This is a short story I wrote about a gladiator. I was currently obsessed with Rosemary Sutcliff at the time, especially her book "Mark of the Horse Lord" (go read it. Or anything by her. Her stories are LEGENDARY!), which explains the stolen name "Phaedrus" (which just feels like it rolls off the tongue). The story is called "The Arena".
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The sand of the arena was soaked with sweat and blood and riddled with wounds made from the sharp hooves of horses and the scars left by previous battles. Phaedrus stopped to stare at the desert of death for only a second, then letting himself be shoved forward until he and the others stood together in a tight band before the Emperor’s seat. His hands were shaking harder than they’d ever shook before—harder than when he’d faced the band of invading brigands who had plundered his family and stolen him from his homeland—harder than when the slavers had knifed his brother for trying to escape. Ander was next to him, fair hair rumpled and that familiar, eager grin twisting his face into an almost-grimace. Ander was excited about today—their first fight in the Ring. Phaedrus just felt sick.
“Ave, Imperator, morituri te salutant.” It was a roar, rising up from around him. Hail Emperor, we who are about to die salute you. Phaedrus only barely remembered to lift his spear in salute to the man who sat in the Emperor’s seat. It was the custom, Ander had told him before, eyes shining but face stern in an attempt to look seasoned and at ease. The custom. The games were a custom too, which was part of the reason Phaedrus felt as if his insides had turned to snakes.
The audience roared back in response to the gladiators’ salute. A flower floated down into the arena and landed on the sand at Phaedrus feet. When he looked up, his eyes found another pair: dark, cool, thoughtful; he could see them clearly despite the distance between them. The girl watched him calmly, and then smiled as he inclined his head slightly toward her.
“So, sa,” shouted Ander at his side (one had to shout to be heard in the arena). “You have an admirer!”
His friend swept the flower from the ground and shoved it into Phaedrus’ hand—his sweaty, shaking hand that also held a round buckler.
“Keep it close to your heart. She may look for you after the games.”
After the games. If he survived. Phaedrus glanced up at the girl again and saw that she was still watching him. After the games, he thought, and decided that if he could remember her eyes and hold onto her flower, he might just make it to the end of this day.
The doors opened at the end of the arena, and a mass of brightly colored Somethings leapt through. Phaedrus recognized Demos, the new magnificent horned bull that Ander swore he could best. And there was Serpas, the beardless lion, striding forward with the grace of an enslaved monarch. Of the rest he could name only Junas and Tamar, the two leopards from the wilds to the south, but the others that followed were just as deadly as the creatures that had names. There was an elephant—not full grown, although his tusks were still sharp and deadly; two more bulls were released, and also some wild dogs that might have once been called wolves. The animals entered the ring lazily, as if they did not want to fight today. Someone jabbed Phaedrus in the side with a pole and shouted, “Stir ‘em up, boy! The Emperor’s in a foul temper today.”
Ander was already halfway across the ring, running (of course) toward Demos. The striped bull held his head as if the long horns that hung from it were heavy, but he was already beginning to pound the earth with his bone-crushing hooves.
Phaedrus jogged toward the creatures as quickly as he could while holding a buckler and spear. He’d entertained hopes of being given a sword, but knew the idea was outlandish and silly. The trainer had given him a try with one the day before yesterday, and then decided that javelin and spear were better for a former hunter who’d never touched a sword—much less fought with one—in his life.
One of the three tigers turned its head to look at him as he ran towards it, and his stomach churned in anticipation. His feet kicked up claret sand as he stumbled; his buckler flew from his grasp, though he did not let the flower fall. Cursing, Phaedrus dove for the shield. It would not do to be caught without it—he’d seen the mangled bodies of strong warriors being dragged inside the gates after an animal fight. The tiger had veered away from the others and was moving toward him now. With a shudder, Phaedrus grabbed the buckler and hoisted it back onto his arm. He could feel the flower wilting in his sweaty clasp, its white petals no whiter than his bloodless face. He turned to face the tiger just as it sprang forward.
Time slowed. Phaedrus lifted his buckler and shoved his spear forward with a bellow of fear and bloodlust—a war cry. The spearhead sliced a ragged gash in the tiger’s leg and shoulder, and it screamed with pain and rolled away—but not before two searing claws raked across its opponent’s scalp. Phaedrus felt nothing until the first shock passed. The warm, sticky blood felt almost like sweat on his forehead, but it stung his eyes and made it hard to see. He swiped at it carefully, ignoring the throbbing as best he could, and then turned to look at his foe.
They circled each other now; the tiger's eyes were yellow like gold. As Phaedrus met its gaze, anger poured over him; hatred. Fear. The beast was afraid, and so was he.
Perhaps it was this, the strange understanding between him and his enemy, that created a strange kinship between them in that moment. The hatred did not fade from the tiger’s eyes, yet somehow Phaedrus knew that it was a shared hatred—a hatred of the men-like beasts that had taken them both from their homes and thrust them in this bloody arena to kill for the entertainment of others.
We are not so different, my enemy, he thought, and it seemed to him that the tiger agreed.
It turned and loped away slowly, limping from the cut he had given it. Phaedrus was not so foolish enough to think that the understanding they had found had anything to do with its retreat; the creature was tired and did not want to fight. He watched it run and took in the hollow sides and protruding ribs, the matted fur and stumbling limp, and knew that captivity had done more than give hatred to this beast. He watched it for a moment more, and then felt feeling return to his limbs. The sweaty flower was still clamped in his fingers. Perhaps the stem had been squeezed in two—he dared not look to see. There was a roar from behind him, and Phaedrus turned just in time to dodge the attack of one of the leopards. His spear moved before his mind could, and the leopard fell in a heap at his feet, snarling and clawing at him as he wondered about the easiest way to remove a spear from a carcass.
There was a sword on the ground a few yards away. That was the best bet, for a spear once lodged in beast’s body—especially a beast that was not yet dead—was a hard thing to get back. The sword was lying next to its previous owner, a man with a thick beard and no left arm. It surprised Phaedrus that the missing arm did not make his stomach swell with sickness again, but his blood was up; his battle-lust renewed as it had not been since the day he fought for his freedom.
Only on that day, he had not won.
The next moments were a blur to him. The sword was clumsy in his fist, and it was better to run and evade the elephant, using its bad eyesight as an asset, than to try to fight it himself. He led it to three men who had spears, and they killed it for him—although one was speared himself on the giant creature’s tusk before at last its great head rested on the sand.
It was now out of pity that he slew half-wounded cheetahs and bulls. They were often still fighting, but too slow to do him any damage, so that it was a little thing to dodge forward and cut their throats with the sharp blade that was now quite slick. His hands were sticky with the red stuff—what was it called?—and the metallic taste and smell were in his mouth and at the back of his nose. His ears were filled with the roar that rose up around him and swallowed everything else—swallowed his anguish and fear and left him with nothing but the systematic slashing and stabbing that was all he had left.
Phaedrus had just put a wounded wolf out of its misery when someone shouted, “The tiger! The tiger!”
Everything else in the ring was dead, it seemed; what was not would be soon, and the only survivors were being led away out the gate. Phaedrus recognized the sturdy form of Ander, which meant his friend had made it out alive. A rush of exhilaration almost overwhelmed him: he had survived. It was over.
Unfortunately, it was not. Someone jabbed him from behind—the butt end of a spear, Phaedrus saw, as he stumbled forward and rubbed his ribs with his spare arm (he’d lost his buckler to the bull). The Arena Guard ignored his glare and jerked his head toward a group of three other men who were prodding along the tiger he’d faced before.
“The crowds want blood. Finish it off.”
Phaedrus felt the blood-lust ebb as he gave the man an incredulous stare.
“The tiger? But it’s wounded—not a fair fight.”
“The crowd doesn’t care. They want it dead—and make a show of it, boy. This is your moment.”
Phaedrus’ head ached, as did his shoulder, where the wolf had bitten him, and his lower leg where he’d strained some sort of muscle running from the elephant. His breathing was beginning to slow as the battle-rage died down, and he shook his head stubbornly. Memories of his family—his stolen sisters, his slaughtered brother—give him strength through anger, and he wonders if he could take the guard if he tried.
“Just do it, boy!” the guard growled, and then turned his spear so the point was facing Phaedrus. “Or we’ll treat you like one of them!”
“Haven’t you already?” Phaedrus muttered, but turned obediently to face the tawny beast as his anger died down. What point would there be to attacking the guard? He would not escape the Arena—not now, or ever. His brother and sisters would be avenged, though—someday. Somehow he would find a way, if it took him a lifetime of weariness and hatred to do it.
The tiger was limping still, and there was a weary, defeated look in its eyes. Still, they hardened when they met his gaze, and the hatred returned in full force. He wondered it was fighting with family in mind as well.
Slowly, calmly, he raised his sword and saluted the beast. It pulled back its lips into a snarl, and then gathered itself for one more spring. His sword leapt forward of its own free will and cut its legs out from under it. The tiger screamed, as it had before, and its foreclaws raked his arm and side. The smell of blood was in his nostrils, pain hung on his lips as the world stood still. The tiger landed and rolled heavily on the sand. It did not get up.
“Go on, boy,” shouted one of the guards, one of the three who had been corralling the tiger forward. “Kill it.”
Phaedrus watched as the golden gaze closed, as the great tawny body gave a shuddering sigh, and turned away with blurry eyes. He let the sweaty flower fall from his trembling fingers and dropped to his knees in the hot, bloody sand of the Arena.
“I did.”
finis
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