Coliseum - 1. Coliseum

Coliseum

Sechariah looked to the brand that scarred his upper arm, the seal of the House of Crombie a fierce reminder of who owned him. Running his hand over the thick, tough lines, he thought about the combat he was forced to do, the fighting he had fought for years now in the Coliseum.

Taken as a slave during a raid on his tribe when he was still a boy, Sechariah had come to be trained in the martial arts so that he might duel for his master’s honor against the other wealthy Houses of the Outlaws of the Wastes, duel to entertain those who had no better thing to spend their time and money on. He, and others like him, were things that were owned by those who could afford them.

The sheen of his rapier was bright blue in the stone corridor that lead to the center of the arena, the chill dark traced with light from the metallic reflection. His blonde hair was shaved short, the custom for slaves, and the sleeveless armor he wore showed his connection to his master; the safety of a warrior-slave was second to the need to recognize him as such by the mark on his arm.

The sunlight from outside the corridor was bright, almost blinding him as his eyes adjusted. Rising into the air above and around him were grey stone bleachers, an amphitheatre full of rich and poor alike, all joined in their enjoyment of the blood sport that was about to be played.

Before him, standing on the baking sand of the arena floor, stood his opponent. The foe was tall and slender, lithe like a willow switch, a black scarf adorned with metal-threaded embroidery on the ends. His green-brown eyes were lined in black, his dark hair pulled back loosely with a thin, plain ribbon. A smirk crossed his brown face, his features wickedly sharp in the sunlight.

A frown played on Sechariah’s lips; something was afoot for him to be pitted against such a light-weight, an unarmed foe whose stance and lazy shoulders oozed a calm arrogance. Sechariah could feel the hair at the nape of his neck stand on end as he sized up the enemy.

“Should we exchange names, so that we have the honor of knowing who we are killing?”

Sechariah’s eyebrows twitched upwards, his blue eyes narrowing just a bit.

“I am Sechariah, warrior for the House of Crombie. Who are you?”

The strange man bowed, the heavy metal-tipped scarf just brushing the sand.

“Alec of Canses,” he introduced himself, self-satisfaction on his face as he rose, “I fight for the House of Corinth.”

“You seem kinda fluffed up for a warrior in the Coliseum.”

Alec smiled, his eyes closing as though enjoying the richest of desserts.

“I bear no mark of slavery, Sechariah. There are those of us who fight, not for freedom, but because we are free.”

Sechariah’s lip curled at Alec’s words.

“If I was free, I would not waste my time playing with death.”

At that the gong was struck, signaling the commencement of the match. Sechariah and Alec took their places before each other, both bowing to the other.

“Fighting to please your master, fighting to earn freedom, fighting to fight… It is no matter whatever the reasons may be. The only truth is that which is, not that which ought to be.”

Sechariah unsheathed his rapier, Alec unwinding his scarf from his neck, each staring the other down, waiting for the vibrato of the gong to begin the fight. The searing flash of disdain coursed through Sechariah’s body, Alec’s smirk still painted on his face. There was the nearly-eternal moment before the crash, then the flood of raw power as Sechariah charged Alec.

A flick of Alec’s wrist sent the metal-woven end of his scarf crashing into Sechariah’s face, the withdrawal ripping pieces of flesh from his cheek. He could feel blood trickling down his face as Alec sidestepped the rapier, leaping lady-like from the slave.

Catching himself, Sechariah redoubled the offensive, taking a heavy blow to the nose and feeling the breaking of bone along its ridge. Before he could reach Alec the free-fighter had snapped the scarf back and sent the sharp embroidery rocketing toward Sechariah’s sword-hand. The warrior deflected the whipping strike with a slash of the rapier, forcing Alec to leap once more out of harm’s way.

“I could kill you, if you wished it,” Alec said, flicking the scarf like the slave-master’s leather-braided whip to evoke a series of rapid deflections from Sechariah.

“Jumped-up dandy,” the warrior-slave growled, parrying the attacks as he was pressed backward. Alec pursed his lips and smacked his foe in the face once again.

“Would that your master had taught you manners, boy,” Alec said, priming for another strike. Seeing an opening, Sechariah raced forward, feinting to the left then dodging right to slash at the long-haired Alec. He leapt away from the blade, but not before Sechariah had nicked him with the rapier. From Alec’s torso leaked blood, staining his blue shirt purple-brown.

“This was my favorite shirt,” he said, clutching his wound when he landed, “Give it up, bonded-man. Even if you win, you are enslaved to another. Lose, and freedom is yours.”

Sechariah wiped the blood from his face, red streaks smeared on his arm while pain blossomed from his nose.

“Freedom isn’t something that can be found in death,” he growled, deflecting another attack from Alec.

“I beg to differ,” another series of feral strikes, Sechariah blocking with swipes of his sword, “As a free man I can give you freedom in whichever form I choose. The House of Crombie holds you in no esteem other than to fight their debts of honor. You are a tool, nothing more. In death, I make you a hero, I give you freedom from your mark.”

Sechariah parried each whip of the scarf, snarling at the sound of his enemy’s voice. With a flick of his wrist he wrapped the scarf around the hilt of his rapier, winding Alec close to him and punching him with all his weight in the jaw.

“Shut your mouth, fairy,” he yelled, spittle-flecked blood spraying into Alec’s face as the willow-switch man was thrown backward by the force of the blow. Catching himself on the tension of the scarf, Alec rebounded, untangling his weapon from the hilt and leaping away to safety.

“How uncouth. So much for reasoning; I’ll take my victory now.”

Graceful as a spider Alec took hold of the scarf near its middle, whirling both metal-laced ends at his sides, launching blow after ripping blow faster than Sechariah could parry. The slave felt ragged edges eat away the skin on his arms, on his legs, on his face as Alec raged toward him, pushing him up to the wall of the Coliseum

As blow after blow rained into him, Sechariah could almost hear the master’s voice, the tearing of skin reminding him of the lashes he had received before the rebellion had been beaten from him. There was something similar between the viciousness of Alec’s combat and the wickedness of his master, a ferocity that only free men unleashed on their fellow humans.

A roar of pain and anger pulsed through his veins, screams of deep hatred issuing from Sechariah’s mouth as he slashed out with his sword, slicing off one metal-tipped end. Alec had to backstep and catch his weapon before its momentum carried it from his hands.

He stared at Sechariah, blood pouring from the slave’s wounds and coating the cheap armor plating his master had given him. He was panting now, spasms twitching his muscles, animal-anger in his blue eyes. As he prepared for another assault, Alec realized that he had at last found his worthy opponent, a man who would continue to fight to the death for what he was. He, Alec, fought to exist in the world of money and market and Outlaws. Sechariah had to fight to exist in his world of metal and brands and masters.

It pained him that he must kill the slave. But that was the rule of the Coliseum: do, or die. Someone had to die in this place, because the world demanded that there be a winner and a loser.

With eyes weighted by sadness Alec snapped his scarf, ripping skin free of Sechariah’s sword-hand, the slave dropping his weapon from the pain of veins being forcibly removed. In the moment of disarmament Alec had leapt across the distance, behind Sechariah, and began to use his scarf in the most intimate way.

“I am ashamed to do this, friend. In another life, we would have been brothers, comrades in arms. But I cannot let you continue to live like this,” Alec had the scarf wound tightly around Sechariah’s neck, the slave feeling thin cords of metal hidden with the wool as his foe tightened the chokehold.

As the warrior tried to claw the scarf from his neck, guttering noises coming from his chest, Alec drew the noose tighter, watching Sechariah’s forehead turn red, then red-purple, and finally purple as the life left his foe, muscles slacking as the brain gave out from the loss of blood and oxygen. Still he held the scarf tight, waiting for almost a full minute before releasing the corpse from his scarf and picking up the rapier.

From above him the sound of a thousand clapping hands came into focus, Alec looking up to see the people leaping to their feet with excitement. He saw the men and the women howling their screams of approval or disgust, their faces splashed with a frenzied heat, like animals agitated from a storm.

His nostrils flaring just a bit, Alec walked back to the corridor he had used to enter the Coliseum, Sechariah’s rapier his memento of the justice of the world.