The Boy Gladiator
(Previously: “Farsworn”)
The boy gladiator, for all his swagger and apparent skill, seems far too fresh to fight in the arena, Justin thinks—He’s twenty, maybe... No, he’s all of eighteen, if that. Thirty-four years old now, almost twice his foe’s age, Justin can’t imagine being that young anymore, much less engaging in a bout of blood sport. Davion, the boy, is tall and very lean; his stomach muscles stick out, hard and sculpted like a statue’s. He’s got golden hair and skin, pink lips and nipples. For his part, Justin’s heavier than he’d prefer, but still fit, what they used to call a “dad bod” where he comes from. Curly brown hair grows around his belly button and the middle of his chest; his arms and legs are furry too, though the hair on the top of his head has begun to thin. He’s been a gladiator for a few months now, and Langrun’s training regimen, though brutal, has provided him with such strength and endurance as he’s never known—beneath his sagging chest and bulging waist, his pecs and abs are stronger and more durable than they may seem... yet there, below his navel, lies the scar of Gortun’s penetrating thrust, the proof that no man, Justin least of all, cannot be butchered in the ring.
The fighters stand within arm’s reach, examining each other’s bodies closely; Justin notices the boy’s sweat-shiny frame bears few, if any, battle scars.
“Am I your first?” he asks the kid.
“That’s right,” he says, “my first kill.”
Cocky little shit, thinks Justin, smirking. “Pretty sure of yourself, huh? Who’s to say I won’t kill you instead?”
“You may well,” the boy concedes. “I’m not afraid to die.”
“How old are you? And don’t say ‘old enough.’”
“Sixteen summers, almost.”
Christ, Justin thinks, he is a damn kid!
The crowd grows noisy; they’re impatient for a show of blood. The young man draws his sword. “Enough talk,” he announces—“let our blades speak for us!”
“Please, don’t make me kill you,” Justin pleads—and then he spies the flash of sunlit steel; he leaps back, but the weapon’s tip draws blood across his breast, a shallow cut that could’ve been much worse. He swings his sword up, countering, but Davion parries—ching!—then thrusts forth. Justin yelps, and spins away; his hairy forearm bleeds, the thick fur matted down with sticky, dripping red. “I’m stronger than you,” he assures the boy, still seeking to prevent their fight from going any further. “You don’t want to know what happens when I catch you...”
“I know full well,” says Davion, “and I am ready for it, when my time arrives... but you are too slow!”
Justin thrusts; the kid evades. The audience is silent, and the working of the gladiators’ lungs is, for awhile, the only noticeable sound—their hot breath panted out with every jab or dodge, the little yelps of pain when they connect. The wounds are trifling, but all of them, so far, are suffered by the older fighter. Justin’s blood begins to dot the sand between his bare feet. Finally he trips the kid, who topples in the sand; Davion scrambles to get up, but Justin pins him down. The boy huffs hard, his sweaty chest swelled out with effort as he seeks to wrestle free... but it’s no good: his wrists are pinned behind his head, his pungent, hairy armpits lie exposed. He tries to lifts his hips but Justin straddles him, imposing his full weight, preventing all escape.
“Still ready for it?” Justin asks. He lays his blade against the kid’s breast, runs the sharp tip slowly down his moist and squirming body, teasing, until finally it stops at the tight, fleshy knot of his outstretched navel. Davion, chin pressed into his chest, stares wide-eyed as the sharpened steel which hangs above his belly threatens to sink deep; he grits his teeth, and gives a slight nod.
God help me, Justin thinks... But no—I am a gladiator now, a man who lives to kill, who lives to die... and so is he!
“Hrunghk—” He can feel the point attack, then puncture, his opponent’s belly muscles; as the meat gives way to gut, he drives it further, plunges deeper, pushing till the point comes out his back and sticks into the dirt, the hilt pressed hard against his writhing waist. “My guts!” the kid screams, panicking. “Wait—pull it out, I’m begging you—it hurts! I want to live!”
“Too bad. You’re weak—I won.”
As Justin tugs his weapon free, blood fountains; Davion begins to wail. He lets the boy go, leaving him to clutch his crimson stomach—he is helpless to prevent his lifeblood spurting out into the sand.
“Be glad I didn’t disembowel you, boy.” But as he watches his opponent perish, young and scared, the victor can’t help but recall his own son, Jason. Every young man has a father—who was this one’s? Would he rush to comfort Davion as he lay perishing? Or is this grim fate all he could’ve hoped for—what he’d yearned for, even? Though he’s come to know these lands well, and their peoples, Justin can’t help but detest them and their savage bloodlust... most especially on days like this, when he detects it in himself, devouring his soul.
(Next: “How It Feels”)