The Arena

The sun beat down on the arena warming the stone beneath her fingertips and scorching her back. The heat was a palpable thing, her hair and her clothes sticking to her skin with sweat. Even the breeze was hot and ragged like the breath of the wild dogs that roamed the city. Worse than the wretched heat was the smell. A nauseating combination of sweat, freshly baked bread, and blood enveloped the arena. The smell alone made her nose burn. The roar of the crowd hammered upon her eardrums. A cacophony that she could hardly bear. The air was filled with the jeers of patrons eager for the next fight, the calls of vendors selling their wares, and the cries of the tormented and dying. She tried her best not to dwell on who those cries belonged to for she knew the fear would begin to creep in that she may join them before the day's end. 

The great arena. That is what her brother, Tristan had always called it. The center of the imperial sport. The highest point of all gladiator fighting in the empire. A place where even the poorest man could become as powerful as a noble if he was strong enough. If he fought hard enough. But, Sorscha struggled to see anything but a place of cruelty and suffering. Down below in the center of the arena two young men dressed in rags and armed with spears stood back to back while they were circled by three beautiful tigers. The sound in the arena fell to a murmur as their fight was announced. 

"The twins here sought to steal three bags of grain from Lord Caelius.” Jeering and boos rang through the arena as was expected of the crowd. Hesitantly Sorscha leaned closer peering down at the men in the ring. She wasn’t surprised they had attempted to steal grain even if it had been from a noble. Their clothing hung off their haggard frames. They had an undeniably hungry look to them. Something as familiar to Sorscha as an old coat. 

“Our generous lord has made them an offer. One of his prized tigers for every bag they stole. If the twins can best the beasts Lord Caelius will grant them grain for the next three seasons.” The arena rang with cheers and yelling as if Lord Caelius was truly doing them a kindness and not granting them near certain death for his own entertainment. But, that was the nature and the draw of the arena. High risk and even higher reward. Even the most destitute members of the empire could change their fortune if they made it out alive. 

The tigers circled the men sizing them up. The arena held its breath waiting to see who would move first. They did not have to wait long before the middle tiger leapt forward, claws extended. The two men rolled apart narrowly escaping the attack. The remaining two tigers held back tails twitching watching the fight as if it were just a game and the two men in the center of the ring weren't fighting for their lives. The attacking tiger closed in on the man on the right who was now isolated. The tiger stood between him and his brother. The tiger leapt forward, and the man caught the tiger's jaw with the length of his spear. He used the spear to hold the tiger back, his arms shaking from the effort. The crowd roared in anticipation waiting for the moment that the tiger would inevitably overpower the man. With a loud snap the tiger broke the spear in two, but before it could kill the man his brother released a cry of rage and jumped on the tiger's back plunging his spear into the base of the tiger's skull. The tiger fell to the ground dead. There was no time for the men to celebrate for in that moment the two remaining tigers rushed forwards snarling at the men. The man with the broken spear rolled to the side, snatching the shattered fragments of his weapon from the ground. He brought the broken spear shaft up just in time to shove it through the tiger's eye, killing it instantly. His brother was not so lucky. The remaining tiger had cornered him on the other side of the arena. With no further options he charged the tiger spear raised. The tiger ripped the spear from his grasp and pounced. It was over quickly. The tiger's jaw closed around the man's midsection, disemboweling him in an instant. The crowd roared in approval at the bloodshed, but the surviving brother's cry of grief and rage pierced through the applause with ease. All eyes were on him as the man and the tiger charged towards each other. He flung himself directly at the tiger gripping it by the top of the head with one hand while he gripped the spearhead in the other. The tiger raked it's claws down his shoulder and torso, but even as the tiger eviscerated the man's skin he plunged the spearhead into the tiger's throat. The man and the tiger fell to the ground in a heap and the sound in the arena fell to a hush. The silence transformed into a roar as the man crawled out from underneath the tiger. He was covered in blood and long gashes ran down his chest and shoulders. The sound was nearly ear splitting as half the crowd booed over the bets they had surely lost, and the other half screamed in victory. 

"Prosperity to the Victor! Lord Caelius will happily reward you for your efforts today." The crowd screamed it's approval. The Victor did not seem to care or even notice. He did not react to the crowd or even to his injuries in any way at all. Instead he knelt by his brother and wept. 

Sorscha looked around the arena examining today's crowd. The majority of the audience at the lower level were commoners like her. Farmers, merchants, and the like. Here for the cheap food and to take their minds off of their own troubles. The empire had always sold food as cheaply as possible in the arena. The cheaper the food the bigger the crowds. And, for as many people that sat in the arena with pity and disgust in their eyes there were three times as many that observed the proceedings with a twisted kind of hope. Already dreaming that if they began training now the arena might serve them, and perhaps their family would not go cold and hungry this winter. The nobles were always seated in the highest section of the arena far away from the crowds. And, halfway up separating the lower seats and upper seats was an opulent balcony called the box. The box held only the most important of guests. It was almost always reserved for sponsors, guests of honor, and the royal family. Sorscha knew without a doubt that her brother’s sponsor Lord Ignatius would be there. And, sure enough when Sorsha peered up at the box he was front and center socializing with his fellow sponsors and applauding the victory of the surviving brother in the arena. A number of sponsors watched from the box, but Lord Ignatius was the most powerful and certainly the most well known as the emperor’s master of treasury.  

Ignatius becoming her brother’s sponsor had been a mere twist of fate. Three years ago they had been walking back from the market after purchasing the measly amount of food that they could afford. The empire did not care for the common people, and many struggled. Some fought or placed bets in the arena, and others preyed upon one another. Tristan and her had surely seemed an easy target to the men who had tried to mug them that day. But, Tristan was strong and fast with a natural talent for fighting. He had fought off the four men desperate enough to attack them despite being younger and smaller than them. Lord Ignatius, the largest contributing sponsor to the arena and one of the richest men in the empire had been walking to the arena that day, and had witnessed the attack by mere chance. The moment he had seen her brother fight he had wanted him.  Over the next month Ignatius had put forth every effort to sway her brother to fight for him. He had visited their home, and soon began to send them gifts. Enough food to last the season, gold to repair the roof of their home long since in a state of disrepair, and even new clothes. She had begged her brother not to fight, that she didn’t care if they were hungry if it meant they were both alive, but her words had fallen upon deaf ears. Like almost every other sixteen year old boy in the empire Tristan had been dreaming of the glory of the arena since they were children. And they needed the money. It was an easy excuse. Ignatius had started Tristan out in the lower fighting rings within the city. They were less well known and safer than the arena, but it hadn’t mattered. Tristan was strong, lithe, and above all else smart. He had quickly risen to infamy among the city’s fighting rings and was promptly moved to the arena. Within the arena his popularity had only grown. Today would mark his twenty fifth fight. He had not lost a single fight in the last three years, but the importance of the twenty four fights he had already won paled next to the fight before him today. Tristan’s contract with Ignatius was a twenty five fight contract. If he won today he would receive fifty percent of the earnings from every fight he had won in the past three years. It would finally be over. This was the day they’d been looking forward to, and yet Sorscha couldn’t shake the disturbing feeling that something about today’s fight was different. 

The crowd went quiet as Tristan’s name was announced before reaching a cry three times louder than any of the previous fights that day. Sorscha felt her nerves settle somewhat as her brother walked out into the ring. He wore his usual armor and swung his shortsword in two carefully measured graceful arcs before raising it to the sky to the approval of the crowd. Lord Ignatius cheered and waved from the box as if toasting a favorite child at a banquet. The crowd grew quiet again as Tristan’s competitor was announced.

“We have a very special fight for you today. Tristan, Champion of Ignatius has been a favorite of this arena while serving Lord Ignatius these past three years. Today will mark his final fight within our walls.” The announcer’s voice boomed across the arena, and the crowd let out a loud boo. 

“Today is a day of celebration for Tristan, and for this reason we are offering him a fight like none other before. Today Tristan will fight his royal highness’s enforcer the great Marcel.” The crowd screamed it’s approval, but Sorscha could hardly hear them. The emperor’s enforcer? Throughout the empire Marcel was infamous for his brutality. Closer to the size of a bear than a man he wielded a spiked mace with which to crush the enemies of the emperor. His hands alone were large enough to crush the skull of the average man. Within the arena he fought and executed only enemies of the empire and the most dangerous of criminals. The kind of people that the emperor wished to give a long and brutal death. Marcel fighting a sponsored gladiator was unheard of. Something was terribly wrong. Even Tristan looked suddenly pale and rigid as Marcel walked into the ring and faced him. Sorscha looked up towards the box to Lord Ignatius, but he simply smiled and cheered with everyone else in the crowd.  

Tristan was not small by any means, but he looked downright tiny as he turned to face Marcel with a grim expression. Marcel sneered and pointed the mace at Tristan in a death promise. They circled one another assessing their next move. Sorscha couldn’t imagine what her brother was thinking. How do you defeat a man three times your size with a lifetime of military experience? They both moved at once. Marcel swung his mace in a long arc aiming for Tristan’s stomach. Tristan dodged to the side and used his momentum to propel himself forward. His shortsword slashed through the air aimed for Marcel’s throat. Marcel stepped back at the last moment narrowly missing the blade. Marcel swung the mace in a wide motion this time aiming for her brother’s head. Tristan ducked and jumped back up swinging his blade towards Marcel’s midsection. With a surprised grunt Marcel intercepted the sword with his mace, the blade digging into the wood. The crowd roared in excitement and anticipation, and Sorscha felt a wave of panic crash over her. But, in the next moment Tristan was yanking his blade from the mace and slashing it across Marcel’s face. Marcel let out a bellow of rage and clutched his face. Pressing the advantage Tristan rushed forward ready to deliver a killing blow, but despite the blood gushing down his face Marcel swung a fist into Tristan’s chest sending him flying backwards several feet. Marcel advanced slowly and Tristan quickly climbed to his feet. They continued to trade blows in this fashion. For how long Sorscha couldn’t guess. Each second that passed was agonizing. Tristan was fast and smart in his movements, but Marcel was massive each blow containing impossible strength. Tristan was holding his own for now, but what would happen when he grew tired? Sorscha watched as her brother lunged forward blade aimed toward Marcel’s lower abdomen, but before the blade even connected Marcel grabbed him by the throat and flung him in the opposite direction. Marcel strode forward preparing to strike again as Tristan pulled himself up into a crouched position trying desperately to regain his bearings. Marcel raised the mace, but before he could strike Triston rolled diagonally coming up behind him and slashing through the back of Marcel’s knee. Marcel roared in agony falling to his other knee. The crowd burst into a combination of cheering and boos, and Sorscha sobbed in relief. Tristan had slashed through the tendons in Marcel’s knee. He would never walk again. He couldn’t possibly win this fight. In that moment Marcel swung the mace crushing her brother’s skull with a sickening crunch. The crowd cheered at the display of violence many of them going so far as to rise from their seats, but Sorscha couldn’t hear them. She couldn’t see or hear anything beyond her brother alive one moment and dead the next. And, as his blood settled on the arena floor and Lord Ignatius joined the crowd in their cheering she knew with a sickening certainty that their sponsor had bet against them today.