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idolized fighters. He needs a bodyguard, too. Plots are constantly being
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fomented around court. The great families fawn on Ilya but would like to seize
the throne for themselves. Avoid the court, boy: It's peopled with predators
and parasites. A nice, clean death in the arena is infinitely preferable."
As he lay on his recliner in the ship that was bearing him toward
Augusta, the old man's words went through Parma's mind. He was caught between
dread and anticipation. He might be noticed in the games, become a favorite of
the consul. That was deadly in its way, but it was the path to wealth and
freedom. He was not quite sure what he would do with freedom, but when it came
he would grasp it. Freedom was what he desired above all else. He had once
been satisfied with the abundant food and comforts of the training school, but
in the past year, something had happened in his consciousness. He felt the
vague, restless stirrings of an ambition he could not name.
He knew that he could not return to Thrax. To the tribe, he would be as
foreign as any offworlder, and now that life would be as boring to him as any
he could imagine. He realized suddenly that he was doing himself little good
in speculating about the future. He had little chance of surviving his first
fight. He closed his eyes and slept.
From the port of Augusta, Parma and his companions were taken by transport
vehicles to a training school near the palace and adjoining the great stadium.
Looking curiously out through the windows of the transport, Parma saw a city
much like Ludus: dingy, dilapidated, and full of sullen people.
The scene was livened up by a great many ancient monuments and fine fountains,
some of which still worked, but the general air was one of decay.
The environs of the palace were another story. Within the walls of the
compound surrounding the miles-square palace area, all was spotless and
glittering. There was hardly a structure not made of some precious wood or
marble, and the roofs shone with an overlay of silver and gold leaf. In the
training school to which they were conducted, Parma goggled at the silken
hangings, crystal goblets, and golden tableware, sniffed incense, and blinked
when he was conducted to an incredibly luxurious suite of rooms,
which was to be his for the duration of the games.
"You shall live like a king here, sir," said an attendant, "for a while,
anyway." Everywhere there were slaves in neck rings: valets to take care of
their wants; cooks, waiters; beautiful boys and girls for their amusement;
musicians; porters; and all these to wait on men who were themselves the
lowest of slaves.
No expense was spared to keep the fighters for the consul's birthday games
happy and fit. For several days they practiced in gymnasia full of
sophisticated equipment to sharpen up skill and timing. Each evening they were
entertained at lavish banquets, where they were served the rarest foods,
beverages, and drugs. Physicians were always in attendance to make sure that
they suffered no overindulgences that might affect their performance in the
fights.
Touring the palace one day, Parma saw his first constructs, creatures manlike
in form but eight feet tall and having four arms, the fingers of each hand
terminating in two-inch bronze spikes. There were a pair of them flanking the
doorway to the consul's residence. The next time Parma saw Marius, he asked
him a question that had been bothering him.
"If those things are so frightful, why don't the crowds watch them fight
instead of men?"
"A number of reasons: First, because it's just not as much fun to watch an
artificial construct suffer and die as it is to watch a man. They do fight in
the public shows, but then they're classified as fighting animals. You see,
human sadism is a complex thing, and it calls for a good deal of subjective
identification. The spectator wants to share vicariously the pain and defeat
of the victim as well as the triumph of the victor. They can't feel that for a
being that just doesn't have human feelings."
"By the way, those guards you saw aren't the true warrior type. They're just
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for show. Basic human flesh, bone, and tissue are used in making the
constructs, and they've never been able to make them much more than seven feet
tall without losing all coordination. The nervous system just isn't up to it.
Those you saw will be as tame as tabby cats. The real warriors generally have
horn carapaces over their vitals, and they can have fangs, claws, horns, or
just about any other armaments you can make out of protoplasm, but they're
never so overspecialized that they can't use weapons. Excessively long claws
get in the way of trigger handling. Being
sexless, they miss out on a lot of human motivation, and most of what they do
have is ferocity and bloodthirstiness."
One evening, the consul himself came to attend one of the banquets.
Parma observed him closely, and did not like what he saw. The young man was of
medium height, very well built, from his years of attending and practicing in
the training schools, but his face was weak and dissipated.
The marks of drink and drugs showed that he indulged in these pleasures far
more than any man whose life depended upon keeping his alertness and reflexes.
For all that, the consul liked to fancy himself a fighting man, and in the
days after the banquet he often showed up at practice sessions, sometimes
throwing off his trailing robe, snatching up a helmet, shield, and sword, and
sparring with the fighters. His every move was lavishly praised by the cloud
of sycophants who surrounded him like a bad odor over spoiled fish.
Parma found him fairly skillful but lacking the split-second timing of the
true fighter, and the consul lacked the ability to plan a complex attack and
defense pattern several moves ahead, relying on inspiration rather than
calculation. He was not very inspired. Parma carefully kept his opinions to
himself, making sure not to give the consul too stiff a fight when he was
chosen to spar with the dangerously vain monarch.
Instead, after each bout, he complimented the consul politely on his skill and
tactfully pointed out how he could improve his fight. The consul seemed to
find this a pleasant change from the heavy flattery of the others.
"What's your name, gladiatory?" asked the consul, using the ancient title of
the games fighters. "Ah, well, then, Parma of Thrax, we shall take great
interest in seeing how you perform in our birthday games, and if you
distinguish yourself greatly, we may decide to add you to our private family."
By this, Parma understood that he meant his personal troop of fighters.
Once again, Parma felt that strange mixture of elation and dread.
At the gate of the palace enclosure. Miles waited for Capelli's vehicle to
arrive. To while away the time, the priest studied the two constructs
guarding the gateway. They were, he decided, the most bizarre specimens he had
ever seen.
One was covered with striped fur and had bull horns, with a pair of eight-foot
tentacles in place of arms. The other looked like a crab standing on its hind
legs, with two pairs of nipper-ended arms. Miles recognized them for what they
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