root-enriched air from the tanks on her back.
Gregor noticed that Denver eyed them, no doubt wondering how to get to the root inside.
But the kid wouldn’t have a chance.
Not if Gregor could help it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Augustus peered into the gloomy cell, checking on his two most valuable inmates. Jackson sat cross-legged opposite Baliska, who quietly clicked.
They would meet in the arena. The Doombringer versus the hunter.
Another fight to boost Augustus’ personal popularity. He would be observing as Unity’s sole ruler. No stupid council, no lying prostitute, just him on a single chair.
A new Earth-uniting emperor.
Augustus clinked a dagger across the window’s thin iron bars.
“Shame about your champion. Is that the best you’ve got?” Jackson said.
“You did me a favor. But you won’t last forever. I’ll certainly not be awarding you a rudis.”
“A what?”
“A wooden freedom sword. My Doctore owns one. They’re given to a gladiator who wins his freedom. Didn’t you learn anything from your studies?”
“I specialized in American history. Unlike you, we were not a group of barbarians before the invasion.”
Augustus jabbed his dagger between the bars, in Charlie’s direction. “The Roman Empire had great buildings, baths and villas with heated rooms and tiled floors while people on this continent lived in tipis. Don’t you dare lecture me about history. Save your venom for your next fight.”
He gestured to the guard to open the gates and headed out, concealing his dagger under his robe. An essential weapon for nighttime excursions around Unity.
Moonlight radiated through the wispy clouds, illuminating with streaks of silver the rooftops of the tatty buildings that lined the twisting dirt roads.
Weak light from lanterns and candles shone from windows and doorframes.
Raised voices came from the tavern at the end of the road. The destination for his meeting. Augustus hated mixing with these low-ranking people. Although he knew he required the respect of the bottom-feeders in order to manipulate them.
A small price to pay to satisfy his ambitions. A crucifixion or two would bring them in line later.
A painted white plank with black lettering hung above the door, saying No Croatoans. The perfect attitude for him to exploit. Divide and conquer. Augustus checked the straightness of his mask and pushed open the door.
Conversations immediately stopped as patrons turned to identify the new arrival. Augustus glanced at the ten tables spread around the plain rectangular room.
“Good evening,” he said.
He received a murmured response. The patrons resumed their conversations. The place stank with a mixture of stale, beer-soaked floorboards and root smoke—the latter clouding the room. Augustus headed to the bar at the far end of the tavern.
A man and woman ascended a set of wooden stairs halfway along the room. She slapped his backside. He could be trading intercourse for food or vice versa. They might have just had a drink and decided to rut.
A young woman behind the bar, one of Augustus’ spies, placed a porcelain cup filled with root wine in front of him.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Anytime, darling,” the spy said with a smile before she rushed off to continue serving other patrons.
Most things were free for him in Unity. His payment came in the form of providing entertainment. A steady stream of fighters, usually human strays, but more recently, croatoans from harvesters or farms in a state of confusion after the ship crashed.
Three preinvasion men sat around a table in the corner of the room. Augustus had had them under observation for weeks. Pragmatic survivors, never mixing with croatoans, probably living in Unity for the safety and food it provided. He walked over and placed his cup on the table. “Mind if I join you?”
One of them men, sporting a wiry gray beard, glanced around the tavern. He nodded and shuffled along the bench, creating room for Augustus. “Quite a
Gregor noticed that Denver eyed them, no doubt wondering how to get to the root inside.
But the kid wouldn’t have a chance.
Not if Gregor could help it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Augustus peered into the gloomy cell, checking on his two most valuable inmates. Jackson sat cross-legged opposite Baliska, who quietly clicked.
They would meet in the arena. The Doombringer versus the hunter.
Another fight to boost Augustus’ personal popularity. He would be observing as Unity’s sole ruler. No stupid council, no lying prostitute, just him on a single chair.
A new Earth-uniting emperor.
Augustus clinked a dagger across the window’s thin iron bars.
“Shame about your champion. Is that the best you’ve got?” Jackson said.
“You did me a favor. But you won’t last forever. I’ll certainly not be awarding you a rudis.”
“A what?”
“A wooden freedom sword. My Doctore owns one. They’re given to a gladiator who wins his freedom. Didn’t you learn anything from your studies?”
“I specialized in American history. Unlike you, we were not a group of barbarians before the invasion.”
Augustus jabbed his dagger between the bars, in Charlie’s direction. “The Roman Empire had great buildings, baths and villas with heated rooms and tiled floors while people on this continent lived in tipis. Don’t you dare lecture me about history. Save your venom for your next fight.”
He gestured to the guard to open the gates and headed out, concealing his dagger under his robe. An essential weapon for nighttime excursions around Unity.
Moonlight radiated through the wispy clouds, illuminating with streaks of silver the rooftops of the tatty buildings that lined the twisting dirt roads.
Weak light from lanterns and candles shone from windows and doorframes.
Raised voices came from the tavern at the end of the road. The destination for his meeting. Augustus hated mixing with these low-ranking people. Although he knew he required the respect of the bottom-feeders in order to manipulate them.
A small price to pay to satisfy his ambitions. A crucifixion or two would bring them in line later.
A painted white plank with black lettering hung above the door, saying No Croatoans. The perfect attitude for him to exploit. Divide and conquer. Augustus checked the straightness of his mask and pushed open the door.
Conversations immediately stopped as patrons turned to identify the new arrival. Augustus glanced at the ten tables spread around the plain rectangular room.
“Good evening,” he said.
He received a murmured response. The patrons resumed their conversations. The place stank with a mixture of stale, beer-soaked floorboards and root smoke—the latter clouding the room. Augustus headed to the bar at the far end of the tavern.
A man and woman ascended a set of wooden stairs halfway along the room. She slapped his backside. He could be trading intercourse for food or vice versa. They might have just had a drink and decided to rut.
A young woman behind the bar, one of Augustus’ spies, placed a porcelain cup filled with root wine in front of him.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Anytime, darling,” the spy said with a smile before she rushed off to continue serving other patrons.
Most things were free for him in Unity. His payment came in the form of providing entertainment. A steady stream of fighters, usually human strays, but more recently, croatoans from harvesters or farms in a state of confusion after the ship crashed.
Three preinvasion men sat around a table in the corner of the room. Augustus had had them under observation for weeks. Pragmatic survivors, never mixing with croatoans, probably living in Unity for the safety and food it provided. He walked over and placed his cup on the table. “Mind if I join you?”
One of them men, sporting a wiry gray beard, glanced around the tavern. He nodded and shuffled along the bench, creating room for Augustus. “Quite a
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