Accession Day
Mantabé I
The roar of the crowd in his ears, Mantabé deftly avoided the ogre's thunderous axe stroke. The weapon struck the sand and sent a gout of earth flying to one side. Its broad chest rippling with grotesque musculature, it turned to face its foe. The hulking brute came on again, a thousand pounds of alchemically bred muscle, sinew, and teeth, slicing with his wicked axe in a motion that would have cloven a slower man in two. But Mantabé was an experienced gladiator and, wearing nothing but sandals and a sword belt, he was light enough on his feet to leap aside. His dark, oiled flesh glistened in the sunlight, his powerful and well-toned muscles tensed and coiled as the ogre closed in again. Mantabé readied his sword, a three-foot long, double-edged wrought iron blade that widened into a leaf shape at the tip.
As the nine-foot-tall ogre came charging in again, Mantabé darted aside and slashed viciously at his opponent's leg. The blade opened a long red wound in the monster's side, and it fell to its good knee, roaring in pain as it bled into the arena's sandy floor. The crowd roared with delight. Mantabé took a moment to raise his arms triumphantly above his head and face the cheering throng. Polite applause from the lavish ring-side boxes was drowned out by the masses in the cheap stands above. At the rail separating the commoners' stands from the luxury boxes, a tangle of women leaned over the barrier, screaming his name. Two of them bared their breasts at him, offering themselves up, pleading with him to take them to bed. Mantabé gave them a smile and a wave.
He turned to a box trimmed in deep blue velvet, that of his master Didius, and was greeted by an approving smile from the man. Didius raised a crystal glass filled with rich red wine in a toast to his favorite gladiator. The spicer's servants clapped diligently.
Mantabé turned from one side of the arena to the other, drinking in the accolades. Behind him, the wounded ogre was staggering to its feet. Hatred, pain, and rage clouded its thoughts but strengthened its arm. Slowly, it turned to face the gladiator's unwatched back, hefting the cruel axe in its fat, sinuous hands. The monstrosity began to slowly lumber towards its foe.
Mantabé smiled from ear to ear as he faced the crowd. Cheers rained down on him from the arena's highest risers, the blood pounding in his ears as much as the crowd's shouts. The cheers changed from admiration to concern, but he kept waving. They ran to the rail and leaned over, pointing, shouting, screaming at him to warn him of the ogre's approach. Mantabé still stood triumphantly, motioning for more accolades. Frustrated and worried, the crowd screamed at him "Behind you! Behind!" they yelled and Mantabé feigned not to understand.
At last, as the ogre loomed behind him, he feigned suspicion, he let the crowd believe he was slowly becoming aware of the danger even as it raised its axe.
Turning suddenly, he darted aside as the brute clomped past him, and slashed out its other leg from underneath it. An arc of black blood sprayed across the arena, falling into the sand in a crescent. The ogre spilled into the dirt, screaming in fury and agony. This time, Mantabé leapt onto its back, sword pointed skyward. From the crowd, shouts of "finish him!" rained down and this time, he gave them what they wanted, driving the point into the beast's skull.
The crowd erupted. His name echoed with a thunder that he thought might set the building rattling. Stepping off the ogre's still-twitching corpse, he thrust his bloody blade into the sky and cried out in victory. The crowd was on their feet, chanting his name and drumming their feet on the risers. He made a slow lap of the arena, drinking in the praise, until he came to a stop before the grandest box of them all. Crushed black velvet, trimmed with ermine, covered every inch of the box and a sable canopy protected it from the sun. the box was guarded by tall, proud men in shining cuirasses and armed with halberds and rapiers. Their gleaming helms were topped with long plumes of black and white feathers.
In the center of the box, on a gilded throne of black cushions, sat Lamira, Queen of Torvuls. Crowned with gold and rubies, she looked down from her throne upon the victor presented to her, her amused blue eyes dancing down his naked sweaty form to the cock swinging freely between his legs. She raised a delicate white hand and the crowd immediately fell silent. Rising to her feet, she strode slowly to edge of the box, her slender legs sliding out the leg slit of her lavish black gown. Her bejeweled hands clasped the rail of the box, rings shining in the sunlight.
"Hail to the victor," she said, her voice carrying throughout the expanses of the arena with ease. Mantabé's eyes met her own, and she smiled down upon him, her beautiful face framed by long black hair. She swept her arm over the crowd, continuing "Here in sight of Arvoran, you have triumphed. With luck, you will fight again in two days' time, in celebration of the anniversary of my accession. I now bestow upon you the crown you have earned."
A slave appeared at her side, extending a crown of laurels on the end of a spear. Mantabé took the crown and placed it on his head, causing the crowd to erupt in another round of cheering. He found his gaze drawn to the queen's low neckline and the tops of her exquisite breasts. She noticed his gaze and gave him a wicked smile that set him sweating with excitement and fear.
Best not to tread carefully with the queen
, he told himself as the crowd chanted his name. The fall from the victor's pedestal is quick and deadly.
"Go now, and enjoy your spoils," the queen said, gesturing to the gladiator's gate. The arena's slaves lifted the portcullis on the north side of the arena and he strode toward it. Slaves emerged from the opposite gate to dispose of the ogre corpse, but their labors went almost unnoticed by the crowd, fixed as it was on their champion.
At the gate, Mantabé shook off the grasping of a throng of women, and a few men, leaning over the rails. He felt sweat and the blood from the gore-drenched sword dripping down his naked body. Fire still burned in his heart, unsated by the victory.
In the marble chamber just inside, the air was cool and the lowered portcullis behind him dulled the crowd's chanting. Agilos, his half-elven master-at-arms, rose from a stone bench to congratulate him. The half-elf leaned a cruel looking ranseur on his shoulder and carried an ornate saber on his hip. His torso was protected by a steel cuirass of exceptional quality.
"Well done," he said, the sunlight that streamed through the narrow windows dancing in his strange eyes, "that brute never stood a chance."
"Tell the alchemists to give it another elixir next time. One wound was enough to cripple the beast and then it was just a matter of giving the crowd the show they want."
"Another elixir to dull the pain and you might not have survived that stunt," Agilos warned. It was so like the master-at-arms to worry over him, Mantabé mused. He had little appreciation for a performer's flair.
"That would have made it all the more entertaining!" Mantabé shot back.
"Yes, nothing would be so entertaining as to watch the slaves mop up your broken pieces when the ogre catches you by surprise. Think of all the women who would throw themselves into the harbor if they saw you hacked to bits by a hulking brute like that."
"They come to see me win, but it's nothing without a thrill. Why, if you had your way, they would just line up goblins in stocks and let me go down the line with an axe, chop, chop, chop! But where's the fun in that? Where's the thrill? You won't get noblemen betting their fortunes on that."
"I won't get noblemen paying me to train their gladiators if they keep going on and getting themselves killed while trying to impress the wenches of the crowd. Your drive to see another pretty pair will get you killed some day and then I'll be out of a job."
"Oh, don't you worry about that, there will always be more noblemen looking to field a gladiator. None of these rich men know a thing about swordsmanship, they'll always need you to teach people like me."
"Speaking of rich men," Agilos muttered as they both heard a familiar voice coming down the hall.
Didius entered the room, trailed by a gaggle of servants and still holding his wine glass. It was even fuller than it had been outside. He was thin and balding, dressed in a richly dyed tunic of deep green and fine sandals. He wore a belt clasped with the symbol of the Spicers' Guild, engraved in gold and studded with diamonds.
"Oh well done, well done indeed!" he crowed. "They all thought you were done for when that thing came storming out the gate. You've made me a rich man today, my boy!"
Mantabé laughed. "You were not already a rich man?" he asked teasingly, "I had no idea that spice was a poor man's trade."
Didius laughed. "A man can always be richer! I will collect on my bets tonight and turn those earnings to my favorite pursuits. It is nearly time to expand my ranch, after all, and the prices of horses never seem to go down, no matter how many ships range between here and the mainland. Oh, but you care nothing for my horses," he said, patting Mantabé on the shoulder. "Fear not, I have arranged for you to receive your customary reward. Get yourself to the bath and enjoy the fruits of a well-earned victory. I must receive the purse and then get back to my seat. Halakar has arranged for a bout between two minotaurs! Oh, I do love this time of year!"
The spicer departed from the room, prattling on to his servants about minotaurs and horse bloodlines as they followed him obediently down the corridor. Agilos shook his head and went back to the window to watch the next bout. Mantabé handed the armsmaster his laurel crown and passed through the arch after Didius, heading to the baths where his reward waited.
He was provided a private bath, a stone chamber beneath the arena with a circular tub in the middle of the floor. Sprigs of incense burned in sconces above the bath, combining with the steam off the bath to give the small chamber a smoky air. As a victorious gladiator, he was provided with spirits, arranged for his selection in crystal bottles. Thanks to Didius, he found within the room two of Didius' slave girls, Sharra and Katiya. Sharra was dark-skinned and slender, with long reddish-brown hair and perky breasts that clung close to her lithe frame. Katiya was blonde and pale, with wide hips and shoulders and small breasts with wide pink nipples upon them. They both waited for him in the bath, naked and wet.
"Hail to the champion," Katiya whispered, leaning over the rim of the bath to afford him a view of her bare back. "And without a scratch on."
"Good thing that," Sharra said, lifting a soapy sponge over her chest and squeezing it until the soap ran down her breasts. "Then it won't sting when I wash you."
