Gottfried got up in the morning bright and early, threw on his armor, weapons, and made his way out to the main area of the suite. Xagen was outside his door and grunted when he saw his master.

“We’re going to the arena, I want to practice again today.” Gottfried ordered, “We’ll eat there.” He said and tightened the braided purple belt around his waist. His armor was enchanted dragon leather which molded itself to his body like a second skin, double layered with scales affixed between that would give the illusion of invulnerability. The leather itself was that of a red dragon’s hide, and so it had a burgundy hue to it that deepened when warmed by his flesh.

At his side was a sword with a slight outward bend like a low land that rose to a hill then finished at a tip. Enchanted equipment from top to bottom, the picture of a warrior of the royal house.

In this way he chose to depart the hotel, the dawn was not yet breaking and so there was little worry that he would be seen. However, once on the bottom floor, with its marbled columns and the constant burbling of the high fountain in the center, he could not help but stop himself before taking the last step to leave. He glanced back at the desk near the entrance, it was built into a back office, and the man at the front was a slender, older figure wearing bright gold and white clothing that contrasted and complemented the white mustache on his weathered face.

Gottfried approached, and the old man looked up, and took a step back, “My Prince!” He gasped and started to kneel.

“No need for that, old man. That can’t be good for your knees.” Gottfried said, raising a hand and holding it palm out in a friendly manner before waving it casually back and forth. “Just do something for me.”

“Name it, My Lord!” The old man half gasped.

“Send a message to the White Stag. Tell them I want to reserve the upper floor and the woman ‘Iris’ tonight. And tomorrow… and for the rest of the week.”

“As you wish, my Lord.” The old man said and immediately took a small sheet of parchment and dipped a quill into ink before writing it down with a swift scribbling motion.

“Good.” Gottfried said with succinct closure that ended the conversation, then he returned to the exit and walked out into the early hours of the false dawn before most of the city would come to life.

Most.

Not all.

The arena was alive before he got there, those who lived and trained on site, those hopefuls who longed for their names to catch fire and win immortal fame, fortune, and glory before the cheers of the crowd. They were too many to name, and most would die virtually unknown.

And yet still they came. As Gottfried reached it, the great colosseum, the arena, the great white building carved by mighty hands, it was easy to see why. The many white stones that formed arches and pillars bore the carved faces of the great champions of old. ‘Become immortal in the arena, become ‘part’ of the arena’, it was an age-old promise. The ashes of those who died without mighty names were burned and the dust they became cast into the white sands where new dreamers would tread, bleed, and perhaps die. Those who did become great legends, their faces and names were carved into the very stones, watching over the next generation as if they were gods watching over their creations.

Gottfried looked around at them as he passed beneath the silent eyes and his feet gradually left stone behind to come to the sands themselves. The sound of crashing blades and fists, wooden spears and shields, it was drawing close.

The chill morning air caressed his skin, but the closer he drew, the warmer he felt, the sweat and energy were like electricity in the air. The smile spread over his face, he couldn’t begin to stop it.

He didn’t want to anyway. His heart practically burst with affection for these, the gladiators and gladiatrices that laid their lives on the line for their dreams. ‘The most honest people in the world…’ He reflected and waved to them as they entered. They knelt in unison when their Prince entered, and he quickly dismissed it. “Rise.” He said as he came closer. “I need four volunteers.”

“Xagen, Xagin, it’s fine. Just wood for now.” He said, and the orc bodyguards grunted and stepped backward as four took their places around him. Gottfried removed his blade and handed it to Xagen, then held his empty hand out, “Short blade today.”

The smooth handle of a wooden short sword was placed into his hand by an eager young boy with a mop of blonde dirty hair on his head and an iron circle around his throat.

He grinned up at the Prince with a simple look revealing a number of missing teeth, then a second later, scurried away, his dirty feet kicking up sand as he ran out of the way of the fight.

Gottfried looked around at his opponents, they wore simple armor, cheap boiled leather with no enchantments, their legs were unarmored and their feet were bare. Two of them were women, one of whom had a long scar down the side of her face where a sword must have pierced her cheek in a long past fight. He knew two of them, a redheaded warrior, Vocaxin who bore two wooden swords rather than one, and Yaxi, the scar-faced woman.

“A silver for any blow that strikes me.” Gottfried offered the usual reward, and the various fighters took up their preferred postures.

“Begin.” Gottfried quipped, and they did. Feet flew toward him from all directions, warrior shouts came from each of them, and Gottfried could not help but feel guilt rising in his chest. ‘I’m equipped with the very best money can buy… I do this for pleasure… but a silver might as well be a fortune to them…’

Not for the first time he considered the obvious, ‘Just let them land a few blows.’ But it was shameful… a shameful thought, and he knew it. Spitting on their pride, he couldn’t do it, and so instead he stepped toward Vocaxin, grabbed his wrist, twisted, and threw him toward the two at his back, spun on his heel, and hit the man nearest him in the back with his blade. While the three were disentangling themselves, his sword was up and hovered inches from their collective faces.

They dropped back into the sands. “Again?” He asked, rather than ordered, then extended a hand to help them up. Four collective nods began at nearly the same instant.

“A piece of advice.” Gottfried said after their fourth time spitting out sand. “Going on the offensive is good, but if you have to fight in teams, work together like a military unit. You four don’t work together, so I can always use one of you against the others. That’s your real problem… but you are getting better.” He praised the four, they had lumps, bruises, scrapes, and scratches aplenty to show for their efforts, but not one silver between them.

A horn blew, and the various would-be champions of the arena took their seats, backs against pillars as a woman with a leather collar around her throat and bearing a tray full of stacked cups came into view from a distant entrance. She wore a white camisk secured at the thighs and a pair of old leather sandals, around her waist was a white corded belt to which a bucket was secured that sloshed water back and forth as she walked. Another pair followed that held a long rod on their shoulders from there which hung a large iron pot in the middle, and from behind them came another carrying stacks of bowls enough to feed all fifty trainees.

The men and women of the arena were sweaty and covered in the proof of their activities, sand and ash turned their varied flesh tones a more common grayish white.

Most were breathing hard. Gottfried Jabara did not. But he was used to that, his head went up to the sky where the familiar blue was now in view, and he waited patiently for stew to be dished by the slaves responsible for cooking. Thick, lumpy, filling. But not fantastic. If he were honest Gottfried had to admit, ‘I don’t care for the stuff. But this is uncle’s command.’

Slowly, he’d come to understand it.

When he held up his bowl for the slave to ladle stew into, the orders of his uncle came back to mind as if they were yesterday.

“If you want to do that, I permit you, but you will eat what they eat, after they eat, and take nothing they don’t take. If they drink water, you drink water. If they don’t rest, you don’t rest. That is what it means to be first among men, you must be last for them to follow you.”

Gottfried gave an indulgent little smile up to the woman to hand his bowl back to him, and she immediately averted her eyes before moving on.

It hadn’t made sense at the time, but slowly Gottfried saw as the bonds of loyalty began to form between himself and the gladiators, and now he could speak with them more openly than he could even those at his uncle’s court.

Which is why he was comfortable now speaking to Vocaxin. He took a bite of the hard bread that was soaking in the stew and licked his fingers clean, the salty sweat of his body acted as a kind of light seasoning that added at least some flavor to the otherwise largely tasteless stuff. Then spoke while the red haired gladiator chewed. “I need advice.”

Vocaxin cocked his head in brief disbelief. “My Lord?”

Gottfried read this much easily, “It’s not the sort of thing court advisors are useful for. And it is definitely not the sort of thing I’d go to my mother about.”

Yoxi’s scar crinkled as a big smile formed on her face from beside Vocaxin. “Oh… this is about a girl… or is it a boy… I don’t know your majesty’s preference.”

Gottfried flushed a little bit in the cheeks, “Girl, Yoxi. Girl.”

That did nothing to diminish her grin, but Vocaxin remained serious.

Gottfried went on to explain his encounters and his own uncertainty about what to do, think, or feel, and when he let out a breath to show he was done, the two warriors of the arena traded mutually uncertain expressions and scratched their heads.

“You want advice, my Lord?” Yoxi asked, she set her bowl aside and picked up her cup of water, drank from it for a moment while Gottfried nodded in earnestness.

“Either buy her, or kill her, or never see her again.” Yoxi said with seriousness.

Gottfried leaned back at the disparate advice, unsure of what to say to it.

“If she’s using you to better her life, stick her in your private harem and the problem is solved-” Yoxi said, but Gottfried gasped out.

“I don’t have a private harem!” He said it a little louder than he intended, and his face flushed at some of the chuckles he got when heads turned his way, and then went back to their own talk.

Yoxi shrugged that off. “Get one then, My Lord, I don’t know? But if that’s what she wants and you want your fun, do that. On the other hand, if she wants to hurt you, if she wants revenge, kill her early. And if she does have some fondness for you… all you’re going to do is hurt the poor thing. Better to not see her again.”

Vocaxin remained silent through all that, before chiming in, “My Lord… if you’re really just not sure about even the basics, why not find out?”

The smirk on Vocaxin’s face warned Gottfried that he was about to say something absurd, and it was clear that Yoxi saw the same thing as she dragged her hand down her face and groaned. “Not this again.”

“Yes! This again. M’Lord, the difference between just enjoying a whore for whoredom and liking a girl for who she is, is whether you want her around after you’ve had sex with her.” Vocaxin’s lewd grin was coupled with a sparkle in his bright green eyes. “So, find out if you still think the same way, go hire an expensive professional, don’t get to know her, just have some fun and then compare it with the other one.”

“You’re a pig, Vocaxin.” Yoxi said and spat into the sand near his feet.

“Flowery language then.” Vocaxin said, then thrust his hand into the air and declared as if he were a great orator, “The truest test of love is whether you’re happy if she’s still there in the morning or not! No… no I suppose that doesn’t sound any wiser when put that way.”

“No. It doesn’t.” Yoxi said with contempt. “Pervert.”

A bell rang from somewhere out of sight, and the bowls were slowly taken up again and laid to one side.

“Will our Lord ‘instruct’ us again?” Yoxi asked as they began to rise to their feet.

“A few more hours… and I will watch your fight tonight, so fight well, and win.” Gottfried said it with a smile broad over his face, but there was always a lump in his throat when he said it that he kept pushing down. Veterans of the arena could still die in it, and goosebumps rose on his flesh when they took position again.

‘Are they my friends… Can I call them that? I’m the next Emperor, they’re slaves who sold themselves to this life for a chance at glory and fame…’ Gottfried had no answer to that question, and when the crack of wooden weapon on wooden weapon began again, he was able to push it aside, and at least help them prepare for a few more hours.