"Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."
laDivina Commedia, Inferno, Canto III

I.

Although he would hardly consider himself a religious man, Arcade had always believed in Hell. In fact, he believed that it was much closer than most people ever guessed. Those in the employment of the Legion could access it whenever they so desired by catching a ride on one of the boats from Cottonwood Cove to Caesar's Fort. Months before a certain day that he never could erase from his memory, Arcade had followed the Courier into the Inferno, comparing Mark to Virgil, and inquired as to the reasons for their little excursion. The Courier had told Arcade that he just wanted to satisfy his curiosity by hearing Caesar out, and he promised they would leave at once and forget the whole thing. The Courier promised a lot of things.

As Arcade later discovered, the Courier sold him for the mere sum of ten golden coins, which Arcade considered to be far too small a price. Judas had sold Jesus for thirty denarii, and that had given Judas a one-way ticket to the lowest circle of Hell, reserved for traitors. According to Dante, the Courier had earned himself a similar place in the afterlife. Immersion in such literary comparisons could not successfully distract Arcade from the matters at hand, but it did help him pass the time. During the journey from Cottonwood Cove, Arcade recited Dante's verses in his mind and compared the captain of the ship to Charon, the creature who ferried souls to the underworld.

The legionnaires turned their heads in the opposite direction when Arcade looked up at them, and he wondered if they had been ordered not to acknowledge him, and why Caesar would command such a thing. When Arcade so much as twitched a finger, all eyes swung to him at once, warned against any sudden movements.

His stomach growled, and he resisted the urge to cringe when the Legionnaires glared at him. He hadn't eaten since…had it really been two days since his last meal with the Courier? Mark had barely touched the iguana. "You gonna eat that?" At the sound of Arcade's voice, Mark had snapped his head up and shrugged before he resumed his attempts to stare down the letter in his hands. He'd refused to tell Arcade the contents of the letter, which was alright, but the dark change in his mood suggested otherwise.

When Mark stood up from the campfire, he shifted all his weight onto his left foot, hopping forward as he bit his lip against the pain. Arcade noticed, of course.

"Hey, uh, are you positive that you don't want a stimpack? That little encounter with the Deathclaws was pretty rough."

"I don't need chems." His tone dared Arcade to argue with him, and Arcade couldn't withhold a shiver as it skirted up his spine. Mark's words had reminded Arcade far too much of the Legion's philosophy, and Mark hadn't always rejected stimpacks, Med-X, or even a Psycho here and there. That, Arcade reflected, should have told him all he needed to know about the Courier. As Mark limped forward, he called back, "Coming?"

"Oh, yeah. Sure." Midnight had long past, and Arcade had figured that Mark intended to set up camp after they had eaten. Apparently not. Before, he had fought exhaustion with the hope that they would soon rest, but then his heart thumped faster as he watched Mark struggle to walk. Even Rex wagged his tail and barked at Mark, who ignored the anxious dog. All signs point to danger, Arcade thought, and rubbed at his eyes.

They arrived at Cottonwood Cove at some ungodly time, right at sunrise, and Arcade winced when he saw that Mark had broken the skin on his lip. "You know, your—" Before Arcade could finish, Mark wiped the blood off his lip and kept walking. The legionnaires didn't tense up when they saw Mark, as they had during their first trip to the Cove, and Arcade wondered, why were they so comfortable with the sight of the Courier? He knew this was wrong, but before he could voice his concern, two legionnaires had grabbed each of his arms.

"Hands off," he said, trying to twist away. His attempts only provoked them to grip harder, clawing into his skin. Possibilities rushed through Arcade's mind—Caesar had betrayed them, ordered that they be captured, and Mark was about to shoot them down where they stood—yet none of the other legionnaires had moved, and neither had Mark. "What the hell is going on?"

"Get him out of here," said the soldier, and Arcade watched as soldiers surrounded Mark and helped him to limp away.

As Mark disappeared into a tent, Arcade called, "Mark, are you insane?"

As Rex yelped louder and more frantically, Arcade slipped his hand over his gun, and a third soldier seized the weapon. Though Arcade shut his eyes and thrashed about, he could not overpower all of them at once, and they forced him still. The legionnaires forced Arcade's hands behind his back and he pulled harder when he felt the rough texture of a rope being tied around his hands. As he struggled, another soldier thrust a spear in his face, so close that his eyes couldn't focus.

"You can choose whether to go peacefully or not," said the soldier. "Caesar wants you in one piece, but we'll do what whatever is necessary. Can somebody shut that dog up?"

Leaping up at Arcade's side, Rex had begun to howl, and finally the soldier shoved him to the ground with the blunt side of his spear. "For what, exactly, does Caesar want me?" said Arcade, emphasizing the hard C in the hopes that the legionnaires would not hear the tremble in his words.

"You talk too much," said the soldier, just as the two behind Arcade knotted the rope. As they yanked it taut around Arcade's wrists, he tried and failed to swallow a gasp of pain. "Caesar believes that you may be of use to him."

Arcade couldn't speak, couldn't even find words. As his stomach twisted into knots like the rope around his wrist, he kicked the soldier in the chest and laughed uncontrollably, so hard that he couldn't breathe. The soldier swore and struck the side of Arcade's head with his spear, and everything faded into darkness as pain exploded his head.

The legionnaires detained him in their camp for a day before finally getting him on the ship to the Fort. They'd kept him on the floor of a tent, arms ever bound, still not untied even after they'd brought him on the boat. His head continued to throb, and they'd almost had to knock him out again when he tried to flee. His arms ached, straining for release from their confines. A rational voice in his brain whispered for him to remain calm and observe his surroundings, analyze them for a possible escape, but pain and fear overwhelmed any attempt at coherent thought.

"Caesar wants you—" the words echoed in Arcade's ears, and he turned them over and over in his mind. He supposed that it was better for Caesar to want him in one piece, rather than several, but he much preferred the days when Caesar wanted no part of him at all.

Arcade and the legionnaires were not the only passengers en route to Hell. A dark-skinned woman with wrinkles at the corner of her eyes huddled against the side of the boat, hands also bound behind her, and she would not stop staring at Arcade. He guessed that she must be a slave, perhaps one who tried to run off, as Arcade surmised from the legionnaire's comments about possible punishments. "It's been too long since I've seen a crucifixion," one said, and she closed her eyes.

The boat had docked at Caesar's Fort by nightfall. The men "escorted" Arcade into the Fort, and Arcade glanced up at the sky to see that it still retained the harsh, gray tone that he remembered so fondly from his last visit. Perhaps Caesar ruled the skies too, and he had ordered them to enhance the gloom.

That doesn't make any sense, Arcade reprimanded himself, just as he noticed that even the legionnaires passing him had stopped to observe as his guards led him through the Fort. As he squared his shoulders and attempted to at least walk with a hint of some dignity, he realized that the soldiers were actually staring at the woman with him, who apparently would be brought before Caesar as well. "No one escapes Caesar," some called out, or they complimented the soldiers who had found her. "Fiat justitia," some said—let justice be done. Arcade sighed at how they degraded the ancient language simply by speaking it, and even that small movement relaxed him somewhat. At least, it was easier to suppress the urge to rip the rope off his hands, or try to.

At the Fort, slaves stumbled under the loads on their backs, which seemed to swallow them whole. Crosses loomed over Arcade and the guards, who walked in their shadows, and Arcade's heart skipped a beat as he realized that Caesar might be planning to crucify him. The legionnaires were certainly enthusiastic about the idea, the sick bastards. They smirked at the sight of the crosses, and Arcade's fingers itched to grab one of those spears and attack them, and cut himself loose.

Crucifixion…he could not even stomach the possibility.

To distract himself, he thought back to the events of the past few days. According to Mark, Caesar was in some kind of trouble, a threat to his life, but Mark hadn't specified the danger. If Mark intended to help Caesar, he certainly would have been in a hurry. How long ago, Arcade wondered, had Mark allied with Caesar? When they first entered the fort, Mark told Arcade that he simply wished to hear Caesar out and leave immediately, but the guards hadn't allowed Arcade inside that tent... There, Caesar must have persuaded Mark. Perhaps Caesar had promised him something—Mark was always willing to do anything for caps, and Arcade almost smiled as he remembered the various jobs Mark would perform for just a few caps from the Crimson Caravan and the Van Graff family. Or maybe Caesar had threatened Mark, although Arcade could hardly believe that anyone would even try that. The man was huge, with the muscles of a Super Mutant, and he could snipe a radroach when Arcade only saw it as a speck on the horizon.

They arrived at Caesar's tent, and this time, no one told Arcade to wait outside. They prodded him in with the tips of their guns as if he were some kind of Brahmin heading for the slaughterhouse.

Caesar's made himself a throne, Arcade noted. Charming. A man in a plaid suit sat on his knees, hands chained, on the right side of the room. Benny.

A soldier thrust Arcade down, and he collapsed on his knees like Benny before Caesar. The leader of the Legion sat forward in his throne with the confidence of Achilles, hands clasped together thoughtfully. Arcade forced himself to meet Caesar's eyes, determined to conceal his terror from Caesar. "Ah, you must be Arcade."

"And you're Caesar, if I'm not mistaken. Can we make this quick? Things to do, places to be; you know how it is." Even as he finished the words, Arcade grimaced. Perhaps sarcasm wasn't the wisest choice, and he was a little rusty after days without a real conversation with anyone, but it had always been his default mode of defense.

The older man's forehead creased in a sea of wrinkles that attested to his age, but the corners of his mouth just barely turned upwards in a smile. "Mark mentioned that you had a mouth on you." His voice, still tinged with a Vegas accent, didn't sound at all like Arcade expected. Mark mentioned that you had a mouth on you…Caesar spoke as if he'd been dealing with Mark for ages.

Arcade's voice was not shaking—it was not, and even the thought was ridiculous—when he replied, "I'm sure he did."

"Most people would be throwing themselves at my feet in fear. You're certainly an interesting one. As much as I'd like to teach you some respect, that will have to wait. The fact is, I need you to do something for me, and I need you to do it as soon as possible."

"Hey, anything I can do to help the Legion. Just say the word."

"Lucius, why don't you come over here and show Arcade here the reward for disrespect? Nothing too harsh; he is a newcomer, after all."

Lucius didn't have a weapon, but he looked enough like one. Before Caesar even finished his order, the soldier stepped forward, his arm snaking out to grab Arcade around the throat. His fingers tightened like a noose. "You will speak to Caesar with respect, or I'll have gagged." He released Arcade, who coughed and gulped in air, unable to reply even if he wanted to.

"Listen, Arcade, Mark tells me you're quite the doctor." Despite Arcade's urge to interrupt, Actually, I mostly just do research, he didn't dare say another word. "That's just what I happen to need. Now, if you refuse to treat me, there's a cross waiting for you outside. But those who prove useful to me are always rewarded."

"Rewarded?"

"With your life, for one thing. I could never kill the man who cured me. We'll work out the details later, but know that you'll certainly die a slower, more painful death if you refuse." Arcade didn't doubt that. "There's something in my head—a tumor, the books call it. I want it out, understood?"

There was only one conceivable answer, so Arcade nodded.

"Perfect. And just in case you get any ideas, know that failure is punishable by death. My men have no use for a doctor who kills his patient, whether by accident or otherwise."

Dammit. Hopefully the tumor wasn't inoperable, or Arcade was screwed. The Legion would still exist without Caesar, and they'd be angry. If Caesar ended up dead, Arcade would too, and all for nothing. He could only hope that Caesar wasn't lying about that reward.

"When was the last time you slept?" he asked suddenly.

The question surprised Arcade. "Uh, a couple nights ago, I guess."

Caesar nodded. "I suspected as much. And I'm not too keen on the idea of an exhausted surgeon with my life in his hands. Lucius, get him an empty tent and have someone less important, maybe Titus, keep an eye on him until morning. Get a slave to bring him a meal fit for a king."

Seizing one of Arcade's arms, Lucius hauled Arcade to his feet and led him out of Caesar's tent. When they walked through the Fort, Arcade stumbled as hunger and exhaustion dragged at his limbs. His head was spinning, and Lucius had to yank Arcade out of the path of a passing slave. Tired as he was, though, Arcade didn't forget to look up at the sky. While he hardly considered himself an authority on astrology, he had memorized the Zodiac, and glanced up for the reassurance that the constellations were exactly where they should be, despite the uncertainty of his own situation. But when he did look up, he realized that he could not see the stars. The clouds above the Fort were too dark, and they shrouded the sky defiantly.

Lucius stopped at one of the tents, empty except for a couple of bedrolls, and Arcade set his jaw as he felt Lucius untying the rope around his wrists. As soon as it was off, Arcade rubbed his arms, wincing as pain spiked through the red stripes left behind by the rope. "If you try to leave," Lucius said, "you will be killed." Arcade had no idea if that meant crucifixion or not, but he wasn't about to test the Legion.

For only a few minutes, Lucius left the room, and then another soldier appeared at the entrance of the tent. A young girl, perhaps not yet beyond her teenage years, laid a stone plate and cup at Arcade's feet. Without a second thought, he sat on the bedroll and bit off the end of the squirrel on a stick before he even had time to see what it was. Somehow, they had also given him purified water, and it soothed his dry throat.

They had offered so much food that he didn't eat more than half, aware that it would be easy to overindulge and make himself sick later. Only when he was satisfied did he stop and look up. The girl was staring at the plate, and Arcade wondered, with a pang of guilt, when she had last eaten. Holding out the plate, he said, "Finish it, will you?"

Her eyes widened a fraction, and she shook her head. "No, really," he insisted. "No purpose in wasting it."

At that, she glanced up to Titus, who shrugged his shoulders, He looked uncertain, and Arcade remembered that Caesar had asked for someone "less important." Obviously, this man did not have the experience of someone like Lucius, and Arcade noted that fact. Surely it could come in handy later. The girl bent over the plate, her face shrouded by a mass of dirty hair, and she choked down everything Arcade had left behind. "Thanks," she said, and nearly fled from the tent under the legionnaire's scrutiny.

Settling into the bedroll, Arcade wished that Titus would go somewhere else or at least stop staring, as if he expected Arcade to pull a knife out of the air. Under other circumstances, Arcade might have commented on it, but for once, he wasn't in the mood to talk any more than he had to. None of this was Titus' doing, anyway. Despite the dread swelling in the pit of his stomach, fatigue dragged at Arcade's limbs and soon pulled him into sleep.

When Titus awoke him, Arcade's bedroll was sticky and sweaty, the sheets clinging to him. He couldn't remember his dreams, but they couldn't have been good, and the sun had not yet risen yet. Although Caesar had said that he wanted a well-rested surgeon, Arcade figured that he could have only slept for a couple of hours, interrupted by fitful nightmares.

It took a great deal of effort for him to hide how nervous he was. He barely touched breakfast, thinking all the while about the safest way to operate on Caesar. The Legion had never employed doctors, so Arcade could hardly expect to find any legitimate medical equipment unless Caesar had been planning this for some time, and that wasn't likely enough for Arcade to count on it. While he did enjoy a good challenge, he didn't particularly like the thought of his entire life being at stake if he were to fail. Not that failure was a possibility, of course, or so he told himself.

As Titus led him through the maze of tents to Caesar's, Arcade spotted a slave exiting one of the legionnaire's tents. It was the dark-skinned woman who had tried to escape. She held her head up high as she passed the men.

Once at Caesar's tent, Lucius dismissed Titus and assumed guard duty over Arcade. "Remember," he said, "the Legion does not abide failure."

Arcade nodded, his mind already in the operating room. Lucius escorted him there, where Caesar lay on a queen-sized bed, an Auto-Doc at its foot. With a snort, Arcade rolled his eyes at the prospect of stooping to the level of using such a machine to perform such a delicate operation.

Someone had provided tools, at least, and the sight of them calmed Arcade. His shoulders sagged as he wrapped his fingers around the scalpel, an anchor to something familiar. Something he could control. Ironically, he was about to cut Caesar's head open, although unfortunately he also planned to sew it back up when the tumor was out. His fingers shook with anticipation until Arcade held the scalpel level with Caesar's head. There, his whole body steadied, and he exhaled slowly. With every breath, he released tension, until he was ready to begin.

When Caesar was sutured up and the tumor disposed of, Arcade stepped away from the bed. "I'm done. He'll be asleep for a few hours, and wake up a new man. In the medical sense, that is."

"Took you long enough," Lucius snarled. "You'd better be right."

"I'm always right," Arcade said wearily, suddenly exhausted. He'd been so afraid, for so long, he was completely worn out. The lack of sleep wasn't helping, probably.

Without another word, Lucius walked Arcade away from Caeesar's tent. The sun, already descending from the top of the sky, confirmed Arcade's suspicion that the surgery had taken many hours to complete. On the way back, Arcade spotted a crucifix, one that he had not seen before. The dark-skinned slave who had tried to escape was hanging from the cross, and he almost stopped walking, suddenly cold through his flesh all the way to his bones.

Once at Arcade's tent, Lucius summoned a slave to bring more food. Although Arcade didn't realize his hunger until the slave arrived with squirrel stew and Sunset Sarsaparilla, he ate with the same ravenous speed as he had the previous day. He recognized the slave from the previous day, but she did not return his gaze. When he offered the remainders of the stew, she started to accept, but drew her hand back when Lucius grunted in warning. She swept the bowl and spoon up and disappeared from the tent.

This time, the soldiers allowed Arcade to rest until he could rest no longer. The uncertainty of his fate and pain of Mark's betrayal hung over him like an illness, poisoning all the dreams that floated up while he slept, but his body was physically spent. Despite his anxiety, he did not awaken for nine hours, the most time he had rested all at once since he'd agreed to travel with Mark. He dreamed of Mark, that they were gallivanting around the Wasteland again, before Mark had ever journeyed to Cottonwood Cove and Caesar was just a distant threat.

When Arcade sat up from the bedroll, Titus rose from where he had been sitting at the entrance to the tent. "Caesar has requested that you see him immediately."

Yawning, Arcade raked his fingers through his hair and smoothed it back. "Can he wait until I'm presentable?" There was no saving his hair, he decided, peering through the reflection in his glasses. He had removed his lab coat and tunic when he slept, but there was no way he could put them back on again now, stained with dirt and sweat. "I apologize if this causes any inconvenience, but I really can't appear before Caesar like this. It could almost be considered disrespect."

"Is this some kind of trick?" said Titus, eyes narrowed fiercely as one hand drifted to the weapon at his side. Choking back a laugh, Arcade shook his head, and Titus called for a slave to bring a fresh tunic, pants, and underclothes. The slave that came was unusually young, or else her body hadn't caught up to her age, and she skipped into the tent with an enthusiasm that Arcade had yet to see in any of the other slaves. At the sight of Titus, though, she shrank away from the tent as soon as Arcade took the clothes from her.

"A little privacy?" asked Arcade as he pulled his shirt over his head.

"Don't push it," said Titus, and Arcade shrugged. After all, he couldn't win everything.

Instinct urged Arcade to turn away as he undressed, but the soldiers were probably used to having little or no privacy. He didn't want to give Titus any reason to be suspicious, not with the heavy penalties that could come with that. Besides, Titus was only waiting impatiently, and watching Arcade because he'd been ordered to do so. When Arcade was dressed, he wiped his lenses clean with the cloth of the tunic and announced, with some reluctance, that he was ready.

Since Arcade had finished the operation and rested in the late afternoon, he had awoken in the early morning hours. Out of habit, his eyes flickered up to the sky, but only saw the murky clouds. The sun could barely penetrate the overcast sky, and at night, the moon and stars didn't have a chance.

They reached Caesar's tent, where he sat in his throne, and Arcade said, "I seem to remember suggesting that you remain in bed. Are you experiencing any discomfort?"

With a wave of his hand, Caesar dismissed the question. "No, I'm fine. You did good work. And that's what I've called you here to talk about."

"Of course. Well, if it's not too much trouble, I'd appreciate it if I could get going. Things to do, places to be."

Caesar smiled, resting his head on a fist and looking up at Arcade. "Don't count on leaving this Fort anytime soon. Do you know why I haven't had my men kill you yet, Arcade?"

"I assumed that you couldn't bear to part with my charming personality, or perhaps my scathing wit."

"While I do value those things, I expect that you'd rather die than serve me."

"Is that a recent discovery, or a long-term observation?"

"Not a lot of people would dare speak to me like that. In that way, you prove your bravery, above any other slave or soldier. Or you're just that desperate to die."

"I don't know, death never seemed very pleasant to me. I've watched enough men face it unprepared."

"Then have no fear, Arcade. I will never kill you. Unless I have to crucify you, in which case you'll of course be very well prepared."

"Sorry to change the subject, but can we get back to what you said earlier, about leaving the Fort? The Legion forbids the use of medication, and while I understand that your situation did warrant an exception, I fail to see how I could be of any use to here. Why even waste the energy of killing me? Let me go, and you'll never have to deal with me again." The word sounded desperate even to his own ears, but then, he was desperate.

"Ah, but Arcade, why would I want you gone? It's a long road to recovery, and who's to say that I'll never need medical care again? Where could I ever find a physician with the expertise, and, most importantly, the results? Besides, I paid good money for you."

"Excuse me, could you repeat that again? I've yet to receive any caps, or, as you would say, a denarius. Of course, if you let me go, feel free to keep your payment."

When Caesar laughed out loud, Lucius narrowed his eyes, apparently not expecting the sound. "It was quite the bargain, too. I never expected you to be a source of entertainment as well." That can't be good, Arcade thought; being referred to as a "source of entertainment" by any legionnaire, especially Caesar, was a compliment no one wanted to hear. "I have to apologize," Caesar continued. "I'm afraid I wasn't totally honest with you earlier. See, the Courier sold you to me in exchange for ten denarii. I'm pleased to see that it was a wise investment. From now on, you'll be my personal physician, and I'll be very surprised if I don't find other uses for you as well."

Arcade laughed. It was a short huff at which the surrounding legionnaires curled their fingers, unused to the sound, but Caesar did not blink. He sat like a statue, perfectly poised, and studied Arcade with eyes that never wavered. Arcade shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he waited for Caesar to finally speak again. "Consider yourself lucky. You'll always have a guard, of course, but you'll sleep in a tent of your own, unlike my other slaves." He lingered on the last word, and Arcade bristled. The legionnaires glanced at one another in surprise, or perhaps amusement. Arcade could not quite interpret the looks and, knowing that his every move was being watched, his eyes flickered back to meet Caesar's. At once, Caesar added, "You have a lot to learn. I'm your master now, and you'll lower your gaze at all times."

His face flushed with humiliation as he fixed his eyes on Caesar's feet. "How soon can I expect a raise?"

"Ah, yes, I can see we're going to get along just fine. You're certainly sharper than most of my…more physically inclined soldiers. I've missed battling wits ever since my days with the Followers. You were once a member of the Followers too, if I'm not mistaken. We're not so different, you and I."

"You'd be surprised." Arcade wasn't thinking now, or feeling. He said whatever came to mind as bile rose in his throat, and his stomach turned. Just the word slave—and to none other than Caesar—serving the Legion—how was he going to survive—

"Lucius, get this slave to shut the hell up."

The man's speed was admirable. Just as Arcade parted his lips to speak, a blow struck the right side of his face, and his head snapped away as he blinked back the water that sprung to his eyes.

"After you've been Caesar for long enough," Caesar continued, "nothing much comes as a surprise anymore. But then, I never expected you to be so entertaining. As I said, Mark was right about you." Caesar rubbed his eyes, and sighed. "Guess I'm not back to full strength yet. Lucius, have Titus watch the slave. Have him treated well, give him food if he asks for it. Give him one of the women as a reward for his good work. The man saved my life, after all. But if he does anything stupid, doesn't hesitate to use force."

One of the women.Arcade desperately hoped that Lucius would ignore that part, or Arcade was about to be in a very awkward situation indeed. When they left Caesar's tent, there wasn't much activity around the Fort at that hour; after all, the sun hadn't even risen yet. But as they walked, Arcade saw a familiar face speaking with one of the soldiers. "Mark?" he said, just to be sure. "Et tu, mi amiga?"

As Lucius tugged at Arcade's arm, Mark tightened his lips in a thin line. "Arcade."

"Don't speak to the Courier," said Lucius.

Ignoring the soldier, Arcade said to Mark, "Hey, was it always your plan to sell me into slavery to Caesar, or was that a spur-of-the-moment thing? Why don't you make like Odysseus and get lost?"

Lucius barked out a harsh laugh, and Arcade bit his tongue. What had he expected to gain from that remark? Oh, that would show Mark, make him sorry. But Mark didn't mock Arcade, or so much as smirk. He nodded at Arcade said, "I have."

It took Arcade a moment to realize what Mark was saying, but he wasn't sure if he cared. "Tell Rex goodbye for me, will you? That is, unless you've sold him too."

Before Mark could respond, Lucius yanked Arcade away, pulling him along to his tent. The legionnaire shoved Arcade to the ground and kicked him on his side. As Arcade grunted, Lucius said, "Despite what you may think, you are under my orders as well. You will not disobey me again." Arcade pulled himself up, clutching the arm where Lucius had kicked him as Lucius continued, "You'll stay here until Caesar needs you again."

Titus was already there, awaiting Arcade's return. "He shouldn't be any trouble, but he's invaluable to Caesar." When Titus inclined his head in a silent question, Lucius sighed. "If anything happens to him, you're dead. Do you understand that? Oh, and Caesar wants him rewarded. Let him have one of the women."

Something twisted in his chest. He was almost sick. It hadn't quite sunk in before, but now Arcade realized that they could do anything to him. Anything at all. This wasn't a joke, this wasn't a minor annoyance. He was a prisoner. Despite his hatred for Caesar and his policies, Caesar was actually more amused by this than anything else, and besides all of that, Caesar had paid good money for Arcade. The implications of Caesar actually paying ten golden coins for Arcade deeply shook him, not because the amount was especially large or small, but because Caesar had wanted him at all. Clearly, Caesar did not intend to waste the money he'd spent by losing his temper when Arcade provoked him with simple words. The man was just as sharp as Arcade in many ways. Certainly, he was smart enough to see behind Arcade's desperate bait, and he realized that Arcade was practically begging for the easy way out.

He closed his eyes, breathing in the dirty air and determined to hold back the tears, but he couldn't control the violent trembling in his body any longer and he didn't try. He'd learned the hard way that while he could hide his emotions as much as he wanted, if he didn't find some outlet for them eventually he'd lose the ability to hide them at all, and he'd crack. And he couldn't safely do that here.

You are my slave, and you will serve me.

He'd thought he was doing so well, had saved Caesar's life and even gotten himself a change of clothes. But really, Caesar could do as he liked to Arcade, without even the thin protection of being the sole provider of medical care now that Caesar was no longer threatened by the tumor. Arcade's one hope was to cooperate.

His breathing grew ragged. No. He wasn't going to cry. It would be too easily seen, without the use of cosmetics to hide it, and he didn't have any to put on.

Arcade could hardly blame the Courier for perhaps disliking him—so many did, and to each their own. But to sell him to the Legion—when he could have just been killed, if Mark only wanted to be rid of him—and to take it a step further by betraying the entire population of New Vegas—all free people—to spread Hell across New Vegas—yes, the Courier certainly qualified for Dante's ninth circle, Arcade decided, and he set his glasses on the dirt beside him.

"Arcade," he heard, as if from a distant place. He blinked, straining to focus on Titus, who was standing at the entrance to the tent with three female slaves. "You may choose from these women."

Shit, he thought, and pushed the glasses back up on his nose. "No offense to Caesar, but I prefer to have sex with women that actually share the desire."

Titus furrowed his brow, once again apparently bewildered by Arcade's words. "Caesar has ordered that you be rewarded."

"Right, how rude of me, refusing to rape them. In that case, I'll have her," he said, pointing at the one to whom he'd given the remains of his meal. He was already forming a plan in his mind—a crazy one, no doubt, but it was the only chance he had.

She didn't react, only stepped forward as Titus nodded. "Good choice. I'll be outside."

Titus zipped up the entrance to the tent as he left. The girl approached Arcade until their faces were nearly touching, and she placed her hands on his shoulders, running them down his arms. His muscles tensed. "You were very kind to me earlier," she said. "I don't mind this, really." He shook his head, about to speak, but she continued, "I'm used to the soldiers, and they're not half so worried about me."

As she spoke, her lips brushed against Arcade's. "That's not the problem," he whispered, turning his head away when she tried to kiss his mouth. "Let's just say that women have never been my thing."

Her mouth formed the shape of an "O" and she nodded. "If they find out…." She looked away.

"That's why we're going to ensure that doesn't happen." He pulled the tunic over his head, tossing it on the other side of the tent. As the slave narrowed her eyes in confusion, he unzipped his pants and threw them on top of the shirt. Then, he pulled down the blankets and slid underneath, beckoning for the slave to join him in the bedroll. She followed, hesitantly removing her clothes, little more than rags that protected her modesty. Resting the back of his head on his arms, he looked up at the ceiling and starting to moan.

Understanding dawned on her face and she smiled. "Yes," she said, loudly, "just like that…"

To his ears, she was the more convincing one. A couple of times, Arcade wondered if she was doing anything to help herself sound more believable, but he didn't bother to look. Instead, he concentrated on not allowing himself to laugh, or choking it back so that anyone listening outside the tent would hear it as a groan. It became a game as they matched one another's growing volume, her whimpering with nonexistent pleasure and trying just as hard to stifle her amusement. When they decided that it had gone on long enough and finished, she finally dissolved into laughter, shoulders shaking with laughter as she giggled into the blankets. There, she lingered for a few minutes, lowering her voice to remark, "I wonder what Titus thought of that."

She dressed herself and left the tent, and Titus reentered at once. His raised one eyebrow at Arcade, who only allowed himself to smile.

Arcade expected that Caesar would summon him soon—the next day, perhaps. But the week crawled away without even Lucius stopping by to update Arcade on Caesar's condition, and Arcade could only assume that Caesar must be recovering without any trouble. Probably for the best, not that Arcade particularly wanted Caesar to be healthy. Arcade spent his time reciting passages from The Illiad in his head, sometimes even aloud to Titus. By the way the soldier cocked his head and scratched his hair, he didn't have the slightest idea what Arcade was saying, but at least he never told Arcade to stop.

One day, Lucius appeared, and Arcade nearly leapt to his feet. Whatever Caesar wanted had to be more interesting than reenacting Hector's death scene. Thankfully, there was no sign of Mark. Once with Caesar, Arcade saw that a chair had been placed just a few feet away from the throne, and Caesar gestured for Arcade to take a seat. A book was sitting on the chair, and Arcade lifted it to see that it was a copy of la Divina Commedia: The Divine Comedy. The irony, Arcade thought to himself, knew no bounds.

"You know Italian?" said Caesar.

Arcade shrugged. "For the most part. I'm more familiar with Latin, but the basics are similar enough."

"Good. Read it."

"Why?" The word tumbled out from instinct, and Arcade's fingers tightened on the edges of the book as he saw Caesar's expression.

Caesar growled, low in his throat, and snapped his fingers in the direction of a guard that Arcade didn't recognize. "Show this slave that he's to treat his master with some fucking respect."

"Gladly," replied the soldier, and drew a whip from his side as he walked towards Arcade.

Arcade's heart almost stopped as the soldier pulled him out of the chair. His eyes squeezed shut by some will of their own as the soldier's hand rose in the air. "It's really not necessary—"

The blow knocked the wind from him. For a split second he was suspended, as if trapped between moments of time, anticipating the pain. The welt flared awake across his back then, a single burning line. And then it radiated from there across his entire back, like the acid solution had been on his throat, like he'd been set on fire. He gritted his teeth so hard that his jaw throbbed. The soldier glanced at Caesar, who nodded, and the whip thrashed again. It screamed in his ears, and Arcade grunted through his teeth as the whip struck his back one final time. The force of the lash shoved him to his knees, at Caesar's feet.

Leaning forward in his throne, Caesar patted Arcade's head. He registered that as an additional dull humiliation, not that it mattered when he'd been broken so far already. "You'll be good now, won't you? There's more where that came from, if you haven't had enough."

"No!—no. Won't happen again." As soon as strength returned to his limbs, Arcade stood up and brushed the dirt off his pants. Blood trickled down his back, under the tunic, and he hissed through his teeth as his back connected with the back of the chair. Turning to the first page of the book, he said, "Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita, mi ritrovai per una selva oscura..."

At the end of almost every Canto, Caesar held up a hand to stop and question Arcade about the translation of a word, or the events of the story. "What do you think about the Epicureans?" he would ask. "They thought the body had no soul, and happiness could only be achieved through the absence of pain. My men and I would have to say otherwise."

"Well, that's not quite all he believed," ventured Arcade, and Caesar gestured for him to continue. "He also professed that seeking pleasure and freedom from fear were necessary for peace with oneself, not necessarily happiness."

"Still, I've often found that the thrill of fear as one rushes into a battle is a kind of happiness. I don't know about tranquility, but who says one needs peace to be happy? Like I said, the adrenaline of battle is the highest form of pleasure for many of my men." I don't doubt it. Before, Arcade would have easily said it, but now he had to watch his mouth. "But then, a doctor like yourself wouldn't know about that."

Unable to pass up the insult, Arcade said, "Have you forgotten that I fought alongside the Courier for half a year?"

"Have you forgotten that he sold you? Keep reading."

Somewhere around the twentieth Canto, Arcade could hardly speak any longer, his voice a raspy mutter that definitely clashed with the smooth Italian poetry. At any moment now, he told himself, Caesar would dismiss him. After all, he'd been given plenty of rest up until this point. But then, that was before Caesar had revealed Arcade's condition as a slave to him. Although Arcade had long wished that he could find someone with which to discuss the finer points of classic literature, his throat was parched, in need of some liquid to relieve it. Still, Caesar waited until Arcade could only utter strangled whispers before he finally told Arcade to leave.

"Rest up," he said. "The real work begins in a couple of days."

That explains Lucius, Arcade thought. The man's eyes were darting around the tent, unable to remain still, and he barely noticed Arcade. When he escorted Arcade back to his tent, he marched briskly, so that Arcade had to jog to match his pace. And once there, Titus stared with wide eyes as Arcade wondered how much the giant even understood about the situation. "So, according to Caesar—" He coughed to clear his throat, although his voice still made him sound like the survivor of a deathclaw attack. "Big day coming up?"

"Yes." Titus drummed his fingers against his leg. "Very important, Caesar says. Hoover Dam."

Muttering a curse under his breath, Arcade placed his glasses beside him and rubbed his eyes. "Sounds exhilarating." When Titus tilted his head to one side, Arcade remembered that there wasn't much point in speaking anything other than monosyllables around Titus. "Uh, it sounds fun."

"Yes. I have to stay here. To guard you," he added, as if Arcade wouldn't have figured it out otherwise. "Caesar says that you are…not able to be replaced."

"Irreplaceable, you mean?" He sighed. "That I am."

"Hmm?" There was no way Titus could have heard him.

With a dismissive wave, Arcade pointed at his throat. "Water?" he rasped, and Titus nodded, calling for a servant.

It was the oldest woman he had seen so far at the camp, and she smirked when she saw Arcade. "We've heard about you," she said in a low voice, and Arcade ignored her. Slave gossip traveled far too quickly for his liking, and he didn't want to think about the implications of what that might mean. He gulped down the water and tried to sleep.

There wasn't much for him to do over the next few days, although Caesar did summon him to discuss battle strategies. But no matter how much he tried to drag out of Arcade, the doctor skirted around every question. "It's impossible to predict how many of the Brotherhood will surface," he insisted, when Lucius pressured him to estimate the number that would appear on the battlefield. "No one has been able to locate them for years."

"Then what about the NCR heavy troopers, Lee's bodyguards? What can we expect from them?"

"Look, I'm no expert in battle. I can shoot a gun, but analyzing General Oliver's personal troops is a bit out of my league."

"But the Courier—"

Raising one hand to silence Lucius, Caesar turned to face Arcade, his eyes flashing dangerously. "How are the injuries on your back? Healing swiftly, I hope?"

Point taken, you bastard. Just when Arcade was beginning to forget about it, too, and now it throbbed again. There had been plenty of stimpacks available when Arcade operated on Caesar, but now that the slave was the one in need of healing, no one had been able to find any. "Their power armor is essentially impenetrable from a distance, but it reduces agility. Against melee weapons, it barely puts up a fight."

"Much better," said Caesar, clapping Arcade on the shoulder, and he winced. His shoulder burned where Caesar had touched him, as though his hand was made of acid. The discussion of strategy continued for hours, and Caesar argued with him sometimes, demanding to know Arcade's reasons for believing that Lee's bodyguards weren't as threatening as the legionnaires assumed, or countless details that he could barely recall when he had returned to his tent.

By sunrise, the soldiers had departed for Hoover Dam.