Frenzy, Part 1
A young man’s lust for battle burns before he’s truly capable of winning. Though he may imagine victory—the blood, the thrill—such boyish dreams are worthless in the face of real combat. Still he fights, and vows to win, to kill or be killed, though he doesn’t understand the consequences of defeat. A battle-death is beautiful, in theory: offering one’s flesh, one’s very soul, to prove virility and worth; it’s an attractive aim, and almost every boy falls victim to it in his mind, if not indeed. But should he step into the ring, heft steel himself, he’ll quickly learn the truth. All gladiators start this way: naive yet willing, strong but hardly strong enough. Most die within a week; the ones who live fight on, and on, and on again, their bodies hardened, skills perfected, spirits all but spent. The tempering of men is no small task, and neither is it pleasant... nonetheless, young men will throw themselves upon the burning pyre time and time again, a constant kindling for the awful, endless flames of entertainment.
Five boys step into the ring today, the first round of the morning spectacle: Stiv, Lewyn, Agamund, Iveer, and Brekt. Stiv’s fifteen, short and wiry, with soft brown hair upon his breast and small, tight muscles rippling down his narrow gut; Lewyn is sixteen, lanky, long-haired, body smooth and lean and glistening with pungent sweat; big Agamund, at seventeen the oldest, is a stocky lad with reddish-brown fur bristling across his bulging chest; Iveer, sixteen, is black-haired, pale as milk, and wears a stern expression on his face; and last but far from least is Brekt, fifteen but just as tall and muscled as a man of ten more years, whose stony countenance belies his tender youth. Of these five, four at least will die within the next few minutes; all, however, will have earned their manhood in the course of undergoing what comes next. Their loins are tightly bound with white cloth, but by battle’s end, each fighter’s garment will be stained red, whether he who wears it lives or topples dead.
They draw their swords; the crowd cheers, and before long steel sings, the clashing din as loud as any audience. Iveer is bloodied first—a blade is run across his breast, bright blood leaps forth to spill fast down his creamy stomach—and the boy’s cries, childlike in pitch, confirm that he, alas, is doomed to lose today. All four gang up on him, as boys are wont to do: thrust after thrust, they run him through, until his white skin’s painted crimson as a rose. He tries to scream, but this time, only blood comes out. He clutches at his belly, just in time to learn that they have opened him, as if he were an animal: intestines, heavy, slippery, slide out between his hips, and though he catches them at first, they slip his grasp and tumble in the dirt, a stinking, steaming mess. The crowd jeers, turning down their thumbs. Was it a waste, this quick and brutal death? Was the coin of Iveer’s life well spent? None but the man himself could say for certain... and a man he was, indeed, by virtue of his suffering alone, if little else.
Brekt smears his bloodied blade against his bare thigh; as his breast heaves, shiny with the effort of his first kill, he imagines doing it again—gutting again, that is—for it was he who gutted Iveer, as easily as a hog on the farm. The crowd is loud and joyous in his ears, a ringing victory which he will never, ever forget, not so long as he lives... but, sadly, Brekt shall live for not much longer. His brow begins to crease with pain, confusion, anger—anger at himself. He wasn’t good enough; he’s let it come to this. Teeth bared and wincing, he begins to bellow, long and throaty, hoarse with rage at being killed. The blade, thrust in his back, speeds through his bowels then finally erupts from out the hard, flat muscle of his handsome waist, its broad length painted bright with gore. “It hurts,” he hollers—the one concession to his tender youth this gladiator, after all a boy of only fifteen years, will be allowed—then falls upon his knees. The sword comes out; the blood begins to pour into the sand between his knees, and watching it, he grows transfixed. The next swing takes his head—a clean cut, expertly performed by Agamund.
As Brekt’s head rolls across the ring, a cry rings from young Lewyn’s lips—he’s charging for the big lad, drawing back, preparing for a brutal thrust. But Agamund defeats him easily. With just one swing—thwickt—Lewyn’s smooth, lean belly is bisected hip to hip. The blow is deep, no mere eviscerating slit: he’s almost cut in half, the thin boy, for the hulking Agamund is fearsome strong and unafraid to take a life. If he can last the day, he’ll go on to become a mighty gladiator—and indeed, the crowd is cheering him, the budding champion, his victory in this round, at least, all but assured...
Young, curly-headed Stiv stares wide-eyed at the organs spilling out of Lewyn’s toppled corpse. Is that what I have got inside me? thinks the kid, his hand pressed to his middle, wondering at what his own guts might look like when they are spilt. There’s little doubt: he’s doomed to fail—Agamund is older, larger, stronger certainly, and eager for his next kill.
“Are you ready?” asks the big lad, grinning slightly.
Sweat drips freely down Stiv’s neck and from his armpits; perspiration mats the downy brown hair on his chest. He nods. His heart’s about to burst...
No, he thinks—no, I must do my best. Make father proud. I’ll go down swinging, fight until I’m torn apart—
Agamund swings, nearly taking his head. Stiv leaps for him, but misses. Ching! They trade blows; finally, they wrestle one another to the ground, their sweaty bodies caked with sand...
“Hurnghk...!”
Stiv blinks, staring his opponent in the eye. The huge boy’s mouth gapes wide; his eyes roll back inside his skull. When Stiv looks down, he realizes he has stabbed his foe clear to the hilt, beneath the breastbone. Agamund is good as dead... but, just to make sure, and in part out of some boyish curiosity, he twists the blade inside him, drags it down a bit—thhhlurcht—opening the fighter to his navel. Loops of greasy gut bulge slowly outward, capturing young Stiv’s gaze... then the crowd erupts, applauding his achievement, and he realizes he has won!
But there are two more rounds of frenzied combat to survive, if Stiv is to become a gladiator. Having made his first kill, victory shines bright on the horizon—but the shadow of defeat looms large as well. Which will it be?
(Next: “Frenzy, Part 2”)