City of gods - Hellenica (2 page)

WAR

Gunnar Redstone had three men and a spirit on the fight schedule tonight. The three men would be easy, and Gunnar made a note to give them a quick knockout to conserve his energy. There was a Nubian slave with a net and fork, a trained mercenary from Little Asgaard and an overconfident fishmonger from Dagon’s docks. Gunnar had faced worse than them when he was twelve.

The fourth warrior was a spirit, and it intrigued him a bit. Gunnar was to fight some sort of animal sprite from the Yōkai ghetto. Yōkai were always interesting. The spirit would probably be some small and unassuming forest creature that turned into something big and menacing at the last second. Still, the Yōkai didn’t worry Gunnar too much; these Japanese creatures were not equipped for one-on-one combat. Yōkai were built to enchant and to take you to another world, but they were not built to fight in a pit against the likes of Gunnar Redstone.

Gunnar looked through the cage and listened to the bettors take their final wagers. He heard the Nubian barking insults at him from across the pit, screaming that Gunnar would soon be in his net, being skewered like meat. Gunnar looked around at the crowd calling for the next match and wanted to leave.
This is all a waste
, he thought.
Fighting for money is the corruption of something beautiful.

But he had to make a living, and fighting was the only thing he was able to do. Still, he felt a deep sense of melancholy. Pit-fighting put food on his table and gave him a place in society, but it made him feel dirty, perhaps like a prostitute would feel. But Gunnar was a Spartan, or rather an
ex-Spartan
, and their training taught them little else.

If only I’d stayed in Sparta
, thought Gunnar.
If only I’d killed the Helot, I wouldn’t be here. I’d be a guard on some tower, perhaps a mercenary decimating a village, but I wouldn’t be here fighting Nubians and Yōkai spirits.

Gunnar knew the concept of
Little Sparta
was a farce; it only existed to train mercenaries to protect
Hellenica
. Like the Sparta of old, each male was educated through the deadly training known as the
Agoge
. Gunnar was sent to the Agoge at age five; before that time, he had no memory.

The Agoge is a farce that breeds killers and nothing else,
thought Gunnar,
but I excelled there, and at least I had a place. If only I’d killed the Helot
…

But Gunnar was no longer a Spartan; he was no longer
anything
. He had no district to claim as his own, no family and no skills other than warfare. So he fought in the pit.

And one day I’ll die here
, thought Gunnar.
One day, someone will get lucky and drive me through with a lance
.

He’d dispatched a score of men in combat, but what had he
done
? He’d not yet seen the world; he’d not even kissed a girl. With his tall, muscular physique, dark hair and ice-blue eyes, girls had always noticed Gunnar and often cat-called him from the audience while he fought for their amusement. But the girls he’d grown up with in the Agoge were taught to humiliate and belittle their male counterparts, and after Gunnar left Little Sparta he had no idea how to even start a conversation with a female. He had no mother, no father, no brothers or sisters, and now that he had left his troop, he had no friends and was going to die alone.

Gunnar shook off his sadness and made short work of the Nubian in the first match. The dark-skinned warrior was highly skilled, but Gunnar knew the net held a glaring weakness; in close distances it was neither a shield nor a weapon. So Gunnar dodged several of the Nubian’s feints, went in tight, disarmed his fork, and that was that. The Nubian pleaded for mercy as Gunnar put him in a chokehold, and the crowd screamed for blood. Gunnar put the Nubian down with a gentle tap to the back of the head, leaving him humiliated but alive.

Gunnar refused to kill in the pit.
A pit-fighter is like a prostitute
, thought Gunnar,
and asking a pit-fighter to kill is like asking a prostitute to fall in love. I’ll fight anyone they put in front of me, but I will not kill.

The crowd booed, but only slightly; they had come to expect this behavior. The bettors went to the moneychangers’ booths to collect their small winnings; Gunnar had won his last twenty-three bouts in the first round, so the payouts for a victory like this were small.

The second warrior, the mercenary from Little Asgaard, was a little tougher. He was undefeated, like Gunnar, and to match Gunnar he’d gone into the pit without a weapon. Before the match started, Gunnar noticed the mercenary was reading a poem aloud to a member of the audience. Gunnar couldn’t see whom the mercenary was speaking to, nor could he understand the mercenary’s Old Norse dialect.

But as soon as the poem ended, a change happened in the mercenary. His muscular arms seemed to fill with blood and adrenaline, and he began gnashing his teeth and whirling about in a bizarre convulsion. It wasn’t a show; Gunnar’s opponent was possessed.

Gunnar looked up into the crowds and could make out glowing eyes looking down upon them. Gunnar understood immediately; the mercenary had prayed to
Óõr,
the Norse god of poetry and frenzy. Óõr was a minor god, but it was becoming common for citizens to pray to gods such as these.
Odin is powerful, but wouldn’t even hear this fighter’s prayers,
thought Gunnar.
Óõr
probably brought this fighter into his office and promised him power in exchange for eternal loyalty.

At the bell, the mercenary charged with reckless abandon. Gunnar noticed the mercenary’s eyes were focused with a dull, impersonal rage, like those of an animal. The mercenary barreled into Gunnar, and though Gunnar was able to avoid most of the attack, the mercenary caught just enough of him to send Gunnar against the cage.

He’s preternaturally strong,
thought Gunnar.
Who knows what other powers Óõr has given him?

Gunnar pushed himself from the cage’s edge, and then shoved the mercenary away to create some space. The mercenary ran at Gunnar once more, and Gunnar dodged this attack completely. The mercenary slammed against the cage and opened a cut on his forehead. It caused him no pain, but it was deep, and Gunnar decided to exploit it. Gunnar dodged another rush from the mercenary and shoved his face into the cage again, splitting the cut wide open.

The mercenary was blinded by his blood but continued to fight. He kept up his brave, clumsy charges and after his third charge, Gunnar put a knee to his forehead and it was done. Gunnar put him in a lock to submit, but the Norseman wouldn’t submit; Óõr
had taken away the mercenary’s ability to feel pain and fear.

Gunnar put the mercenary in a prostrate position and then stared into the crowd at the glowing eyes. He wanted
Óõr
to know that he should never again do what he did. Minor gods like Óõr
could send anyone they wanted into the pit, but if they sent him to Gunnar, Gunnar would send him back in pieces. Gunnar gave the mercenary one more blow to the back of the head, and the Norseman was unconscious.

“Please congratulate Mr. Redstone on his
second
victory of the evening!” said the announcer to light applause. “For his third opponent, before the showdown with the Yōkai, we have a man straight from Councilman Dagon’s district! He’s a hundred-to-one long shot, but that’s a
big
payout! Please welcome
Alcides
!”

The applause came slowly and Gunnar sized up his opponent. The fighter was a clean-shaven, powerfully built man wearing odd, baggy clothes. He was almost Gunnar’s height, but twice as wide.
This Alcides does not look like a fisherman from Dagon’s docks
, thought Gunnar,
he looks like a warrior.

The bell rang and Gunnar stayed at the periphery, jabbing into the man’s thick midsection. Gunnar recognized that this
Alcides showed no fear and was quite skilled in his movement. He dodged Gunnar’s punches quite easily, and the punches that landed appeared to do no damage. As Gunnar fought the man, he noticed that underneath the baggy clothes was a perfect physique, perhaps a hundred and fifty kilograms of pure muscle.

This man isn’t from the d
ocks
, thought Gunnar.
One can’t get that physique by tossing fish
.

Gunnar dodged a few of the man’s punches, just barely. Each of the missed punches sent a rush of air that concerned Gunnar.
If just one of these connects,
he thought,
it could be trouble
.

Gunnar continued his jab, pushing his fist into the man’s midsection. The man was clearly leaving his torso open, as if he knew it was invulnerable. Gunnar decided to focus his jab on the man’s face. He connected with a punch, but the man’s jaw was like iron, and his whiskers grated against Gunnar’s skin. He dodged a bull rush from the man and then created some space between them. Gunnar looked at his hands; they were bleeding. The man’s whiskers were so rough that they had cut his skin open.

The man’s whiskers cut my flesh,
thought Gunnar,
and when he entered the ring he was clean-shaven. Who is he?

Gunnar dodged another rush, but it was a mere feint. The man was toying with him now; it made little sense.
This man is a fishmonger from the docks and worships Dagon,
thought Gunnar.
There are no fighters from Dagon’s docks, let alone a man like this with a jaw of iron, who sprouts skin-cutting whiskers!

Gunnar put some distance between them and formulated a new strategy.

“
Erēqu gada
lǔ
kelkēn?
” asked Gunnar in the Babylonian language of Dagon’s district.
Who are you, fishmonger?

The man seemed not to comprehend; Gunnar knew he was a fake. Dagon demanded loyalty above all else, and first and foremost all Dagon’s constituents spoke Babylonian.

While Gunnar was pondering this, Alcides the fishmonger was on him in a flash. The warrior grabbed Gunnar by the neck and held him up; for the first time in his life Gunnar knew what it was like to be perfectly at the mercy of another human being. If the fishmonger wanted to end Gunnar’s life, all he had to do was squeeze. But the man slammed Gunnar down onto the mat with such force that Gunnar was numb.

“Who are you?” asked Gunnar with a choked whisper.
             

“Who am I?” responded the fishmonger. “
Who are you, Gunnar Redstone? Who are you?
”

And just like that, the man put his fist in Gunnar’s face, and Gunnar was out.

/***/

Gunnar woke up in his dressing room to see the fishmonger in front of him. The fishmonger had a full beard now, and was holding a small nettle.

“This is from the Yōkai warrior that you were to face after me,” said the man. “Don’t touch it; it’s poisonous.”

Gunnar’s head was throbbing. But he could see the man was correct; the nettle was from a poisonous Yōkai. It was an illegal practice of course, but happened whenever someone wanted to eliminate a pit-fighter. Gunnar would have won the match and the Yōkai would have turned into a spider to give him one more sting. Gunnar would have most likely died a few weeks later.

“You’re not merely a pit-fighter, Gunnar. You’re a General,” said the man, holding up the nettle. “And the best way to kill a General is through an assassin.”

The man held up the nettle as proof.

“Thank you for saving my life,” said Gunnar.

“I also tried to kill you, Gunnar; don’t you remember?” said the man with a smile.

“Whoever you are, I sense you could have killed me but chose not to.”

“Hardly. I didn’t pull my punches, and that brings an interesting question. That final punch I gave you would have killed any mortal ten times over,” said the man, “yet here you sit, broken but alive. Why do you think that is?”

Gunnar couldn’t think of an appropriate response.

“I’m a
nobody
, fishmonger,” said Gunnar. “I’m a failed Spartan, nothing more.”

“I disagree, Gunnar,” said the man, “and whoever sent this nettle disagrees as well. Perhaps a powerful man fears you, Gunnar. Perhaps a powerful
god
?”

“The powerful don’t fear the powerless,” said Gunnar, “and I’m powerless.”

“In my day, a king would assassinate an infant to save facing him as an adult,” said the man. “And who is more powerless than an infant, Redstone? So whoever sent this nettle must see great potential in you. Do you not agree?”

“I don’t care to partake in this war of words,” said Gunnar. “If you choose to say something, state it. Take that nettle and shove it in my neck if you so desire, but don’t continue this rhetoric.”

The man laughed heartily.

“And they said
I
was a brute,” he said, “but compared to you, Gunnar, I’m
Calliope
, Muse of Eloquence herself! So I’ll no longer engage you in rhetoric. I’ll tell you that you’re special, that you don’t belong in Sparta, you don’t belong in the Agoge, and you
don’t
belong in the pit.”