“I see you are using your head, Captain,” Retief said. “Your decision not to attempt to employ force against a peer was an intelligent one.”
The cop understood. He was being offered an opportunity to save a little face. He relaxed slowly.
“Very well, uh, sir,” he said stiffly. “I will assume you can establish your identity properly; kindly call at the commandant’s office in the morning.”
Retief released his hold and the officer hustled his men out, shoving the complaining Ensign ahead. Fitzraven caught Retief’s eye and grinned.
“Empty pride is a blade with no hilt,” he said. “A humble man would have yelled for help.”
Retief turned to the barman. “Drinks for all,” he called. A happy shout greeted this announcement. They had all enjoyed seeing the police outfaced.
“The cops don’t seem to be popular here,” the old man said.
Fitzraven sniffed. “A law-abiding subject parks illegally for five minutes, and they are on him like flies after dead meat; but let his car be stolen by lawless hoodlums—they are nowhere to be seen.”
“That has a familiar sound,” Retief said. He poured out a tumbler of vodka, looked at Fitzraven.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “A big day.”
A tall blond young man near the door looked after him with bitter eyes.
“All right, old man,” he muttered. “We’ll see then.”
* * *
The noise of the crowd came to Retief’s ears as a muted rumble through the massive pile of the amphitheater above. A dim light filtered from the low-ceilinged corridor into the cramped office of the assistant Master of the Games.
“If you know your charter,” Retief said, “you will recall that a Battle Commander enjoys the right to observe the progress of the games from the official box. I claim that privilege.”
“I know nothing of this,” the cadaverous official replied impatiently. “You must obtain an order from the Master of the Games before I can listen to you.” He turned to another flunkey, opened his mouth to speak. A hand seized him by the shoulder, lifted him bodily from his seat. The man’s mouth remained open in shock.
Retief held the stricken man at arm’s length, then drew him closer. His eyes blazed into the gaping eyes of the other. His face was white with fury.
“Little man,” he said in a strange, harsh voice, “I go now with my groom to take my place in the official box. Read your Charter well before you interfere with me—and your Holy Book as well.” He dropped the fellow with a crash, saw him slide under the desk. No one made a sound. Even Fitzraven looked pale. The force of the old man’s rage had been like a lethal radiation crackling in the room.
The squire followed as Retief strode off down the corridor. He breathed deeply, wiping his forehead. This was some old man he had met this year, for sure!
Retief slowed, turning to wait for Fitzraven. He smiled ruefully. “I was rough on the old goat,” he said. “But officious pipsqueaks sting me like deerflies.”
They emerged from the gloom of the passage into a well-situated box, to the best seats in the front row. Retief stared at the white glare and roiled dust of the arena, the banked thousands of faces looming above, and a sky of palest blue with one tiny white cloud. The gladiators stood in little groups, waiting. A strange scene, Retief thought. A scene from dim antiquity, but real, complete with the odors of fear and excitement, the hot wind that ruffled his hair, the rumbling animal sound from the thousand throats of the many-headed monster. He wondered what it was they really wanted to see here today. A triumph of skill and courage, a reaffirmation of ancient virtues, the spectacle of men who laid life on the gaming table and played for a prize called glory—or was it merely blood and death they wanted?
It was strange that this archaic ritual of the blood tournament, combining the features of the Circus of Caesar, the joust of Medieval Terran Europe, the Olympic Games, a rodeo, and a six-day bicycle race should have come to hold such an important place in a modern culture, Retief thought. In its present form it was a much-distorted version of the traditional Tournament of the Lily, through whose gauntlet the nobility of the old Empire had come. It had been a device of harsh enlightenment to insure and guarantee to every man, once every year, the opportunity to prove himself against others whom society called his betters. Through its discipline, the humblest farm lad could rise by degrees to the highest levels in the Empire. For the original Games had tested every facet of a man, from his raw courage to his finesse in strategy, from his depths of endurance under mortal stress to the quickness of his intellect, from his instinct for truth to his wiliness in eluding a complex trap of violence.
In the two centuries since the fall of the Empire, the Games had gradually become a tourist spectacle, a free-for-all, a celebration—with the added spice of danger for those who did not shrink back, and fat prizes to a few determined finalists. The Imperial Charter was still invoked at the opening of the Games, the old Code reaffirmed; but there were few who knew or cared what the Charter and Code actually said, what terms existed there. The popular mind left such details to the regents of the tourney. And in recent months, with the once sought-after tourists suddenly and inexplicably turned away, it seemed the Games were being perverted to a purpose even less admirable . . .
Well, thought Retief, perhaps I’ll bring some of the fine print into play, before I’m done.
* * *
Bugle blasts sounded beyond the high bronze gate. Then with a heavy clang it swung wide and a nervous official stepped out nodding jerkily to the front rank of today’s contenders.
The column moved straight out across the field, came together with other columns to form a square before the Imperial box. High above, Retief saw banners fluttering, a splash of color from the uniforms of ranked honor guards. The Emperor himself was here briefly to open the Tournament.
Across the field the bugles rang out again; Retief recognized the Call to Arms and the Imperial Salute. Then an amplified voice began the ritual reading of the Terms of the Day.
” . . . by the clement dispensation of his Imperial Majesty, to be conducted under the convention of Fragonard, and there being none dissenting . . .” The voice droned on.
It finished at last, and referees moved to their positions. Retief looked at Fitzraven. “The excitement’s about to begin.”
Referees handed out heavy whips, gauntlets and face shields. The first event would be an unusual one.
Retief watched as the yellow-haired combatant just below the box drew on the heavy leather glove which covered and protected the left hand and forearm, accepted the fifteen-foot lash of braided oxhide. He flipped it tentatively, laying the length out along the ground and recalling it with an effortless turn of the wrist, the frayed tip snapping like a pistol shot. The thing was heavy, Retief noted, and clumsy; the leather had no life to it.
The box had filled now; no one bothered Retief and the squire. The noisy crowd laughed and chattered, called to acquaintances in the stands and on the field below.
A bugle blasted peremptorily nearby, and white-suited referees darted among the milling entrants, shaping them into groups of five. Retief watched the blond youth, a tall frowning man, and three others of undistinguished appearance.
Fitzraven leaned toward him. “The cleverest will hang back and let the others eliminate each other,” he said in a low voice, “so that his first encounter will be for the set.”
Retief nodded. A man’s task here was to win his way as high as possible; every stratagem was important. He saw the blond fellow inconspicuously edge back as a hurrying referee paired off the other four, called to him to stand by, and led the others to rings marked off on the dusty turf. A whistle blew suddenly, and over the arena the roar of sound changed tone. The watching crowd leaned forward as the hundreds of keyed-up gladiators laid on their lashes in frenzied effort. Whips cracked, men howled, feet shuffled; here the crowd laughed as some clumsy fellow sprawled, yelping; there they gasped in excitement as two surly brutes flogged each other in all-out offense.
Retief saw the tip of one man’s whip curl around his opponents’ ankle, snatch him abruptly off his feet. The other pair circled warily, rippling their lashes uncertainly. One backed over the line unnoticing and was led away expostulating, no blow having been struck.
The number on the field dwindled away to half within moments. Only a few dogged pairs, now bleeding from cuts, still contested the issue. A minute longer and the whistle blew as the last was settled.