Frenzy, Part 2
(Previously: “Frenzy, Part 1”)
“No, w-wait—please, not my belly!”
Splutch—
Stiv makes his second kill: a boy his own age, pale, feeble, by the name of Ghum. Ghum was one of those kids who, watching gladiators fight from high above, imagined he could do the same—not knowing that, within his flesh, his soul, a sheer deficiency of strength, speed, spirit would prevent such dreams from ever coming true. This type are all too common amongst crowds of novices, and doomed to perish early... but it isn’t right to say that these are not men, feeble and mistaken though they may be, for with courage of a kind they charge into the ring, breasts bared, their soft, white bellies ready for the blade before they even know it. And indeed, Stiv guts him roughly up the middle, teeth bared, savoring the stink of viscera that quickly greets his nose. Ghum quivers, staring at his pink intestines as they slither out of him; he must’ve seen men gutted many times in this arena, from a distance, but had he imagined ever spilling out his own, one day? Few do... and now the horror of it washes over him, too late. He pisses, shits himself, and as he falls the whole mess—blood, guts, excrement and urine—forms a fetid puddle at his bare feet. Suddenly a wave of nausea begins to overtake Stiv... but he gathers himself, clutching his stomach reflexively. Though I fight on, he thinks, though I remain triumphant yet, one day... one day I’ll die, as gruesomely and suddenly as this!
Meanwhile, a pair of boys are dueling quite aggressively not several feet away—one sixteen and the other seventeen, both sun-browned, blond. Their bodies are impressive for their ages; one could be forgiven for confusing them for soldiers—or for sons of gods, in fact. As they engage, their bellies press together, backs arched very tightly, nipples touching. Suddenly, in unison, they start to grunt—the crowd goes wild as they realize the youths are stabbing one another in the stomach! In the eyes of many fans, this is the amongst the most sought-after of arena spectacles: the winner and the loser overlap, each man a victor, yet defeated. Meeting death with open eyes, they seem to savor every moment, bare legs shivering, their naked torsos dripping sweat and blood. They gut each other slowly, eagerly; at last, the pale purple tangle of their mingled innards spills between them, dangling clear to their quaking knees. A proud death—they have perished gladiators, names unknown but glory lasting for all time!
Stiv yelps as steel catches him beneath the ribs—a shallow blow, but it’s the first blood that he’s ever spilt, a very special moment in a man’s life. Though the hurt may be bad, it is worse than the harm; soon enough, he considers the stain on his flank as a badge to be proud of, and moves on. He is fighting Samion, a chubby sixteen-year-old novice who is braver than he seems. The lad is tall, his breast and belly flabby, but his arms are rather thick and likely strong enough to carry out a killing thrust. He swings again, but Stiv ducks, makes a low and brutal slash; the fat boy’s stomach falls wide open, causing him to cry, “My belly—nooo, you’ve cut me open!” For awhile he fights like this, his bowels exposed within the gaping slit—is it bravery, Stiv thinks, or fear which keeps him fighting on? Eventually Samion, butchered, staggers away to lean against the arena wall; looking down, he sees the entrails as they tumble loose, a heap of blue-gray sausages, and vomits, letting go his sword. The lad has had his fill of gladiator fights, which once he hungered for—now, though, he only wishes he could hear his mother’s sweet voice one last time...
The crowd screams; a fighter spins, armless, the limb chopped just over the elbow. The next blow—the last one—destroys him, the blade coming down through the shoulder and splitting the rib cage, not stopping till it rips out at a point midway between the sternum and the navel. It’s a strangely bloodless cut, at least at first; the torn boy tries to breathe, to speak, but can’t—and then he tumbles, nigh in two, and there is so much blood that Stiv begins to retch. The dying boy’s heart, laid bare, beats its last before his eyes. And now the brutal killer faces Stiv: a sweaty, heaving, hairy beast of all of seventeen years—Erdun, born unto a line of gladiators, destined to be in the ring. He’s seen his father kill so many times that such abhorrent slaughter comes quite easily to him; he slaps his bare chest, shows his teeth, and glares at Stiv, as if to say, “You’re next.”
“Wait,” Stiv blurts; he considers begging for his life, though quickly realizes that the gesture would be useless, and cowardly to boot. Before he can come to his senses Erdun is upon him, thrusting, and Stiv can feel the steel pierce his waist and slide through, somehow cold and hot and once—he’s stuck upon the bigger boy’s sword, frozen in despair. Unable to control his bladder, he begins to piss himself, the hot stream spilling down his inner thighs... but Erdun finally pulls out, and Stiv is left to topple, bleeding. Such a deep blow, but he knows his guts are undisturbed—the sword went in above his hip, all vital organs spared, he’s certain of it. You are not dead yet, he tells himself, as he gets to his feet. But Erdun will be, soon enough, if you can only keep your wits!
They rush for one another; Erdun swings, a mighty blow, but Stiv ducks, rolling forward, and inserts his sword into the pit of Erdun’s navel from below. The hairy bastard jerks and shivers, drops his sword—he’s moaning, more out of embarrassment than from the pain, although it surely hurts. Young Erdun saw his father die, four years ago; the man was disemboweled in brutal fashion, and he’s always known a similar demise awaited him—well, here it comes. He steels himself, swells out his chest, and gives young Stiv a nod. With both hands on the hilt, Stiv slices though the thick flesh, grunting as he works, and finally big Erdun’s bowels come rolling out of him—the slick and stinking fruit of a career cut short...
Stiv rises, shivering with pain and triumph both. Just one more round, he thinks. One more... and then I am a man—a gladiator!
(Next: “Frenzy, Part 3”)