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The Sanctum
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They looked down upon a massive stone chamber. It had to be more than fifty feet across, torches burning in sconces all around the walls. The center, low down, was a circular fighting pit with a packed dirt floor. In concentric circles around the pit were four levels of terraces, making the whole place into an amphitheater. On the far side, another tunnel like the one Crowley and Morgan hunkered down in led away into darkness. That one, Crowley was prepared to bet, would lead to Arundel’s estate.
Symbols of Mithraism decorated the walls, stone carvings of impressive workmanship. On the wall to their left was a huge engraving of the bull and sun symbol of Tauro Solis, worked into the tightly fitted stones. To their right side was a similarly huge carving of Mithras slaying the bull.
The circular fighting pit had a ring of flagstones around its edge, and engraved twice on those stones, once each side to encircle the pit, was the legend moritūrī tē salūtant. Crowley recognized the quote from Roman history, he had learned it long before Hollywood co-opted it. Those who are about to die salute you.
The Sanctum was packed with people too. Crowley recognized several boys from the school, among many other people of varying ages. Lots of older men from the village were present. All were clad in togas, all were shouting and chanting. Then a loud metallic clanging sounded over the voices.
Crowley saw the headmaster, Archie Beckett. He held a round metal shield and was striking it with the flat of a Roman spatha. The gathering slowly fell silent.
Crowley crouched lower, Morgan beside him. “Let’s see what they get up to before we interrupt, shall we?”
She nodded, brow furrowed. “They seem to be taking everything very seriously.”
“Quite the history club!”
“Welcome!” Beckett intoned, his voice loud and imperious. “Before we begin tonight’s equinox ritual, there is another matter to attend to. The weapons?”
A boy ran forward and placed two spatha in the center of the fighting pit, their blades crossed in an X, then scurried away again. Cheers and whoops rose up, then settled quickly as Beckett once again spoke.
“Thomas Arundel?”
Tommy stepped forward from the crowd, his face dark. He looked smaller than usual, cowed and saddened. He said something Crowley couldn’t hear.
“Loud enough for all, please!” Beckett demanded.
Tommy looked up and anger replaced the melancholy expression on his face. “I demand trial by combat!”
“Thomas Arundel has expressed his desire to leave us,” Beckett said. “There is only one way out of the Sanctum. The weapons are ready. Who will be the Champion of the Sanctum for this trial?”
“I will.”
Philip Arundel stepped forward, his face thunderous. He sneered across the circle of the pit at his son and Tommy blanched at the sight of his father’s disdain.
“Dad? What are you doing?”
“Expected to fight one of your school friends, did you?” Arundel asked. His voice dripped with contempt. “You thought you’d play act a sparring match then walk away? You’ve never realized how serious this business is. But you know what? I’m glad. In the eyes if Mithras, spilling the blood of the son grants eternal life.” He grinned, wolfish. His eyes sparkled.
“Are you serious?” Tommy asked, but his voice had weakened again.
“Yes, I am.” Philip Arundel threw off his toga, to reveal nothing but a loin cloth beneath. His body was fit and lean, accentuated by his tall frame, muscular and hard.
Tommy shook his head, disbelief evident. He dropped his own toga, also revealing a loincloth and nothing else. He was fit too, strong and athletic like his father, but he wasn’t yet a man, his body still juvenile. Crowley couldn’t imagine the boy stood a chance against his father, bigger, stronger, and far more skilled.
As the crowd yelled and cheered, Crowley turned to Morgan. “He’s completely mad! Tommy is going to be the human sacrifice. Philip actually believes this stuff!”
Morgan stared, mouth open in horror. “We have to do something!” she said.
Crowley nodded. “We do. And now I’m glad I prepared. But this will take me a minute.” He opened the canvas backpack again and started pulling things out. Chlorine bleach in plastic bottles, home brand cleaning solutions, some screw-top glass jars.
“What are you doing?” Morgan asked.
“I’m making a distraction. Once I launch these, I’m going to go for Arundel and you need to get to Tommy and get out of there.”
Morgan frowned at him, but nodded. “Whatever it is, just hurry!”
Crowley held his breath, quickly mixing chemicals and tightening the jar lids on. He heard the clang of swords and the cheers of the crowd. The fight had started.
As he worked swiftly, Crowley kept glancing up to see what was happening. It was clear that Arundel was toying with Tommy. The man’s skills far exceeded those of his son, and Tommy was still banged up from his fall. He moved awkwardly, stiffly. Obviously it wasn’t enough for Philip to beat his son, he had to humiliate him too. The man was pure evil. The crowd cheered, probably misinterpreting Arundel’s half-hearted efforts. They yelled for Tommy to stick it to Arundel, shouted tips and encouragement. Several were also cheering on the elder man. Several older villagers had looks of covetous greed on their face and Crowley realized it was actual bloodlust.
Crowley finished mixing up the chemicals and had three large jars ready to launch. “Here goes nothing!” he said, and hurled a jar down among the assembled crowd where they were gathered together the thickest on the far side of the pit. It smashed on the stone floor. He threw another into the far side of the crowd, leaving only the exit out the opposite tunnel clear. The third he managed to smash right at Philip Arundel’s feet.
Shouts and confusion erupted, people began shrieking and coughing.
“Homemade chlorine gas,” Crowley told Morgan with a grin. “Try not to breathe it in. Come on!”
She shook her head, half a grin pulling at her lips. Crowley was pleased with how he had managed to impress her a few times with his entirely un-teacher-like skills. He was starting to like her more and more.
Morgan lifted her shirt over her nose and mouth and together they ran down into the fighting pit. The onlookers fled, all in a hurry to leave the sanctum, pushing and shoving each other as they bolted down the opposite tunnel and away. But Philip Arundel, despite coughs and streaming eyes, was still fighting Tommy. His son staggered under a vicious onslaught of sword strikes, barely able to fend them off. The boy would not last much longer. Arundel seemed to hardly notice the gas, lips pulled back in a determined grimace.
As Crowley gained the dirt floor of the pit, he saw Arundel knock the sword from Tommy’s hand. The older man grinned and drew his weapon back to deliver a killing blow.
Tommy stood his ground, chest out, arms hanging at his side. His face was wet with sweat, but his eyes defiant. “Do it!” he yelled at his father. “Finish the job!” His eyes streamed and he coughed.
Arundel paused, looking at his son with some sadness. “I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”
“Do you?” Tommy said. “Didn’t you say I was always a disappointment to you?”
Arundel grinned again. “That’s true.” He reversed his grip on the sword, holding it with both hands, raised to stab down into Tommy’s neck the way a gladiator would finish a kill.
It was the only moment Crowley needed, hammering across the pit in a full-out sprint.
“Stop!” Beckett yelled between coughs, the only crowd member left. But Arundel wasn’t listening.
Crowley leaped, flying through the air as Arundel began to drive the sword down. He collided with the tall man, his shoulder slamming into Arundel’s side, and they both tumbled to the ground. Crowley rolled away as Arundel sprang gracefully to his feet, still holding his sword.
“You!” Anger at first, then he smiled at the sight of Crowley, crouched and weaponless. “Well, perhaps this is fortuitous, after all.” His eyes were red and streaming, he coughed and his breath rasped in his throat. But he levelled his sword and advanced. “I have rather been looking forward to meeting you again.”