Bookworm Gladiator

The city roared as Hurek entered the field.

But I could barely watch as a burly spearman blocked my entry to the cavalry ground, shoving me back into a crowd of annoyed Bedouins. "I need to be in his corner, you oaf," I snapped, but the spearman slammed his over-sized kite shield into the ground.

"No civilians beyond this point," he said.

"I'm not a civilian, I'm his martial advisor!" I said but the footman's blank expression barely changed. Several Bedouins laughed at my screaming, one claiming that he was also Hurek's advisor.

The rest of the crowd was yelling over each other, placing bets on either Hurek or Baba Haza. Almost all the coin was on Baba Haza. I could see the Daylamite warrior twirling his two-handed blade in a dizzying fashion, his silver bracelets twinkling in the sunlight.

He easily won over the crowd as Hurek only stood like a statue. Many voices disapproved of Hurek's entry into the tournament. It was odd to let Hurek fight a ranked gladiator of the realm as his first tournament bout. But Kano was dead and Atia had spoken, public opinion be damned.

Besides, Baba Haza was only ranked nineteen. Only nineteen, I repeated in my head again and again. But it did little to calm my racing heart. Is this what Hurek was feeling? A mixture of dread and nervousness to the point of fainting? I got on my tip-toes to get a clearer view and saw the large man standing still, waiting for the umpire's signal. Was he frozen with fear? I couldn't tell as his back was turned.

"Fuck this," I snarled and began shoving my way through the locals, towards the royal bleachers. I could see Atia and her Priestesses on the raised platform, along with other lords and ladies of the city. Layla sat stone-faced, clutching her skirt tightly. Knuckles white.

Layla was perhaps the only other person out here who shared my fear. Either Hurek would fall or her husband. To think that no matter what happened, one of us was headed for a terrible fate today.

Focus, focus! I squeezed my way past vendors selling roasted nuts and also taking bets (redeemable in nuts, of course). Avoiding the sharp gaze of the spearmen wall, I stepped behind the platform and looked for an opening. Hurek's rest corner sat adjacent to the royal platform, and if I could find a way to get close, I could speak to him during his break.

The fight would be two five minute rounds, split with a minute of rest in between. If no one fell in that time, the crowd would decide the winner. Hearing everyone chant Baba Haza's name, though, it was imperative that Hurek force a surrender during the fight, or if necessary... kill Baba Haza.

There! A hole behind the platform, unguarded and ignored. But it was an opening that ran underneath the platform. I would have to crawl.

The umpire's heavy voice did little to silence the crowd, which had begun to slam their drums and stomp their feet in excitement. First the umpire sent his blessings to Emperor Nero, and then to his biographer and ambassador Seutonius, who had arrived just this morning. And lastly he bestowed heaps of praises on the High Priestess Atia and Julius Gaius (who was still mysteriously absent).

The drawn out speech gave me enough time to slither underneath the platform, flat against the cool dirt and begin crawling on my belly through the dark tunnel. The wooden platform vibrated with footsteps and voices, beams of sunlight pierced occasionally, lighting my path so I could point my way towards Hurek's rest bench.

Halfway through I had to turn over and catch my breath, squinting into an opening above and realized I was looking straight under the skirt of one of the Priestesses.

I covered my eyes quickly but... maybe I could rest here awhile, catch my breath and-

Horns sounded across the maydan, signaling the beginning of the first round. "Son of a pig." I turned over, and with bruised elbows, continued my humiliating crawl.

My bald head was dripping with sweat and caked with mud as I poked it out of a hole in the platform's side. Directly behind where Hurek would sit during his break. The crowd roared in unison at something and I realized the fighters were out of view. I slithered back inside, and towards a hole in the far corner. It wasn't big enough to fit my head, more like a peephole I could see through with one eye.

But it gave me a direct view of the fighters, front and center. And what I saw chilled me to the bone.

Hurek was covered in blood, a deep gash running down the right shoulder, his strong-arm hanging tiredly, brass-knuckles held loose.

Baba Haza, unfazed and untouched, kept Hurek on his back-foot. Easily keeping a favorable range with his long reach using thrusts. And whenever Hurek tried to circle, the lanky warrior's wide sweeps kept him rooted to his spot, absorbing blow after blow on his book-fashioned shield (which was thankfully durable enough with the chains and the iron-tipped cover).

With only a minute left in the round, I prayed to Mars for a sustained pace. Hurek wasn't tired but he was prey. At the mercy of Baba Haza's long reach. Even the pace was being decided by the lanky Daylamite; he decided when to pressure, weakening Hurek's shield arm with every crowd-awakening blow, and he also decided when to rest himself, easily keeping a desperate Hurek from closing the distance.

Hurek, despite his defense and toughness, was clearly no match for the professional gladiator. And it showed. The crowd had begun laughing and jeering Hurek, and when the umpire finally blew the horn for the end of the first round, the entire field burst alive with chants of Baba Haza! Warrior of Fortune!

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