There was no time to think about it. Thumbs were suddenly seeking for his eyes. He twisted. Those parts of the body that were soft and tender, and that, in fair sport, would be avoided, must now be protected at all costs; his opponent was willing to tear, rip and gouge. And Damen’s body, otherwise hard and smooth, was newly vulnerable where it was bruised. The man he fought knew it. The pounding blows Damen suffered were all brutally aimed to land on old hurts. His opponent was vicious and formidable, and he had been instructed to do damage.
Despite all this, the first advantage was Damen’s. Outweighed and fighting that strange dizziness, skill still counted for something. He gained a hold on the man, but when he tried to call on his strength to finish things, he found instead unsteady weakness. The air was suddenly expelled from his lungs after a driving blow to his diaphragm. The man had broken his hold.
He found new leverage. He bore down with all his weight on the man’s body and felt him shudder. It took more out of him than it should have. The man’s muscles bunched under him, and this time when the hold was broken Damen felt a burst of pain in his shoulder. He heard his breath go uneven.
Something was wrong. The weakness he felt was not natural. As another wave of dizziness passed over him, he thought suddenly of the over-sweet smell in the baths . . . the incense in the brazier . . . a drug, he realised as his breath heaved. He had inhaled some sort of drug. Not just inhaled, had stewed in it. Nothing had been left to chance. Laurent had acted to make the outcome of this fight certain.
A sudden renewed onslaught came and he staggered. It took too long to regain himself. He grappled ineffectually; for a few moments neither man could sustain a grip. Sweat on the man’s body glistened, making purchase more difficult. Damen’s own body had been slightly oiled; the scented slave preparation gave him an ironic, unlooked for advantage, momentarily protecting his virtue. He thought it was not the moment for stricken laughter. He felt the man’s warm breath against his neck.
In the next second he was on his back, pinned, blackness threatening the edge of his vision as the man applied a crushing pressure against his windpipe, above the gold collar. He felt the push of the man against him. The sound of the crowd surged. The man was trying to mount.
Thrusting against Damen, his breath now coming in soft grunts. Damen struggled to no avail, not strong enough to break this hold. His thighs were forced apart. No. He sought desperately for some weakness that could be exploited, and found none.
Goal in his sights, the man’s attention split between restraint and penetration.
Damen flung the last of his strength at the hold, and felt it quaver—enough to shift their positions slightly—enough to find leverage—an arm freed—
He drove his fist sideways, so that the heavy gold cuff on his wrist slammed hard into the man’s temple, with the sick sound of an iron bar impacting on flesh and bone. A moment later, Damen followed up, perhaps unnecessarily, with his right fist, and smashed his stunned, swaying opponent into the dirt.
He fell, heavy flesh collapsing, partially across Damen.
Damen somehow pushed away, instinctively inserting distance between himself and the prone man. He coughed, his throat tender. When he found that he had air, he began the slow process of rising to his knees and from there to his feet. Rape was out of the question. The little spectacle with the blond pet had been all performance. Even these jaded courtiers did not expect him to fuck a man who was unconscious.
Except that he could feel, now, the displeasure of the crowd. No one wanted to see an Akielon triumph over a Veretian. Least of all Laurent. The words of Councillor Guion came back to him, almost crazily.
It’s in poor taste.
It was not over. It was not enough to fight through a drug haze and win. There was no way to win. It was already clear that the Regent’s diktats did not extend to the entertainments in the ring. And whatever now happened to Damen would happen with the crowd’s approbation.
He knew what he had to do. Against every rebelling instinct, he forced himself forward, and dropped to his knees before Laurent.
‘I fight in your service, Your Highness.’ He searched his memory for Radel’s words, and found them. ‘I exist only to please my Prince. May my victory reflect on your glory.’
He knew better than to look up. He spoke as clearly as he could, his words for the onlookers as much as they were for Laurent. He tried to look as deferential as possible. Exhausted and on his knees, he thought that wasn’t difficult. If someone hit him right now, he’d fall over.
Laurent extended his right leg slightly, the tip of his well-turned boot presenting itself to Damen.
‘Kiss it,’ Laurent said.
Damen’s whole body reacted against that idea. His stomach heaved; his heart, in the cage of his chest, was pounding. One public humiliation substituted for another. But it was easier to kiss a foot than be raped in front of a crowd . . . wasn’t it? Damen bent his head and pressed his lips to the smooth leather. He forced himself to do it with unhurried respect, as a vassal might kiss the ring of a liege lord. He kissed just the curve of the toe tip. In Akielos an eager slave might have continued upward, kissing the arch of Laurent’s foot, or, if they were daring, higher, his firm calf muscle.
He heard Councillor Guion: ‘You’ve worked miracles. That slave was completely unmanageable aboard the ship.’
‘Every dog can be brought to heel,’ said Laurent.
‘Magnificent!’ A smooth, cultured voice, one Damen didn’t know.
‘Councillor Audin,’ said Laurent.
Damen recognised the older man he had glimpsed in the audience earlier. The one who had sat with his son, or nephew. His clothing, though it was dark like Laurent’s, was very fine. Not, of course, as fine as a prince’s. But close to it.
‘What a victory! Your slave deserves a reward. Let me offer one to him.’
‘A reward.’ Laurent, flatly.
‘A fight like that—truly magnificent—but with no climax—allow me to offer him a pet, in place of his intended conquest. I think,’ said Audin, ‘that we are all eager to see him
really
perform.’
Damen’s gaze swung around to the pet.
It was not over.
Perform
, he thought, and felt sick.
The young boy was not the man’s son. He was a pet, not yet adolescent, with thin limbs and his growth spurt still far in his future. It was obvious that he was petrified of Damen. The little barrel of his chest was rising and falling rapidly. He was, at the oldest, fourteen. He looked more like twelve.
Damen saw his chances of returning to Akielos gutter and die like candle flame, and all the doors to freedom close. Obey. Play by the rules. Kiss the Prince’s shoe. Jump through his hoops. He had really thought he would be able to do that.
He gathered the last of his strength to himself and said: ‘Do whatever you want to me. I’m not going to rape a child.’
Laurent’s expression flickered.
Objection came from an unexpected quarter. ‘I’m not a child.’ Sulkily. But when Damen looked incredulously at him, the boy promptly went white and looked terrified.
Laurent was looking from Damen to the boy and back again. Frowning as if something didn’t make sense. Or wasn’t going his way.
‘Why not?’ he said, abruptly.
‘
Why not?
’ said Damen. ‘
I don’t share your craven habit of hitting only those who cannot hit back, and take no pleasure in hurting those weaker than myself.
’ Driven past reason, the words came out in his own language.
Laurent, who could speak his language, stared back at him, and Damen met his eyes and did not regret his words, feeling nothing but loathing.
‘Your Highness?’ said Audin, confused.
Laurent turned to him eventually. ‘The slave is saying that if you want the pet unconscious, split in half, or dead of fright, then you will need to make other arrangements. He declines his services.’
He pushed up out of the box seat and Damen was almost driven backwards as Laurent strode past, ignoring his slave. Damen heard him say to one of the servants: ‘Have my horse brought to the north courtyard. I’m going for a ride.’
And then it was over—finally, and unexpectedly—it was somehow over. Audin frowned and departed. His pet trotted after him, after an indecipherable look at Damen.
As for Damen, he had no idea what had just happened. In the absence of other orders, his escort had him dressed and prepared to return to the harem. Looking around himself, he saw that the ring was now empty, though he hadn’t noticed whether the mercenary had been carried out, or had risen and walked out of his own accord. Across the ring was a thin trail of blood. A servant was on his knees mopping at it. Damen was being manoeuvred past a blur of faces. One of them was Lady Vannes who, unexpectedly, addressed him.
‘You look surprised . . . were you hoping to enjoy that boy after all? You had better get used to it. The Prince has a reputation for leaving pets unsatisfied.’ Her laughter, a low glissando, joined the sounds of voices and entertainment, as across the amphitheatre the courtiers returned, with almost no ripple of interruption, to their afternoon pastime.
B
EFORE THE BLINDFOLD
was fixed in place, Damen saw that the men returning him to his room were the same two men who, yesterday, had administered the beating. He didn’t know the taller one’s name, but he knew from overheard exchanges that the shorter was called Jord. Two men. It was the smallest escort of his imprisonment, but blindfolded and securely bound, not to mention worn out, he had no way to take advantage of it. The restraints were not taken off until he was once again back in his room, chained by the neck.
The men didn’t leave. Jord stood by while the taller man closed the door with himself and Jord on the inside. Damen’s first thought was that they had been told to deliver a repeat performance, but then he saw that they were lingering of their own accord, not under orders. That might be worse. He waited.
‘So you like a fight,’ said the taller man. Hearing the tone, Damen prepared himself for the fact that he might be facing another one. ‘How many men did it take to collar you in Akielos?’
‘More than two,’ said Damen.
It did not go down well. Not with the taller man, at any rate. Jord took his arm, holding him back.
‘Leave it,’ said Jord. ‘We’re not even supposed to be in here.’
Jord, although shorter, was also broader across the shoulders. There was a brief moment of resistance, before the taller man left the room. Jord remained, his own speculative attention now on Damen.
‘Thank you,’ said Damen, neutrally.
Jord looked back at him, obviously weighing up whether or not to speak. ‘I’m no friend of Govart,’ he said finally. Damen thought at first that ‘Govart’ was the other guard, but he learned otherwise when Jord said, ‘You must have a death wish to knock out the Regent’s favourite thug.’
‘. . . the Regent’s what?’ said Damen, feeling his stomach sink.
‘Govart. He was thrown out of the King’s Guard for being a real son of a bitch. The Regent keeps him around. No idea how the Prince got him in the ring, but that one would do anything to piss off his uncle.’ And then, seeing Damen’s expression: ‘What, you didn’t know who he was?’
No. He hadn’t known. Damen’s understanding of Laurent rearranged itself, in order that he might despise him more accurately. Apparently—in case a miracle happened and his drugged slave managed to win the ring fight—Laurent had arranged for himself a consolation prize. Damen had unwittingly earned himself a new enemy. Govart. Not only that, but beating Govart in the ring could be taken as a direct slight by the Regent. Laurent, selecting Damen’s opponent with precise malice, would, of course, have known that.
This was Vere, Damen reminded himself. Laurent might talk like he’d been raised on the floor of a brothel, but he had a Veretian courtier’s mind, used to deception and double dealing. And his petty plots were dangerous to someone as much in his power as Damen.
It was mid-morning the next day when Radel entered, here once again to see to Damen’s transport to the baths.
‘You were successful in the ring, and even paid the Prince a respectful obeisance. That is excellent. And I see you haven’t struck anyone all morning, well done,’ Radel said.
Damen digested this compliment. He said, ‘What was the drug you doused me with before the fight?’
‘There was no
drug
,’ said Radel, sounding a bit appalled.
‘There was something,’ said Damen. ‘You put it in the braziers.’
‘That was
chalis
, a refined divertissement. There is nothing sinister about it. The Prince suggested that it might help you relax in the baths.’
‘And did the Prince also suggest the amount?’ said Damen.
‘Yes,’ said Radel. ‘More than the usual. Since you’re quite large. I wouldn’t have thought of that. He has a mind for details.’
‘Yes, I’m learning that,’ said Damen.
He thought that it would be the same as the previous day: that he was being taken to the baths to be prepared for some new grotesquery. But all that happened was that the handlers bathed him, returned him to his room, and brought him lunch on a platter. The bathing was more pleasant than it had been the day before. No
chalis
, no handling of intrusive intimacy, and he was given a luxurious body massage, his shoulder checked for any sign of strain or injury, his lingering bruises treated very gently.