“Here, on the island of the Golden Serpent, when a man is no longer of any use he goes into the arena.”

Vargas Rey Morado, Chairman of the Purple order and First Vizier of the Island of the Golden Serpent announced this proudly to the erect Spartan Naval Officer who stood beside him.  Before and below them, crippled men and women, each one naked and painted a different color, were herded into the gladiator pit with its sand floor.  The Spartan remained unmoved.  Vargas Ray Morado continued.

“Even when the peasants are used up and can no longer work, they still have one thing left to give to us, their masters.  They have their lives, and so we take it for our amusement.  Such is the way of things on our island.  But you, Spartan as you are, are no stranger to life and death, and the spilling of blood, eh?”

Vargas Rey Morado was an enormous, fleshy man.  Bald on his head and hairy everywhere else, the sun gleamed off his bronze pate.  Gold jewelry adorned his neck, wrists and fingers.  He wore a billowing sort of purple toga, and high heeled sandals that made him prance as he walked.  He contrasted sharply with the man next to him.   Michael Visconti, Commander in the Spartan Navy and Captain of the frigate Youngblood, stood tall, lean, and ramrod straight.  His dark beard was well trimmed.  His high collared blue naval tunic was smooth and starched stiff.  The brass anchor insignia upon it gleamed.  From his belt hung a pistol and a dagger.  The dagger, long and sharp with an acorn hilt, was styled in the Medieval Italian fashion.  In Spartan culture, the soldiers carried bowie knives, but the sailors and naval officers carried dirks and daggers.

“We aren’t strangers to life and death, Vizier,” Visconti said.  His words had a stiffness to them that matched his uniform and posture.  “But we prefer opponents who can fight back.  All I see before me are cripples.  I count two who are blind.  What kind of fighting are they to do exactly?”

Vargas chuckled.   The Island of the Golden Serpent was a trade city, seaport far to the south of New Sparta and Gomorrah, even south of the Aztlan Empire.  As the First Vizier, he served as a kind of Secretary of State, escorting dignitaries from the far reaches of the new dystopian world.  Sly merchants from Kowloon, slavers from the Caliphate, tall redheaded explorers from Europa, the Earth Mother worshippers from Gomorrah.  And of course, the always armed and coffee craving men from New Sparta.  

“The purpose of these slaves is not to fight.  They are here simply to die.  It is amusement, captain, not sport.”  Vargas waved a plump finger at the center of the circular fighting pit.  Rising in rings around it were stadium seats.  Spread amongst the rising rings were semi-private booths like the one Vargas, Captain Visconti and their entourage occupied.  

“We paint the cripples different colors.  Blue for this one, red for that one, green for another.  This way the audience can place bets on who will be killed first, and who will be killed last.   The gambling adds to the amusement.”

Visconti’s flinty eyes moved across the pit.  There were about a dozen painted nakeds inside.  Two were blind.  Others limped about with lame legs.  One was missing an arm.  One lady, mumbling, ancient with hair the color of snow, searched about with wide eyes, clearly not aware of where she was.  Another younger man was painfully aware of his predicament.  Urine and feces ran down his legs.

A door built into the arena’s wall opened.  Two enormous men, dark skinned and restrained by heavy chains were led out.  Vargas gasped with delight.

“Ah yes.  We secured these slave-fighters just a few days ago from a slave trader from the Caliph.  They will do the killing.”  Vargas motioned.   A nearby slave girl holding a silver tray of skewered guinea pigs came forward.  Vargas snatched one up and sucked at the meat noisily.  Captain Visconti and his escort of armed blue jackets maintained their Spartan bearing.  Vargas tossed the half-eaten skewer on the floor.  A slave boy rushed forward to clean up after the Vizier.

“This is the off-season.  Normally the killing would be performed by champions from the Island’s ruling class; second, third or fourth born sons who are ineligible to inherit their family’s trade business.  Sometimes, we even allow bastard sons to become champions, but that is not so common.

“But, this is the off-season, and our knights must have their leisure time.  Today’s killing will be done by those slaves.  You can also make a wager as to which one gets the most kills.”  Visconti looked over the two dark skinned slaves.  Chains ran from opposite ends of the arena to steel collars around their necks, the length of chain would allow them to cover about half of the killing ground.  If one the naked targets moved out of the range of killer, he’d enter into the range of another.  Each killer was armed with what looked like a long handled framing hammer.

“If this is the off-season, when is the real season,” Visconti asked.  Vargas smiled politely but did not answer that particular question.

“As an incentive to perform, the one who gets the least amount of kills will be crippled themselves and thrown into the arena for amusement.” Vargas’s word came out tinkling and bubbling like water in a stream.  He was clearly proud of his island’s blood sport.  Visconti looked around the stadium seats.  They were at best a quarter full.

“Not many spectators.”

“This is but a matinee, Captain, and the afternoon is hot.  We of the Island of the Golden Serpent work hard and enjoy our afternoon naps.”

Visconti’s head rotated inside the high collar of the tunic.  He eyed Vargas’s fleshy frame.

“Indeed,” the Captain said stiffly.

“Would you care to make a wager, Captain?  I can arrange an open a line of credit for you.”

“Thank you, but no.  I’m not a gambling man,” Visconti said.  His words were polite, diplomatic, without a touch of coolness.  He had a mission.  Freeing slaves was not part of it.

“Vizier, while I find the tour interesting, I would like to attend to the matter of trade.  I apologize for the abruptness, but, as someone who has worked with New Spartans before, I’m sure you understand.”

“Yes, yes,” Vargas tittered.  “You want to fill your ships hold with your precious coffee and be gone.  You Spartans are always busy rushing back and forth on your missions.  You need to dedicate more time to leisure, to amusements and entertainment.  But, I suppose it is time to, ‘Do what needs to be done,’ as you like to say.  Come, let us retire to our trade house.”  Vargas clapped his hands twice.  His entourage of courtiers and slaves turned and followed him out of the both.  Captain Visconti’s armed escort followed him out as well.   Two very different parties, led by two very different men, all brought together by the circumstances of a world gone wrong.  

As they left a whistle went up marking the start of ‘the game,’ and then laughter and howls of delight as the crippled slaves were murdered one by one.

Looks like an interesting start.  Just a question, wanting to know if I missed anything, have there been any other stories in this "world" since "Spartan's Last March"?

I started another one but it was going nowhere.  This is the only other one.

Are you referring to the one with the Crown Prince in a fighting hole?  I was enjoying that one.

That said, I really hope you finish out Across the Scimitar.

Got up at 3am this morning to work on both.

That's the spirit Sharkman! You and I both are amid the writing season now!
Good to see you back mate!

I like this stories vibe, I like the glimpses of other worlds within it you present also...  
In fact though you haven't seen my current book being written it is quite similar with the gladiatorial aspect and the visiting outsiders as it were! :)

Interesting so far, more please.

The Island of the Golden Serpent was a small one.  It floated peacefully in the Pacific, belying the savagery of the many arenas scattered across it.  Ocean breezes made the climate much more enjoyable.  Not far away sat the mainland, where the dirty businesses of mining, farming, planting, and timber harvesting took place.  Because it was small, most travel on the island was done by foot.  So they walked along, Captain Visconti and his men observing while Vargas provided narration for the tour.

“The Island of the Golden Serpent is the most powerful, most wealthy, most noble of all the Golden Cities.  This paradise was built by our forefathers in the final days of The Protest, before the collapse the old era and the dawn of this new one.  The city’s founders were strong and powerful men who saw the chaos as an opportunity to rise to power, unconstrained by those quaint notions of the old age.  They foresaw the anarchy that would ensue when North America finally ripped herself apart.  So, they built this, a palace city to protect their bloodlines and their legacies.  A place where the strong could demonstrate their strength.  A place where those of noble lineage could remain insulated from an unfit world, and, unfit people. A place where those born to rule could take their rightful place above those born to be ruled.”

Captain Visconti looked about.  The island was rather grand, especially considering the present state of the world.  The buildings were new, but the architecture harkened back to that of the Spanish Colonial period.  Twin towers flanked facades of dark, intricately carved wood.  Down at the piers, where the Youngblood’s hold was being filled with coffee and other commodities, the infrastructure was well maintained.  Overseers with whips and thin swords oversaw the workings of gangs of enslaved longshoremen.  At a nearby stadium a ragged cheer rose up.

“More slaves being sent into the arena,” Visconti asked.   Vargas sighed.

“Alas, the work required to sustain this noble island city of ours is arduous.  Mining and timber harvesting on the mainland, running the farms and plantations which keep the noble class fed and provide excess to trade, like the coffee you Spartan’s so crave; they all require large amounts of slaves to run, and the work wears the slaves down.”

“That sounds like a terrible problem to have,” came a voice from the captain’s entourage.  Visconti turned his head sharply.  There, amongst the ranks of his blue jackets marched the culprit.  The ship’s junior officer, Ensign Charles Standing straightened.  The ensign wore a blue tunic trimmed in gold, and carried a pistol, submachine gun, and a five-balled naval dirk with an ivory handle.  He was tall with fair skin.  The young officer’s face was a mix of pride, defiance, and shame, and he braced himself for his Captain’s wrath.


“Indeed,” Vargas agreed, not catching the sarcasm.  “And those are just the slaves who work.  Then there are the babies who are born weak, the children who fail to thrive, the disobedient who resist their proper station in live, the diseased.  Underneath the city are slave pens, vast catacombs filled with those whose only value left is to provide an entertaining death.  In the month leading up to the prime season the pens will be filled to beyond their capacity.  Sometimes, to manage the herd, entire boatloads of slaves have to be taken out to sea and drowned.”   Vargas clucked his tongue.  “Such a waste.  Such a waste.”

“Vizier, I am told that during the prime season, people arrive from all over to view these entertainments?”

“Indeed captain.  Such contests are an issue of pride and honor in the land of the Golden Cities.  Dignitaries from each of the many cities will make the circuit, witnessing what the others have to offer, hoping to upstage their rival cities.  The actually deaths take many forms, from ritualistic mass executions, gladiatorial fights between men, or between men and beasts, mock battles fought between slave companies, follies where old women or malformed children fight to the death with spiked clubs or dull knives, historical reenactments of past slaughters…  The idea is always the same, to outdo the other cities in the pageantry, the showman ship, the extravagance and of course, the blood.”

“And people come from all over the world to see these events?”

“Yes. There have been delegations from Aztlan to the north, from the Caliphate, Kowloon…”

“What about Gomorrah?”

Vargas stopped his prancing walk and flashed a knowing smile at the naval officer.  

“Come, captain.  Let’s go to my office.  There we can further discuss trade between our two great and noble nations.

“We can speak freely about what it is we are truly after.”

Awesome.   Thank you!

glad to see this is going somewhere...

Nice.

Very good so far. I'm looking forward to updates.

Very interesting!

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