In a sun baked arena two men were fighting. Naked but for their weapons, they grappled and stabbed and pummeled each other, their sweat slicked bodies colliding with a meaty thud as they came together and broke apart. The air was thick with dust, flies and the smell of blood churned into a turbulent potion by the clash of metal on metal and by the raucous crowd that clapped and shouted as one man and then the other was forced to his knees . The mood was festive. Cups were passed from hand to hand, bets were placed and everyone from poor farmers in the cheap seats to the lords and ladies in their private boxes was having a wonderful time eating, drinking and enjoying an afternoon's entertainment.
So far it had been an exciting match for, in spite of being as different from one another as an ox from a wolf, the men were surprisingly well matched. The bigger of the two was a broad pillar of flesh with a fiery beard and a thick scar riddled chest. He was clearly the audience favorite drawing the better part of the cheers as he used his mass and his great strength to press his advantage. In battle he would advance like an avalanche crushing lesser men before him and he employed the same tactic now driving his foe across the arena floor, smiting at him with a massive hammer that shook the ground as it fell.
The other man, however, in spite of being younger and less battle hardened, was not so easily overcome. Again and again he sprang aside as the hammer fell striking back with a savage agility that drew gasps from his own small number of followers. His arms and back were covered with tattoos of beasts which seemed to roar to life and join in the fray with each thrust of his long sword. Wild dark eyes burned under a cap of close cropped raven curls that sweat had plastered to his lean scalp. His lips were stretched into a defiant grimace..
He was beginning to tire though and each unrelenting hammer blow fell a little closer. The ox, smelling victory pressed him hard.
Twice he fell and barely staggered to his feet. Twice the audience moved to the edges of their seats. His followers, mostly young girls and the occasional matron sitting beside a sulky husband, trembled in anticipation of his inevitable fate. It was a shame, one spice merchant remarked to his friend, that this particular contest did not allow him to yield. With a few more fights under his belt and maybe some good food in his stomach he would be a force to be reckoned with in the regular games. Such a waste, his wife sighed hand pressed to plump bosom.
The ox lurched forward with all his strength and launched himself at his opponent in one last effort to finish him. The younger man stumbled backwards, fell, lay splayed in the shadow of his enemy. A cry went up. The hammer fell. Then it was over. The ox sprawled face down in the dust a sword sticking up through the back of his neck.
A gasp of astonishment and then a roar of approval swept over the field. Money reluctantly changed hands. Of course the wolf would win, the spice merchant nodded sagely to his quivering wife. He knew it all along.
The wolf paid no attention to the crowd. He stood over the body of his vanquished foe hands clenched at his sides drawing air into his lungs in deep ragged breaths. The adrenalin of battle and of his narrow escape coursed through him. He did not notice the applause nor the two somber guards approaching leading a willowy girl of perhaps twenty or a little older between them.
The girl had watched the contest from under a silk canopy set up at one end of the arena. She had sat very still ignoring the repeatedly offered cup of wine, intent upon contest unfolding before her. If she favored one or the other man she did not show it but followed every movement closely weighing the merits of each blow. A sharp-eyed observer might have detected a slight tension in her shoulders when the younger man stumbled but not the slightest flicker of emotion revealed her thoughts on the progress or outcome of the contest.
