Chapter 3: Quentin Quintus

 

“What the hell was that?” Demetrius growled.

 

Enjoying his win was short-lived. Demetrius waited for the executioner at the ramp. His scowl was as deep as the executioner had ever seen it. Nevertheless, he immediately threw the executioner’s arm over his shoulder and helped him along. The wound on his thigh was long, but not deep. Dried blood kept it from bleeding more.

 

“A successful execution,” the executioner replied, limping down the tunnel.

 

“Successful in that you’re alive, and he’s dead, right?” Demetrius opened the door. They wiped their feet on the rug outside and stepped into the infirmary.

 

The infirmary was the only place in the Colosseum to escape the ever present dust and sand of the desert. Salim, the physician, kept his workplace immaculate. There wasn’t a spec of dust or dirt on the operating table or any of the beds in the back, hidden behind a paper screen. Oil lamps hanging from the ceiling kept the room brightly illuminated, and instilled a feeling of alertness. The physician himself was nowhere to be seen.

 

“Right. Successful in that they’re both dead, I’m here, and if this cut costs me a week I’ll be surprised.” The executioner undid his chinstrap.

 

Quentin Quintius pulled off the helmet.

 

“I’ve had worse than this.” He wiped the sweat from his brow. The world was still blurry and watery, but the worst of it was over. “Could you get me a waterskin?”

 

“Cut the shit, Quentin,” said Demetrius, getting a skin off the physician’s desk and bringing it over. “That was sloppy. You could’ve ended it any time. For fuck’s sakes, he wasn’t even looking at you when the fight started. You could’ve shanked his dumb ass in the first five seconds and danced away’!”

 

Quentin took the waterskin. He drank from it, then tilted his head back. He forced his eyes open and rinsed them out. He grit his teeth. Each second felt like an eternity. Eventually, the skin ran out. Quentin blinked slowly. Not perfect, but he could mostly see again.

 

“That would’ve been a boring end to the fight. Amicus wouldn’t live me down if there were two deaths without much of a spectacle. Besides, I could say the same for you,” Quentin scoffed. “You could’ve ended the fight with the new fish anytime.”

 

“I almos’ had him!” a slow, slurring voice said from one of the beds. Jonas raised up, eyes flickering around in a daze when they were even open. A bandage was wrapped around his head.

 

“That’s different and you know it,” said Demetrius. “He didn’t have a chance, but it was important to see how well he’d do.”

 

“Hey!”

 

“Lay down and try to get some rest, kid,” Demetrius growled in a way that struck Quentin as almost fatherly. Jonas eased himself back down to the bed with a muffled groan.

 

“When he does well, it’s gonna go somewhere.” Demetrius continued. “We’re going to put him out there and he’s going to put on a show. He’s gonna make some money, get injured somewhere along the line, and then settle down with one of his fans. Brag about his glory days to a house full of whiny brats. 

 

“What d’you think happens if one of the poor bastards they throw at you does well? Lemme think.” Demetrius put his finger on his chin. “Oh right. They kill you.”

 

Quentin didn’t respond at first. He looked away from Demetrius, and settled on the cut. Just under seven inches long. Each dull pulse of pain was somewhere in the background, barely noticed. He could almost forget it was there, if it wasn’t for the incessant itching.

 

“Demetrius, would you get me the suture kit?” Quentin pointed over to the shelves above the operating table.

 

He grunted and left. Quentin sighed. He set about removing his armor. The breastplate fell to the floor, followed by the leather skirt. He took his time with the arm and shin braces. Quentin was left in only his loincloth. Now that the fight was over, all of the previous doubts, guilt, and insecurities came back. He hated being exposed.

 

“You’re not wrong,” he said after Demetrius came back with a metal tray lined with tools and two bottles. Quentin grabbed the bottle. “Amicus wants them to fight back, and...I do too. It’s easier when they fight back.” He poured a brownish liquid over the wound. It stung, but it was better than getting an infection.

 

“Amicus would cream himself if you offered to torture them in front of the crowd,” Demetrius retorted, pacing around the room..

 

“...You’re not wrong,” Quentin repeated, laughing weakly. He grabbed a curved bone needle and the thread. “I don’t want to torture them, but I want a fight.” He threaded the needle.

 

“I’ll fight you,” Jonas slurred.

 

Demetrius sat down next to the fallen teen. “Sure thing, as soon as you’re rested up, kid.” He reached out to tousle Jonas’ hair, but thought better of it. “You might even win it, if Quintius continues to be an idiot and gives people chances to kill him.”

 

Quentin opened the other bottle. He poured out a thick, oily looking goop onto his wound. The itching and burning disappeared, replaced with a distant, freezing sensation. “Look. I know it’s dumb, it’s risky, it’s…”

 

“Suicidal?”

 

“Sure. But…” Quentin trailed off. He wasn’t used to having to explain or defend anything. Prisoners, he had authority over. Most people didn’t talk to him. This was, he decided, a problem entirely unique to dealing with Demetrius. He was saved from answering by the infirmary door opening.

 

His relief turned to unease when Amicus Brontes walked through the door. The owner of the Colosseum was a short, fat, pale man in the finest clothes money could buy. His curly brown hair was going grey and balding on top, leaving wild tufts along the sides. He had a big mouth and was famous for his massive, manic grins. Upon seeing Quentin, he frowned.

 

“What in the name of the gods were you thinking, Quintius?” Amicus rumbled, stopping a foot short. Quentin fought the urge to cover up his pale, nearly naked body.

 

“I, uh…” Quentin swallowed hard. “I…”

 

“Wasn’t thinking?” Amicus supplied with mock enthusiasm. “Didn’t care about the consequences of your actions? Please, please, please tell me what was going on in that pretty pale head of yours, Quentin. I’m dying to know.” He crossed his arms.

 

“I, uh,” Demetrius stepped out from behind the paper screen. “I was just talking with him about that, Amicus. I told him it was stupid to risk his life like --”

 

“Risk his life?” Amicus gaped. “Risk his LIFE?” He threw his head back and let out a booming, forced laugh. “That’s what he gets paid for, you idiot! I don’t give a damn about him risking his life. It would take nothing to find some jackass who loves money and killing to fill that role. No,” Amicus said, sneering, “I’m referring to the little visit.”

 

“Oh,” said Quentin.”

 

“Ohhhh,” Amicus echoed. “That rings a bell, does it? Care to explain?”

 

Quentin took a deep breath. No, Demetrius couldn’t save him from this one. The longer he went without acknowledging it, the worse it would be. He grabbed the needle and thread. “He’d...He’d been locked up alone for a month. It wasn’t right.”

 

Amicus flung the metal tray to the side. Quentin, Demetrius, and even Jonas flinched. He got close, finger thrust in Quentin’s face, but he still didn’t come close to touching him. “Who gives a shit? He was dying in an hour! You’re not here to make the prisoner’s lives better, or give them any fucking closure. Your job is to go out there and kill them. 

 

“What did you gain out of letting the man’s daughter see him? No no, better yet. What did I gain out of it?”

 

Quentin looked to Demetrius, who shrugged. Amicus stared him down, waiting. Past the irritation, Quentin could see a hint of glee, not unlike how he felt when going in for the kill. There was no clean way out of this.

 

“Well, your father,” Quentin started.

 

“Has been dead for five years now and is not the current topic of conversation,” said Amicus. “We’re talking about what you letting in a civilian to see her condemned father did for me.”

 

“Nothing,” said Quentin.

 

“Nothing,” Amicus echoed, nodding. “So tell me. Why should I keep you around if you risk security leaks on behalf of the prisoners? Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t sack you and find someone who will do your job the way I want it done.”

 

Because it’s a dangerous job and the only reason he had it was because they ran out of people willing to do it, Quentin wanted to say. Because they’d lost 6 executioners in the ten years before he started, and each one cost the colosseum greatly. Because even if Amicus hated him, the supreme arbiter appreciated stability and consistency. It was possible amicus could get him kicked out if he bitched enough, but it wasn’t likely. 

 

Quentin said none of these things.

 

Instead, he sighed and slumped. “Because,” said Quentin, “You get my pay for executing Horace. You’re right. I broke the rules and it was an unnecessary risk. It’s only fair you should be compensated for your patience. My court fee for Horace is yours.”

 

That did it. Amicus’ eyes glittered with greed. “Mm,” he said, nodding. “That’s...Acceptable. You get this warning. Do it again and it’ll be the Colosseum fee.” He grinned, showing crooked teeth.

 

Quentin grit his teeth. “How about a compromise? I’ll keep you informed, but for the prisoners who deserve to be able to say goodbye one last time, we let them and you take my court fee.”

 

Amicus thought about it. His grin widened. “I’ll tell you what. In your next execution, give the audience something to really cheer about. Dismember the poor bastard, cut off their head, stab them a few times and draw it out. Give us a proper show, and you can have your last goodbyes. That second execution, with the guy from Finsk…”

 

“Antonio,” Quentin sighed.

 

“Whatever. That was a good start. Go a bit further next time, and I’ll consider it.” Amicus’s booming laughter filled the room, lingering even after he left.

 

No sooner had the door closed before Jonas lurched to a sitting position. His eyes swirled in and out of focus, settling on the door. “That guy’sss a real dick,” he slurred.

 

“Well said, kid,”  Demetrius clasped the teen’s shoulder. “So, about you being satisfied with that execution…”

 

Quentin buried his face in his hands. “Fuck you,” he groaned

 

“You’re not my type,” Demetrius snorted. “Even if you don’t care about your life, what the hell was the end of that fight? You didn’t fight him like a gladiator, Quentin. You fought him like an inhuman pit dog. Do you want to be a pit dog again, Quentin?”

 

He shook his head. That was years ago, and he was better than that now. He was no longer the scared, angry kid who was willing to throw himself into a fight for the spare shards they tossed his way. 

 

“No,” Quentin said softly. “But it let me live. You just said you didn’t want me to die, brother. Would you rather me die or be a pit dog?”

 

Demetrius scowled. “Neither, preferably. Those aren’t the only two choices. You…” Demetrius paused. It was rare to see him mull over his words carefully instead of letting them tumble out like a rockslide, heedless of who was about to get crushed.

 

“I’ve been at the Colosseum for close to forty years,” he said. “In that time, I’ve seen eleven different executioners, includin’ you. Out of ‘em, two were decent enough men who did their jobs quietly’n honorably. Six of them were sloppy shitshows that got themselves killed bein’ fools in the arena, and three of them were cruel and stupid and ended up dead outside of here. But you’re the only one who’d let a daughter in to say goodbye to her father.” Demetrius tugged on Jonas’ arm until he was upright.

 

“What do you mean?” asked Quentin.

 

Demetrius shrugged. “Dunno. You’re not a pit dog. You’re not any of the guys who came before you, either. You’ve lasted longer’n most of ‘em, but...Maybe you’re too good for this job, and seeing you go ballistic on a guy and beat him almost all the way to death makes me worry.”

 

“Worry,” Quentin scoffed, staring down at the floor. Anything to avoid meeting Demetrius’ eyes.

 

“Yeah, worry. I try’n look out for all the dumbasses under my wing. You may be the star of the show, but that doesn’t make you any less of a dumbass. C’mon kid,” Demetrius tugged on Jonas’ arm. “Let’s get you out of here.”

 

Jonas fell to his feet. He wobbled but remained upright. The next step, he faltered but Demetrius caught him and helped him stay up. The trainer sighed, but was smiling. Slowly, they made their way to the door. Demetrius’ hand was on the handle when Jonas stopped them, looking over his shoulder.

 

“Oh yeah. Hey! Quentin! The guyss were gonna buy me a drink. Celebratin’ my first…” His eyes unfocused for a second. “First fight! You wanna come? It’ll be great.”

 

Quentin grimaced. He looked over to Demetrius, who wore a similar expression. He shook his head at the executioner. Quentin nodded. “That’s really...Great of you to offer, kid. Maybe another time.”

 

“Oh come on! We’ll wait until…” Jonas gestured at Quentin’s leg. “No problem! You belong with us, yeah?”

 

Demetrius tugged on the teen’s arm. “He’s not much of a drinker. C’mon. We’ll get you a beer or two, and then get you home. Before your brains leak out your ears.” He flashed an apologetic half smile at Quentin, and dragged Jonas along. Finally, Quentin was alone.

 

He let out a long, frustrated sigh. Getting a drink with fellow gladiators would’ve been fantastic. Back when he’d worked in this very room, he occasionally got away with joining them for drinks when the Colosseum closed. That was ten, nearly eleven years ago. He didn’t think about it often. It was easier to forget and move on, when being ignored was the status quo. Jonas seemed like a good kid, and Quentin almost hated him for not knowing how things worked around there. In a few months, he probably wouldn’t speak to Quentin either.

 

Quentin bent over and scooped the needle and thread from the floor. Briefly, he considered limping over to get new ones, but decided against it. Salim kept the infirmary obsessively clean. The floor was good enough to eat off of. He smiled at the reaming he’d get if Salim knew, and threaded the needle. He pressed his finger close to the wound. The flesh was still good and numb, and would be for at least another hour. It was good enough.

 

Pressing the needle through his flesh was something that had once been disconcerting. There was no pain, but he could feel the pressure as he pushed it through first one bit of skin, then the next. He pulled, and the thread pulled his skin back together. That part, oddly enough, tickled. When Quentin first worked on himself, he nearly passed out from the shock of it. Now, it was almost comforting.

 

Methodical. It was nice, putting something back together. Healing, instead of killing. Each push of the needle and pull of the thread smoothed over the damage. In a week or two, it would only be a scar. A year or two from now, maybe not even that, with how quickly he healed. The same went for the executions. A few people would talk about tonight for a week, maybe two, and then it would fade away.

 

No one in Orchrisus would remember Antonio Brechen. Would his traveling companions? Did he have family back in Finsk who would wonder why he didn’t come home? People would remember Horace Secundes, but with any luck they would leave his daughter alone.

 

The stitches were nearly done when the door opened once more. Quentin looked up to see the physician, finally there. The lanky, dark skinned Ramali man had a stub of a cigar hanging out of his mouth. He took one last puff and dropped it on the floor before coming into his infirmary. He exhaled the smoke, and grunted at Quentin.

 

“Couldn’t wait until I got here, Butcher?” Salim asked. His raspy voice was neutral, almost bored.

 

Quentin frowned. “I’ve asked you not to call me that.” He looked back down at his leg and continued stitching. “You weren’t here, and it hurt. I figured I could do it myself, so I did.”

 

Salim walked over to Quentin and knelt. He put his hand on Quentin’s leg as he inspected the job so far. His dark skin made Quentin’s pallor all the more stark in comparison. “You’ve used too much numbing gel,” he said.

 

“I probably missed the beetle carts, so I’m going to have to walk home. I didn’t want to be in agony the entire time. Could’ve used less gel if you were here to patch me up sooner.” Quentin didn’t bother to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

 

“Yes. I had a corpse to stitch up and make pretty. I seem to recall you asking me to do so, so that his daughter would not receive a corpse with a big red smile. Should I have not?” Salim looked up at Quentin.

 

Quentin flinched. “No,” he said. Lucia would have her father back, and he could be properly sent off. “Thank you,” he added. He held up the needle.

 

Salim shook his head, almost smiling. “No. You’re doing a fine job of it yourself. Finish what you started, Butcher.”

 

Frowning, he went back to work. It was harder with the physician hovering over the wound. It was on purpose, Quentin knew. It was a reminder, the same one he got every time he had to be patched up. Quentin did his best to ignore him and finished the last three stitches and tied it off. He put the needle down and put his hands up.

 

Salim looked at it silently, then nodded. “Clean. Not too tight, or loose. Your base knot is shit though. Overall, passable.” He got up and got a rag, wetted it, shears, and came back. He cut the suture at the end, and wiped away the blood with a wet cloth. He nodded again, and stood up. “You were a good assistant. You could’ve made a good surgeon.”

 

“If I didn’t choose to become a killer, you mean.”

 

He got an affirmative grunt in response. “What we choose defines us.”

 

Quentin reddened. “I’m good at this,” he said. “Are you going to do this every time I come in here?”

 

Salim sniffed. “A healer makes a vow to hurt no one. Kill no one. At the first opportunity, you abandoned that.”

 

“I wasn’t a healer yet,” Quentin protested. “I was just an assistant. I made no vows.”

 

“I taught you what I knew. Kept you out of prison or slavery.” Salim, apparently, wasn’t done. Not once did his voice raise or change in tone. He sounded permanently detached. “In return, you traded healing for fighting behind that mask. Instead of harming no one, you’ve killed...How many now, Butcher?”

 

“So we’re doing this,” Quentin sighed, fingers digging into the bed. “What do you want from me, Salim? What would you have me do instead? Everyone else seems to have an opinion tonight. I’m all ears.”

 

Salim turned away from Quentin. “Clean up when you’re done.” He said, nudging the fallen armor with his foot. Then he too left Quentin alone with his thoughts.

 

Before the executions, he hesitated. During, he was strong, feared, loved, and every second of fighting for his life reminded him that he was, in fact, alive. Afterwards, it always came crashing down on him. For twenty minutes, Quentin felt alive and on top of the world. Was that really so wrong? If it wasn’t him, they’d get someone else. He repeated that in his head, the way he’d done after every execution over the past decade. Quentin climbed to his feet.

 

His leg held his weight without buckling. There was no pain yet, and wouldn’t be for a while. If he hurried now, he could be home before it wore off, and start drinking. Maybe even enough to stop feeling like shit for what he did.

 

“They don’t get it,” Quentin said to himself. “This is the only thing I’m good at.”