There was a rippling whisper through the spectators at the tables, a murmur of pleasurable excitement. Without heeding it, the two men at the room's center inspected each other with fierce eyes.
One of the two was a proud, dark-faced figure, high-nosed and gleaming-eyed, dressed in torn, flowing robe and with a tightly twisted turban on his head. He jerked from his belt a long, curved scimitar and whirled it above his head, giving vent to a ragged, high-pitched yell of defiance. An Arab, I thought, maybe one of the very hordes that had carried the green banner of the Prophet over three continents like a whirlwind. He was a fierce enough spectacle, as he shook his gleaming blade aloft, but his opponent was a fit one, a gigantic Northman in leathern jerkin, whose blue eyes gleamed as he too sprang forward, brandishing aloft a great ax in one hand, and carrying a small, circular shield in the other.
With weapons upraised, the two cautiously neared each other, circling like wary tigers, searching for an opening. I turned away, and saw that the feasters were wholly intent now on the two opponents, and in that moment I understood the meaning of the Englishman in saying that we had been brought here to fight. For it was so, and all in our ragged, fierce group would no doubt be forced to fight and slay one another to amuse the indolent spectators at the tables, as the gladiators of ancient Rome had struck each other down in the great games. And what of myself?
There was a sudden great shout from the tables, and I turned my attention back to the struggle at the center of the floor. The Arab's blade had darted past his opponent's shield and had wounded the latter in the shoulder with a flashing down-stroke. But the leather-clad giant was not beaten. Though blood was streaming down from his shoulder now, he said no word, only lifted his shield higher and circled around the other, with ax still poised ready to strike. The tense silence had been broken by that first shout and now those at the tables were calling out to the two fighters, warnings and advice, I supposed, and were laying wagers on the result of the fight.
Suddenly the Arab again darted in, and again his blade slashed the other's arm, but as he stepped swiftly back, his foot slipped on the blood that smeared the smooth floor, and he staggered for a moment, striving to regain his balance. In an instant the uplifted ax crashed down through his skull and he fell like a dropped weight, his own spouting arteries adding to the red stains on the floor. The other stepped back, panting, and a great shout of applause crashed out from the spectators at the tables. The Northman rejoined our group, slaves rushed out and cleared the floor, and at a command, two more of our number rushed onto the floor and faced each other with drawn swords.
The circling and darting of the former duel was repeated, and in a few minutes one of the two lay dead and the other was limping back to us, bleeding. And another pair took their place.
For the fifth combat, the young Englishman beside me was called onto the floor, with a small Japanese in ancient, quilted armor as his opponent. The Japanese was armed with two short, broad-bladed swords, with which he chopped and slashed at his opponent, while Denham had but his thin, fragile-looking rapier. Yet he evaded all the sweeps and thrusts of his adversary's blades, and with a sudden lightning stab of the needlelike rapier he ended the duel, unscathed. He came back toward us, jauntily, unheedful of the great applause that followed his feat. I gripped his hand warmly, for in the short time I had known him, a sudden sympathy had sprung up between us, born of the fact of our mutual race and language, in this strange city.
There were but few of us left now who had not already fought, and at an order from the leader of the guards, one of these stepped out on the floor, a lithe, snaky Italian, with beady black eyes and an evil smile. The captain of the guard snapped out another order, looking at me, but I could not understand and looked around helplessly. His face flushed dark with anger, and he started wrathfully toward me, but the Englishman intervened, with rapid explanations.
"You are to fight Talerri," he said, indicating the Italian, and a wave of icy cold swept over me for a moment, then receded. "Here, take my sword," he continued, drawing and handing it to me, "and be fearful of foul fighting. Talerri was one of Cæsar Borgia's bravos and is a dangerous swordsman, full of treacherous tricks."