Work Text:
Bread and circuses.
Nuceria stank. The heat was thick and oppressive. In the hovering box seat, white-robed slaves turned the cranks of great creaking fans. The tiny breeze produced by these fans made Guilliman more hot, if anything. Once again he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and asked himself why, exactly, he was here.
The easy answer was, of course, the technology.
Great striding beasts of metal made their way through the crowd, tiny glittering bits of merchandise hanging from them. On the lower levels, the same metalmachines wielded cattle prods to keep the seething mass of gladiators in line. Guilliman put his opera glasses to his eye and looked down at them, the seething, writhing mass of bodies. Almost as far as the eye could see, crammed together cheek to cheek in the dirt.
Guilliman found the waste of it all objectionable, not necessarily the act itself. Plenty of cultures practiced human sacrifice and slavery. The urge to war and conquer was as integrated into the human condition as the urge to make music or art. But to do so on such a colossal scale was simply the sign of a crumbling civilization. This is all they had for entertainment, these Nucerian high-riders. This was their plays, their poems, their epic sagas. It was simply distasteful. Once he had conquered this planet, such things would be outlawed. He ran his finger along the railing and rubbed the sand between his fingers. Too dry for an agri-world, perhaps. Too backwater for a trade nexus. The mountains reminded him strongly of Macragge. A forge world, perhaps. Yes. That would do.
The man to Guilliman’s left—Guilliman had forgotten his name, some lord or another—wrung his hands and cleared his throat. Ah. Guilliman had forgotten he was even there.
“…so you see, milord, we believe that we can come to an agreement fair to both parties regarding your concerns of assimilation of Nuceria into the 500 Worlds—“
“Yes, yes, certainly.”
“We would like to hold a dinner in your honor. We were hoping we might celebrate such a prosperous event for both our peoples—“
“Oh, I couldn’t,” said Guilliman, mentally marking off places where the drop pods were going to land. “Much to do. You understand.”
The man opened his mouth to say something else, but was cut off by the sound of a piercing whistle.
“Ah. The games are about to start. You will enjoy this, milord—it’s the one with the maze.”
But Guilliman was no longer even pretending to pay attention. There, in the center of the field—covered in blood and the chalky dust of the arena— stood his brother.
The thought made no logical sense. But he knew. He rose to his feet. He had to resist the urge to scream out—brother, brother, brother, here I am, I am coming. Instinctively he gaged the distance from the box seat to the ground. Could he jump? His hand found the controls that made the contraption hover and jammed them forward. The aged servos gave a cough and a wheeze, but the wind began to pick up. Closer and closer they drew to the red-dirt floor of the arena. Closer and closer they drew to Guilliman’s brother.
Guilliman had thought himself was alone in his uniqueness. The idea that he was not—and that the other one like him was standing here, on this godforsaken planet, in the killing pit—filled his muscles with a wild sort of electricity. Joy wasn’t the right word. Relief, perhaps. Desperation to know more.
He would have crashed the flying box into the earth had something not stopped him. There, in his brother’s skull, glittered many bands of metal. They were clearly embedded under the skin. Art, perhaps, thought Guilliman hopefully. Body modification. Like earrings. But no. A shiver ran through him. This wasn’t anything so mild as that. He racked his brains. What had it been that they had told him over lunch, these cruel Nucerians? Something about how they bent their gladiator’s minds to ready them for battle, something about violence and nails—
The man beside him, who has before been unsuccessfully trying to pry Guilliman’s fingers off the control, saw Guilliman staring.
“That is Angronius of the Mountain. He is owned by house Thal’kyr.”
“Owned?” said Guilliman, and his voice sounded distant to his own ears. “He is owned?”
“One of the best fighters we have, yes. Perhaps we might sell him to you if—urk—“
Guilliman’s hand had closed around the man’s throat. He forced himself to unclench his fingers.
“I would meet him. Bring him up. Immediately.”
“But I cannot, my lord. Look.”
The arena was shifting. A massive sandstone maze pushed itself up on unseen lifts. Guilliman lost sight of his brother in the cloud of dust thrown up. A cry arose from the gladiators.
“What is that noise?” Guilliman demanded. “What is it?”
The man smiled. “The games have begun.”