Before I take them to the Dance Floor, I roll off the rules. “You are about to perform as combatants of the Arena. This means you will simulate battle, not do it for real. You are supposed to defeat your opponents, not kill them for real. Accidents and unintentional hits are unavoidable. What I do not approve is intentionally hurting a fallen opponent.”

  I pause for a breath, give them all a long look while I do it. “I will be watching the whole fight unfold from my berth. If I see any of you being unnecessarily brutal, I take the expense for healers out of your pay.”

  “How will you see everyone?” the head bully asks. I look at him and give him my best grin. “If you think you’re able to cheat me at my own game, you are welcome to try.”

  I scan their faces, search for hidden intents of malice or mischief. Except the bully leader, most of them are too terrified to think what they might do to others. The Wend brothers are completely focused, their faces devoid of emotion. The only one that stands out is the old Legion veteran with a bizarre grin on his leathery face. Is this one too crazy to understand what I’m telling them?

  Reluctantly, my eye finds the beastling. It’s holding the greatsword upright, gripping it with both hands. In the poor light down here, its features look almost man-like. It displays no emotion or I just can’t read beastling faces.

  The front door of the Barracks opens and Balm walks in with his bag of tricks and four healers for company. Each carries a battlefield stretcher for transportation of wounded. Right on cue.

  “Fighting a melee is very different from the usual duelling we do here in the Arena,” I continue. “A melee is a rule-free engagement. If a fighter is not actively defending himself, he is considered dead. A fake kill also works, anything that clearly indicates that if the blow would have continued with a real weapon, it would be a mortal wound. Understood?”

  No one protests. I limp past them, away from the Barracks entrance.

  “Aren’t we going outside?” someone asks behind me.

  “No. You never go outside in your suits.”

  “Then how do we get inside the Arena?”

  “You follow me.” I beckon to Balm and his. “You too.”

  We cross to the opposite side of the Barracks where a large door yawns open, stairs leading into the ground. Wolf Team left it that way as they passed through. I descend into torchlight.

  I hobble along the low corridor. My citizen army, excited and terrified, shouts and scuffles behind me. I can feel the rage coming on again but manage to choke it down.

  “This stonework looks old,” Balm mutters, walking by my side. I can see him swallow hard, glancing around.

  I try to take his mind off it. “Ever heard of catacombs of Glyphios?”

  “An old story. Glyphios led a Katalian army deep into enemy territory and dug in on High Hill way before there was a city here. When he came under siege, he had tunnels built under the enemy's camp. One night he launched a surprise attack.”

  I sniff. “We’re in those tunnels now.”

  “You’re jesting!” Balm says. “But High Hill is miles away!”

  “When the ground was being prepared for the construction of the Arena,” I tell him, “these tunnels were uncovered. Instead of destroying them, they were incorporated into Arena’s architecture. They planned to build tunnels anyway to get fighters into it without meeting the crowds.”

  “So these corridors go out for miles?” Balm peers into the murky distance.

  “No. The portion that’s under the Arena was walled off from the rest of the system. No rats can come in if that’s what concerns you.”

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “It’s not the rats. I’m just not very fond of low ceilings.”

  We reach the fork. This is where each team takes their separate paths. Wolf Team went ahead of us. No doubt they are already prepared to enter the Dance Floor. I lead my citizen army to the left.

  We walk in silence for a while. The only sound is scuffling of feet behind me. Everyone has gone quiet, uneasy by the environs.

  “If half of what they say of Glyphios is true,” Balm says, “he was batshit insane.” Trying to keep his mind off the low ceilings.

  “And that's why he was always three steps ahead of his enemies,” I say.

  “Most people agree that his son surpassed him as a tactical genius.”

  “Glyphios fought to defeat his enemies, force them to surrender or retreat,” I say, recalling the history books. “Ankylos wanted to wipe them out.”

  At last we reach the gathering platform. This is the last moment to prepare before they emerge inside the Arena. I make a final check of the rookies’ suits; the regulars know how to button up by themselves.

  I stand in front of them, look into their agitated faces. It’s not life threatening yet they are afraid. A normal response but I can’t allow them to start panicking now. There is no time for long-winded speeches, so I resort to... complex motivational incitement.

  “Are you hungry?” I shout into their faces. They flinch and stare at me as if I’ve gone mad. “Are you hungry?” I shout again. This time the regular troops among them realize what I’m doing. They roar in response and the citizen army follows suit, some more full heartedly than others. “Then get out there and let me see some bruises!”

  Bloodlust is a tricky thing. You can never know how long it will last but there’s one thing about it you can always rely on: it’s more contagious than the plague.

  The mob charges past me and runs along the ascending tunnel that leads to the entrance. The beastling is the last; the big buffoon has to duck its head so as not to hit the low ceiling.

  “Stay out of sight during the fight,” I tell Balm and his men. “When the melee moves on, you can run in and check on those that are out of the game.” I step closer to get his attention. “Make sure you don’t come into contact with the fight itself. I don’t want to send for another set of healers.”

  “We know how it works,” Balm says calmly.

  I return to the fork in the corridor and climb a narrow set of stairs to the Master’s Lounge, a fancy name for a narrow stone niche that overlooks the battlefield. It gives me a perfect view of the entire bowl-shaped arena and in particularly the Dance Floor.

  As expected, there isn’t much audience. I see two, maybe three hundred people, spread over thirty terraces of benches that could host thousands. Most of them seem old and ragged, coming for a tinge of nostalgia. I must be getting old.

  My eyesight is sharp enough over distance that I can read the big wager board on the opposite side of the Bowl. The odds seem to be close to 20 to 1 in favour of Wolf Team. Doesn’t surprise me. The world of gambling is a small one. It’s only been a few hours yet already word has spread that two thirds of Griffin Team was incapacitated. Anything I use instead of the regulars would not be able to defeat seasoned fighters from Wolf Team.

  I don’t care about the odds. I don’t care who leaves here with more money than they came with. All I want is for people to come to my Arena, pay entrance fee and come back tomorrow. And the day after.

  Before the fight starts, Rallus makes a speech. It’s a good one; the old snake still has his voice. I ignore most of what he says.

  The doors through which teams enter the Dance Floor were not made for epic charges. The batch of bullies still make an effort though. They come running out in the open, hollering like madmen. Maybe that’s what works on the city streets but it does not work in here. Others of the citizen army follow with more hesitation, glancing up and about. I know what troubles them. Looking up from down there, it appears as if the entire world is closing in around you. It can be a very daunting feeling; many trained men have trouble fighting the first few times because of this. I can’t imagine what it must be like for my citizen army.

  Wolf Team is nowhere to be seen. No doubt the bullies believe the racket they’re making demoralized them. What the Wolf Team is actually doing is ‘passing the tempo’.

  When a group emerges onto the Dance Floor, the narrow door forces them to enter one at a time. Contrary to the opinion of many civilians, proper troop deployment is a feat, one that takes time and space to execute properly. Because the entrances are as far away from each other as possible, the oval shape of the Arena grants fighters time to organize. ‘Passing the tempo’ means one team choses to give the other side additional time to emerge and deploy. In my days it was meant as a sign of respect for if one side did this and the other did not return the favour, it was as dishonourable as cheating. These days, ‘passing the tempo’ means one’s absolute confidence in victory.

  There’s also a more cunning side to it. The first group that enters has to deploy blindly, without any knowledge of the other team’s intentions yet it reveals their own strategy. It’s a risky gambit and it can bring defeat as fast as it can bring victory. If the first team takes the initiative decisively enough, the second team might not recover.

  Of course the bullies know none of this. It would take me days to explain all the tricks of the trade. In truth, I never gave my citizen army a chance to win. I might as well send them into the fray barehanded.