Sweeper’s Treasure

He didn’t complain much.
In fact, he kind of liked his job! Sure! Why not? He got to be in the sun, use his arms,  and keep to himself. What more could you need?
Sure, the cell sucked. And the food was piss. And the dead bodies…well. You got used to them.
After lifting and moving and stacking them over and over; it became work pretty quick. Just another thing you had to do, so you could live on to the next day. And the benefits were good too! Since he wasn’t the dead one at the end of every day, he sorta felt lucky.
What? Gasp! Slaves?! Fighting in the Arena?! You’re not supposed to say that!
Sweeper snarled and spat to the sound of a thunderous applause coming to life around them. Big-Happy  giggled in his childish way.
Yah. He liked his job. Sometimes, it even seemed like the crowd was cheering for him.
The doors open, and the sunlight blinded him just like it did every day. He didn’t flinch, just ran out into the sun and toward the first lump on the ground he could find. Sometimes, at the end of a long day; he wouldn’t even register what he carried. Was it a shield? Was it a bone, or limb? He didn’t care anymore, just grab it and get it off. Then they’d leave you alone again. It wasn’t too bad really.
And after a nice long day spent in the sun, using your arms and moving bodies; Sweeper would find himself sweeping the sands of the pit, the place oddly devoid of life and sound. Just the sand through the metal rake, both thick with spilled blood. It was relaxing, impressive, and stifling all at once. A place where so many screamed it could make a man deaf, could become so silent that Sweeper could hear his own low whistle.
Not a bad job.
Clunk. What’s this?
Sweeper stopped for a moment, seeing an object his rake had snagged. What could it be? He was excited for a moment, but was disappointed to see it was just a finger. Sometimes, in fact more often than not, somebody loses a finger in the Arena. Sweeper imagines them out in their daily routines, going about with no fingers on either hand. He chuckles, and gets ready to toss the finger.
When he sees the pendant carved in pewter.
“Ooh! Wow.” He mutters under his breath, examining the ring. So thick around, and nearly plain except for the emblem on the top. A torch that burnt from both sides, grasped in a man’s hand. He turned it over in the fading light of Tarna. The others hadn’t even noticed, too busy talking in small groups instead of watching. So Sweeper pulled the ring off the end of the finger, and slipped it on his own.
And what luck! It fit perfect!



Two years later he found the man it belonged to.
He was drunk over some cups , stolen from the barrels of the attached vendor. Some of the ‘Custodial’ guys knew where the cracks were located, and when the barman moved their goods. Sweeper had run into luck, and found a toothbrush left behind after a day’s contest. It was used, but no worse for wear.
But Sweeper only had four teeth. So he was going to try and sell it. Barter was more like it, since no one would actually pay a half-grain for a used toothbrush. But, shit, why not? He moved through the cracks in the massive stone slabs like an ant. That’s what he felt like, an ant; working little by little each day. Moving the same specks of sand over and over. The same bodies. He chuckled.
The stone slabs had nooks cut into them, small thin passages for particular ‘staff’. Sweeper was familiar with this section of the Waterchase Arena, but never ventured far. He had been fortunate, Custodial was chill. The other workers didn’t want to kill you while you slept, or even when you were awake! Some areas in the cracks of the Arena weren’t like that.  Sweeper knew a lot of guys in his time here. And they disappeared real fast when they left their area. So Sweeper stayed in his turf.
But today, he needed to barter his toothbrush; he needed to pass into unknown space.
But he found the place without a hitch. He didn’t even get stabbed or humped, seemed like a load of bull.
He even got some new boot straps for the brush!
But on the way out, he heard a man talking. Holding a chalice all strange.
“I fought in the Arena once.” Everyone chuckled. Sweeper just stared. People noticed. “I had come to Waterchase on a pilgrimage, and gotten drunk instead.” They all laughed, the man talking always laughed the hardest. That’s how Sweeper knew he was drunk.
“Then what happened?”
The man looked at Sweeper, face frozen in drunken mirth. “I blew my coin. All of it. Dalgroban.” The crowd hollered, Sweeper didn’t get it.  “I lost my funding in one night’s binge of games; I became so swamped in debt, I had to fight. And the guy they put me against is this huge…” The man makes big gestures with his sweaty cheeks and shoulders, “monster of a man.”
Oh. Sweeper had hear d this one before. It was a favorite to many drunken men. He turned to leave.
“I lost a finger,” he held up his chalice and sure enough there were only four.  “I was so drunk, I wouldn’t be surprised if I cut it off myself!”  He laughed, but Sweeper had a funny thought.
“Well, I’ve seen a lot of fingers; I could probably tell you what happened to it.” The man didn’t respond, in fact it almost seemed like he hadn’t heard. Or at least, it seemed like he had heard, but wanted to pretend he hadn’t. Sweeper didn’t like repeating himself though, he stood silent, expecting.
“I lost something very important to me that day.” His eyes looked far away, as if he was seeing it. All mirth was gone from his face. Sweeper shifted uncomfortable. The crowd quieted and focused in. The silence was disturbing, but only for a short time. Just long enough to be disturbing, he would say. “On my pilgrimage, I was entrusted with a ring. An…heirloom, so to say. But when I woke up in a ditch, in a puddle of rainwater, dirt, and blood...My finger was gone!” He roared in laughter, and the others picked up on the cue. They just didn’t think it was as funny.
“A ring?” Sweeper rubbed the ring around his finger. How had he got this one? Off a finger.
“Aye. A plain thing, glad to be rid of it.” He slurped some ale, rather sloppily; Sweeper saw precious ale dribble down the man’s unkempt scraggly beard. The dust caked in it absorbed the excess moisture. “I’m a free man now, not a care in the world. I do my work, get my pay, and get my ale!” He howled; the others chuckled. There was a difference.  Sweeper turned to leave again, catching the man’s last words. “Best thing that could have happen to me, losing that ring.” He continued to mumble but Sweeper was already through the cracks, again.
And his boots didn’t fall off once!



The perforated bodies always made a humorous, hollow, thump when you threw them into the cart. This always made Big-Happy chuckle in his deep voice, clapping bloody hands gleefully. Sweeper used his metal rake to spread the dark sand with the light. No need to hide the blood; just make the ground nice and even. If you snag a remnant, toss it in the cart with the bodies. He knew his job, and he did it well. Using the prongs he did a quick search for fingers, toes, intestines, and the lot.
But this had been a duel. Those sorts of things only showed up in the beast matches.
Big-Happy, the lifter, hoisted another body into the cart and clapped joyously. Sweeper gave him a firm pat on the back “Good Hap.” The man turned to him, a wide grin spreading across his sun-colored skin. “Hap, Push.” The man nodded eagerly and grabbed the handles of the cart, heaving it through the bloodstaind sand. It was hard work to get the wheels to turn, even for Big-Happy. But the big baby seemed to enjoy it, and hummed a disharmonious song as the crowd quieted.
Sweeper risked a glance around, and saw the audience wasn’t looking at him. They never did. But it was fun to pretend; so he did a quick spin with his rake thrown over his shoulder and cantered out of the Arena. He was sure no had noticed, but there was a pep in his step since finding the ring. As if things had started going his way, which wasn’t saying much.
Things always went his way!
This was the good life.
By the time Sweeper hung up his metal rake and got to the kitchens, Big-Happy had already disposed of the bodies and was waiting for his next meal. Most workers only got two meals a working day, but the cook never withheld food from Big-Happy. People liked the big baby, and the people who didn’t like anyone were smart enough to fear him. He was heads taller than most, and wide enough around to not fit in a single chair.
But Sweeper didn’t think of these things, he was Big-Happy after all.
And they were friends.
“We friends, right Hap?” The big man gurgled his consent through his porridge. “Good.” Sweeper watched the man eat, wondering how he could go through so many bowls of porridge a day. After each battle, the cleaners switched between a two teams. When one cleaned the muck from the first battle, the second group was allowed a brief period of time for themselves. Clean up, eat, relieve yourself,  sleep; basically whatever there was time to do, so long as you weren’t late for your cleaning. Each team had a dozen or so cleaners that kept to themselves, but Big-Happy had taken a liking to Sweeper. Sweeper stretched his stiff back and yawned, the audience above was still quiet. Maybe there was still time for a little shut-eye.
Sweeper dropped his face onto his folded arms and sighed, drifting to sleep instantly.
“Oy, Sweeps.” Calbe, a picker, was prodding him in the back with a wooden spoon. Sweeper grumbled. “May not wanna do that. I hears with my good ear that Jonash Steel-throat is in the next match. They be needing us back up there before long’s my guess.” The man scooped some porridge into his toothy gap between rancid breaths.
“Can’t sleep with your ass running the way it is anyhow.” Sweeper sat back up and stretched again.
“Hoho, got us a bitey Sweeps today. Carful fellas, Sweeps got all his teef today!”
“Bah, only the ones that count.” Calbe laughed through mottled teeth. Pickers were the worst, they always thought people liked them. They thought they were so special, just because they were in charge of organizing the teams. But everyone knew that Calbe couldn’t even remember his own name, so it often fell onto Sweeper to organize the teams. He was the oldest after all.
Age had some privilege around here.
“Jonast Steel-Throat, eh?” Sweeper continued the conversation; the Audience started to roar above them. “ Who’s in charge of possessions today? I bet they’ll get a good haul.”
Calbe looked confused. “Hem…Good one, the fella with the chin scar. You know ‘im, scrawny boy.” He snapped his fingers looking for a name. It wasn’t important, at least Calbe had already selected someone. Sweeper hated playing picker when someone like Jonast was next in line. Possessions was a great job to have on a day like today; there would be a long of severed limbs, and many of them would have loot. Chain, bracers, rings, bucklers, hidden knives, even hide or rope was a good find. See Jonast was a hero. He always won. Everytime. And he was fond of making a bloody mess of things.
Literally.
The person in charge of possessions was responsible for stripping down the arm before disposing it. In other words, it was a great opportunity to pocket some loot. The issue was the wardens seemed to check in on them after Jonast battles, and they collected all the loot. If you weren’t smart, you got caught. If you got caught, you paid for what you tried to pilfer.
So the trick to picking someone to do possessions was to pick someone  who was smart.  Take too much, and the Wardens would repossess it all. Take too little, and the other members of the team thought you were holding out on them. The last two possessors were beat to death in their sleep. Sweeper was never involved in that, but he was sure Calbe was.
The man with the chin scar was a terrible choice. He was sneaky for sure, but the greediest of bastards among them. He would get the entire team in trouble, no doubt. Sweeper wasn’t looking forward to it.
“Don’ like my pick?” Calbe questioned, trying to hide his concern.
“Nah. Delvin is crafty and greedy. Either he’ll take too much, or he’ll hide it too well.” Sweeper spat out the side of his mouth and stood, the Audience was kicking into a fervor now. They were chanting: Steel-Throat Steel-Throat Steel-Throat. The duel would be over soon. “We’re screwed either way.” Calbe seemed concerned. He stood and followed after Sweeper.
“Oy, Sweeps. I knew he not the bes’ pick, but who else is there? You won’ do it.”
“No, you’re right. I won’t.” His thoughts flashed back to the time he managed to “possess” a handful of metal links form a chainmail suit. One of the best catches in months, subtle yet lucrative.
“Well, I’m outta options Sweep! The rest are too green to possess. You was the bes’, why you no help us?” The man tried a friendly shrug, but the motion was just awkward. Within moments the second team was gathered in front of the access gate. Big-Happy was the last to arrive, as usual he was rubbing his big belly; mumbling to himself in child’s speak. “C’mon Sweeps. You the man for the job.”
Sweeper turned on picker. He gave him a cold glare.
“A’ight. I’ll do it. I get the catch of the day though. And make sure the others know about it!”
“Oy, savin’ lives as always Sweeps!” Calbe moved over to Delvin chin-scar, and pulled him aside. Outside the Arena was chaotic with screams, the final blow had been dealt. The silence that followed was in reverence for the Authorities, the judges of life and death. It was eerie, and marked the moment before Sweeper’s team would charge out into the sand and clean the carnage.
Huh. Sweeper’s team. He liked the sound of that!
The mumbled voice from beyond the gate finished, and the crowd roar that type of roar that signaled the challenger’s execution. The gate keeper pulled the winch and the team poured onto the sand without a moment’s hesitation. Sweeper imagined the roars were for him, calling out his name, chanting for luck in his upcoming battle. But he just smiled, unable to imagine himself adorned in armor, or carrying a sword. He chuckled, maybe they would let him fight with a rake.
That would be a funny sight!
He snagged half of a hand with the prongs on his metal rake, and examined it quickly before tossing it in the cart. Two rings, pinky finger. He hoisted a severed leg from the knee down and took note of how heavy the greaves were. Iron greave, no jewels. The sand was thick with blood under the decapitated body, Calbe tossed him the helmed-head, and Sweeper let the visor swing open before dropping it in the cart. One gold tooth, jackpot. The body was largely covered in blood, so a quick glance made it difficult to appraise anything of value.
He turned his back on the cart as Big-Happy pushed it off the sands. Sweeper took a deep breath and pulled his rake through the sand, evening the sand with the flat side. He was just about finished when there was a tiny klink of metal. He stooped to scoop up a handful of dirt and sifted it through his dirt crusted fingers. What remained was a jewel, red in color; a ruby? His breath caught in his throat, a small fortune without a doubt. But he knew he had botched the chance.
Someone was bound to have seen him. He couldn’t pocket it. There was no chance of him finding it again either; every dark spot of sand looked the same after a long day of duels. So instead Sweeper did something no one else had ever been brave enough to manage. He looked at Jonast Steel-Throat, who was still basking in the glory of victory, and walked right up to him. The man turned on him so quick that Sweeper was certain he was dead, but the other’s sword was buried in the sand not four feet away.
“Beg your pardon, sir. This looked valuable.” Sweeper put on his humblest of voices. What was he thinking? When had he made the decision to talk to a combatant? This was the sort of thing that got you killed. Yet the man just stared at him, cold eyes measuring the small ruby in Sweeper’s hand. It had come off of his silver armor, which was adorned with an array of red gems.
There was a brief pause, but the audience roared on. Jonast, reached out with his silver gauntlet and clutched Sweeper’s hand. He flipped it over and the ruby fell to the blood-stained dirt. Sweeper wanted to catch it, wanted to pick it up and offer it again; but the other was completely uninterested in such a thing. Steel-Throat was staring intently at the back of his dirt crusted hand.
Staring directly at the drab iron ring, the one that Sweeper had completely forgotten until now.
“Who are you?” The man’s voice was a shout, Sweeper only heard it because he was so close. The roar didn’t cease, and Sweeper didn’t look to see if anyone though the brief interaction was strange.
“No one, sir.” The lie came easy. The man released Sweeper’s hand and stepped back, sizing him up.
Sweeper didn’t wait for what came next; he bowed his head, grabbed his metal rake and made a quick escape to the gate-access. All the while he could feel the eyes of the hero burning into the back of his skull. He felt naked, the gaze of a legendary hero had sized him up. Measured him as a challenger, a threat. For just an instant, Sweeper felt as though he was a real fighter in the Arena. A fighter that looked death straight in the eyes. He felt like a hero himself.
And he was only too glad he was not. 



There was the golden-tooth though.

And that made the day a good day.
Aside from buttons, the two rings off a man’s pinky, and a parchment with the picture of a woman, there wasn’t much to go around. The greaves themselves were too large, and would certainly be missed. But the straps that held them to the leg wouldn’t be noticed for a while. Behind the greaves the fighter had kept a picture of a pretty woman with dark hair drawn on parchment. He carried no coin, no item of religion, just a man with a will to fight. Oh course, the picture was a bit alarming. It was something you didn’t find often on a body.
It made the guy real.
Gave him a past, a purpose, a history. Just a silly picture of a pretty dark haired woman. A goods picture, sure, but it wasn’t worth anything. The parchment would trade well in the cracks, but Sweeper’s squad couldn’t read and no one owned charcoal so it was pretty much useless. Still, Delvin chose it over the button. Sweeper figured it was because the woman was pretty, most of the others agreed. Sweeper kept the tooth, Calbe took the straps, the next three argued over the rings. And just as simple as that, he was rid of the thing; the iron band with the torches burning on both ends. He simply slipped it off, and added it to the small pile of loot. Big happy got it. That made Sweeper smile; it was like he had never really lost it!
He just couldn’t wear it after that moment in the Arena.
Some people were destined for greatness.
And Sweeper wanted nothing to do with them.