The crowd roared as the wounded man was helped from the sandy arena floor, but the roars were not for the victor of the duel. Soren strained to get a view of the Bannerets’ Enclosure, nearly losing his grip on the beam on which he sat and thought better of it. He would see the man the crowd were cheering for long before most others. It made him smile to think that the best seat in the Amphitheatre was also the cheapest; free to be exact, but probably also the most dangerous, for Soren sat perched on one of the massive wooden sun awning beams that jutted out over the arena.
He had spent two hours that morning sneaking through the Amphitheatre building after having slipped in through a goods entrance while no one was looking and then carefully worked his way up to the roof before precariously crawling out along the beam to the position he now occupied. He had a clear view of all below him, the crowd, the arena and the food vendors that moved around the stands. His stomach rumbled and he closed his eyes for a moment, hoping to catch scent of the treats they carried on the warm afternoon air.
Tens of thousands were packed into the Amphitheatre, all hungry to be entertained by the duellists, some famous, some less so, who would ply their trade in the arena that day. The citizens of the city were passionate about their duelling as was often evidenced by the devoted and emotion filled support and hate they had for different swordsmen. Each week this huge stadium, as well as many smaller arenas around the city would be packed to capacity. This stadium, ‘the Amphitheatre’, was the largest and where the very best, the Bannerets, came to duel.
Dismayed by the lack of regard the crowd had for him, the victor of the most recent duel made his way from the centre of the arena and disappeared into the Bannerets’ Enclosure, leaving the arena empty save for the spattering of blood left on the sand by his wounded opponent.
The next pairing walked out and the audience became animated with excitement once again. The man walking out in front was perhaps the most famous swordsman in all of the states of the Middle Sea and certainly the most famous swordsman in Ostia. His name was Amero, also known as Amero the Magnificent, the Swift, the Dashing, the Brave. He was known by many names, all were flattering and in Soren’s opinion, all were well deserved. Soren didn’t know Amero’s opponent’s name. He doubted if anyone did and didn’t imagine anyone particularly cared. All he represented was the foil against which Amero would ply his magnificent craft. He was the city’s darling and his appearance sent the audience wild.
The day began to go from warm to hot, and as it did, the crowd began to stink. Slowly but surely the smell of thousands of sweaty bodies began to fill the air, giving it a pungent tang, which added a further layer of depth to the spectacle about to unfold beneath.
The Master of Arms joined the two combatants in the centre of the arena at a black mark that had become all but obscured by the golden sand of the arena floor. A bead of sweat itched as it trickled down the bridge of Soren’s nose but he forced himself to ignore it. Just don’t forget to hold tight, he reminded himself.
Amero and his opponent saluted and took their guards. The Master of Arms quickly moved back, and the two swordsmen went at each other. The unknown swordsman thrust, and Amero exploded into movement. Parry, riposte, balestra, seamlessly followed by a fleche. Soren knew the names for all of the moves and tried to identify each one as it happened, difficult as it was considering the speed at which they were executed.
The first touch was scored in that blindingly fast exchange. It had happened so quickly that Amero was already walking back to his side of the black mark before Soren had registered it in his mind.
The Master of Arms acknowledged the scoring touch and reset the duel. He gave the signal to restart and Amero attacked again without wasting a second, flourishing his blade in a style that Soren had never seen before. The crowd gasped and his opponent stumbled backwards as he was caught off-guard by the unorthodox attack. It was one of the many reasons Amero was so loved by the crowd. So many of the top duellists stuck rigidly to the tried and tested techniques. Amero on the other hand was an innovator. The swordplay he used today would be mimicked by children on the streets by the afternoon, and by other duellists on the next arena day.
The chink of metal, the occasional shout and the stamping of boots on the sand were the only sounds that could be heard now, for the crowd was utterly silenced, awed by the magnificent dance in front of them. For each graceful and flamboyant attack, Amero’s opponent managed to block, dodge or dive away. After what seemed an age, Amero’s blade hit true once again and this time a red stripe appeared around a slash in his opponent’s white shirt. The crowd roared in appreciation.
The duellists in the arena did not use sharpened blades. The edges of their rapiers were dulled, but they still met at a pointed tip that was capable of drawing blood, which they often did, or killing, which was not an unknown occurrence.
Amero had killed in the arena once before, and the city mob was never squeamish, always eager to see the ultimate victory. Bannerets in the arena never intended to kill; it was not in their interests. Duelling in the arena was a career choice for many less wealthy bannerets and they all desired lengthy careers. Their sole aim was to win the fame and fortune for which they crossed blades, but as everyone knew, the more intense the fight and the more closely matched the duellists, the more likely one of them was to be seriously wounded or killed. Amero looked to the Master of Arms who acknowledged the touch and then returned his wolfish gaze to his opponent, who by now must have known that the result of the duel was inevitable.
Soren shuffled forward on his beam, his palms sweaty from the heat and the exertion of clinging on. He was holding his breath now, without realising it, as the opponent finally showed signs of tiring, whether from the loss of blood, the heat or the exertion. No one really cared, but the rise in excitement in the crowd was palpable as it was obvious that the end was near.
A scrape of metal, a sharp cry of frustration and the opponent was on his knees. Amero followed up with two more attacks but his opponent valiantly swatted them away. The crowd oohed and ahhed, expecting each blow to be the last, but each time they were wrong.
Then he was up again and Amero shrugged his shoulders. This unknown young man was proving far more of a test for the greatest blade in the State than anyone, least of all Amero, had expected.
He stepped back two paces and circled around to his left before commencing his attack once again. He stepped up the intensity, stamping hard with his front foot as he pressed in attack after relentless attack. The two blades flashed in the sun so brilliantly that at times it was painful to watch. There was another cry, but this time of pain and then a gasp from the crowd as Amero spun around in his follow-through. His opponent held a hand to his abdomen, and, unsteady on his feet, threw down his sword. A third touch and the fight was over. There would be no kill today. The crowd let out a somewhat disappointed sigh followed by lacklustre applause.
Usually protocol dictated that the duellists bowed and left the arena without a word, either under their own power or with assistance from the stewards if they were injured. Today, however, Amero walked back into the centre of the arena, his sword held in his right hand, triumphantly above his head.
‘Good citizens of Ostenheim!’ he called out.
The stewards and the Master of Arms looked to one another unsure of what to do. Anyone else’s victory-drunken ramblings would lead to them unceremoniously being dragged from the arena, but this was Amero the Magnificent. To treat him so was unthinkable. The crowd began to hush as they realised he intended to address them, and Amero spoke again.
‘Good citizens, my regards to my noble opponent.’ He gestured toward the man who was being helped to his feet by the confused stewards and saluted with his sword. ‘It is fitting that today was one of the most hard fought victories of my career, against a more than worthy banneret, for I have a sad announcement to make.’
Amero paused, masterfully teasing the audience, every one of whom was now teetering on the edge of their seat. Soren felt his heart drop.
‘First of all, I wish to thank you for your continued support during my years of duelling, it has given me great encouragement. I must now, and not without regret, announce my retirement from this most noble of pursuits. My responsibilities to our great city and Duchy have made themselves known to me and it is to her service that I shall devote myself henceforth. Once again, thank you, and farewell!’
Soren nearly fell from his beam in shock. After a flourishing bow in which he swept his sword in a wide circle, Amero left the arena. At first everyone was quiet, then a hum of muttering grew with a sound like an approaching stampede until it was impossible for Soren to even think and begin to come to terms with what he had just heard. The people spoke in disbelief, disappointment and pride that the city’s favourite son was sacrificing a life of fame and glory for a dull and invisible existence in civil service. The conversations differed, but the opinions were all the same, Amero, Count of Moreno was a great and selfless man.