Chapter Twenty:
Barnabas awoke to the clanking of metal against stone. He tried opening his eyes, but his eyelids felt heavy. His head throbbed. He shifted, and his muscles screamed from the effort. Against his back, something rough and jagged scraped his skin even through his shirt.
Where am I? Panic shot through him, and Barnabas’s eyes fluttered open.
The world appeared in gray smudges. Barnabas squinted, blinking. It felt as though he had a layer of film over his eyes. After a few seconds, though, the world focused. The gray blob in the upper fringes of his vision faded into dull, smoky stone. A torch cast weak, wavering light on Darius’s face.
The man sat across from Barnabas. Dressed in ragged clothing and with purple bags beneath his eyes, he was barely recognizable. He seemed to have aged overnight. Barnabas’s heart twisted in fear. What had happened?
Barnabas licked his lips and swallowed. His voice was hoarse. “Where are we?”
Darius tilted his head. “Look around you,” he said bitterly.
Barnabas did so, and his heart stuttered, then raced. Adrenaline rushed through his veins, and fear made his head spin. He and Darius sat knee to knee, pressed so tightly against each other that Barnabas could feel pressure building up along the line of his calf. To both his right and left, lines of prisoners sat together in similar positions, squished so close together that not an inch of floor showed. Most of the prisoners were quiet. The few sounds in the room were hacking coughs, occasional, vicious muttering, and the clanking of dangling metal chains against stone. The air felt hot and humid, and it stank with the stench of body odor, urine, and feces.
Barnabas gagged. Other than Darius, he recognized only a few faces from the expedition. Hannah sat a few people down the line, looking queasy. The two men on either side of her were two of the few people talking. They made a crude joke, and she shrank back. A few of the prisoners glanced at them, their mouths tight, but after a few seconds of staring, returned their attention to the wall. Barnabas opened his mouth to speak to one of them, but Darius shook his head quickly, and he restrained himself.
Instead, noticing who was missing, he asked, “Where is Pamela?”
Darius shook his head again. His mouth formed a grim line. “She was supposed to be back late in the evening. Who knows what happened to her?”
The two fell silent, regarding each other. Barnabas’s thoughts whirred. What had happened? His blood rushed through his veins. Why had it happened? What had changed? What was going to happen to them? Where were they—? His stomach lurched. No. They couldn’t possibly be… No. They wouldn’t dare. Parvenin wouldn’t risk it. But what was that Parvenin had said before? Something about the emperor…Barnabas couldn’t remember.
A warm light lit their faces, and as one the prisoners turned. A guard stood at the entrance gate, holding a torch aloft.
“It’s time.”
Some of the prisoners shuddered. A few even moaned in horror. The guard scowled at them, sliding open the gate. Everyone rose to their feet unsteadily. They followed the guard single-file down a series of hallways. Other guards with arrows trained on them followed their progression with hard eyes. When they saw Barnabas, their lips curled back into sneers. Barnabas shuddered as he stumbled on.
Within minutes he started to hear something through the stone: a dim roaring sound that grew louder as the group rose to higher ground. He shot Darius a horrified look. Both knew where they were.
The torchlight faded in the brilliance of sunlight, and Barnabas squinted against the opening looming ahead. His stomach lurched.
The roar of the crowd grew louder; his ears throbbed. The guards shuttled them up the tunnel, urging them to move faster, to run more quickly, to go, go, go! They poured out into the sands of the arena, and the crowd above them screamed in delight. Several of the prisoners cried out, frightened, and the guards prodded them forward. Barnabas hung back, and a guard poked him with a spear. Pain shot down his left arm. Barnabas gritted his teeth and staggered forward.
The guards herded them to the center of the arena, and Barnabas stared around him, his heart pounding. The amphitheatre was filled to the brim. The crowd spread to even the furthest seats, and the staircases between the different sections were clogged. The audience was standing, staring down at them and jeering. Barnabas’s eyes fell on the emperor’s tent, and he froze—not because of the person sitting in the emperor’s seat, for it was empty—but because of the person in the seat next to it.
The girl was dressed in dark violet. Her long brown hair pooled around her shoulders in cascades, shining and elegant. She stood when she caught his gaze, approaching the rail and leaning over to stare at him. In the sunlight, she glowed with life.
Marie should be dead.
He narrowed his eyes at her, and a sense of injustice flared up in him. She had something to do with this! She had to! His blood boiled. Marie met his gaze for a long time. It was neither hostility nor satisfaction he saw there, but pity, which only incensed him further. He snarled.
The crowd’s roar suddenly increased in volume, chanting something. It was unbearably loud. Barnabas cringed. His ears burned.
Marie’s eyes flicked away, falling on something behind him. Barnabas turned.
“Sidriel! Sidriel! Sidriel!”
A man was approaching, striding quickly over the sands of the arena. The guards poked and prodded the prisoners into kneeling positions, ringing them.
“SIDRIEL! SIDRIEL! SIDRIEL!”
The man glided across the sands, moving with a purpose and confidence few men ever possessed. He slowly came to a stop, his eyes roving over the gaggle of trembling prisoners. It seemed to Barnabas he stilled the same way a predator stilled before striking. Barnabas forced his eyes to the man’s face, and he looked upon the countenance of Sidriel the Clever, the Powerful, and the Magnificent for the first and last time.
He was young. It was the first thing Barnabas noticed in his daze. He exuded a sense of health and youthful vigor. His hair hung in white, silky waves to his waist, shining ethereally in the sunlight. His eyes, a stunning bright blue, were the only indications of age; they glowed with a sense of power and purpose the young did not acquire easily. If Barnabas had ever believed in angels, he would have imagined they would look something like the Emperor of Maretzia.
Sidriel’s eyes found Barnabas, and he approached him quietly. Cool, long fingers grabbed Barnabas’s chin and jerked his head upward. Barnabas stared into those cool blue eyes, and he felt himself tremble. There was something too powerful about that gaze. He tried to open his mouth, wanted to say something, ask questions, but it was as if his brain could no longer connect to the rest of his body. Sidriel, his face full of contempt, let go of him. Barnabas fell to the ground, gasping.
Sidriel turned around, and his gaze wondered over the rapturous crowd. He raised his arms for silence.
Silence fell immediately.
“My People.” His voice, both alluring and commanding, was also impossibly loud. It must have reached even the far corners of the amphitheatre. Sidriel revolved slowly on the spot as he addressed the crowd. “I believe an apology and an explanation are in order.” The crowd muttered in confusion. Wide eyes stared at the emperor.
“I am sure,” he said, “some of you have started to question me. You started to think I abandoned you, leaving the capital on the eve of the arrival of such strange Visitors.” Attention shifted. A few eyes fell to the prisoners before returning to Sidriel.
“And as I took an inordinately long time to crush the rebellion in Madalinda, I am sure some of you started to wonder if I was not as strong as you believed me to be.”
He scanned the audience, and some people in the crowd shook their heads vehemently. A few cries of “Never, My Lord!” permeated the amphitheatre. Sidriel smiled.
“And I apologize, for I have deceived you. My People, I tell you the truth: I have been in Melei-Argalla since the Visitors first arrived.”
Sho
cked whispers swept across the stadium. Barnabas felt something twist horribly in his stomach.
Sidriel continued, “Indeed, I have rarely left the palace. You see, My People, I desired to know more about these strange Visitors, to learn their true intentions. I could not gain such information as the Emperor of Maretzia. Deception was necessary. For the past two months, I have walked the halls of their suites, listened in on their conversations, and heard their private confessions.”
The crowd quieted for a moment, absorbing this. Then it roared its approval.
“And now,” Sidriel continued loudly, his voice clear and audible even above the roars, “such deception has borne fruit. I have discovered the true purpose behind their visit, and it was not the peaceful one they promised.”
The crowd grew louder, angry hisses filling the stadium.
“My dear People, these arrogant Visitors planned to destroy Maretzia. They wished to conquer this land. In the east one of their agents assumed the name of Gaidus Herpanteon”—the crowd’s roar was deafening, yet somehow Sidriel’s voice rose clearly above it—“who incited a rebellion against me. His head was delivered to me this morning.”
The crowd cheered.
“Furthermore, they have stirred up resentment among the slaves in the hope of destabilizing the empire. One of their agents, the merchant known as Riljin Marsus, will be executed in this arena tomorrow.”
The crowd roared again, and Sidriel held up his hands. Silence fell. “But today, My People, I bring you the blood of those who lied to Us, who lied to you, who walked the halls of my palace with murder on their minds. Among those prisoners to be executed today are the leaders of the Visitors. Their names, which will be recorded in the Books of Shame, are Barnabas and Darius. Their lives, their blood, belong to you.”
The crowd cheered, and Sidriel’s eyes found Barnabas again. He gave him one long, hard, cold look before sweeping away.
Up in the emperor’s tent, Marie backed away from the railing and sank into her golden chair, her heart pounding. Her fingers caressed the armrests as her eyes surveyed the arena in front of her. Sidriel had left the sands, as had most of the guards. Barnabas and Darius huddled against each other, and all of the rage Marie had felt against them faded into something akin to pity.
She lowered her eyes, and her thoughts turned to Sidriel and all she had learned about him. She should be feeling it again, that stomach-churning sense of betrayal. But though her pulse raced, she couldn’t bring herself to feel betrayed. Nervous? Yes. Embarassed? Incredibly. Betrayed? No, not really. If it was a betrayal, it was one she could understand.
The noblemen around her rose to their feet, clapping, and Marie slowly raised her eyes.
Max glided toward them, smiling at his cheering audience. The man to Marie’s right bowed low. “Welcome back, My Lord. Your presence is most welcome.”’
“Thank you, Lord Garbashin.” Max inclined his head. “It is good to be myself again.”
“Welcome back, My Lord. Welcome back.”
“Thank you, thank you,” murmured Max.
Marie hesitantly rose to her feet, and Max stopped in front of her. She met his gaze.
“So…you were Sidriel all along?”
Max’s lips curved into a smile. “Yes.”
Marie flushed inadvertently. She had confessed everything to Max. She had told Max things she had never told anyone. Personal things. She gazed at him questioningly, opening her mouth.
Max—no, Sidriel—placed his hand on her shoulder. “We will talk of this later.”
She nodded jerkily. Her mouth snapped shut. Sidriel stepped past her and sat in his chair. He raised his left hand, and the gates rattled. The crowd cheered. Marie heard the roaring and snarling and hissing of animals. She heard the men scream in terror.
She didn’t close her eyes this time, but she didn’t look at the arena either. She focused her gaze on Sidriel’s handsome face. It stayed impassive as the men screamed and as the screams ended. She swallowed.
At the end of it, Sidriel turned and faced her. “Let’s talk then, shall we?”