But he does take it. All ten pounds of solid steel, careful not to cut himself on its many spikes.
I’m on my guard, in case he tries to attack me with it, but he only examines it with the sort of morbid reverence due the thing that’s likely to be lodged in his skull a few weeks from now.
“Pass it down the line.”
His eyes meet mine. I wouldn’t call it trust, but there’s a resigned acceptance in the order of things as he gives it to the other new guy.
“The object of the game,” I explain as they each examine the weapon, “is to get to that ball first. It could be at the top of a plinth. It could be at the bottom of a man-made lake. It could be locked in a box with golden chains and one tiny key hidden somewhere in this stadium. But you have to get it at all costs. Because you only win Deathball when you deal the killing blow with the Deathball.”
“What happens if I don’t?” says the other new guy.
I examine him a moment. Seems like an honest question. There’s no disrespect in his tone or his manner. “Your opponent will kill you with it. And if neither of you fight, you’ll be sent to Victora Prison.”
His left shoulder rises a little, the specter of a grin about his lips, like he just figured his way out of this maze.
I relieve him of his levity. “That’s a sentence worse than dying. It’s worse than the mines, it’s worse than the stone mill, and it’s worse than Deathball. Ever seen a man eaten alive by rats and maggots because he was too weak from hunger and beatings to fend them off?”
I don’t need to wait for his answer, but I do anyway. His skin turns a shade toward green, and I watch for the slight shake of his head before I talk again.
“They’ll be taking you there for a visit before the season starts, just so you’re aware of your options. But I’ll tell you this: I’ve never met a man who set foot in that place then refused to play Deathball.”
A rumble of laughter breaks out of the more experienced guys, a sound tipped with malice. I take the Deathball back from the end of the line and return it to its box. “René and Max are laughing because they made it through one season. They think they’re old hands at this now.” René shrugs, while Max rolls his neck, the crack audible in the echo of the stadium. “Jason here,” I stretch the wooden bat out toward him, “has survived two full seasons. That makes him the second most experienced player here today. You show him respect, and he can give you advice on how to survive a little longer, or at the very least, how to die well.”
They laugh off the joke that isn’t really a joke at all.
“This will be my fifth season. And, therefore, my final one.” I can’t prevent my gaze from wandering, drawn to the handsome newcomer’s mouth as his lips part, trying to read his thoughts in the shadow that falls across his brow. “That’s why you need to listen to me. Almost every other man who’s stood where you are today is dead and in the ground. There’s a very good chance I put him there. He didn’t have a funeral, his family won’t ever claim his bones, and they won’t ever know what I did to him. They’re gone now, just like your family, another life that closed behind you with the city gates. From now on, your life is Deathball.”
I let the gravity of it enshroud them, knowing that even the most belligerent players are thinking about the people they once loved, no more than shadows in a dust storm. “We now have twenty men—a complete team. Only four of us will survive this season. Which means only four of us have any chance of making it home, wherever that might be.”
When I speak again, it’s from my heart. It’s to me, and it’s directly tohim. “There are only two ways out of this place. In a box, or with the blessing of your superiors. Impress them. Impress the sponsors, impress the fans, and above all, impress the Emperor. And one day, if you work hard, theywillgrant your freedom.”
A spark of hope comes into the faces of all the men, but none so bright or pronounced as that golden beauty. His chest swells with the notion, and I watch it sink into him, the promise that’s going to protect him through every game, through every night in that dungeon, through every blow and humiliation that’s yet to settle over those great shoulders.
That promise is my faith and my saviour, and it’s as close as I ever get to satisfied to see it become the rod that straightens their backs.
“Until that time,” I tell them, “there are other perks. If the sponsors like you, you’ll be equipped with decent weaponry and armor for the matches. You’ll last longer, get hurt less. And sometimes they’ll even give you some cash to spend on drink, once you’ve earned enough trust to be taken on escorted outings to taverns. Not the night before games, obviously.”Another chuckle ripples through the line, and I cut it off, reiterating, “Impress your superiors.”
Out of nowhere, Max quips, “And if you impress Marco, you might get a night or two at his nice villa.”
My head turns sharply, just in time to see him dig his elbow into Jason’s ribs, the two of them smirking together. My voice comes soft. “That’s very funny, Max. Please come stand here.”
The grin slips like so many grains of sand through a drain. There’s a beat of silence, and the men on either side of him take a step away, distancing themselves.
I wait, nothing but the hammering of his heart and the screech of hawks overhead.
Then he steps forward, coming to stand next to me.
“I do have a very nice villa,” I agree. “Enormous. Just for me. Because I didn’t die. Because I played the game. If you’d like a nice villa, just like mine, you’ll play the game too. Now you.” I fix my eyes hard on the beautiful new prisoner. “What did you say your name is?”
He hesitates a moment, gaze flitting to Max, then back to me. “I didn’t.”
Lightning fast, I swing the bat, smashing it into Max’s stomach. He lets out a burst of air on a cry and crumples over. I raise my leg, kick him to the ground, yell at the beauty, “What’s your name?”
The man’s eyes are blown wide in shock, but this is just the start. He’s got to get used to summary violence. I slam the bat into Max’s left side, avoiding the ribs so he won’t be useless for his match. He screams in pain, but I shout louder, “Tell me your name!”
“Robin! Fuck! It’s fucking Robin!” His hand rips into his shining hair. “What are you doing?”
I stamp my boot down on Max’s neck, letting the word settle over me like summer rain. “Robin? Like a little baby bird, Robin?”
