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It took weeks before I could sit through a game without rushing off to empty my stomach. Even now, the sounds and shrieks of the crowd bring a churning to my gut and a fluttering to my chest.
I try to avoid looking at what transpires in the center of the colosseum.
I stare at the dusty stone floor.
I watch the jeering crowds.
I study the awning above.
I busy myself pouring wine for my mistress and master.
I inspect my nails and straighten out my white silken slave shift.
I do anything to avoid looking in the sand-covered pit where the red stains grow.
Yet my eyes are drawn there unerringly, no matter how hard I try, and every time they venture, I see something new to haunt my nights.
Once upon a time, my life was simple; a home on the outskirts of a mountain, tranquility, and peace. I was an artist. I painted pictures. Those pictures had made me wealthy. This environment, this stressful, chaotic, dangerous world of Zure, is a blight upon my soul. No one here knows I can paint. I considered explaining it to my mistress, but although she speaks the universal language, she does not speak it well. To her, I am a pretty bauble, a human pet, something to show off to her guests as I carry around platters of food and drinks.
The fall from solitude and artistic pursuits to slave has been rough, and the landing as brutal as the blows traded far below. I lose hope one day at a time that I will ever have my old life back.
My master issues a mighty roar as my mistress pumps a jubilant fist. They had a bet on this contest. She has won. He has lost. The reptilian male lies slain on the floor. His head is disconnected from his body and rests against the sand several feet away. The winner, the red-skinned horned beast, raises his sword high. The crowd cheers.
"A fine fight," my mistress says, unmoved by the death of the sentient being that has just been slaughtered in the pit.
"I promised the winner a slave," my master says with a grimace. "Devlins always select inconveniently."
Gladiators are often gifted slaves as part of the reward. My master and mistress have a high standing in the community and often supplement the final prize in addition to placing bets daily.
Sometimes the winner takes a slave as a minion to perform domestic duties.
Sometimes their use is sexual.
And sometimes they take them and kill them.
I have seen all three scenarios as the games are run daily.
My master and mistress own many slaves, thousands from what I can tell, given they are traders of flesh. Species of every size, shape, and level of intelligence. It is how they come to own me. I can still remember my shock the first time my master pulled out his slave catalog and presented it to the winner to browse. I am relieved that I not in the catalogue, merely a bauble they like to look at and show off to their friends. Humans are seen as a delicacy in the slave trading circles, so I have discovered. We are paraded, petted in innocent ways, and told to sit where their guests might observe us like an exotic treat.
There are far worse masters and mistresses that I might have had. I have seen cruelty of every kind and I'm grateful that I am theirs… No; I am not grateful to be owned, or for anything about my new life on this godforsaken, scorching hot rock outside interplanetary laws.
"Come," my master says. "Let us meet the winner. He is a new competitor. Perhaps he might be encouraged to join our house?"
"Darling, we do not need another warrior. And he is a Devlin. They are pleasing to look at, but they do not follow orders well," his mate counters.
My orc master grins, skin stretching around his tusks. "We are in the business of acquisitions. But I bow to your wise judgment. Still, I am so disappointed Roderick lost. I bet twenty slaves that he would win. I do like Roderick."
"Liked," she says, smiling.
He frowns briefly before his face splits in a broad grin, and he emits a booming laugh. "Indeed, I liked Roderick, for he is no longer with us."
Poor Roderick is now dead and something for my master and mistress to chuckle over. They're not cruel. They are merely insensitive to everything. Their eyes glisten when they watch the gladiators. There is a fervor, not just in them but in the crowd. If I believed in a god, I would say he or she had abandoned Zure.
My lordly orcs sweep down the broad stone staircase as I follow behind at an acceptable distance. Warrior guards fall into place around us, escorting us to the undercroft of the colosseum.
On either side of the broad tunnel are barred cells where gladiators wait. There is a great variety of traits in those who take part in the fights: giant insects, scales, thick hides, fur, claws, tusks, and even the occasional human. Although humans rarely make good gladiators, from what I can tell. Those humans who enter have undergone genetic modifications and are larger and stronger than any human I have met.
Some of those we pass have finished their fight and are resting. Some are being treated for their wounds. And some cells are empty until fresh meat can be sourced for tomorrow's games.
