“Slave! Answer me when I’m talking to you, slave!”
Brought back from his dark memories only to refocus on his even darker reality, the warrior’s eyes came into focus and fell on the fat, hairy specimen standing before him. The monstrosity hovering over him appeared to be more beast than man. A large, bald head sat upon a pear-shaped body. That head seemed to be the only part of him that didn’t have hair, as thick, black, wiry fur covered every inch of this beast’s body. Black leather boots were the most functional clothing he seemed to be wearing. A thin black mawashi held up by one leather strap that looped around his right shoulder finished the comical attire. Not a battle scar of any kind could be seen on this mushy man’s body. Pushing around slaves was the closest this thing had ever gotten to real combat. Any man could see that. Morcel did not stand, but raised his head just enough to show he was listening. “It begins soon, so you better get ready. Pray to whatever it is you pray to and prepare yourself!” shrieked the mountain of flabby skin with eyes in a voice more fit for a boy than a man, especially a man of his size.
This time the warrior leapt up to his feet as he locked his eerie green eyes on the man. He never changed his expression or uttered a single word. Jumping out of his seat with an axe in both hands while screaming battle cries would not have had a stronger effect. The large man stumbled backwards and then quickly turned to rush from the chamber through the open wooden door. The large door slammed behind him, followed by the sound of a heavy bolt falling back into place, making a soft thud.
Few souls in the dark chamber even noticed the exchange, as each man was completely consumed within his own nightmarish thoughts—thoughts of upcoming pain that was almost always worse in one’s own mind than it ever was in reality. Morcel’s thoughts began to wonder again as he gazed around the chamber, which seemed to change constantly with the flickering torchlight that made shadows dance on the stone walls. His thoughts drifted to the quick mockery of a trial that he was given as to whether or not he was a traitor. The whole ordeal could only have ended one way, as Morcel was sold into slavery and would be forced to fight in the games.
This made the most sense in the justice system because it would take tax dollars to feed and care for the prisoner if he were jailed, and to execute him would turn no profit at all. This was pretty much the way of things with minor exceptions. Few people were ever put into a cell for any period of time. The few that found this fate were there for no longer than a week or two for mostly small crimes that were a very gray area and when no other fate could be justified. This was generally frowned upon because there was no profit to be had, and it fact it cost money. A public whipping was also a very legitimate option. However, the number of lashes would depend more on the governor’s mood or how much coin found its way into his pocket, rarely on the crime itself.
Most criminals were sent to the games and given the option of execution if they could not bear the idea of fighting in an arena. Almost no one took this option, but wished they had when the time came. A man’s own mind could be his worst enemy if he could not control the fear of the unknown.
The warrior had to admit he could not offer up much of a case as to why he should be spared from the games. He was a sword for hire that had not exactly earned his coin. Morcel had seen his share of death in his lifetime. Countless souls had been sent to the next life by his hand, but this had been different. He could not go through with the massacre. Soldiers knew their lives could end at any time and he had made peace with that reality long ago. The sheer innocence of regular townsfolk, whose only crime was being disliked by someone they had never met, was just too much for him to act on.