possession under the law and he had right of life and death over me.
This world was a male’s world and females who wanted to live had better learn to keep their mouths shut.
I shifted in my seat, then glanced at the other nobles of the town massed around us in the shaded balcony. The mayor was there, with his young wife. Much too young wife, I should say. The mayor was older than my father, a man in his late sixties, round of waist and loose of jaw, with pudgy hands grabbing a cup of wine from one side and his young wife’s knee in the other. The poor young thing quivered and looked nauseous, but was too well bred to show more feelings than that.
