‘On this bright, clear and sunny afternoon, the Beast of the North shall be set upon by three dogs – three rogues convicted of gross fraud and swindling, and consequentially sentenced to die upon these sands. Bring out the curs!’
At the opposite end of the arena a small portcullis gate creaked open, and armed guards shoved three men from within onto the sand. All three were naked but for dog pelts, replete with dried-out, flapping heads, that covered their shoulders, backs and scalps. In addition, each was armed with a poorly made Roman gladius.
Viridovix wasted no time in getting the show started. He gripped his longsword loosely in his right hand and held out his left arm ahead of him like a shield; the armour was well-padded on the inside, and the steel itself was thick enough to block and deflect even heavy sword blows. Also, of course, the steel bear-arm had the steel claws with which he could slash at and stab his opponents.
In response, the three criminals formed up in a loose triangle formation. The foremost one was the youngest; he looked to be in his twenties and was fairly sturdily built.
‘Perhaps you spent a year or two in the legions,’ Viridovix whispered to himself as he sized his opponent up. The man gripped his sword in a manner that suggested that he was familiar at least with the basics of swordsmanship, but the other two, who were flabby middle-aged men, held their weapons as if they were children playing with wooden swords; they did not have a clue.
You tremble like lambs before a slaughter knife; I see the bulging whites of your eyes, I can hear your hyperventilation, I can smell your fear. You truly are dogs! This is why they brought me out here? To execute a handful of mangy curs? Bah … My skills are wasted on the likes of these.
‘Come, dog!’ Viridovix shouted out to the foremost man. ‘Your Roman gods have sent me to you today to grant you passage to the underworld. Bring your sword and let me complete that task!’
The man growled and swore a half-hearted curse of defiance in response.
‘This is a damned waste of time, but I’ll give the crowd a good show nonetheless,’ Viridovix muttered.
‘Gallic savage!’ shouted out the criminal, who seemed suddenly emboldened. ‘Come for me then!’
You have tasted battle before, I see. You stand in a soldier’s guard, and you do not shake like a leaf in a storm, as do your compatriots. Still, your legionary training counts for little on these sands. For one thing, you have no … shield!
Viridovix broke into a sprinting charge as he came within twenty metres of the man, who was standing stock still, with his sword drawn, while his companions cowered in fear behind him.
‘Aid me, you cowardly bastards!’ the man screamed, the timbre of his voice now betraying a hint of fear and panic. ‘Attack the barbarian while I engage him!’
There was no time for any of that, though. As Viridovix reached terminal speed, he used the weight of his armoured left arm as a counter-mass to propel his body into a tumbling half-somersault, half-cartwheel. He performed three of these in rapid succession, bearing down with vicious speed on the man, and while performing the third somersault, he used the momentum of his spinning, airborne body to propel an arcing downward slash with his heavy blade, launched as he was in the air. At the same time, he used his armoured left arm to hammer his opponent’s blade out of the way, opening up his defences so that he would receive the full brunt of the whistling longsword slash.
And receive it he did. The man did not even have the time to be surprised, really; it all happened so quickly. One second his sword was smashed out of the way by the steel bear arm as the airborne gladiator bore down on him, and in the next instant the Gallic sword split his head vertically in two.
The man slumped to the ground, twitching violently in his death throes. Viridovix braced a foot against the dead man’s chest and yanked his blade out of his opponent’s cloven skull. He raised the sword above his head, and the masses screamed with bloodthirsty adulation.
Warm blood dripped from the blade down his arms and onto his powerful shoulders and leanly muscled torso, which was bereft of its previous mess of chest and body hair; the entire surface of his body was now shaven, his skin as smooth and bare as that of a teenage boy.
Viridovix glanced up at the other two, and was not surprised to see that both were cowering with terror. A thin stream of urine trickled from the shrivelled penis of the man on the left, and it looked as if his chunky legs were about to buckle beneath him, so terribly were they trembling.
‘Fight me you dogs!’ Viridovix roared, his voice hoarse with contempt. ‘Come on! Fight me!’
The crowd howled with approval and began jeering at the criminals. Viridovix mock-charged the one who had just wet himself, and the man shrieked and dropped his weapon. At this cowardice, the stands reverberated with boos and hoots of mockery.
Viridovix turned and stepped aggressively toward the other criminal, who took a half-hearted swipe at him, his arm shaky and weak with fear, his breath coming in sharp, heaving gasps, betraying the paralysis of fear in which he was gripped. Viridovix parried the pathetic blow with casual ease and followed up immediately with a surging counterthrust. He stopped the blade a millimetre from his adversary’s throat, enjoying the hush of suspense that fell upon the crowd. Instead of harming the man, however, he gripped his opponent’s forearm, spun him about on his feet, and then spanked him on his pasty bottom with the flat of his sword. The crowd erupted into a chaos of riotous laughter, and Viridovix booted the man in the small of his back,
