Chapter 14 -Prolusion

As we neared the coliseum, things straightened out. Like a wrinkled shirt that had an iron pressed solely into the center of it, the city was more organized near its core. But it seemed to be an afterthought. Crowds rioted near buildings that were being torn down, and stone was being hauled in carts to provide a foundation for newer structures. I had witnessed half of the process before. Orid-narr followed a similar method of construction, excepting the demolition of existing buildings. The roads widened and lanterns lined the streets along regular intervals. Roadside gutters were deeper, and grates covered the feces inside.

It was not much longer before the coliseum came into view. I cannot recall if I was impressed or let down by the structure. Probably a bit of both. Everyone knew the coliseum as a place where organized fights amazed the masses and small-scale warfare was practiced in an arena where thousands could watch. So, I had not expected the coliseum to be as shoddy as most of the other architecture that I had observed on my way in. But in a way it was fitting. Who could expect rats to partake in beauty? Nevertheless, I was impressed that they had managed to construct such a structure in the first place.

I compared the glorified cockpit to its surroundings in the hopes that it might tell me more of what type of city Chereba was. Five-story buidings flanked it on its south and west sides, but from where I was captive in the cart, the north and east sides were hidden from view. Impromptu markets were set up around the coliseum. Merchants and vendors pounced on whatever free space there was, erecting stands to sell their whatever they happened to get their hands on. Aggression seemed to be the name of the game as people shouted, fought, and hawked their wares. But for every person that peddled their goods, there were another three that pointedly ignored them. Some potential customers fought back, and I felt the smile threaten to split my face once more. Chaos, pure chaos.

Three and a half stories of pointed arches engulfed me and hid the mad marketplace from my sight as the horses fled into the coliseum through the rear gates. This was where the chaos ended. Although it was not reflected in the structure and design of the dilapidated building, the manner in which it was navigated tolerated none of the disarray from outside. Guardsman swarmed the halls, and soon the cart was stopped outside a second ring. Whereas the wall outside had been more akin to scaffolding, with arches stacked one on top of the other creating a covered space that still qualified as out-doors. The second ring was an actual wall, made solely of stone and no longer a mish-mash of other materials. The doors were made of heavy timber and were over a foot thick. All together it stood, tucked away three layers deep in nest of pillars and regular platforms. Despite being encroached upon by the rest of the structure, it still imposed on us.

The cart could have easily passed through the doors, but that was the end of our journey. Finally home. Exiting the cage, I stumbled and fell to my knees. The guard towering over me barked, “UP” and when I could not immediately comply, I received a whack over my shoulders in return. The impact buckled my arms and I had a taste of the coliseum floor. White hot fury bubbled in my chest when he continued to beat me down -all while demanding I stand up. Seething, I gave up and curled into a ball, recognizing that he was giving himself a reason to keep me under his boot. I recall scouring the faces of the guards that lined the halls, desperately hoping someone would come to my rescue. But nobody spared a second to look my way, so I clenched my jaw and curled up tighter. Did he not know I was a killer?

Hoarding over me, he sneered, lips curling up. The butt of his spear came down again and I felt the skin break under the force of the blow. White, iron, and his blood-stained boots became the entirety of my world as I cringed and braced myself for the next blow. But it never came. I craned my neck upwards and recoiled when I recognized the butt of the spear looming over me once again. This time it did not whip down at me, it only hover over my face. What? Did he mean to bring it down on my face? No, it shifted towards my hand and opportunity presented itself.

My hand was a snake and I grasped his staff before he saw that I moved. I pulled it in towards me and pushed up once I had the tip angling towards his neck. Then I would- Then I would die. I broke out of my fanciful hallucination and spit at the guards feet, but it only came out as a dribble and wet my cheek.

Guffaws rained on me from above, and when the guardsman had his fill, he squat down until his fetid breath brushed against my ear. “You’re a smart one aren’t you. Don’t worry, you won’t last long. None of them do.” I wanted to choke out a reply, but only managed to groan. He laughed again and it was a roar echoing through my ear. “Why, is it always, the ones with the biggest mouth?” I whispered.

“What’s that? Little mouse has something to say?”

I stayed quiet this time, but he kicked me anyway. Now on my back, I had a view of my other escort, the second guardsman. Where was his hand? Oh, it was in his pants. I’m here getting the snot beat out of me, and he is just scratching his family jewels. Not just scratching, sniffing?

I shook my head, but that was the wrong decision. I had not noticed that he was watching me despite his disinterest. He repeated the other guardsman’s question, but instead of leaving me when I stayed quiet, he grabbed me, and with the help of the other guardsman, lifted me against a pillar. “Come on, you were shaking your head. A man can’t itch his own balls? Little criminal over here has something to say? Oh, I have an idea. If it smells good enough for you, its good enough for the whores.” I must not have been as practiced as I thought when it came to masking emotions. Despite trying not to react, I saw in their faces that I had. And that was all they needed. Pinning me against the pillar, the first guardsman’s forearm dug into my throat. I gasped for air, but a rough hand clamped around my mouth, leaving me to breathe only though my nose. My chest heaved and I my wrists bled as I fought against the rope that kept them tied behind my back. But it was no use. I had not eaten well, nor had I moved much during the journey.

“How’s that? Smell clean? Maybe a little sweaty?”

“Aww he’s crying, poor baby.” The first guardsman said, then he whispered in my ear, “Good, the hate it good, it makes things fun.”

“See, we did him a favor. Now you’ll really provide some entertainment.” He sneered.

A third voice joined from the now open doors, “What’s the hold up?”

“Nothing sir, this one chose to fight, so we were teaching him a lesson.”

I tried making out the source of the voice, but I could not see clearly. I hung my head and stared at my feet as they dragged me through the door.

Do you remember the humiliation and the hatred? Do you remember how it almost extinguished the fire that kept you warm? From there, things began to tumble. You were assigned to a cell and food was provided. But at least it was not the gallows, eh?

--

Dirt and mud squelched between my toes as I ran after the chicken. The damn thing darted from the right to the left and just as I lunged for it, it changed directions again, swooping between my legs. Twisting my body I chased after it once more, ears burning as the audience cheered and laughed. They were rooting for the chicken. Didn’t they know that if I did not catch all ten in order I would decorate the gallows?

I pumped my legs and pushed myself harder, but to my dismay the mud underneath me was more slippery than soft. My foot reached for the sky and I landed with a wet slap, causing mud to fly everywhere.

I was not the only prisoner doing this. The circular arena had been divided into four sections by a tall wooden wall, and each of the other sections reflected the situation in my quadrant. Three others frantically hunted, dove and chased after fleeing chickens. We all wanted to round them up first, or at the very least, we could not be last. The one who either failed to collect them in the allotted time, or was last, would be executed.

It was that threat towering over me which pushed me to roll off my back and stand up. I could not see my competitors over the fence. Curse them for suspending us in ignorance. Nausea surged inside my stomach and my heart raced. I was forced to close my eyes to resist the urge to throw myself at the chicken strutting in front of me.

I knew what they were doing, pressuring us to wildly hound the chickens like starved animals. They were making it as entertaining as possible for the spectators. When I imagined fighting in the coliseum, I had imagined armor, swords, and shields. Not humiliation. But here I was. If I won, I survived. If I lost, I died. When you get down to it, there was no difference between this and a shinier duel.

How was I going to win?

I needed to catch all ten of them, in order. Alive. We were not provided a cage either, but an individual at the gate to the coliseum’s interior who would accept the chicken and verify that they were brought sequentially. Essentially torture. When the chicken were flapping about, it was nigh impossible to tell what number was painted on its back. So a person needed to catch the damned poultry, then put it down so they can catch the next if it was the wrong number. To top it off, the scum had flooded the place, leaving it wet and muddy.

As I stopped to think, the crowds jeered and goaded me to move. Useless people, it would not be a moment before.. Ah yes, there it was. The cheering and manic laughter was back. Someone must have fallen. “My eye!!” The shout graced me from over the fence. “There’s shit in my eye!” He must have fallen on his face. Shivers crawled down my back and a prayer of gratitude escaped my mouth.

Now, how was I going to catch them all in order. I could try to brute force my way to victory, but having to put them down and catch them again would be wasting my time. I needed a way to keep them still. The heckles resumed when the crowd ran out of breath to laugh at the poor sod in the quadrant adjacent to mine. Let me think damn it. I had to go through this logically.

Need to round up chicken in specific order:

Do I have a way to lure them to me? No. Therefore I must catch them manually.

Do I have a way to prevent myself from nee-

“SHUT UP!” I roared at the crowd.

Where was I?

Do I have a way to prevent myself from needing to catch the same chicken twice?

I would need to stop it from running away, but I cannot injure it, which means I would need to restrain it.

How do I restrain the chicken?

Bury it in the mud? No that’s stupid, it might work but if it obscures the number then I’ll have a problem. Break its legs? No, they might want it uninjured.

And like a golden egg sent down from the heavens, the answer came to me. If it’s not the right number, tie the cursed poultry’s feet with strips from your shirt. If it is, then just hand it in. Simple.

With an objective in mind, I could finally get off my backside. Scratching my head, I considered putting on a show for the masses, but I spit on the ground instead. Damn their entertainment.

Grabbing my shirt from the neckline, I pulled it over my head, baring my bruised torso to the world. I bit into the cloth around where it would cover my stomach and I ripped the bottom half away. From there I shred it into ribbons. Prepared at last, I slowly advanced towards the chicken, cajoling them away from the seated crowds and into the corner where both of the walls met. They sauntered away from me, and when I was close enough to them I dug my feet into the slick mud. No, that would not do. I brought my hands down to the earth for extra purchase. With a shot, I pounced towards them. Cornered, they scrambled on top of each other before flapping away from the wall and into my hands. I snagged one in each of my hands and turned them over to get a look at the number. 1 and 6. Lucky me.

The feral grin returned as I strode to the door and handed the first chicken to them. Their face bore the same stupid, quizzical expression that suited the crowd oh so well. As if offering indispensable wisdom, he opened his stinking mouth, “You managed to catch two, but that doesn’t matter, you still need to submit them in order.” I replied by letting my toothy smile stretch even wider. Those in the audience with half a brain were watching my quadrant with a sharper eye now, and they applauded as I tied the legs of the chicken together. Once it was hobbled and could not move, I repeated the same tactic as before.

Overwhelming cheers washed over me as I handed in the tenth chicken and stole first place from one of the other competitors. I did not bother to acknowledge the crowd. Instead, I donned my shirt that only covered a fingers length after my chest, yet left my stomach exposed. I welcomed the shade that the inside of the coliseum offered.

Second and third place were determined after, and I ignored the screams of the poor soul in fourth. Judging by the sound of his voice, it was the one who had fallen on his face. The three of us that managed to finish would be taken to the washing room, offered a meal, and sent back to our cell.

There was a nice rhythm to it I found. In some perverse way, life was simpler than it had ever been before, and I thrived.