The priest grunted, unimpressed.
“The heretic’s followers are planning to make a march on the House of Cleansing during the execution. They’ve given up rescuing Ahtdeh—they know the arena will be well guarded. So they’re going to storm the House instead—kill the attendants, empty its prisoners in protest.”
Now Argeh was interested. His nostrils flared as he sniffed, trying to smell the truth inside the mask. “Where did you hear this?”
My Lord turned to look at Tevach. “My servant. Something frightened him last night. He confessed everything to me this morning.”
Argeh growled angrily and whispered orders in Sevace’s ear. My Lord made his way painfully back to his seat. He lowered himself into his chair and felt the Jew’s hand grip his arm. He put his own hand over Aharon’s to feel its warmth. Within minutes, the troops in the arena had filed out to go protect the House of Cleansing, leaving fewer than three dozen guards. My Lord watched for the crowd’s reaction. He saw several Fiore stand and stare after the guards, saw others whisper menacingly. Could Argeh really not see it?
But Argeh wasn’t watching. Sevace had returned to the box and the two of them were whispering together.
The mind-numbing rituals of the previous days of Festival were thankfully missing on this day. There was only another long exhortation from Argeh. Like any evangelist, he could not resist the opportunity to drum his own obsessions into a packed house. My Lord prayed it would end quickly. He eyed the entrances on the arena floor with trepidation. If the guards returned too soon and said they’d found no attack on the House of Cleansing… Argeh droned on.
Finally, just when My Lord was considering acting before the speech ended, it did end. Argeh raised his arms. There was a mild round of staff thumping in the arena. As he dropped his paws, Argeh gave the order: “Bring in the heretics!”
Down below, the ragged, bloody group emerged from the prisoners’ arch, herded by guards. They had spent days in the House of Cleansing, and they were a pitiable sight. Even Ahtdeh himself—his head was bowed and stiff with gore. Argeh’s priests had lavished much loving care on him.
The crowd collectively held its breath, growing far too quiet for a group of Fiore of this size. Around the arena, several Fiore rose to their feet, then several more. It was so still you could hear the armor of the guards clinking as they moved the shuffling prisoners forward.
Argeh looked nervous. He picked up the scroll of the condemned self-consciously and scanned it. My Lord could see his mind working, recalculating his strategy.
“First prisoner! Ahtdeh, son of Hehchah, charged with heresy against Mahava and blasphemy toward our beloved My Lord.”
Beloved My Lord. Argeh was frightened. And he had changed the order of execution. Normally, he would have saved the big fish for last.
Aharon tightened his grip on My Lord’s arm. “Can we do something?” he whispered.
“Shhhh,” My Lord said.
The guards untied Ahtdeh from the other prisoners and began to lead him—half dragging the weakened body—across the arena to the hechkih. My Lord’s eyes flickered to Sevace. He stood just behind the high priest, hand poised on the handle of his curved blade, eyes intently scanning the arena. But he was looking for trouble in the wrong direction. Argeh, hands stiff on the lip of the box, was leaning forward, watching the ritual.
My Lord was sweating. It was always freezing on Fiori, but the smooth interior of the mask was misted with perspiration. His head was spinning, yet at the same time he had a remarkable clarity. He felt as if all time and all meaning in his life had swirled together and condensed in this one black hole of a moment. He forced his palms against the arms of his chair and rose again, oblivious to the pain in his knees. He turned, one last time, to gaze upon that human face, upon the beard, the eyes, of a Jew. Aharon felt the gaze, returned it wordlessly but with a profound acceptance that touched My Lord’s soul. Still all was silent.
As he had done earlier, My Lord took the few steps across the aisle toward Argeh, his feet pressing hard against the smooth, polished stone. As then, his left foot descended the single stair between them and his left hand went to the back of Argeh’s chair to steady himself, to support his knees. Argeh was still cupped toward the arena, his head at the level of My Lord’s waist. Four feet from My Lord, Sevace turned, recoiling for a fraction of a moment at My Lord’s presence.
My Lord removed from the pocket of his robe the dagger Sevace had dropped at Tevach’s side that morning. His hand, cold and numb, did not feel like his own. He pulled the dagger from his robe and plunged it into the center of Argeh’s back with a mighty thrust. My Lord’s arms were strong from bearing the weight of this world. The dagger went in to the hilt.
The arena was amazingly silent. My Lord felt suspended in time and space until Argeh, expelling his dying breath, arched his back around the knife. Then he fell forward, tipping over the edge of the box and tumbling down to the arena floor. His body landed with a heavy thud and lay still.
There was a collective gasp from the crowd.
Kobinski, standing straddled between two steps, raised his bloody hand in the air, palm open.
“Free the prisoners!” he screamed.
For a moment there was nothing; then the multitude of Fiore stood on their feet, roaring hysterically. Kobinski saw concealed weapons appear from under robes, here, there, all over the arena. Others brandished their staffs, yelling. One group near the arena floor vaulted over the balustrade to face the startled guards.
“Yosef!” Aharon cried behind him.
As he turned his head toward the Jew, Kobinski felt a great burst of trembling joy. He felt as though the door of some horrible cell in which he’d been imprisoned had finally swung open, revealing light and warmth. And then he caught a glimpse of a stone blade swinging toward him from the left, heard the whoosh, felt the sharp and devastating impact as it cleaved his neck. His head was turning over and over through the air, over and over, and he could feel the movement of the wind against his hair, against his severed throat. The sound of Aharon screaming his name came through the screaming of all the Fiore and then both faded into the void.
The head landed on the arena floor, a few feet from Argeh’s dead body. On impact the mask that had belonged to the king of Gehenna dislodged and spun away, revealing the human face of Yosef Kobinski, eyes closed, expression peaceful.
The arena was in utter chaos. Aharon had watched in disbelief as Kobinski murdered Argeh. He’d watched Sevace, intimidated and stunned at first, recover and draw his terrible blade.
If Aharon had moved, if he’d had a weapon, if he’d been fast enough… But he hadn’t.
He was still staring in horror at Kobinski’s headless corpse as Tevach shoved him.
“Go! Get out!” Tevach yelled. The massively built servant had a blade of his own in one hand. He gave Aharon another shove, then gave up on him, throwing himself over the side of the box and pushing through the milling crowd toward the arena floor.
Aharon stood, dazed. Sevace took one step toward him, bloody sword in hand, then paused, suddenly fearful. He changed his mind, leaving Aharon and following Tevach down to join the melee, yelling a cry of pure rage. And still Aharon stood.
Blood ran down the steps behind him and soaked over the edges of his sandals—this made him move at last. He put up the hood on his cloak to hide his face and pulled his weight up the heavy steps by leveraging the backs of stone chairs. He made it out the rear door of the box.
The roaring from the arena intensified now that he was outside. A long, narrow flight of stone stairs led down to the street below. No railing guarded the edge. He saw a few Fiore running from the arena in terror, but none of them looked in his direction. He couldn’t take these stairs alone; it wasn’t possible. He would plunge over the edge and kill himself. But he took one step, then another, clinging to the smooth stone wall to his left. Somehow he made it to the bottom.