Holy City: Chapter Nine - Part Two
Kane looked past the refugees, past the edges of the grass to the sand beyond the fake grove. The heads of the twenty-one men turned to the entrance of the grotto waiting for someone or something to be led in to perform for them. No one was led in. Kane started walking towards that entrance that was now an exit and walked out of his fake paradise to a large area of sand. The security guards closed in on the table and motioned for the twenty-one to stand. The twenty-one men followed Kane.
In a state of revelry, the group made its way from the grotto onto the imported sand of the false beach. Kane was waiting for them, the laughter and conversation of the happy men drifting to him as they arrived. As the group of twenty-one continued to talk, Kane took off his sandals and with a bare heel created the outlines of a large square in the sand. The square was twenty feet on each side. Kane turned to the group and waited for the laughter and the conversation to die down. The laughter and the conversation died down. The group looked at Kane. He called out two names. “Bahman. Aparo.”
The group of twenty-one looked at each other, unsure who was Bahman and who was Aparo. Kane waited. First, Bahman stepped forward and then Aparo stepped forward, both usure why their names were called.
“Take off your shirts.” Kane told the two men. They looked at him incomprehensibly.
“Take off your shirts.” Kane said again.
They may not have had whips and clubs at this worksite, but there were ways of inflicting pain. Neither of the two men were foolish enough to deny Kane his request. The rest of the twenty-one stood around the square in the sand, watching the two men, who were still looking incomprehensibly at Kane. The security guards were now standing on the edges of this fake beach. The servers of the meal had all disappeared. The mood had turned from revelry to seriousness. Kane seemed to be the only one happy now. The two men took off their shirts.
Kane led Bahman and Aparo into the center of the square. He felt the bicep of one first, then the other. The first man, Bahman, was taller than Aparo. He was leaner as well, Aparo was stockier, sturdier with larger biceps.
“I want you two to fight,” Kane said loud enough for everyone to hear. “No kicking, no biting, no cheating. Fists only.”
The two men looked back at Kane, their stomachs full from the feast, their soft tired eyes trying to focus, as they tried to make sense of the words. Perhaps they did not understand him because they did not understand Vitesian. Perhaps they did not understand him because his words did not make sense even if they understood Vitesian. Either way, they had no choice. Kane was the boss of bosses. If they wanted to survive, they would fight now.
“We will see who the better man is.” Kane said and then he backed out of the square and walked over to a small mound of sand that looked down on the action. The two men looked at each other, confused, frightened. The tall one moved back from the stockier one. He had a reach advantage. It was smart to back away from the other one. Still, they stood there, neither man moving. Kane was getting impatient.
“The winner will be rewarded.” Kane shouted. “Don’t make me punish the loser.” The tall one cautiously put up his fists. The stocky one finally did as well. They circled each other. Some of the group of twenty-one yelled encouragement. A few were friends with the tall man, some of the others were friends with the stocky one.
Bahman, the tall one, threw a lazy first punch, the stocky one, Aparo, ducked under it and caught Bahman flush on the jaw.
Bahman staggered backwards, dazed, less light in his eyes than before. The fight was on. Aparo advanced. He threw another right hand at Bahman’s head. The punch glanced off his skull. Bahman threw another punch, this one just as slow as the first one, Aparo easily avoided it and hit Bahman in the ribs. The crowd could hear the wind being knocked out of the tall man, a quick forced exhale. Bahman knew enough to bring his arms up to cover his face for the next inevitable blow, Aparo’s fist landed straight onto Bahman’s forearms, the sound of bone on flesh.
The fight would continue. After several minutes, Kane called time to end the first round. Bahman was bruised, bleeding from his nose and lip. Aparo was bouncing on his feet, excited, ready to attack again as soon as Kane would let him. There was only a brief rest. When Kane told them to start up for another round, it didn’t last long. Aparo had Bahman beat, the bone of a hand repeatedly cracking against the bone of a face. Three, four, five blows, and then Bahman on the ground.
Bahman did not want to get up. Kane called time again. Aparo backed to the edge of the sand square. Kane walked over to Bahman and whispered something in his ear. Bahman, slowly, with the unsteady legs of a newborn colt, stood again. Kane walked back to his place on the mound that overlooked the arena.
Three more times Bahman would be knocked down and then get back up. It was the fourth time when he stayed down, unconscious from a right-handed blow to his temple. Half of the twenty-one cheered this and carried Aparo, the stocky man, away on their shoulders in triumph, singing songs of joy.
The other half of the twenty-one picked up Bahman, the tall one, and carried him away on their shoulders in defeat. His body limp, his head falling backwards down below the rest of his lifted body as drool escaped from his open bloody mouth. The men carried him in silence. They looked like pall bearers at a funeral that couldn’t afford a casket. V was one of those men carrying Bahman, the tall one, back to the barracks. For the duration of that walk, Aparo, the stocky one, and the men carrying him led the procession from the front in a state of drunken excitement. Drunk from the alcohol. Drunk from the feast. Drunk from victory. Kane watched on with satisfaction.
Next Chapter: Chapter Ten
Previous Chapter: Chapter Nine - Part One