Page 75 of Once a Villain
The humans would have to sit in the highest levels of the stadium, Tom had said. But tickets were free for them, as they were for everyone else.
Joan dragged her eyes from her sister’s statue. Beyond it was the vast white wall of the colosseum itself. From here, it was a cliff—three levels with recessed arches running along the exterior. Just like the colosseum of Rome, each arch contained a marble figure, staring down at the people approaching.
“Who are they?” Joan wondered.
“All the members of the Monster Court,” Tom said, and Aaron grunted, sounding surprised.
“So many of them,” Joan said.
“They don’t all rule over the same periods,” Tom said. “A hundred statues representing the Court from prehistory to the end of time.”
“Speaking of,” Ruth said. She nodded at an entrance ahead, at the clock embedded above it. Almost eight o’clock.
As the crowd streamed into the stadium through its dozen gates, Joan and the others headed to a small, innocuous door where a flight of stairs led down.
If they’d gotten everything right about today, Eleanor would enter the imperial box about three hours from now. Not a recording of her—as everyone in the crowd would believe—but Joan’s sister in the flesh.
The box itself was its own separate building, with a single underground entrance, heavily protected by Eleanor’s most loyal guards.
They’d needed another way in.
On Finn’s carefully drawn map, the substructure of the colosseum was a world of its own, a labyrinth of chambers and passages.
A shiver of primal fear ran down Joan’s spine as they descended now into the dim, cave-like underbelly of the colosseum. It was cold down here after the sunny street above. A gamey smell permeated: wild animals and the musk of unwashed, frightened bodies. Animals growled from the depths beneath their feet. Lions, Joan guessed. And maybe bears.
The path was dimly lit with electric lamps along brick walls. Above, the ceiling arched over them. Joan felt like she was walking into a catacomb. And it felt incongruous that they were in an ancient building, still in use. One that wasn’t even supposed to be here anymore.
They reached the vast first chamber, crowded with stagehands tending to a mass of platforms and electrified pulleys thatwould lift animals and people directly into the arena. Some were small—intended to launch a single gladiator. Others could have fit twenty people or more.
An armed guard emerged from the mass. “Where are your credentials?” he snapped at them. “You can’t just walk in here!”
“We’re here to see— Ah!” Aaron said as a man with a rugby build hurried up to them, shooing the guard away.
“Lord Oliver!” the man said. “I’m the trainer you spoke with—Carvel. I believe you wanted to inspect the Oliver gladiators?”
Carvel was a man of about thirty. He wore a huge Dracula-like collar in black leather that protected his neck completely and made his heavy gold pendant seem redundant. He was what Tom would have called ahigh-rankedhuman, Joan guessed. The top number of his pendant—the amount of life left—was 42 years, 3 months, 2 days. The largest number Joan had seen in her time here. The second number was 30 years, 3 months, 2 days. The years of servitude remaining.
The trainer gestured for them to follow. “This is such an honor, my lord! We’ve missed your visits down below!”
Aaron inclined his head stiffly, back in fullLord Olivermode.
Carvelled them past stall after stall of wild animals: an elephant, a tiger, a bear. Joan’s stomach roiled at the thought of these animals being used for the crowd’s entertainment up above.
And then she felt even sicker as the next stalls came into view. The gladiators were chained, just like the animals hadbeen, their legs shackled to metal posts driven into the straw-covered floor.
Once they’re chosen, they’re prisoners, Jamie had told them. He’d read up on gladiators in the library.They’re kept in pens—only allowed out to train and fight and eat.
Carvel wrenched open one of the doors. “Kneel to your patron!” he ordered the man inside. Joan had thought Carvel was big, but this man was a mountain, bald with powerful shoulders and no neck. He glared at Aaron for a long moment before reluctantly sinking to his knees.
“We call him the Bull,” Carvel said to Aaron. “Strong shoulders, excellent reflexes. He’ll bring honor to the Olivers in the arena today.”
“He’s in excellent condition,” Aaron said coolly to Carvel. “You’re to be commended.”
The words faded into background noise. Nick’s counterpart had lived like this. He’d been shackled in one of these stalls. Then he’d been forced to fight for his life over and over in front of baying crowds.
Beside her, Nick was furious—and trying to conceal it. Trying not to draw attention. Joan touched his hand, and Nick’s fingers closed over hers in response. Just for a moment. He breathed in, and some of his rage banked. He met her eyes, and that seemed to calm him even more.
Joan became aware then of strange sounds in the next chamber: groans and thuds and grunts. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have assumed they were animals. But shedidknow better. She knew that room was full of wagons.
