Tempests and Slaughter. Tamora Pierce

necks.

      ‘Hurry, boy,’ an older gladiator muttered to Arram’s rescuer. ‘Guards comin’.’

      ‘You don’t want the guards catching you,’ the big man explained to Arram as he quickened his pace. ‘They’ll whip you before they cut you loose. Is your family here?’

      ‘Sitting in the copper section,’ Arram said miserably. He had no idea how he’d get back to Papa and Grandda.

      ‘Don’t fuss,’ the big man told him. ‘We’ll fix it.’

      Arram smelled something odd, like a barnyard thick with hay and dung. The ground under his rescuer shook. The boy looked up and cringed. Massive grey shapes approached, swaying as the sands thundered beneath their broad, flat feet. They waved huge, snake-like trunks painted in brightly coloured stripes, circles, and dots.

      He had never been so close to an elephant! One halted in front of them as the others followed the parade of gladiators. As the gladiator lowered Arram to the ground, the gigantic creature knelt before them.

      This elephant was decorated all over in red and bronze designs, even down to its toenails. It eyed Arram with one tiny eye and then the other before it stuck out its immense trunk and snuffled the boy. Despite his lingering fear, Arram grinned – the trunk’s light touch on his face and neck tickled. Carefully he reached out and stroked it.

      ‘This is Ua,’ the big man told Arram. ‘Her name means “flower”.’ He pointed to the rider, seated behind the creature’s large, knobbed head. ‘My friend’s name is—’ The name he pronounced sounded to Arram like ‘Kipaeyoh.’ ‘It means “butterfly” in Old Thak. Kipepeo,’ he called up to the armoured woman, ‘this lad must return to the bleachers – Where?’ He looked at Arram, who pointed. By now his father and grandfather had shoved up to the rail, next to the kinder burly man. The one who had dumped Arram over the wall was nowhere to be seen.

      ‘He must be placed there,’ the big man told Kipepeo. ‘Can you do it? Quickly?’

      ‘For you, Musenda, my love, anything,’ the woman called. She blew the man a kiss, then sounded a series of whistles.

      ‘Ua will get us all out of trouble,’ the man called Musenda told Arram. ‘No yelping. Ua’s as gentle as a kitten. For now.’ The elephant twined her trunk around the boy’s waist and lifted him. Arram yelped as his feet left the ground.

      ‘Thank you – I think!’ Arram called as Musenda trotted off to his place in line. The passing gladiators and elephant riders waved to Arram as they spread out in their ranks. Arram realized they were blocking the imperial soldiers who were trying to catch him. He clapped his hands over his face.

      ‘Don’t panic,’ Ua’s rider ordered. ‘She won’t let you come to harm.’

      Arram lowered his hands and realized the elephant was too short to reach the top of the wall. ‘Her trunk isn’t long enough!’ he cried.

      Kipepeo laughed. Tapping the great animal with a long rod, she guided Ua to the wall just beneath Arram’s relatives. Frightened and excited at the same time, the boy grabbed some of the coarse hairs on Ua’s crown for balance, trying not to yank them. Then he prayed to the Graveyard Hag, Carthak’s patron goddess and, he hoped, someone who might look after elephants and boys.

      Kipepeo gave three sharp whistles.

      Slowly, groaning in elephant, Ua straightened and stood on her back feet. Arram gasped as she lifted him high with her trunk. Now he was within easy reach of his father and grandfather. He raised his hands. They bent down, gripped him, and hauled him up and over the arena’s rail.

      On solid stone once more, Arram turned and shouted, ‘Thank you, Ua! Thank you, Kipepeo!’

      His two adults scolded him loud and long as they dragged him up the steps to the copper seating, but they also bought him a lemon ice and grilled lamb on skewers once they got the tale of his short adventure out of him. They even helped him to stand on the seat between them as the lengthy line of warriors, animals, and chariots finished their parade around the arena.

      The gladiators bowed to the emperor, thrust out their fists, and shouted, ‘Glory to the emperor! Glory to the empire!’ The moment they finished, the elephants reared on their hind legs and trumpeted, the sound blasting against the arena walls. The crowd cheered, Arram and his family cheering with them.

      Now the parade returned to the gate at the rear of the coliseum, with the exception of two groups of fighters.

      ‘It’s a scrimmage,’ Yusaf explained.

      ‘It’s a fight between lesser fighters, like a small war,’ Metan added. He was Arram’s grandfather, owner of their cloth-selling business. ‘The ones that need more experience. One team wears green armbands, and the other wears orange.’

      ‘Have you a favourite?’ Yusaf bellowed. The noise of the crowd was rising as people bet on Greens or Oranges.

      Arram shook his head shyly. This fight was taking place right in front of the emperor’s part of the stands: he could not see much detail.

      ‘Here,’ Yusaf said, pressing a spyglass into Arram’s hand. ‘You ought to have a really close look at your first fight!’

      Arram smiled at his father and raised the glass to his eye. Yusaf showed him how to twist the parts until he could see the emperor as if he stood only a foot or two away. Arram gasped at the flash of jewels on the great man’s robes, then swung the spyglass until he found the teams of fighters. Musenda was not among these gladiators.

      A slave struck the great gong at the foot of the imperial dais, and the opposing forces charged with a roar of fury. They smashed one another without mercy, kicking and tripping when they were too close to swing their weapons. Arram stared, gape-mouthed. This was nothing like the self-defence lessons taught in the Lower Academy! One fighter, a tall, glossy-skinned black woman, was glorious, her spear darting at her enemies like lightning as she held off two attackers at once.

      The crowd gasped. A gladiator wearing a green armband sprawled in the sands. A long cut stretched from the downed man’s left eyebrow across his nose; it bled freely. A pair of slaves raced forward to drag the fallen man from the arena as his opponent turned to fight someone else. The crowd booed their disapproval.

      ‘Why are they angry?’ Arram shouted in his father’s ear.

      ‘They prefer more serious injuries,’ Yusaf replied.

      ‘But he couldn’t see!’ Arram protested. ‘How can he fight if he can’t—’

      Metan patted his arm, a signal for him to be quiet. Arram sighed. He was glad the slaves had taken the man away.

      He looked for the woman and saw her knock a man down. She was raising her spear for a killing stab when one of his comrades swung at her, knocking her weapon from her grip. She lunged forward and grabbed his spear.

      Suddenly a fellow Green stumbled into her, shoving her forward. Down onto her knees she went, clinging to her opponent’s weapon. The crowd was on its feet, screaming.

      The female gladiator still gripped the spear, but one of the two men fighting her had cut her deeply from her ribs to her hip bones. She knelt in the sand, fumbling with crimson-black ropes that spilled over her loincloth. Arram opened his mouth and swiftly clapped his hands over it: the gladiator was clutching her intestines. He shoved the spyglass into his grandfather’s hold and forced his way through the crowd, praying that he would make it to the privies.

      He didn’t. Arram threw up in the tunnel, in the gutter off to the side. Even when he was being sick, he wondered if the trench was there to carry away vomit or water from the winter storms. He was able to save the rest of his stomach’s contents for the privy. The immense stone room with its long line of stalls was empty, for which he was deeply grateful. He spewed everything in his belly. Finally he was able to rinse his face at one of the privy’s fountains. Weak and disgusted with himself, he staggered outside to rest on a convenient bench. His father found him