The Sapphire Slave

The weight of his scimitar weighed heavy in his hand, and the voice of his master echoed off the stone walls surrounding them: “You’ve slaughtered cattle weaker than this whelp,” Baltsaros said. He was a large man with a belly as round as the full moon, exposed by his open vest. He was dripping in jewels which hung from gold chains and silver bangles all over his person. Even his baggy dimjie pants were embroidered with gold accents and inlays, and in the dark torchlight of the colosseum he glowed as bright as a richest man in Ridia should. “You are the best fighter this city has ever seen! We both know you can beat him.”

“I’ve heard he is big,” Azra said with a weight in his throat. He tried to keep his voice strong as they came to a stop where the barracks began. From here, the slave would have to proceed without his master. “They say he wields an axe bigger even than himself.”

“Such are rumors and drivel. Excitement drives the audience, and the audience drives the excitement. Don’t listen to such lies.” Baltsaros placed a hand on Azra’s shoulder, and the two men locked eyes. Azra was much shorter than Baltsaros, but muscular still, covered in scars from years of fighting. “Mindis is on our side tonight. You may not be a soldier, but this is battle still.”

Azra bowed to his master, hand across his chest. “I must take my seat. I trust you will find me after the fight?”

“As always,” Baltsaros said, “and if you win, we will have our feast!” the great bear of a man let out a hardy and full laugh, one that seemed to shake the hall around them. It was then that Azra turned and proceeded into the barracks, where several other fighters lined the room, waiting for their turn to battle. Each man present shared one thing in common: a bright sapphire adorning their bodies. Azra’s lay on the back of his left hand, visible to all he might meet. The jewel meant one thing and one thing only, that he was a fighter. All the men were slaves, who served their masters by fighting for gold and glory in the area.

Each day, the barracks were filled with fresh faces. Most of the fighters either died in the pit or toured the country with their masters. Not Azra—the merchant lord would not allow it. Azra had become a staple in the ring, an attraction all came to see.

He found an empty seat on a bench and took it. Silence had lain itself across the barracks as the many fighters prayed for victory and good fortune. They would all need it, for each time they stepped into the arena, they stepped into a dance of death. Azra took this chance to sit silently and pray for his own victory: He crossed his legs on the bench and set his scimitar across his knees, his buckler on top, then folded his trembling hands together. To Mindis, the patron of war, he prayed for strength, speed, and wit in battle. To Somma, the lady of luck, he prayed for advantage.

One after another, the fighters were taken from the barracks by guards and escorted to the pits. From within, they could all hear the roar of the crowd outside—screaming and cheering and clapping. Between battles it waned, and when another combatant was chosen, it would begin again. It was not long before a guard approached Azra; he wore shoddy silver plate, and a turban around his head. He clapped the butt of his halberd against the stone floor. “Come,” he said, “it is your time.”

Azra nodded and followed the man out of the barracks, down a single hallway, and to a large wooden door. Here, in the narrow hall with nothing but walls to strengthen the sound, the crowd seemed its loudest. He felt a knot in his stomach and swallowed hard. He may not live to see the night.

“You may go,” the guard said after a moment.

Azra pushed the door open and stepped out into a small alcove of the pit; the walls were high around him, and he could see now the roaring crowd he’d heard for so long. The sun shined down bright on the sand of the pit, and across from Azra stood his opponent. Standing seven feet tall with muscles that bulged with the weight of his battle axe, Azra was not sure whether he was fighting a man or a monster.

They both stepped to the edge of their niche, and a man in a red robe stood to announce the fighters. Azra shook with such terror at the foe across from him that he could not hear the announcer—only the roar of the crowd. Markos had been legendary across the land, and now Azra could see why.

Once the robed man finished, the mountain began making long strides across the sand. Azra had to move quick: he jumped to the right to come at his foe from the side. He swept his blade low, only to meet the iron of Markos’ axe. The monster of a man grunted hard and lifted his weapon with a speed Azra never anticipated, and it came down just as fast, narrowly missing Azra as he stepped to the right. He did not hold Mindis’ favor this evening.

Before Azra’s feet could find steady ground, the foe had his axe flying once more, sweeping overhead as Azra threw himself to the ground. And again, the weapon rose and came down. Azra rolled out of its path and he jumped to his feet. How could he win when this man had such strength?

The mountain straightened his back and faced Azra and took a step toward him. He needed to think fast if he wanted to live. With an axe like that, all it would take is one blow to end Azra for good. He needed to end this as quickly as possible, or the legendary Markos would end him.

He took another step forward and Azra readied himself to move. Markos swung his axe in a wide-reaching arc, and Azra stepped back to avoid its bite. Immediately after it narrowly missed, Azra moved toward Markos as fast as he could. With all the speed he could muster, he swung his scimitar downward across Markos’ arm, opening a vicious wound. The mountain of a man shouted in pain and stepped backward for another swing of his axe. Azra couldn’t find the footing to dodge, so he held his buckler up and took the blow to its iron face. Even though the blow was slow and weak, it still staggered the seasoned fighter.

With his buckler, Azra shoved Markos’ axe backward, then readied for a swing. Just as quickly as the fight had begun, it was over: with one blow across Markos’ abdomen, another wound revealed itself, and the man dropped to the ground. From his knees, he rolled on his back, and tears began to stream from his eyes. The entire arena fell silent; Azra couldn’t discern whether the crowd was quiet with disbelief or anticipation.

He planted a foot on Markos’ chest. He wouldn’t watch a foe die this way.

“Leave me,” Markos barked. Even in death, his voice boomed. “Let me die slow.”

Azra couldn’t find honor in such a victory. Instead, he leaned down and put the mountain of a man out of his misery. Following another beat of silence, the crowd erupted into cheers. Men and women alike shouted praise for the slave, and the robed man stood once again to announce the Azra had defeated Markos, and now walked victorious once again. As the robed man congratulated him on his victory, Azra was ushered from the arena by an entourage of guards; they took him through a set of gates and to a plaza outside the arena.

Baltsaros was there waiting for him. The fat man smiled and laughed and gave Azra a hefty pat on the back. “Congratulations, my glorious fighter! It was just as I said: Mindis is on your side. He loves you like one of his own.”

The plaza began to bustle with patrons coming and going between fights. “I can’t believe I beat him,” Azra said. “I’ve never fought someone so strong.”

“That’s even more reason for celebration, my friend! Come, come, let us return to my villa and start the celebration! I’m sure all my dear friends are expecting the grandest of galas in the wake of such a magnificent victory!”