The Crowd's Favorite

2 Days Later

City of Reksia, Haruspesa Hill Temple

As promised by the Proconsul, Polgara was brought to meet the Imperial Magisters at their conclave at Haruspesa, the tallest of the twin hills that stood in the middle of Reksia.

Atop the hill sat the city's temple to the Nucerian pantheon of gods, where the Magisters have made their home and instituted as their sanctified scholia arcana. As part of the marriage of church and state, opposite of Haruspesa stood the hill Volunca. At its crest sat the Curia Lumeria, the Nucerian senate house and seat of the republic.

To hold them both in awe and reverence was expected of every citizen. To walk their hallowed grounds was a great honor, and Polgara was no exception as she stepped into the well trimmed grass of the temple grounds. Before proceeding through its brass archways, she and the Proconsul removed their shoes. As tradition dictated, no man was permitted to walk the hallowed soil of Haruspesa unless barefooted.

"Angronius." Polgara said to her slave.

The gladiator glanced at her expectantly. The resentment he held for having to accompany her on her trip to the hill temple was expertly masked, and she was none the wiser to the darkening clouds in his head. Polgara, after his performance at the Triumph, chose to keep him close wherever she went like some prized pet. His name was on every tongue in the capital, and seeing him in the streets caused a stir among the masses.

The sight of a warrior who towered above mortal men, being led around by a maiden nearly half his size, it was almost unbelievable. Naturally, Angronius hated it, but could do little about it as his will was no longer his own. The whole thing was an exhibition to further spread the fame of her house, there could be no doubt about it.

"Stay here at the gate, but be ready for when I call you."

"Yes, my lady."

When they arrived, the Magisters had just completed their morning rituals and were waiting at the temple entrance to receive visitors while their leader, the Grand Augur, performed the necessary sacraments of communing with the divines within the temple's inner sanctum. Patricians and plebeians alike lined up to sit at the feet of the wise men and women of Haruspesa, departing with their words of counsel and leaving extravagant gifts in return.

Polgara came bearing a rare and ancient uncut gemstone in her hands as tribute, a humble gift compared to the ones her fellow patricians brought before the Magisters.

When it was her turn, the maiden trembled with excitement as she drew near to the wise men. She expected to receive nothing but contempt, of cold and haughty scrutiny that befitted men of their station. She was pleasantly surprised, however, to feel welcomed by the Magisters in their own temple.

"Greetings, my daughter." One of the Magisters, a tall and wiry old man dressed in black robes and a funny square shaped biretta fitted over a hood, received Polgara with a gentle smile on his aged face. His smile grew when he recognized the Proconsul standing beside her, "Marsus Acraesius! Always a pleasure to have you here."

"Hakkadia, the pleasure is mine." Acraesius bowed his head respectfully.

"My name is Polgara, of House Thal'kyr. O gracious and kind Magister, accept this humble gift." Polgara meekly offered her stone, "A jewel, plucked from the depths of the Sodian Sea."

"I have heard of these stones, magnificent little things." Hakkadia received her gift and turned the gem over to see the beautiful little patterns cut into its surface by the earth. His hands had the beautiful images of curling serpents tattooed into his flesh, which were the symbols of his creed. All Magisters had them, in some form or another. "The earth crafts in a manner unknown to man, none can match her wonders, not even the pale imitations we call art. Thank you, my dear. An artifact that evokes thought should never be placed within the treasury, it will have its own place upon a pedestal."

The Magister folded his hands over the gem and gave the pair his undivided attention, "Now, what brings you two to Haruspesa?"

"I've come to seek audience with the Grand Augur, Your Holiness." Acraesius replied.

"The Grand Augur will not receive visitors until he has finished with communing with the divines."

"He will receive me." Acraesius assured the Magister, "This meeting is long overdue."

Hakkadia peered into the Proconsul's eyes and caught a hint of malice behind the respectful gaze. Just a hint, a small one that the old man easily mistook for something else. He thought little of it, so he spoke on the Grand Augur's behalf. "Only after he has finished communion, only then can you speak with him."

"It is well." Acraesius said, taking a seat and pulling one for Polgara to sit on.

He paid little attention to the conversation shared by the two as his mind became occupied with long buried thoughts. Thoughts of a time when he first stood at the gates of the Haruspesa Hill Temple, prostrating himself before the Grand Augur for counsel, a time when Acraesius' name had yet to rise above all others and be as revered as the hero of his age.

Polgara and Hakkadia prattled on with matters concerning her future education as a sorceress of the advanced mystic arts, where the maiden revealed her great interest regarding the coveted secrets of the temple and the Magister creed. Such secrets would require a great deal of sacrifice and commitment on her part, a fact that caused Polgara to take into consideration and delay in any abrupt decisions, but there was no doubt she was inclined to commit towards joining the Magisters.

When the Grand Augur finally finished in his long ritual, Acraesius excused himself from Polgara and followed the acolytes inside the inner sanctum of the Haruspesa Temple.

There, the Proconsul met with Grand Augur Numitor, the oldest living Augur in the history of Nuceria. He's been said to have lived during the time when Nuceria had been ruled by kings, which made him almost a thousand years old. His unnatural lifespan could be explained only through speculations and rumors, for it was a secret that none but he knew.

"Grand Augur." Acraesius greeted once the acolytes left, "I have returned."

Grand Augur Numitor rose up from the floor after lighting the hundredth candle among the others that formed a pentagon pattern dais around the statue of Dolos, God of Trickery and Deceit. He wore the same garb of the Magisters, with the addition of the golden ornament chain that signified his status draped across his shoulders. Numitor, though he carried the weight of a thousand years, looked no older than fifty years.

He kept his face well shaved and smeared with moisturizing creams to combat the dry winds that occasionally blew upwards into the hill. An eyeless ornate silver mask adorned his face, covering the empty sockets where his eyes used to be. In a forgotten ritual, long long ago, Numitor sacrificed his eyes to Dolos for the ability to peer into the fabric of time and foresee the fates of everyone around him.

The gift, however he thought would be worth the sacrifice, forbade him from foreseeing his own fate.

"So you have, Marsus of House Acraesius." The Grand Augur's tone was unwelcoming, cold even.

"You do not rejoice at my arrival?" Acraesius asked, "I've laid waste to our enemies, stopped the hundred years war and made Nuceria the one sole ruling nation on this world and branded it as its name!"

Numitor remained unimpressed.

"All I've done, all I do now, I do for the sake of this great nation."

"Did you now?"

"Did I what?"

"Do it for this great nation?" The Grand Augur asked, reminding him of their last meeting. "When you came to me all those years ago, a nameless soul in a sea of billions, you came to know of your fate. Nameless, you were, but full of ambition. You asked if the future held any greatness for your House. I gave you an answer, warned you of what may be, and you ignored me."

"You told me I was destined for great and unfortunate things." Acraesius defended, "I did not ignore you, I listened. You gave me the word of the gods and I enacted their will."

"Perhaps it is so, but you and I both know what will happen now that you've chosen this path." Numitor recalled his prophecy and repeated it, "When the people cheer your name, your exaltation will be the death of Nuceria. You defy the gods, just as you defy me."

"Dead? Dead?!" Acraesius, loyal son of the republic, pulled away the curtains from the sanctum's window. "Look yonder, Augur, and see if Nuceria is dead! She lives as the day she first took breath, laughing with every accolade thrown at my feet, growing stronger with every victory! She is more powerful than ever before! Perhaps it is you who've defied the gods, your prophecies of falsehoods that have kept their favored nation from seizing its rightful glory?"

"Whose glory, Nuceria's or yours?"

Acraesius frowned, "I was wrong to stake my future upon a silly cryptic augury."

"Did you honestly come all this way to tell me that?"

Disgusted, the Proconsul growled, turning away as though he were preparing to leave. "No, I only wished to thank you for opening my eyes. And to see where your loyalties lie. I'm grateful for your answer."

As the Grand Augur turned his back, Acraesius swept his leg and caused him to lose his balance. Numitor made no sound as he fell backwards and hit the back of his head hard against the foot of the pedestal where an idol dedicated to Lilith rested upon. There was a loud crack as his skull shattered, blood started to pool as soon as he hit the floor.

The Proconsul stood over him as he lay there dying, "May the past die with you, old fool."

Before he left the sanctum, Acraesius picked up an elixir containing incense oil and smeared some of its contents on Numitor's shoe. He then poured the rest on the floor at his feet, only then taking his leave when he found the scene to his satisfaction.

He donned a mask of casual civility upon reaching the outer temple grounds where Polgara awaited him. With his business at the temple concluded, Acraesius extended his arm for her, intent on leaving the temple for good. "Shall we, my lady?"

Polgara turned to say her farewells with Hakkadia, "Magister, you've been so hospitable, I regret having to depart so soon."

"Fret not, I'm certain we will meet again some time in the future." The Magister assured her. "May Lilith watch over you. Proconsul, may Mars keep you."

It didn't take long for the body of the Grand Augur to be discovered, but by then the Proconsul and his fetching companion were long gone. No hymns were sung, no mantras chanted that day. All of Haruspesa wept for the passing of a great mind, and by extension, all of Reksia. Acraesius' simple manipulation of the scene worked wonders for him, and diverted much of the suspicion elsewhere.

Numitor had many enemies far and wide, it would be far too long before all attentions became focused on the Proconsul. At this, Acraesius rejoiced, for the death of the Grand Augur was but one step closer towards his most coveted ambition.

The church was in disarray, leaving only the state for him to deal with.

After Angronius' performance at the Triumph games, House Thal'kyr found itself mired deep in a sea of demands for an encore. It amazed Lord Marcellus that, for a gladiator who proved so troublesome in training, Angronius would see his purse swell significantly.

With his fortunes rising with the gladiator's every victory in the arena, Marcellus endeavored to keep Angronius in perfect condition for the many battles he had planned for him. With his training complete, the dominus spared no expense testing and pushing the gladiator's limits. Every day, in the mock arena of the ludus, Angronius would be pitted against his oldest and more experienced titans.

Naturally, the man bested them all. When they proved inadequate, and out of favor, Marcellus commanded Oenomaus to pit Angronius against beasts.

Like a sword upon a whetstone, Angronius was honed to fine edge. And like a sword, the twist in his fate served him equal parts good and bad. The apparent favoritism showed by his master was more than any of the veteran gladiators could bear, many who once treated him with cold indifference now showed nothing but contempt and outright hostility whenever he was around.

Closer and closer, Angronius drew near to the top of the bloody mount, upon which his freedom rested and waited for him to seize it.

He needed to become champion, and no title better fit his name other than Champion of Reksia. Freedom beckoned, and whatever it took to have it back he would do so willingly.

The final battle, the hundredth match, was upon him. And with it, a final gift was bestowed to him.

It was not a gift from Marcellus, but from Oenomaus, who up until then kept his approval of Angronius' rise to prominence secret from all.

They came to him, neatly wrapped in a ragged red cloth, so snugly placed at the floor of his cell. At first he beheld it with guarded curiousity, but could not hold himself back. He unwrapped the gift and as soon as his eyes took in the glorious sight, Angronius' oft stern countenance broke into a savage smirk.

He lifted his new weapons high and squeezed the shafts to give them life.

They roared, hateful and hungry like the wolves of Orcus, fueled by the archaic engines of war that predated the birth of Nuceria. Any normal man would struggle to even hold one of those weapons, let alone wield it. Angronius had no such shortcomings, he embraced the weapons as his own and greeted them as a father would his firstborn.

"Gorefather..." He named them, "Gorechild... you two must be hungry..."

He could hear the crowd calling his name, another warrior needed to be slain. He went as Mars once more, an ironically unremarkable panoply of trappings that could easily be seen in the lowliest mercenary rabble of Reksia's many guilds. And yet, it was with this same simplicity that made Angronius unique, and why the people loved him so much.

"I will let you feast, one last time, for the glory of the mob." He vowed, "And when I am free, you will feast for my glory alone."

Angronius emerged from the gate, but did not drink from the accolades thrown his way. He only wished it all to be over, to kill and be done with it. He will become champion, then call upon Polgara's promise.

Someone else assumed the role as editor in the royal box, a fat old senator who held some lofty office somewhere in the republic, Angronius cared little for him to know his name. His only redeeming factor was his booming voice, one that carried his introduction well as any esteemed orator.

He boasted of Angronius' skill, spoke of flatteries and lies, although mostly half-truths. Reksia had chosen its favorite, and he only had to prove it was so one more time.

He had to best another champion, one from another city in the republic that claimed to rival the capital's greatness. The port city of Hyrkan, where Nuceria's fleet rested, was the birthplace of the gladiatori retiarus fighting style. Though nothing compared to the wonders of the megapolis, Hyrkan had more exotic beauties in her heart than Reksia could ever boast.

To fight for her name, Hyrkan sent her native son, not a slave but a man who voluntarily embraced the life of a gladiator.

His name was Ohn, a thousand men have died by his hand in the arena. Many times he remained free to leave the sands of the coliseum, but each time he refused. He loved it there, he loved everything about the arena. The adulation of the crowds, the women, the mountains of gold he reaped. Nothing else could ever satisfy him than being a gladiator.

It seemed only fitting that he faced someone who stood in stark contrast to his gloryseeking ways.

Angronius, near a hundred men have fallen to him, even more so for the beasts. If it weren't for the looming threat of the wardens' weapons, he would vanish beyond the gates of the arena. He hated it there, he hated what the coliseum stood for. The worshipping mob was a mockery to his eyes and ears, the rewards of flesh and gold could never stand tantamount to his precious freedom.

No treasure, glory or women could ever compare. Angronius would have it, one way or another. If he had to gut the man of Hyrkan, or even his thrice-damned masters for it, he would do so.

Half the stands of the Colosseum Primus were filled with Hyrkan coastlanders, who came to witness their favored son and brother in battle. They brought the salty scent of the sea with them, which mixed so well with the perfumed air of the capital city.

Ohn emerged to meet Angronius, and at the sight of him the people of Hyrkan roared louder than the people of Reksia. Like many of the coastlanders, Ohn possessed a hardy constitution tempered by living close to the sea. Reksian folk were fair-haired, short and soft from lives of luxury. Hyrkan folk were black-haired, tanned and no strangers to hard living.

They made the best sailors and soldiers in the empire, so it was no surprise that Ohn fared so well in the arena.

"Hail, would-be champion!" Ohn greeted Angronius, his friendly tone taking the slave by surprise.

He wore the star-metal cuirass, shaped to form a scaly hide that mimicked the peculiar patterns of fish-skin. Ohn had no shield, nor a gladius, and carried only a shining golden quindent. His dark hair was tied into a neat little bun on the top of his head, some stray strands flowed out of the knot and waved gently over his handsome face.

Angronius bristled, "Hail yourself."

The man of Hyrkan smiled, "Come now, we needn't sully this battle with ill humor."

"We are to be enemies, son of Hyrkan!" Angronius growled, "This rabble deems it so, and you stand in the way of my freedom."

Ohn shrugged, "Very well, if we are to be enemies, so be it. But I shall stand the better man and still wish you good fortune."

Gorefather and Gorechild disagreed with the notion, violently. Angronius burst forward with a speed that belied his stature, and when his weapons met with Ohn's, the coastlander dug his heels hard into the sands to keep himself from tipping off balance.

The teeth of the chainaxes chattered wildly as they bit into the quintent's shaft. Ohn's weapon held true, and he turned the roaring axes aside to smack his opponent across the face with the bottom end.

Angronius didn't reel from the blow, but let it pass as though it were the gentle slap of the wind. "My mistress hits harder than you, poor fool!"

The people of Reksia couldn't help but chuckle at their favorite gladiator's words. Amused, Polgara leaned back in her chair and basked in the attentions of the nobles who now took note of her thanks to her slave's praise. It was a happy day for her. Things were going well for her family, her gladiator was earning them both favor and coin, and she was well on the way to capturing the Proconsul's heart.

Her only regret was that Acraesius could not be present at the games. Urgent matters tethered him elsewhere in the city. Alas, such was the life of a Proconsul.

Ohn, due to his many victories, rarely took any fight seriously. His fight with Angronius, however, proved to be no ordinary fight. The barbarian was said to have been chosen by Mars as his mortal vessel, although such stories were easily dismissed. with every swing of his axes, with the way he shrugged off the coastlander's blows and moved with impossible grace- nothing, not even the cybernetic-augmentations of the capital, could compare.

There were no surgical scars on him, no metal tubes nor signature marks of augmenters. He did not smell of enchantments, nor reeked of mutations. Ohn realized Angronius' strength was all natural, a god among men!

How he came to be a slave, he would never know, but the coastlander believed he was better than this.

Still, Ohn would give him a good match before the gods chose their victor that day.

Angronius lifted Gorefather and struck the quindent so hard that Ohn's wrists broke from the blow. The coastlander clenched his jaw and did not cry out as he staggered backwards. His weapon fell to the ground and he withdrew slowly as the agonizing pain in his arm overwhelmed his desire to fight. When he couldn't take the pain any longer, he fell to his knees and drew his ruined hands to his chest.

He stopped moving only when his opponent trapped his neck between the bristling teeth of the chainaxes.

The response shown by the crowd was unexpectedly divided. The Reksians wanted Ohn's blood while the Hyrkans wanted him spared, a dilemma that could only be solved with the favor of one and the ire of another.

Lord Marcellus was the noble in charge of the games. The task of deciding the fate of gladiators fell on him, and while he cared little for the people of Hyrkan, he valued their relations of trade and commerce. However, he valued the favor of the people of Reksia more.

So when the Reksians demanded Ohn's death, Marcellus made his decision and turned his thumb down.

To say that the Hyrkans disapproved of this decision would be a monumental understatement, the whole coliseum was in an uproar.

Angronius found the shocking turn of events amusing and he shook his head at the hypocrisy of the Reksians. For all their pomp and finery, they were still animals at heart, braying for blood like starving hounds. As for the Hyrkans, he took pride in the fact that they would defend their champion so ferociously that they'd risk open rebellion right there on the stands of the Colosseum Primus.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Ohn, pain-wracked but ready for his end, called out to the man. "Do it!"

Angronius glanced down at him, "Your people want you to live, coastlander."

"True..." Ohn winced, "...but your dominus has made his decision. It would be unwise to defy him."

Turning his gaze to the pulvinus, the Child of the Mountain saw his troubled mistress. Sharp little thing, she knew the problem her father had to deal with. Hyrkan would hate them now, because her father condemned their champion. As her gaze wandered about helplessly, the sorceress saw the gladiator still standing over Ohn and wondered why he paused. Polgara met his eye and realized it wasn't her father's word he was waiting on.

It was hers.

Polgara timidly raised her hand.

It was decided, then. Angronius obeyed, "It is not my dominus who I follow, fortunately for you."

Slowly, slowly the deafening roar of the crowd died down as an astonished silence overtook the mob. Angronius spared Ohn, and no one knew why. Polgara had long retracted her hand, with no one the wiser of her intervention. They only saw a slave defy his master, for the life of Hyrkan's champion.

"Angronius! Angronius the Merciful!"

There were better titles, but Angronius wore it just the same.

He left the arena, taking both the sour mood of the Reksians and the praise of the Hyrkans with him. He would not be champion of Reksia, not after insulting his masters that way, but he didn't care. He only cared if Polgara would hold true to her promise and set him free.