Guile Pov

  “Stick him good!” “Hit him!” Go for the face!” The audience screamed from behind the bone and rope barriers, staring down into a sand-lined pit. A pit where the Retiarius faked a toss of his net and nearly slid his trident beneath the Murmillo’s tower shield. Only a last-minute hop saved his foot, and possibly his life. But it left him awkwardly unbalanced. Half in the air and with only one foot on the ground, his fish-like enclosed helm an unpleasant counterweight.

  With a fluid spin and hand flick, the net was launched, not at the head and shoulders as expected, the traditional fisherman nets the fish, but instead at his feet. With an unstable stance, he wasn’t capable of dodging it, and with the trident poised high, he didn’t dare lower the shield.

  More bolo than fishnet, the weighted ropes snapped around the Murmillo’s legs, trapping both limbs together. With a darting rush, the Retiarius sprinted past the shield and twisted to drive his trident into his opponent's unarmored back. Forced to twist the shield, his legs incapable of following through, he blocked the blow, but couldn’t keep his balance. Dropping to the ground, he rapidly rolled to place the tower shield upward, guarding most of his body while his gladius shot down to cut the leg bindings free.

  Just as his opponent had planned. The shield only mostly covered him. And that included his eyes. Without clear sight to know where to block, he couldn’t see the trident dart down and impale his extended heel.

  He was finished.

  If his opponent wanted his life, it was his to take.

  The Retiarius spoke a few quiet words, then stepped backward and raised his Trident in victory to the ardent cheering of the crowds.

  Guile happily among them. It had been a wonderful match. A string of forced errors that had started a full minute earlier. Seemingly choosing the lesser evil each time, only to fall further and further into his opponents, well, net.

  The civilians saw the spectacle. Guile saw the nuance. That was a dangerous man. The best gladiators weren’t just physical specimens, but canny fighters. A lesson Guile well knew. He’d paid his dues on sands not much different from these. Bled on them and shed blood in turn.

  Made a great deal of money out of it too!

  A set of Labori ran into the pit and carried the defeated out, though not before tossing a purse to the victor. A fatter purse than just his victory would have implied. Mercy was never cheap.

  His hands itched for it. To jump down and pick up a blade once more. To hear the adulations of the crowd and feel his blood rush at the thrill of danger. But it wasn’t to be. Not for many reasons. As a tier 2 and a former pit champion, he’d not find a decent match outside of a holiday or a spectacle.

  But that was only half of it.

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  He worried the idea like a sore tooth as the empty sands welcomed the Versitilla. A half dozen skilled warriors, but soldiers, not professional gladiators, ran out of the gates bearing a randomly assigned series of ridiculous ‘weapons.’ A threshing flail, a knobby short club, a wooden mallet, a wooden shovel, what looked like a butter churn and a shepherd's crook.

  The Versitilla wasn’t about high-level skills. No one with a skill for the given objects was permitted to compete. Backed by inspect skills and an audience that was more militant than civilian, breaking that rule had seen a master of games ripped apart in the ensuing riot.

  It was a test of physicality. Of stamina, durability, footwork and most of all, adaptability.

  It showed a truth that many never recognized, even after seeing it shoved in their face. There were dangerous skills and classes. But it was dangerous men who made the most use of them. It had been his favorite event, despite its lack of popularity at the highest levels.

  Adapt or die. He’d adapted. He smirked as the shepherd’s crook hooked wooden mallet's leg only for his weapon to be trapped under the falling body. A moment later a backhand blow of the threshing flail to the head knocked crook out, possibly eternally, while a spinning follow-on blow broke wooden mallet's ribs before he could stand up.

  He scratched at the palms of his hands. It was… frustrating. Here he was, having accomplished all that he’d dreamed, yet seeing an old friend now forever outside his grasp.

  A knight could not fight in a pit!

  He pursed his lips and spat to the side before draining his mug of Posca. He belched lightly and then let out a sigh.

  “What’s got you all morose?”

  “Morose? You listening at the quality’s fire again, Sigismund?”

  The man snorted, ripping a bit of flat bread from the platter in front of them and dipping it in vinegar and spices before wrapping a bit of greasy pork up in it. He let out a contented moan before responding. “At least my ears aint just a handle to hang my helm on. I can – oooh that’s got to sting! I can hear a sigh at 2 feet! But did you see that hit?” He waved his hands through a brief copy of the shoveler planting the end of his tool into the ground to catch the threshing flail, then kicking its owner square in the family jewels.

  Guile grunted in agreement, forcefully uncrossing his legs while grabbing some flatbread himself. A few minutes went by while they screamed and cheered as the fight drew to a close, with butter churn and shovel ended in a duel that ended when the churn was thrown, then its wielder rushed behind it, taking a heavy blow to the shoulder but picking up and throwing his opponent to the ground.

  Onto the end up mallet with a sickening snap. “Ooooh.” The crowd cringed, but quickly turned into a screaming cheer for the victor.

  “Alright lad. Spit it out. What’s got you down.”

  Guile refilled his mug and sighed. “It’s nothing really. I’m just going to miss this.” He gestured out to the sands.

  Sigismund stared at him, confused. “I’ve never seen a settlement without a pit, lad. Might take a bit, but we’ll have one soon enough. For that matter, you won’t stay at home your whole life. Why the hell would you miss it?”

  “Not watching. Fighting.” He explained while men rushed on to the field to carry the defeated away. “Not all this Noble stuff is good.”

  Sigismund stared at him for a few moments, his mouth open and bobbing a bit fishlike. “With the greatest respect, Sir knight-” Guile cracked a smile as the man started with a suggestion for a series of anatomically improbable actions he should commit with a mule and continued onto descriptions of nonexistent family members and barnyard animals. Thirty years fighting in the Band could teach a man a great deal of cursing and Sigismund was an artist even among that select crowd. But even he could not go on forever without repeating himself.

  Eventually he wound down, shaking his head. “Damn fool boy. You have what hundreds would kill for, and what more than hundreds did die for! Don’t whine to me because you can’t play in the sand. On top of that, you ninny, did you never hear tell of a fucking tournament?”

  …oh. Right!