The greaves clanged as he reached for the javelin across his shoulders. But the opponent was faster.
His eyes were like the prime of the hay; basked in anger and fixed demeanor. His lips cloven, chewing inaudible spells as a warthog bruises the earth with haughty hoofs as it skipped.
The expectation of all those who were present was to see the Cod fall by the sword of that worn warthog; his opponent.
The call of the winds seemed to have a message for himThe charge met a shield, and worn warthog would try again.
The Cod at that moment was ready for all twould take him. The only echo he could hear at the depth of his consciousness was Fight or die!!! He knew it was not some optical illusion.
He could feel its pangs reaching at the cleavages of his agility. His worries had been chopped. He would give it all twould demand of him. He was no longer skeptical.
At the moment, he knew that retreating wasn't an option; had never been an option for him. Why then would he be a slave to it when he could adopt rage?
He crushed the thoughts and made a push.
Again the warthog charged, more determinedly. One thing is to have the courage to do something. To push or bruise yourself to having a result regarding a task.
But when such urge is being complemented by the thousand voices borne by the wet wings of the whooshing winds. Echoes teasing the pillars of the agora which converges the spectators.
Wouldn't you be gay? Wouldn't you give all it would ever take? Wouldn't you die at it and snap at all opportunity?
Same mercy caught up with the six cubits and a span man willing to have the Cod's head in his hand at any moment.
The call of the fight wrapped the winds and made pawns of them to the nocturnal Nymph watching the fight the fight from amongst the crowd unknown to them.
She was in disguise.
Primitive, barbaric and seasoned voices complemented themselves in the wail of this man:
"Cyclops! Cyclops! Cyclops!"
In no sense was the Cod in a league with Cyclops. Cyclops was the tallest of all the Gladiators he'd ever seen. But fate had had its take and had leased the Cod a loan he'd never thought he'd be able to repay.
His errors had brought such fate on him and had him cramped. His sin was the most grievous of what no Gladiator had ever tried with their master:
It had been cold a day ago, and sharing warmth with the bare floor, none could comfort the other. The apt azure had been unfair, and had lodged callous clouds that were choked by mood swing and began to weep at the call of the whooshing winds.
Very cold it had been. He couldn't take it anymore. He'd left his cubicle for the next and had seen a robe by itself on a tiger-leather-skinned stool. He'd picked it up and wrapped himself in it.
He'd returned to his lanky lover - salient sleep.
Upon the next day, he'd woken up to clusters of his mates eating him up with voluptuous ogles. He couldn't make meaning of their stances until the master walked up to him as he tired to rise from where he was sleeping.
"Get ready to die! Cyclops will toss your head to Medusa."
He wasn't sure what he'd done wrongly. And he dared not ask. He'd be thrown into a boiling oil. He convinced the wailing heart to sustain till the master left.
He was also in odd terms with other gladiators. He always promised himself that being among them would be but for a few while. But to his utmost dismay, the gladiator with red head had mused:
"The robe on you belongs to Bìxîa."
That was the term for the master. None called him by an English name. His Mandarin nationality was not to be foiled by some contractions of gladiators from different walks of life.
His robe had the Cod put on. He knew what that meant to them. He saw how concerned they were. Cyclops was the greatest beast ever bought as a gladiator. Being a man was a stray for him. He was a worn warthog.
The Cod felt no remorse for what he'd done. What need of strays was that? He had no relation. He'd never loved any lady. He didn't give a damp damn about anybody.
If fighting Cyclops would be the syncope time's metrical feet would be adopting, why would he be a militation to such generous work of nature.
He was fed to stupor that he puked on the kinda life he'd been living. But his pulpy principle wouldn't spare him taking his own life. He'd swore on his hair - his greatest treasure. He had no believe in God. He'd said:
"If there's a man by name God, he's got to visit me for questioning. I've got to walk him through how to write an apt script for a character before switching to the camera. And the consent of whoever the character is must be revered."
That was his sewn soliloquy. His perception of life was strained - eat, kill, live, be killed. He'd done all but the last one. Probably it was time for its attainment.
He wasn't moved when he was called upon to fight Cyclops. His pain was about to be chopped into confetti. He was finally going to be liberated.
But to the end of the moment, he'd been averting all the blows of Cyclops. He had no idea what had been happening.
He wasn't matter-of-factly willing to die, but he'd eeriely embraced it if it came running towards him. He threw one of his javelins at Cyclops.
Cyclops ducked it and charged again. This time, the force with which he advanced aided the rage of his blow as his sword sent the Cod's shield flying in the air.
At that moment, the Cod seemed defenceless and the cry of Cyclop's pursuivants kept ascending, towering over his courage. Mocking his strength. Cyclops would indeed take advantage of the moment.
Why shouldn't he? If he was the one, he'd done worst that than. He reached for his second javelin but Cyclops was swift enough to grab before him.
Cyclops was on him at the moment.
The Cod felt he needed to do something. He was out of ideas. He must adopt one anytime soon. He needed to have something done. In a hankering haste must he do that.
He had no idea what that would be. Soon, his mental horizon began to expand as his wits sucked the waves of ideas tracing the shore of his acumen. He had a grasp on it and wove a lofty tower of it.
He raised his hand. That was a sign of giving up. But was he supposed to give up? He'd forgotten that he was a death contract for Cyclops.
He'd forgotten that he actually was hungry of death. He'd forgotten so many things that he ate all those sapid situations served to him at the Colosseum. His pain was preyed upon by a breach of thoughts.
Cyclops was not interested in whether the Cod had given up or not. He was bent on tossing his head to Medusa. He raised his hands in mockery of the Cod's proposal of giving up.
Chaotic cheering rung across the breath of the agora. He spat repeatedly on the Cod chewing keen curses on him. His rage had been tampered with pride.
Cyclops was no longer eager to humiliate the Cod, he was only going to finish up what he'd started. He was only going to make mess with the so called courage of the Cod.
He was only going to teach him manners he'd use when he return to the underworld.
The Cod looked across the agora towards the master. The master's gaunt gaze was demeaning. He had a smothered smirk seeped in his visage.
He sure was sucking nectar of the gods. The master's pulpils were lit. The eyes of the apt azure could make no less of how happy he felt. He was gay.
The Cod felt a need to change that look. To belittle the courage. To make fun of the guts. To make smithereens of the pride that'd made rots of the master's link of thoughts. He was going to think fast.
Ergo, if his giving in had been embraced, he'd at the moment be contending with a trained tiger. Any gladiator who gave in was to fight a famished tiger.
It wouldn't have been much of a task, for he'd made pawn of hundreds of tigers, though he'd never given in! His gaze again was restored on the worn warthog wallowing in pride.
He was at the verge of making a mess of his head. His bronze helmet leasing a partial view of his bulky eyes. His robe was weighed 800 shekels and his spear, lots of tons of iron.
A blow only would crush the metal helmet of the cod. A thrust would had munched the 150 shekels weight of the cod's robe. He was in no league with the beast.
Cyclops at the final ovation and cheer lifted his hands and brought his sword down to meet the moaning earth; the cod had rolled in between his legs to the other side.
The Cod had quickly grabbed the javelin Cyclops had dropped before the proposed blow. Cyclops then turned to meet a javelin suckling in his left rib.
The robe had paved a way as he turned. Cyclops threw the cod away with the other hand and removed the javelin. The cod was at the moment by his sword.
Cyclops staggered and with his left hand on the gore ran towards the Cod with all the breath in him. His spear was poised and was going to stab the Cod as he drew nearer.
The Cod did duck it. And gasping for air, Cyclops fell flat before the cruising Cod. The Cod at that moment, for the first time in his life was gay.
That moment was such the appealing one. He savored the aroma of the awe and disapproval choking the atmosphere.
He then took the sword by the greave on the left leg of the fallen, removed Cyclop's helmet and was about to ensue a blow when a husky hymn in ajar interrupted:
"Peace! Walk away."
That was the master. The Cod couldn't make meaning of such intrusion. He was actually mad at the master. He could not show it. But he knew what he would.
He walked towards the exit of the Colosseum as though he was reflecting on the master's instruction.
But when he got to the exit, he ran back to the fallen Cyclops who was recently striving to stand up.
With the sword firmly clasped to his hand, the Cod divorced the head and the body. All were awed!
At that, he lifted the head and dangled it in the hair towards the master in a display of mockery. The master was stupefied in rage. He had no idea what else he was missing out on how daring that Gladiator was.
His awe strangled patience and rage was kindled. He sent four hefty gladiators to seize the Cod. As they fastened towards him, he spoke and they halted!
"Hark! Unpleasant Ja Lia. What injustice had mated with you! Only that I had your robe worn and you wished me such death? If he'd cut my head, would you have said 'Walk away'? But when I should have my way, you wanted someone to halt. Well I had it! When last did you have the robe washed, for my breath nagged me till dawn. Let abyss swallow you! I'll leave your presence forever, and if you seek me you'll have your head tossed to that moaning Medusa you're loyal to."
Firstly, the master had no idea from where he learnt his name. Secondly such courage wasn't to be typical of gladiator. Let alone a Gladiator taken from a monk.
The master couldn't make meaning of it.
While striving to make meaning of the mess, the Cod made for his way to the exit of the Colosseum, walked out and was lost to the height of the hay.
He didn't care whether he was being followed or not.
"Urnngghhh" Gaunt grunt. He had no idea how long he would bank on the sassy sword. The purpled eyes of heaven was rehearsing her intensity on the altar of his temple, but the leopard contending with him spared him no moment to nurse such pain. He was bent on killing it. It was also bent on killing him. What do? A cliche! Killing wasn't a new or hideous act to him. It was matter-of-factly his oxygen. And tell, who can survive without oxygen. He only was having fun with it, but the gore its pestering paw had left on his arm would never made him spare it. He wasn't with his god-damned spear. It could have been easier. Just an aim who'd brought the passionate panther down. What annoyed him mostly, was the fact that the leopard felt proud. His retina canvassed that as they swelled per sumptuous snarls. He could decode the rhythm of the jaws. It
"Huuhoohuh..." Yearning yawn! He was tired of being in the cave. He was tired of staring at those cold walls that felt no iota of the trauma that'd enveloped his spree. He was becoming impatient. Many reasons were owed to the reason he decided to remain in the cave. He hadn't stepped out since he'd returned from the hampered hunt for lighter he went for the previous evening. Seeking for a lighter had led him to obtaining sundry other things. Things that'd helped him survived the malady nocturnal nature leased the jungle. He'd made the fire in the cave to keep the walls warm for that previous night. After eating he'd traced his fingers through the hollows cut by the chisel of time like a foiled furrow in the bosom of an isle. Then he'd succumbed to the clone of death that'd restored his wandering spectre. He had no idea whose footsteps t
"Bìxîa, our plight, Bìxîa" Ja Lia pushed the bowl sideways as he paged the gladiator in a grey robe. The summoned fastened to him and he brushed his robe with his damp hand. His right hand had been damp with soup and bleeds of the steaks and venisons. The culprit succumbed. What choice did he have? None! Like absolutely none! He was a pawn to nature and the hideous master. His fate was an offshoot of moaning misery. He couldn't have done anything about it. He wouldn't even if he would. Life hitherto had been betraying to him. He'd lost his wife, babies and cursed his parents! What was their to be happy about? Nothing! The master then turned to the owner of the glottis that had puked the prior statement. He couldn't fathom what they'd said. Probably, he had made meaning of it but kept pruning lies for his sanity. How coul
"Now, see who professes to care. Hypocrite!" He stood abruptly. He had been sleeping. After the futile search for the eerie but callous creature, he'd returned with what now he'd called either his partner or pet. He'd eaten and had consoled the cold floor of the cave. He had no idea who consoled who. Whether he consoled the land or the land did him, he couldn't be sure and never cared. All he cared about was the fact that he was still breathing and had a hide. He had wanted to be alone till death would catch up with him, but felon fate would also have his worn way. He'd fed the cub with the remains of the leopard he'd killed. But the cub growled heavily and in keen detest and would not eat it. Then did it occur to him that a leopard would never eat another leopard. He wasn't sure if that was the only the reason the leopard had growled at him in such manner. He knew there was more to it. He wished he could
"Yo, mate, you're positive about today?" The cub was gay. His feeble limbs flexed rhythmically to some jive he could not hear. He was sure that having the cub edge before him was an approval. He was beginning to make meaning of the language of the cub. He couldn't suitingly speak, but the signs and growls were beginning to make sense to him. Twas the first week of being with it. How wouldn't he be acquainted with its ways of life? Then he'd been the dumbest person that'd ever existed. Most times would the cub leave the cave to hunt down prey himself and when it'd returned, he'd remonstrated to it: "What have you done, mate? Death calls at you? You wanna be inna haste to meet mamma? Why would go hunting all by yourself? Mehn! Damn! You're impossibly ridiculous." The cub would had fa
"Get them all to the Agora." That was Ja Lia. The phrase was addressed to one of those gladiators who was given to undaunted reverence to the professed master. He wasn't as broad and hefty as Cyclops, but had his own pluses. He was quite the hefty also, only that his laps were shifted sideways, such that when he walked, it seemed as though he was going to collapse. Heavens knew how he'd been able to survive sundry battles with such odd two legs. In such a form. Probably he wasn't inflected with ill-luck as compared to the callous Cyclops. He left to prune the biddings of the marred master. After the marred massacre of both the hefty gladiators and the defected, leopards that survived the malady were sent back to their hoods while the dead were boiled to commemorate the defeat of the cowards and incompetents. It was usually a rite to celebrate the
"Hurrrghhhh" That'd be the fourth time that the cub had made that sound. He had no idea what it that was for. It seemed to him as though he was getting along with it. But whenever he made himself to believe that lie, some strays in actions would be supplanted and he'd be left in the middle of the ocean - of guesses crazed in torrents. His heart was quite faster than his thoughts. He could feel some unusual pounding on his inky instinct. He knew the subsequent growls of the cub was in complement to the odd feelings nosy nature had been leasing to him. He sat up. The inner part of the cave was yet dark. He could see some rusty rays fighting their worn ways into the cubicle, probably to scare away the gaunt gloom loitering. He was not in for some guesses. Whether or not rain would fall, he didn't care. He had nowhere he was going to. The previous da
"How many of you went?" "A score and a half, Bìxîa." "How many returned?" " Five of us, Bìxîa" "In what state respectively?" "Three badly hurt, two Hale, Bìxîa." Ja Lia beckoned to the black gladiator he had been observing closely recently and girded him in the following biddings, his eyes basked in ire and rage: "Feed those three to the recently caught Leopards, they'd be famished. The three are of no use anymore. They'd be liabilities to this fort and I won't suffer that. Never! What resources is there to waste?" T