Chapter 162 - Six

XIV.

Israphiel gasped. "A serpent?"

The muck-dweller nodded in confirmation.

His visions of the past were absolute.

Still, Israphiel was doubtful. "But there are no serpents in the garden!" He cried. Not since--

"The humans have captured her," the muck-dweller continued. "They march her across a desert, they keep her in a cage. I see a gathering of them, and I see fire. Now, El is--" 

The muck-dweller grew silent, as his mouth fell open into a look of horror.

"Speak, abomination!" Israphiel ordered impatiently, grabbing him by his slimy, mud-coated shoulders and shaking him. "What else do you see?"

But time had run out.

Israphiel's attention was shifted to a biting cold tendril of frost, that had started steadily creeping up his leg. He glanced up at the dial suspended in the sky again, and saw that it was almost fully depleted.

"Curses," he spat. Unless he wanted to be left frozen in this dreadful swamp until the next solar cycle, he had no choice but to leave now.

But just as he spread his wings to fly, the muck-dweller rushed forward and grabbed him.

"I have seen what you are about to do, brother!"

" I will not allow it!"

Israphiel snarled. Now that he'd gotten what he wanted, he could dispense with the formalities and treat this wretched beast the way he ought to be treated.

"Unhand me at once, demon!"

With a kick he freed himself, and ascended into the sky.

The muck-dweller watched helplessly as he made it out through the portal. just before the rift was sealed. And as the bitter cold crept in, soon to encase him and his entire world again, the muck-dweller could only lament that he hadn't acted soon enough. That he was incapable of doing anything to change the fate he had foreseen.

"Brother...you call us the fallen ones," he mused to himself. "Yet out of us all, yours is the blackest soul."

With that, the ice fully reclaimed him. And as the rift Israphiel had come through became completely sealed, it took away the only source of light along with it.

Leaving behind only darkness, in the good angel's wake.

XV.

The Colosseum was a leftover relic of a bygone empire long since lost to the sands of time, after it was swallowed up in the tide of the Golden Ankh's conquest. An enormous, decayed, marble dome structure with no ceiling, that had only within the last century been restored to its former function. 

The Colosseum was a place to watch weak men struggle, and the best triumph.

Costumed in an old centurion's uniform and armed with a gladius and small shield, a lone gladiator attacked and parried and avoided his opponents' attacks with uncommon flair, ducking and rolling with perfected grace. A seasoned veteran of the arena, he knew that beyond besting his foes, it was more important to put on a spectacle. To drag the fight on for as long as you could, slowly wearing away at their will with glancing strikes before finishing them with a well-placed kick, or a heavy blow that sent them flying across the arena. Not dead, but somewhat disgraced.

And the crowd loved every bit of it. They cheered and chanted his name, as he claimed victory after victory: Gaius...Gaius...Gaius...!

The man, the legend known as Gaius the Unbreakable, never failed to impress. 

Tall and powerful, with a face and body like chiseled rock, his strength and image dwarfed other men. To do battle with him was considered a great honor, and throngs of people from far and wide would gather to watch.

That day, as he flawlessly bested foe after foe, he was sure to inspire even more tales.

All the while, in a private booth once reserved for emperors, a certain Ishtari nobleman sat upon a jeweled throne, watching the proceedings with a sly grin.

"I'd never actually seen him in the pit before," he said.

The manager of the Colosseum, knelt on the ground beside the noble, looked to him eagerly.

"Does it please you, Lord Saladin?"

Saladin leaned back in his throne seat, his red eyes taking on a devilish glare.

Gaius gestured to the crowd, summoning ever more praise as his latest opponent crawled away in defeat, nursing a wounded arm. Beads of sweat trickled down his face, as the sun above bore down on him in full force.

It won't be much longer, he reassured himself. 

There was a lot of money riding on whether he could make it to the final challenger, but it wasn't going to be easy.

Beneath his confident veneer, he knew that his body had forgotten the strain of being a gladiator. He could feel it in the sharp pains that erupted from his vital joints and muscles; a reminder that he'd reached a stage in his life where his body could no longer physically keep up with his iron will. 

At this rate, it would only be a matter of time until...

No, he quickly caught himself. 

He had to keep going. 

He had to win, for their sake.

Gauntlet matches only took place once a month, offering higher payouts for those that could stay in the ring the longest. But for Gaius, it was vital that he keep on winning to the very last man, as thoughts of those that depended on him gave him the strength to ignore his protesting bones and muscles, and persevere.

"Bring on...the next!" He cried triumphantly, holding up his sword and shield.

And the crowd went wild.

XVI.

In all, Gaius had bested fifty men in the Colosseum that day.

Once the final ceremony was concluded, to declare him 'champion' and all such pomp, the champion was then briskly ushered out the back entrance, so that the next showing for the afternoon could commence. Then after changing out of his costume into his regular, drab street clothes, he went to a shaded area behind the Colosseum where the manager was already waiting for him, with his earnings for the day.

"Another great show out there," the manager said. "Here's your cut, Hero."

He dropped the bag of coins into Gaius's outstretched palm, still quivering from the grueling gauntlet he'd just endured.

"Funny," he said. "It feels lighter than last month. Considerably lighter.

The Manager gave a shrug. 

"I don't know what to tell you, Hero..."

"I was killing myself out there for you, and this is how you choose to repay me?"

"It's out of my hands." The manager said. "I've always been good to you, but this time, it just wasn't my call. You have to believe me."

Gaius wouldn't tolerate another word.

As he walked away, the manager called out to him:

"Lord Saladin wanted to speak to you!"

Gaius froze. He gritted his teeth, a flash of anger rising up within him. His solemn face didn't show it, but his mind was reeling. He knew if that man really was involved, it could only mean bad news.

But why now all of a sudden? After all these years...

The streets outside of the Colosseum were empty. And quiet, except for the now distant-sounding cheers. 

Gaius found Saladin waiting in his carriage parked out front, being delicately fanned by his slave driver.

"It's been a while," The man called Saladin said, flashing a single gold tooth in his sly smile.

Gaius frowned. Not long enough, by a long shot.

There was no man quite like him in this world -- his hair was long and blood-soaked red, draping an uncommonly handsome face with a short, neatly combed beard, marred only by a jagged, dark scar that ran all across it from left temple to right jaw. It was his combination of looks, wit, and natural charisma, paired with a cutthroat ambition, that allowed him to rise from the status of a lowly commoner to the top of trade and commerce in the region. Nowadays, if anyone wanted to do business in Ishtar, it was on his terms, lest they face the wrath of his fabled secret network of assassins.

"I'm surprised you can still stand after all that," he said. 

"I don't think they pay you enough."

"Hm," Gaius grunted. "I've been through worse."

"Oh, come now. Can't we just forget about the past? And look toward a bright, new future?"

"That line won't work on me. I want for nothing more than I already have."

Saladin smiled, undeterred. He'd always known Gaius to be a simple man, and also knew this to be his greatest weakness.

"If not for your sake, then what of that cute family of yours, hmm?"

Gaius's eyes widened in latent anger. "How did you--"

"I have ways of finding out anything I need to know," he quickly replied; waving the question away as if it were a pesky desert fly. "I know all about those brats you've been looking after. You really are a hero, as the people say."

"Saladin," Gaius growled. "I swear it, if you so much as touch a hair on any of their heads..."

"Relax, old friend. I did not come all this way just to dole out petty threats."

He snapped his fingers, and the slave that was fanning him all the while immediately ceased, and jumped back into the driver's seat.

"Ride with me for a while, and hear my proposition."

Gaius eyed Saladin with suspicion. Every fiber of his being told him not to trust the man again. Not after their last experiences working together, when he'd finally revealed what his true colors were, beneath all that charm and swagger.

And yet, if there was anything Saladin had in abundance, it was money. Something Gaius needed.

"What am I getting myself into?"

Saladin smiled. Naturally, it was in that uniquely slimy, conniving way that Gaius remembered, even after all these years.

"Oh, the usual." He said.

"I just need to tie up some loose ends."