Champion in Love (bxb)

CHAPTER 7. The Debut

Victor separated himself from the rest of my guys straight away. He took off at a decent clip, stopping only to shout at the crowd and pound his chest. The front rows booed him. The whistling grew louder, spread out and to the sky, as his words got passed up the galleries. It seemed to only add spring to his step as he rushed to tease the next group.

Laurentius also dallied by the stands, harvesting cheers whenever he brandished his rudis. He was in the middle of his posturing when Quintus poked him in the ribs to point out Victor's new mischief. He was aping Laurentius from a safe distance and making universally understood gestures in between. Curses avalanched down the stands at first, but, gradually, Victor won a few laughs too, as his mimicking became more exaggerated.

What can I say, except Quintus was more soft-hearted than I was. I'd have left Laurentius oblivious.

The big man stopped in the middle of clanging his rudis against his shield... Victor continued, missing his imaginary shield with his rudis, then letting the 'shield' bend him sideways with the phantom weight... Laurentius tossed his very real shield onto his back, roared and charged.

Quintus and Didius raced on their shield-wall's heels, kicking up a cloud of dust. The first was spreading his net as he ran. The latter rotated his one rudis through the air so fast; it whistled. Were I air, I'd be properly terrified.

Didius' net hung casually on his bent free arm. In the fight, he'd be armed with two swords, sword-master style, but for the mock performance, I insisted he'd stick to his old stuff. It also didn't hurt to reduce the number of sticks aimed at Victor's sorry ass. I wanted him humiliated, not beaten to pulp by his comrades.

The only one sword-master in the arena, Junius, strolled to the center of the arena to practice flashy moves on his own. The other four clowns, his comportment said, weren't really with him.

I grinned from ear to ear. Every show needed an aloof pro. Junius was my best, until Victor fought for real, and he looked good. For a heartbeat, I watched him flow from one stance to the next, nodding my head. His core was good, his knees were soft, his elbows didn't drop. The two rudii weaved a deadly pattern through the air. Beautiful.

Meanwhile, Victor grabbed his head in mock terror, opening his jaws so wide his gaping mouth nearly took half his face. Even those in the last rows wouldn't have any trouble interpreting his shaking. His three foes dressed in Fidelis armor bore on him. Laurentius looked unstoppable.

"Fidelis are coming! Aaaaah!" Victor yelled and charged head-on at me.

Breath caught in my chest, thinking he was going to leap the boards and body-slam me. By the crows, I braced to meet his bull-like lowered forehead! But no. No.

Victor skidded to a stop two inches from the barrier, separating us. Gray dust arced through the air in his wake.

The elevation of the first row of the stands erased his height advantage over me. We froze, basically nose to nose. He glowered at me. I didn't blink away the challenge in his blazing eyes, but exhaled slowly, as my gaze roved over what was right in front of me. Oil and sweat slicked Victor's skin, but his chest barely moved with each intake of breath. He looked as fresh as if he had just rolled out of bed, not run a stadia, yet he sent my heart racing. Venus' tits! A mortal man had no business being this good-looking! That was reserved for the demigods.

The cheers and jeers caught up to Victor's sprint, crushing over us into a cacophony.

Laurentius and his two buddies weren't there yet.

Victor smirked at me, then trilled something wordless, soul-stirring like a battle cry.

The spectators nearest to us shut up and listened in.

"I need a shrimping net for Fidelis' dongs! They're small, like shrimps!" Victor thickened his accent the way Fidelis did when they mocked the vulgar Latin of the borderlands. He prowled around, clapping, rocking his entire upper body, looking the spectators up and down. "Net! Net! Net!"

The stadium echoed with a chant of "Net! Net! Net!" The rhythm was just so damn easy to clap to it, so they clapped! Mithras' bull, I nearly clapped myself!

"He's stealing my lines!" Quintus yelled from the pursuers' group.

His righteous outrage was on point. Victor was stealing his lines, despite them not really being worth stealing. His gravelly voice carried far, far better than Quintus'. It could send shivers of desire through marble; weak flesh stood no chance.

If I would have had time to think of it, I'd have marveled more at this change in Victor. A sulky loner gave way to an electrifying leading man, and Quintus hated it.

"The Prickus Colossus' stealin'—" A grimace of frustration scrunched his face when the arena drowned him out with their chant. "Net! Net! Net!"

He had one option left—a really stupid one—and he went for it. Quintus launched his damn net!

It spun across the gray sky, unfolding, unfurling, hurtling. A great throw, may the crows peck my liver, but so useless!

Laurentius barreled past Quintus' crest-fallen face, but Didius hung back to roll his eyes at Quintus, as if to say, 'keep your cool, duh.'

Thoughts blinked through my agitated mind, maybe, 'I must box Quintus' ears later—much, much later!—to impress upon him the chief difference between a jester and—'

Much, much later. At that moment, I was afraid to take my eyes off the arena. Things were happening fast. Exciting things!

The helmet obscured Laurentius' face, but I would bet today's wages to a rotten fig that he only saw Victor. He screamed his outrage when Victor—predictably—danced away from Quintus' dropping net.

Laurentius screamed again, wasting valuable air in his pumping lungs, when Victor checked over his shoulder and backpedaled toward the center of the arena. At a right angle to the direction of Laurentius' charge. That's where I applauded. Mithras' bull, I nearly jumped up to my feet to applaud.

"Look!" Victor bellowed. The only thing that seemed tired about him was his voice, as hoarseness crept into it. "Look!"

I did. He was primal in his nakedness, sweat and harsh voice. My excitement expressed itself unequivocally and so suddenly, I gasped. This ballista was mighty, but not as fast-loading as it was in my youth, and here I was, shifting from foot to foot to relieve some of the discomfort.

"The Fidelis are coming!" Victor called out. "Flee for the hills!"

This was hardly a champion's line, but his glare held a challenge in it that had nothing to do with his words. He glared straight at me. Our bet! He was determined to win our bet!

Less attuned to the nuances of Victor's performance, the other spectators responded with raucous, grateful laughter. They forgot everything: the fried nuts they were snacking on, their querulous spouses, tomorrow's bread, war and cold winter ahead.

All they wanted between this heartbeat and the next, was to see if this cheeky barbarian could escape his just punishment. And so did I. So did I...