Chapter 15 -Rise

My performance in the coliseum did not go unrewarded. With every victory I received small boons: a shirt to replace my torn one, a thicker blanket I could wrap around myself, an extra loaf of bread or bowl of stew. I demanded things as well: books, rope, pen and paper, more baths. Unsurprisingly, my demands were met with derision and a whack over the head.

The rest of the competing prisoners grew to hate and fear me, but the only time we saw each other was after a match. Then we were naked, covered only by soap and foam, but that did not hide the furtive glances or the intent staring. Standing in the room surrounded by barrels of water and armed with only a bar of soap, all actions were restricted. Any fight would have the guardsman storm in, and furiously beat the perpetrator. Through no choice of their own, they stayed quiet. But like the steaming hot water we used to scrub the filth off ourselves, I could see the steam rising off of them as well. A clenched fist, or jaw that would not relax. Eyes that followed me without blinking. But I only puffed up my chest and straightened my back. To me, they were not worth a reply. I was Gelas.

After a month of games, my muscles had begun to fill in once more, but the bones still stuck out from my ribs, while my fingers were thin and spindly. Two more months of winning extra rations, and that began to change. I could look down at my body without shame creeping over me. I was still leaner than I had been in Orid-narr, but my hands were regaining their thickness, and the muscles underneath my forearms bulged deliciously whenever I flexed my arms.

Things had been going well for me, but after the fifth month spent thriving in the coliseum, that changed. Those of us who had gotten that far no longer had to chase animals, race obstacle courses, or compete in strength challenges. The objective had changed. Now they pit us against each other armed with wooden weapons. We had to fight until one was unconscious or until they gave up. But as with the games from before, the loser goes hungry.

A new system was implemented alongside this. If any “contestant”, as they liked to call us, lost three times, then they would be executed. I assumed the more lenient rules were to limit the early fatalities. After three fights each, survivors would be entered into a tournament bracket, where the fights would be to the death.

It was strange, I remember thinking it would be more entertaining to just throw us all in a pit from the beginning. Inexperienced, weaker fighters would end up putting on more of a show as they struggled, but when I looked at the thirteen of us that were left from the original batch of over thirty, I saw warriors ready for fighting. I was not the only one who had grown faster and stronger during the games, and the weakest had been culled. But that was not the extent of the clever organization. By having us live for longer, the crowds saw us develop and grew attached in some strange fashion. They also maximized the use of their primary resource -us. They needed to balance the deaths with the incoming criminals so that they were always able to provide entertainment.

Despite how I hated being a toy in their hands and a source of amusement for the rats of Chereba, I had giggled in delight when I understood and appreciated the organizer’s efficiency. There had always been something about a smoothly operating system and logical thinking that did it for me. Are you still like that? Or are you dull and boring now?

-

On the first day of the pre-tournament matches I found myself face to face with none other than the prisoner who had shared a cage with me. A part of me clawed outwards, vying to let loose on the unfortunate soul. I waited for him to make a move, but he stood still and we stared at each other. For three minutes, neither of us budged from where we eyed one another. Although the crowds had become a subject of my own verbal abuse, for once I agreed with them.

“Fight! Fight! Fight!” They chanted, over and over.

But he would not move. Enough. With purposeful strides I crossed the arena. Even when I whispered in his ear, “fight me” he only shook his head. Still nothing. A resounding smack filled the stands, and my palm began to burn. He buckled and his hands lay at his sides uselessly. I had only wanted the slap to goad him into attacking me, but now he was sprawled out kissing the earth. I looked at my red hand and my eyebrows furrowed. I had not hit him that hard, had I? Just as well that I did not need to slap him again.

The crowd hushed when my palm greeted his face. But as soon as they saw him toppled at my feet, joyous roars filled the skies. What a mess. Did he forfeit, is that what it was? Why doesn’t he get up and fight? I looked at him once more, but refrained from edging closer. There was no life in his eyes. He was a man that was alive but not living. How did he make it so far? My hand strayed towards him, but I caught myself in time. He could pick himself up. There was nothing I could do for him.

Taking my unused wooden sword, I left the confused crowd behind me, along with the living corpse. It would not be long before his time was up…

My other two pre-tournament matches were more eventful. And although I won, I had struggled. Honestly, what were they expecting putting a training weapon into the hands of someone who never held one before? Ridiculous. I had not had to use it in my first match, but in the second one I held it like it was some sort of snake. It had felt so terribly awkward as I swung it around. When I missed, the momentum carried me further and even spun me around if I put too much power into it. But when I hit something, the vibration numbed my hands. How the hell did people use these things? Luckily, my opponent was just as clueless.

He would swipe towards my torso, and I would jump back, but still get grazed by the dull point. Then we swung simultaneously and hit each other’s blades. I took my que from him and copied his next swing as well, until the wooden swords smacked together again and again. Should I try one arm? Nope, so much worse. Two hands Gelas, two hands. Swing. Miss. Twirl. Laughter from the crowds. Growls from me.

I’m not a damn dancer, control the swings. Tighten your movements.

The more I held it in my hand and attacked my opponent, the better the blunted weapon felt in my grip. Some of the principles were like fist fighting, a practice I was more than familiar with. I just needed to apply it to this. Foot position was slightly different, wider, and I did not bounce as much. Don't look at his hands, in this case blade, look at his body and his eyes instead. Feet shuffling, hips shifting. Block his swing, step back, wait for it. There!

I lunged forwards and sidestepped his downwards stroke. I played with him, using this match as a chance to get used to fighting with a weapon. He pivoted and swung around to face me. He was huffing, and his earlier shouts were gone. I guess that was the extent of his endurance. Our wooden swords clacked together thrice more, and on the fourth meeting I blew his sword out of his weakened grasp.

He brought his hands up to guard himself, but I stayed put. “Pick it up.” I ordered. With one eye glued to me, he edged back until he nestled the plain wooden handle in his palm. Even after he picked it up, he continued to back away from me. When five paces separated us, he began to relax and catch his breath. Good.

I nodded my head to him, and he nodded back. For a minute both of us rested while the crowd soaked in the battle. Before too much time passed, I began to advance, and he lifted his weapon in front of him. As we had in the beginning, both of us squared off against each other. But now we had some experience. Now I could have some fun.

-

My cell had two problems. One was the chamber pot, the other was the dripping whenever it rained. It had only rained thrice since I was situated there, but the constant dripping had my teeth clenched and fists balled up. Normally I could just ignore the passing of time. The drip-drop-drip-drop took that away from me. I was forced to listen as time ticked away. While I wasted my life. I envisioned my family back in Orid-narr. What were they up to nowadays? Were they going to come see me? I hope they don’t…

I studied my calloused hand in the dark cell, expecting to see red stains along where I had split my knuckles and cut my fingers on the young man’s teeth. But my hands were healed. They even thickened over the course of my time spent here.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

With a sigh I turned over in my small cot. Tomorrow’s fight would be interesting. Word has it that I will be matched up against someone who knows how to use a sword. What will that be like? Opening and closing my hand, I imagined holding the weapon and feeling the weight as I swung from different angles. Upwards stroke, stop, slash from top left to bottom right. It all worked out in my head. But tomorrow will be different. As a beginner who picked up some basic (or at least what I thought were basics) there was still a noticeable gap between me and the guy I beat today. If this other person knows how to use a sword at all, I’ll be out classed.

Playing out the different scenarios in my head, I drifted into dreams.

Drip. Drip…

-

This was the final match. I was going to make it to the tournament even if I lost, but I had a reputation I needed to uphold. I won. I was a winner. Gelas was not a person who lost, they knew that. Everyone knew that, even if they did not know my true name. Khaisar, they called me. The one who did not know defeat.

The irony of naming a murderer after Akharis’s noble grandson was lost on the crowds, but they took my success to be of divine backing. Or maybe it was my strength and not my character they admired. Not that the words of rats mattered to me any more than dust. But would a god’s grandson have abandoned his family the way I had? Shaking the thoughts free from my still growing black hair, I faced off against my opponent.

He was slightly taller, with longer arms and a shiny dome. The extended reach he had would be an issue, my best bet would be to get in close, I thought as I tightened my grip on my weapon. The way he stood there, so calm. Was he trying to taunt me? Why does he look so comfortable?

I stepped forwards, but he still did not move. I continued to inch closer to him, slowly closing the gap between us. I recognized his face, he had been in the coliseum on the first day that I arrived, but I had never directly competed against him before, so I had no idea how strong or fast he was. A part of me hoped he was weaker than me, but I heard the crowd chanting his name just as much as they were chanting mine.

Pirveli. I would wager my left testicle it was not his actual name, but a continuation of the genius naming system that the spectators employed. I had never met anyone of that name before, but I knew it well. Pirveli was the first of Akharis’s sons, and Khaisar’s uncle. Judging by the hollers, talking, cheering and overwhelming noise the masses were producing today, it was a match they had been looking forward to for a long time. I suspect there was someone propagating these names to the crowds beforehand. Then they would organize the matches to parallel a divine narrative that resulted in a more entertaining fight. Otherwise I don’t see how chance could have brought about such an outcome. But regardless, I was going to disappoint them. Things would not play out like it did for gods.

As we circled each other, the crowds quieted and watched with breath held. Dust shifted around my feet as the cautiously gauged my sandy haired opponent. I lightly thrust forwards to measure distance. He knocked my blade aside, and I titled my hand to let it fall across my body instead of pulling it back directly. His sword poked towards my defenses in turn, and I angled it away with the side of my own. A chuckle rolled out his chest, and with that he stepped away from me. With distance between us, he bowed to the crowds and planted the practice sword in the earth between us.

He did not look back once as he walked to the gate and forfeit the match. That was the last I saw him that day. The crowd and I stood their silently as we watched the door he left from. Whispers and questions erupted from the stands. My feet were rooted as I stared at the wooden weapon. I frowned. He won. I was not sure how. But even though he forfeit, he won.

Damn him.