And he was holding a billowing net and a strange three-pronged weapon. The sound of a roaring multitude reached his ears. He blinked, orientating himself to the new illusion, and saw that he was in an immense stadium. Curiously-garbed people were staring down at him.
My God, he thought. The Coliseum!
And even as the thought of recognition burst upon him, he saw his opponent advancing over the bloody sand. It was a swarthy, broad-shouldered man in a leather tunic, wielding a thick, short sword.
Swordsman against netman. It was deadly, deadly.
Hendriks knew enough history to be aware of what was expected of him. He had to ensnare the swordsman in the net and kill him with the trident before that fierce sword could pierce his heart. It was anything but an equal contest, but with proper agility—
The sword flashed on high. Desperately Hendriks parried it with the hilt of his trident and whirled the net through the air. The swordsman laughed and leaped back.
Hendriks advanced, looking for an opening. The roars of the crowd were deafening. He swung the net tentatively, readying himself for the cast. Tired muscles throbbed in his arms and thighs.
The swordsman retreated deftly, smiling. He looked confident. Hendriks began the cast.
Suddenly the sword flashed again. It was a lightning-fast attack. Hendriks managed to get the trident up to protect himself; the impact sent pain coursing up his arm, and, numbed, he dropped the three-pronged weapon. Laughing jovially, his opponent kicked the trident far across the stadium and advanced with the sword.
Hendriks knew what he had to do. He dropped to his knees before the advancing swordsman and gestured toward the audience.