Olympia: The Reed and the Flame

    The boy sat in the dirt of the training yard, blood trickling from his split lip. His fingers traced the edge of a practice sword, its wooden blade splintered where it had connected with his opponent's shield. The Deathmatch Arena loomed above, casting long shadows across the yard as the sun began its descent. Other recruits moved around him, some nursing wounds, others celebrating victories, all of them ignoring the skinny youth who'd been thrown into their midst only a week ago.

    He stood slowly, brushing dust from his hands and wiping blood on his tunic, red stains disappearing into faded brown fabric. Wind whispered through the columns, carrying the distant roar of the crowd. 

    "You're still breathing. Not bad," said Marius, the training master. His frame was imposing against the stone walls, made larger by the leather armor that covered his scarred torso. The whip at his belt swayed as he approached.

    "Yes," the boy said, his jaw tightening as he spoke. "Barely."

    He stood at the edge of the yard, staring at the arena entrance. When he closed his eyes, memories filled his mind—plates clinking against a table, his mother's laughter, a life before hunger drove him to theft. He'd tried to steal from the arena, having seen the plenty at hand, and was caught. He belonged to the arena now, his life worth barely more than the wooden sword in his hand.

    The memory dissolved as Marius struck him across the shoulders. The boy blinked, present again among the dust. Marius shuffled past him and stepped toward the weapons rack, his heavy boots kicking up dirt that swirled around his ankles.

    "Tomorrow you fight Crassus," Marius said, gesturing toward a muscular youth who was currently pummeling a straw dummy. "He's killed three recruits this month. Try not to be the fourth."

    The boy's hand twitched. He had no illusions about his chances. He reached for the water skin at his belt, throat dry with fear.

    "There's a match tonight," Marius continued, turning away. "The champion fights. Try to learn something useful before you die."

    The holding cells beneath the arena were cramped and stank of sweat and fear. The boy pressed against the bars, straining for a glimpse of the sand-covered floor above. He wasn't alone, a dozen other recruits crowded the same cell, all seeking the same view.

    "There he is," someone whispered, and the group fell silent.

    Olympia entered the arena alone. No fanfare, no entourage, just a solitary figure in gleaming armor. The crowd's roar intensified, becoming a physical force that seemed to shake the very stones of the arena. The boy watched, transfixed, as the champion paused at the entrance. Olympia removed his prized galea, revealing a face marked by old scars. But he was calm, almost serene. The boy couldn't tell, but it seemed like Olympia was looking at something far off in the distance, his eyes fixed on something that wasn't there. From somewhere in his armor, he produced a single reed, which he raised toward the sky before replacing his helmet.

    "What's with the reed?" the boy asked the recruit beside him.

    "A ritual for Demetrios."

    "Who?"

     Before the recruit could respond, trumpets blasted from the stands, and the match began. 

    Olympia unsheathed his two swords as he turned and faced his opponents. They were three seasoned fighters, each armed with different weapons. The boy expected violence, but what he witnessed was something else entirely. Olympia moved like a dancer amongst the blind, a blur of muscle and steel, attacking all three fighters head on and without hesitation.

    The first lunged with a trident. Olympia sidestepped effortlessly, his blade opening the man's hamstring in passing. The attacker fell, screaming. The shield-bearer charged next. Olympia met him directly, then shifted at the last moment. His swords manipulated the shield rather than trying to penetrate it, forcing an opening as the steel circle was flicked to the side. One quick strike, and the second fighter collapsed. The final opponent, net and dagger in hand, hesitated. Olympia closed the distance in three quick strides, slicing through the net that had soared open in front of him. With one sword he parried the dagger that had stabbed towards his face, the other blade sliding neatly between the man's ribs. The last fighter fell, and the crowd erupted in cheers. Three bodies lay in the sand, Olympia standing among them, breathing evenly. He removed his helmet, bowed once, and walked out the same way he had entered. Alone.

    The boy stepped back from the bars, something shifting inside him. His chest felt light, like he had seen something beautiful.

    "I want to fight like that," he said, more to himself than anyone else.

    A grizzled recruit nearby laughed. "You'll be dead by noon tomorrow, boy. Save those dreams for the next life."

    The boy couldn't sleep. His match with Crassus loomed in the morning, and death seemed certain. He slipped from his bunk and made his way to the training yard, deserted at this late hour. Perhaps if he practiced through the night, he might find some technique, some advantage. He worked with a wooden sword, striking at shadows, his movements clumsy with fatigue and fear. Sweat soaked his tunic despite the night chill. A voice rang out in the darkness, taking him by surprise.

    "Your stance is weak."

    The boy whirled around, nearly dropping his sword. Olympia stood at the edge of the yard, a dark silhouette against darker stone. The champion approached, his footsteps silent on the packed earth.

    "You fight like you're afraid to die," Olympia said, his voice surprisingly soft. "You're already here. You're already dead."

    The boy stared, unable to form words. Olympia reached out and adjusted his grip on the sword.

    "Wider stance. Weight on your back foot when you strike." He demonstrated, his movements precise. "Then commit fully. Never halfway."

    "I fight Crassus tomorrow," the boy managed to say.

    Olympia's expression didn't change. "He favors his right side. Leaves his left ribs exposed when he swings his axe."

    With that, the champion turned to leave.

    "Wait," the boy called. "Why help me?"

    Olympia paused, looking back over his shoulder. "You look like you need it." Then he was gone, melting into the shadows.

    The next day, the boy stood in the ring facing Crassus. The larger youth grinned, hefting his axe with practiced ease. Around them, other recruits had gathered to witness what they assumed would be a quick kill. Marius gave the signal to begin. Crassus charged, axe raised high. The boy remembered Olympia's words; when Crassus swung, he didn't retreat. He stepped into the attack, ducking under the axe's arc. Just as Olympia had said, Crassus's left side was exposed. The boy drove his wooden sword into the opening with all his strength. Crassus gasped, staggering backward. The boy pressed forward, no longer afraid. Each movement flowed into the next, not as graceful as Olympia's, but with the same commitment. When it ended, Crassus lay in the dirt, disarmed and bleeding from his forehead.

    The yard fell silent. Marius stepped forward, eyebrows raised in surprise. "It seems we've underestimated you, boy." He turned to the others. "Take Crassus to the physician. You," he pointed at the boy, "You've earned your dinner tonight."

    As the boy walked away, he caught a glimpse of a figure in the shadows of a column. Olympia watched him, that same distant look in his eyes.

    Weeks passed. The boy survived match after match, improving with each fight. Other recruits began to give him space, respect even. He watched Olympia whenever possible, studying the champion's techniques. One evening, as the boy cleaned his practice weapons, an old fighter named Titus sat beside him.

    "You're making a name for yourself," Titus said, his voice raspy from years of breathing arena dust.

    The boy shrugged. "I'm still alive. That's something."

    Titus laughed. "More than something. You remind me of Olympia himself when he was young. Came to us a starving streetrat as well."

    The boy's hands stilled. "You knew him then?"

    "Knew them both. Olympia and Demetrios." Titus's eyes grew distant. "Caught stealing food, just like you. Thrown to the arena as punishment. They fought together, protected each other."

    "What happened to Demetrios?" the boy asked quietly.

    "Brutes." Titus spat on the ground. "Arena master thought it would make good sport to pit the friends against a pair of them. Demetrios wasn't as quick as Olympia. Got torn apart while trying to protect him." He sighed. "Those reeds Olympia carries, they're from the riverbank where they used to rest between training. 'Better to suffer with friends,' Demetrios always said."

    The boy absorbed this in silence, struggling to imagine a fighter Olympia would need protection from. But a new question swirled in his head, why did he fight?

    "The arena masters are planning something special," Titus continued, lowering his voice. "Word is, they've captured more Brutes. They're looking for fighters to face them."

    A chill ran through the boy. "When?"

    "Full moon. Three days from now." Titus stood, joints creaking. "Watch yourself, they might even choose you. You've caught their eye."

    The day of the full moon, the boy was summoned to the arena master's chambers. The room was opulent compared to the fighters' quarter with tapestries covering stone walls, a brazier warming the air.

    "You've shown promise," Quintus said, the chief arena master. "Enough that we believe you're ready to fight alongside the champion."

    The boy remained silent, knowing what was coming.

    "Two Brutes arrived yesterday. Magnificent warriors." Quintus smiled, revealing gold-capped teeth. "You'll face them with Olympia. The crowd will love it: the champion and his protégé."

    "I'm not his protégé," the boy said.

    Quintus waved dismissively. "Hardly matters. What matters is the spectacle." He leaned forward. "Survive, and you'll have made a name for yourself. Die fighting alongside Olympia, and your name will live forever."

    The holding area beneath the arena hummed with tension. The boy stood alone, strapping on borrowed armor that felt too heavy, too loose. His hands trembled slightly as he tightened a bracer.

    "It's too big for you."

    Olympia stood in the doorway, already armored. He approached, adjusting the boy's straps with practiced hands.

    "The smaller Brute will come at you at the start," Olympia said, his voice low. "They're hunters, they'll target the weakest first. Use that. Let them commit, then move. Not back, but to the side. Their momentum is their weakness."

    The boy nodded, throat dry. Endless questions swirled in his head, but he only managed to get one out. 

    "Why did you help me that night? With Crassus?"

    Olympia paused, his hands stilling on the final strap. "You reminded me of someone. An old friend."

    Before the boy could respond, a horn sounded. It was time.

    They walked up the ramp together, into blinding sunlight and deafening noise. The sand beneath their feet was freshly raked, soon to be stained. Across the arena, a heavy gate rose, and two massive shapes emerged from the darkness.

    The Brutes were terrifying, eight feet tall with mottled green skin stretched over rippling muscle. Their fanged mouths opened in twin roars that stunned the crowd into a brief silence. One carried a spiked club, the other a crude axe longer than the boy was tall.

    Olympia chuckled. "Runts," he said, removing his helmet. From within his armor, he produced the reed, raising it skyward in his ritual. The boy watched and thought it nice, to be remembered even in death.

    The fight began with terrible speed. The smaller Brute charged directly at the boy, just as Olympia had predicted. The boy waited until the last possible moment before stepping sideways, feeling the rush of air as the giant barreled past.

    Olympia engaged the larger Brute, his swords a blur of motion against his opponent's axe. They moved across the sand in a deadly dance, neither gaining advantage.

    The smaller Brute recovered quickly, turning with surprising agility, swinging his club in a wide arc. The boy ducked, but the weapon's edge caught his shoulder, sending pain lancing down his arm. He stumbled, nearly falling.

    The crowd roared as the Brute pressed his advantage, raining blows the boy could barely dodge. Each impact sent sand flying, the club leaving craters where he had stood moments before.

    Across the arena, Olympia fought with mechanical precision, scoring a dozen small wounds on his opponent. But the larger Brute seemed impervious to pain, his attacks growing more frenzied with each injury.

    The boy found himself backed against the arena wall, sword arm weakening as the Brute raised his club for a killing blow. In desperation, the boy dropped to the ground and rolled between the giant's legs, slashing at his hamstring as he passed.

    The Brute howled, dropping to one knee. The boy scrambled to his feet, ready to strike again, but failed to see the arm swinging wildly towards him. The blow caught him squarely in the chest, sending him flying across the sand, his sword skittering away and out of reach. The world narrowed to pain and the sight of the Brute limping toward him, club raised. The boy tried to stand, but his body wouldn't respond. Through blurred vision, he saw the Brute's mouth widen into a grin as he raised his club.

    This is how I die, he thought, as an enormous shadow fell over him. The boy closed his eyes, but the killing blow never came. Instead, a terrible gurgling sound made him look up. The Brute stood frozen, a sword protruding from his throat. Behind it stood the champion, weaponless but alive.

    The Brute collapsed, nearly crushing the boy as he rolled aside. Olympia yanked his sword free, then turned to face the remaining foe. The larger Brute, seeing his companion fall, charged with unexpected speed. Olympia met the charge head-on. The boy watched in horror as champion and Brute collided. For a moment, they were a single chaotic mass of limbs and weapons. Then they separated, Olympia staggering backward, blood streaming from a gash in his side. The Brute howled, clutching a stump where his axe-hand had been.

    The boy's sword lay just within reach. With the last of his strength, he grasped it and hurled it toward Olympia, who caught it with ease. The arena fell silent as Olympia wielded both swords against the wounded Brute. Maddened by pain, he abandoned all strategy and charged. Olympia sidestepped, letting the Brute's momentum carry him forward as he slashed across his exposed back.

    The Brute roared, spinning with unexpected agility. His remaining hand caught Olympia's armor, lifting him off his feet. The champion slammed into the arena wall, swords falling from his grasp.

    The boy struggled to his knees, vision swimming. The crowd's roar seemed distant, underwater. He watched as the Brute advanced on the dazed Olympia, who was trying to regain his footing.

    "Get up," the boy whispered, then shouted, "Get up!"

    Olympia's head snapped toward him. Their eyes met across the blood-soaked sand. Something passed between them: recognition, understanding. The champion nodded once, then rolled away from the Brute's stomping foot. The boy dragged himself toward a fallen sword, each movement sending waves of agony through his chest. His fingers closed around the hilt just as the Brute cornered Olympia against the wall. He used the last bit of his strength to throw the sword, which soared through the air and bounced harmlessly off the Brute's back. The foe turned, eyes narrowing at this new threat, caught in a half-second of hesitation. 

    That moment was all Olympia needed. He lunged for his remaining sword, scooping it from the sand in one fluid motion. The Brute realized his mistake too late, turning back toward the champion. Olympia struck with perfect precision, driving his blade under the Brute's arm and into his heart. The Brute's roar died in his throat, becoming a gurgle as he collapsed to his knees, then face-first into the sand.

    The crowd's roar was deafening. Olympia stood amid the carnage, breathing heavily. He limped to the boy's side and extended a hand.

    "You saved my life," the boy said.

    Olympia turned, blood streaming from a cut above his eye. He held out an arm. "Better to suffer with friends."

    The boy nodded, grasping the offered hand. Pain lanced through his ribs as Olympia pulled him upright, but he managed to stay on his feet. Together, they faced the stands. The crowd screamed adoration and praise at the two survivors as the blood of the vanquished soaked into the sand.

    "They love us," the boy said, his voice barely audible above the thunderous approval raining down from the stands.

    "They love blood," Olympia corrected. "They hardly care whose."

    The boy glanced at the fallen Brutes, their massive green bodies already being dragged away by arena slaves. "We survived."

    "You survived because I saved you." Olympia's words were sharp, cutting through the moment of shared victory. He pulled something from within his armor, a reed, similar to the one he'd raised before the fight. "Take it."

    The boy accepted it, confusion evident on his face. "What's this for?"

    "A reminder " Olympia's eyes were cold, calculating. "Train harder. You need to be much stronger."

    "Why?"

    "Because one day, we'll face each other in this arena." Olympia's voice dropped lower, meant only for the boy despite the thousands watching. "And if you come at me as weak as you are today, you'll die without a fight."

    The boy's fingers closed around the reed, its fragility at odds with the weight of Olympia's words. "You expect me to challenge you?"

    "You will." A smile flickered across Olympia's face. "I know your type."

    The crowd continued their frenzy, oblivious to the exchange. To them, it looked like a champion congratulating his protégé. Only the boy understood the truth, this wasn't camaraderie. It was challenge.

    Olympia turned and walked toward the exit, alone as always. The boy remained in the center of the arena, reed in hand, blood drying on his skin, the crowd's adoration washing over him like a wave that couldn't quite reach.

    In the Deathmatch Arena, respect wasn't given with kind words or gentle gestures. It came in the form of a threat, a challenge, an expectation. It came in the form of a reed.