A gate opened below us, just out of my vision, but there was eruption of jeers and taunts, that drowned out the cries of encouragement the heroes among the audience were intending to convey. Eventually, just over the ledge before me, the beloved image of The Red Stripe’s backside came into view.
She was being marched up to the emperor's dais, in step with the two guards that accompanied her, naked, wrist bound behind her back and the rope that acted as a leash was loose in the soldiers grip. Running up her muscled legs were a collection of bruises and scars, some healing slowly, other having a permanent resident. There was no fat in her buttocks and she moved gracefully across the field, ignoring the jeers of the onlookers. As always, the sides of her head were shaved, so that only a shallow strip of red orange hair decorated her scalp.
Celiste was a Hibernian slave with nineteen victories under her figurative belt, and not against frightened helpless little girls who had never held weapon before. Her first fight was against The Tiger Hunter, a tall fast negress who was thirteen victories in before falling to first time Celtic girl no one had ever heard of. From there, she had skewered the Lady Silence through the neck, and her most historic victory was the strangulation of River Goddess, who at thirty two kills was the most successful Gladiatrix in history. But it was not for these dominant matches that I loved Red Stripe for, but the vicious brawls she had one by the length of a courtesans pubic hair.
Early in her career she fought a tiny little Greek girl wielding an oversized club and tried to smash her to death with it. But my lady, after taking some surprisingly vicious blows, knocked the weapon away from her opponent and made her beg for mercy before beating her to death with her bare hands, forgetting to ask for the Emperor's decision until her opponent had already expired. I was there for her scourging after, and it’s the closest I’ve ever been to The Red Stripe, who was strung up to a wood frame and dealt 30 lashes. Stretched out before me, naked and vulnerable, she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I’ll never forget it, loud shouts of pain strangely paired with a smile. At whip 12, she looked directly at me, as if to say, ‘We both know that this is a ridiculous spectacle, but I’m glad we can laugh about it together.’
Back in the present, they were making their parade without incident when her leash holder, appeasing the will of the plebeians, gave a sudden tug at the rope, and she lost her footing and tumbled to the ground.
For the vocal minority of us, we wanted that man dead, while the popular opinion seemed to be that a great joke had played on a deserving target. A Mohawked fanatic was particularly upset, and ready to come to blows with a cross wearing idiot who was goading him. I was shouting angrily as much as anyone. I can’t remember what I said, only that Cecilia was embarrassed to be with me. But then Daedalus happened to say something that made all else seem unimportant.
“She's Still injured!”
With no assistance offered, The Red Stripe was trying to push herself up on her left leg, while trying to protect her right, where the evidence of her last fight was kept. The Crow, a quick footed light skinned woman from North Africa, had assailed her, equipped with two knives. The Celtic woman had lost her spear, and she could do no more than hold her shield out in front of her, while enduring the cuts from her unseen attacker. A dagger was driven deep into Celiste thigh, and fell, sliding away from the Crow as the latter riled up the crowd with athletic front flips and cartwheels. To everyone else, it seemed like the end. But I hadn’t been looking at the end. I was only seeing how she could win. To my annoyance she abandoned the shield and turned her back on her opponent in order to crawl to her spear, leaving a trail of blood behind her. The Crow gave a theatrical laugh, and pretended to be sneaking up on the defenseless opponent. Except she had a weapon now. Looking at the shadows, she felt The Crow standing over her, when she flipped herself over in an instant just as The Crow came down. The knife the Red Stripe had left in her leg, had within a split second been thrust in the African women’s navel, and sliced down. The Crow dropped her knife in shock and crumbled. She tried to keep her insides in as the Celiste had shoved her hand in to remove them. They passed out at the same time, Red Stripe was taken straight to the physician, The Crow to Losers Alley. It was an epic fight, but one she had clearly not yet recovered from.
She walked with a distinct limp, though there were no more tricks from the dishonest soldier. She knelt down low before the Emperor, and then turned to face in my direction. Tight, scarred and callous body, and a thin red/orange stripe down her pubis was a sight that always gave me the most exciting chills. Yes, I was becoming erect at the sight of a naked female, but it was more than that. It’s was admiration and excitement and also a strange sense of patriotism. She connected everyone who supported her together, against the vocal majority.
All at once the jeering turned to wild applause as from the opposite end of the arena The Christian was brought out.
Five years ago a young girl named Honoria Octavo had rejected the marriage her father had arranged for her, declaring that she given her virginity to Christ, a false prophet who had been dead for many years now. She was immediately arrested and condemned to death, but fate, or rather the mysterious Boccelo Brutus had offered to take her into his facility where he promised to fix her sacrilegious beliefs. No one knows what he did, but several months later she emerged in the fighting pits, and tore her enemies to shreds.
She never renounced the Christian faith. In fact, she never said a coherent sentence ever again. She did say that she was the daughter of Mars, who was born as Jesus on this Earth, and after his death turned into a rabbit so he could fuck his enemies to death.
Twenty Seven victories in her career to go with a grating personality and inspiring the worst in her supporters. As they continued cheering, those with the sacks of water on them reached in and grabbed living trouts to chuck onto the field. Celiste was being assaulted with them, but ignored the fishes around her feet that were slowly and violently suffocating.
The Christian was a wild looking young woman, with long blonde hair upon her head but nowhere else, an unhealthy frame and intense eyes that cut at me from the other side of the colosseum. There were four chains that were attached to both wrist and ankles, and she dramatically resisted being pulled by the four guards that were assigned her. If they were annoyed by her resistance, they refrained from playing any tricks on her.
“This is going to be a massacre,” said the bald man next to me.
Cecilia knew I was going to start something with him, and she grabbed my face to kiss me, but I managed to dodge it.
“What do you mean by that?” I asked him, as politely as I could.
“You one of the stripers?” he asked me pleasantly.
“You can say that,” I assured him.
“Well, I don’t think it’s going to turn out well for your girl.” He said.
“Yeah! Red cunt is going down!” said a moron eavesdropping on our conversation. I gave him a dismissive look before I continued my mature conversation with my neighbor.
“I have faith that she will wipe the floor with The Christian,” I said confidently. “But we can agree to disagree.”
The gladiatrixes were on their knees, bowing to the Emperor. On his signal, the women would be marched to opposite ends of the arena, unbound, and given their weapons, and then it would be on.
“I don’t have a bias, other than I put 100 marks on Octavo. I just don’t see how Red Stripe is going to win.”
“Yeah,” said the moron again, slapping the back of my head. “She’s gonna get fucked!”
“Shut your ugly trap,” said the man with the stripe and shaved head behind us, waving a nasty finger in morons face.
“Aww, you gonna cry pussy head?” Moron said, and found support in the surrounding spectators, and a hide of water was thrown over my friend, ruining his appearance. Before things escalated, a guard knocked the perpetrator unconscious and he was dragged away, as things quieted down.
“I’m not with them, by the way,” Daedalus assured me. “I hate the Christian, and her supporters, just as much as you. I don’t like either fighter, to be honest. I just think Red Stripes abilities match up well in this one.”
“Why don’t you like Celise?” I asked him, knowing I was beginning to worry Cecilia quite a bit.
“She’s not a dominating fighter, which is why all her matches are extremely close. She’s been lucky far more often than she has overpowered her opponents. She’s also a barbarian, and she fights like a slave. I just don’t enjoy watching her.”
“Ok,” was all I said.
“Ok,” he agreed, and things settled down. Before I picked it up again.
“So you expect The Christian to dominate?” I asked, ignoring Cecilia’s groan as she drowned herself in wine in order to find enjoyment in her surroundings.
“I think the fight itself last three minutes,” he said. “I think there will definitely be entertainment before the killing blow is delivered, but we’ll not need to stay for that.”
“I will!” Moron interjected again. “I came so hard last time.” Wet mohawk gave him the finger, but it didn’t incite violence.
At the Emperor's signal, the ladies were being escorted to opposite ends of the arena, and Celiste, The Red Stripe, was approaching our section. I tried to push the vision of my neighbors prophecy out of my head and made a fool of myself giving her as much cheers and encouragement as I could. She stared up emotionlessly at us as they restraints were being struck. There was no possible way she could lose today. Not against The Christian bitch, with this crowd acting this way. She was going to win. I needed her to win.
