Chapter 11: Rewards, Incentives, Hopes

It was much later that night before Xanthus was let out of his cell by Warner and escorted out of the gloomy cellars full of slaves, not even permitted to finish the comparatively decent meal that he and every other gladiator had been given as reward for the day's hardships. Of the fifty slaves Ployer had owned, sixteen had fought. Of those sixteen, a dozen remained, a far higher proportion than usual and thus a cause for a vaguely macabre celebration.

He was taken outside into a courtyard, had buckets of ice-cold water thrown over him, and, as he stood there shivering, a vaguely clean tunic had been passed over for him to wear. Then, only then, was he taken to where Ployer was dining with his new investors and shareholders in the gladiator business.

Darial raised an eyebrow as Warner pulled a reluctant Xanthus into the dining room, and threw Belgrade a glare to ensure he maintained his composure. The Rashemani gladiator looked vaguely clean and presentable, even though his tunic was a size too large, with only the leather strapping he wore on top – that could only most generously be called armour – keeping it in place.

Ployer smiled a bright, glittering smile. "At last! The hero of the day!" he exclaimed, standing up and gesturing to one of the unoccupied seats in the extensive and luxurious dining room. "Pull up a chair, my boy, and I'll have you brought some food you'll have never tasted the like of in your life!"

Xanthus sat down slowly, visibly taut, ready to leap into action at a moment's notice, perching in a fight-or-flight stance. "Thank you, my lord Ployer," he replied courteously, with a slight edge to his tone that was so subtly mocking only the bard Darial noticed it, and had to quickly suppress the tugging of a smile.

The Calimshite, amazingly, passed his slave a plate. "No problem at all, my boy," he declared, ignoring the fact that Xanthus couldn't have been many more than five years younger than himself. "Nothing but the best for my champion."

The Rashemani nodded slowly, playing intimidated and grateful, but the wary glances he threw his owner spoke of his readiness. He nodded slowly as one of Ployer's servants stepped forward to heap up the plate. "My thanks, milord," Xanthus continued, his expression unreadable. "Though I would rather I did not get better treatment than my fellows in the cells."

Belgrade coughed, and somehow managed to make even that mundane action seem pompous. "Spirited fellow, isn't he?" he blustered, smiling jovially. "Most of your men around here don't have enough backbone to stand up straight."

Ployer smiled, nodding slowly and knowledgeably. "If he didn't have backbone, my Lord Belgrade, then he wouldn't be a champion." He glanced at Xanthus. "Because that's what you are, my boy. My golden champion."

Xanthus resisted the urge to recoil with disgust as he glanced at Belgrade. "I assume that you, my lord, are an investor?" he commented lightly. He knew this was a little forward of him, but Ployer had extended the familiar courteous favouritism most slavers gave to their most powerful gladiators, and so a minor discourtesy was allowed. He had seen it before, with others; most of the champion pit-fighters would become complacent, forget that they were still captives, revel in the luxuries thrown to them by grateful and greedy owners, and then, when they become too complacent or old to bring in the gold, they became food for the beasts. Xanthus might visibly accept Ployer's favour, but he would never truly accept something stained with the blood of innocents.

Darial nodded slowly. "We saw your performance today, Mister Xanthus. We were most impressed. Baron Ployer could go very far with some of the fighters he owns. We would like to… ride to the heights with him, for every person needs a little support." She gave Ployer a brief sideways smile, then her eyes met Xanthus' again. There was a momentary pause as something passed between the two performers, then they both looked innocently at the other pair present.

Belgrade glanced at Darial before focusing his attention on Ployer. "Indeed. You said yourself, Lord Ployer, that any financial assistance would be welcome. We're willing to support you in any way you wish… for a slice of future winnings, of course."

"Of course." Ployer smiled indulgently, then turned to Xanthus. "I brought you here to congratulate you, my boy. Today, your performance in the ring won me a contract which should bring in more gold for me, and more glory for you. The way from here is only up." He leant forwards slightly. "With you, I can go far. With me, you can stay alive, and live easily. If you win for me, if you help take us both far, I'll shower down riches and favours that you won't have enjoyed for years." The Calimshite's expression darkened a little. "If you lose, then… you'll be on the list for lion bait."

Xanthus didn't miss a beat as he met his owner's gaze, not faltering in the face of Ployer's dark warning. "If I lose, Lord Ployer, then I won't be alive to be on the list for lion bait. You have called me the best. The best don't lose. The best also don't show mercy. If I'm beaten, then I'll be struck down in the pit."

Ployer leant back coolly, folding his arms across his chest as Xanthus started to attack the plateful of food as if he hadn't eaten in a lifetime. "I hope that doesn't happen, my boy," the slaver started, sweetness and light once more. "You have much potential. So much potential. This dinner is the reward for today's actions – at the fight next week, if you win again, you shall get a single favour of your choosing, and I shall try to meet that favour. Is that enough incentive?"

Xanthus smiled tightly. "Death if I lose is enough of an incentive – this is enough of a reward that victory shall be sweeter," he said lightly, his expression a mask of pleasure as he spoke through almost gritted teeth.

Ployer smiled nauseatingly. "Good. Now if only –"

He was interrupted by Warner striding slowly into the room, pushing open the massive doors and giving them all an appraising glance. "Milord, Skorrid from the Copper Coronet is waiting for you downstairs. He wishes to speak with you," he intoned in his deep base voice, then looked briefly at the other three, glaring momentarily at Xanthus. "Alone."

Ployer sighed. "Does that man ever give me a moment's peace? Very well, I'll be right there." He stood slowly and stiffly before turning and starting towards the door, Warner giving them a glower as he closed it behind his master.

Xanthus waited a moment, noting all was silent once the door had been closed, then turned to Belgrade and Darial. "Fine. I'll bite. Just who in the Nine Hells are you people?" he demanded coolly, raising an eyebrow.

Belgrade looked surprised, but Darial shrugged casually. "People who want to help you gain your freedom," the latter replied calmly, as the former realised he had rather missed the subtexts between his friend and the slave.

"Are you sure it's safe to talk in here?" Belgrade demanded, feeling momentarily light-headed as he realised the speed at which much of the talking had already gone by silently without his noticing. "Warner may be listening at the door, or some such underhand difficulty."

Xanthus cocked his head to one side for a moment. "No, we're safe," he replied firmly, frowning a little. "Ployer has these doors magically silenced for his own privacy. Now we're using it against him." His mouth twitched a little. "Amusing." There was a moment's hesitation, then he fixed Darial with an inquisitive glance. "So why do you care if I live free or die?"

The bard shrugged slightly. "We're Harpers," she said, keeping her voice down despite Xanthus' assurance of safety. "We've been assigned to try and bring down Ployer. Thus, we help you."

Belgrade nodded slowly. "What he's doing, what Ployer is doing to you… is not right. Not in the least."

Xanthus smiled tightly again, an uncharacteristic hint of merriment in his eyes. "Thank you, friend, I wasn't sure I'd noticed that until now," he replied dryly, then once more turned his attention to Darial, already noting that she was the one of the pair who was in control.

She smiled back, clearly having taken a liking to the gladiator. "It's good we got to talk to you now. You're Ployer's favourite, and as such will be given certain liberties others who would help us won't." She paused, considering. "That is, if you will help us, of course. We'd appreciate it –"

Xanthus held up a hand. "Don't embarrass yourself by finishing that sentence, and just think about what I've lived through, and whether or not I'd like to carry on with that existence. Then you have your answer." Darial nodded slowly, biting her lower lip a little nervously. "What's your plan?" The gladiator of Rashemen asked carefully.

Belgrade grimaced a little. "Right now? Not much. Gather information – we have people placed in key areas relevant to Ployer's pit-fighting activities. Once we have more of a clue as to what's going on, we'll devise a plan. This campaign on slavery is very much in the preliminary stages."

Xanthus nodded, then froze as the door creaked a little and the handle was turned. "Count me in," he hissed, then pasted a neutral expression on his face as Ployer walked casually in, not appearing to be even vaguely suspicious of the sudden silence that greeted his arrival, for it was swiftly broken by Darial smiling brightly and asking for some more wine.