Seeing Ptolomy of Aragon standing nude upon the sparkling sands, many in the amphitheatre would have sworn the young gladiator was a magnificent statue come alive. At five feet ten inches tall, one hundred and eighty-seven pounds, he seemed the very ideal of masculine beauty. From his broad shoulders to his narrow waist, every muscle was sculpted as if by a master artisan. A Gaul, Ptolomy was even topped with a golden mane. This he wore cropped short, in the manner of the Centurions, and it stood aloft, swaying in the slight breeze like miniature stocks of precious wheat.

But if the young gladiator were a work of art, his opponent was more like the unfinished stone. Clavius Eraxus stood two inches shorter than Ptolomy yet weighed a good twenty pounds more. His entire torso seemed of a uniform width, packed with stretched and twisted muscle. His legs and arms looked too short and less sturdy than his overall girth seemed to suggest they ought, and his large head had been attached to his slumped shoulders without any apparent neck. Bald and heavily-browed, his nose a series of bulbous cartilage, his overall appearance was that of a man whose years of combat had hammered him down into a stout, hard, impenetrable pillar of flesh.

They stood near the south wall of the coliseum, facing the covered section of the auditorium where the emperor and his courtiers lounged beneath a verandah. As mere gladiators, Ptolomy and Clavus were, of course, left to the merciless rays of the sun, yet they waited patiently while a dozen or more sets of eyes examined them and bets were placed. Finally a signal was given and both men turned, facing the north wall and assuming racing stances.

Corresponding to each point on the compass except for that at which the gladiators stood, weapons had been mounted on the stone wall of the arena. To the east and west were daggers: short, thin, and identical except for the fact that one had been treated with a fast acting poison. To the north, directly across from the two men was a single glove, fashioned of leather straps and studded at the knuckles with stout, sharp, serrated spikes.

A gong was struck and the two gladiators began to run. Though the daggers were closest, both headed directly toward the glove. Not surprisingly, the younger man quickly outdistanced his opponent, gaining the north wall first and seizing the glove from its hook. He turned, hurrying to strap it to his hand and arm, then froze as if he had in fact become a statue. Everyone-especially Ptolomy-had expected Clavius to divert westward toward the closet dagger when it had become apparent he could not win in a foot race. Yet the veteran fighter had stayed true to his initial course! He was even then three-quarters of the way to his goal!

Ptolomy's alarm undid all the good of his fleet feet; he wasted far too many precious seconds gaping in amazement. When he finally managed to recall himself to the task of binding the leather straps to his arm, it was too late. Like a boulder rolled down the side of a steep hill, Clavus barreled into the younger man at full speed. He smashed Ptolomy up against the wall of the arena, shoving the partially glove-adorned arm into the air. Growling, he sought to claw it loose.

Ptolomy was momentarily too stunned to resist. The collision had robbed his lungs of all their air and, pinned as he was between the burly gladiator and the stone, drawing a new breath proved a daunting task. By the time he finally brought his free hand into play-planting his palm beneath his opponent's chin and attempting to pry back the ugly lump of flesh Clavius called a head-the glove hung by just two thin straps of leather from his fingers. Ptolomy clenched his fist around these final strands, hoping to retain them until he could drive the older man back.

But this plan quickly proved futile. Though not as aesthetically pleasing as the younger man's, Clavius' stout form possessed no less power. The veteran gladiator seemed, in fact, quite equal to the novice in raw strength. And then, as they struggled chest-to-chest against the wall, Clavius brought his knee up into his opponent's naked groin.

Ptolomy gasped, his lungs surrendering the precious oxygen they had finally managed to inhale. His eyes saucered and his mouth hung open. Pain knifed from his crotch to every point in his body. His fist opened and the two strips of leather slipped between his fingers. 'At least', the young man thought desperately, 'now that he has won the glove I will be freed from this trap!' But Ptolomy was wrong again. Even with the glove trapped securely in his fist, Clavius was not finished punishing his opponent. He snarled and thrust his head forward, headbutting the younger man.

Ptolomy's head snapped back, striking the stone. He would have been hard pressed to later decide which had hurt more: his opponent's head or the stone wall. As it was, the pair of strikes completely dazed him. He was utterly at the older man's mercy.

Clavius grabbed a handful of his opponent's golden hair and flung him back out into the arena. Poor Ptolomy somersaulted in the air and landed hard on his back. He arched in agony, but his training had instilled in him an instinctive ability to roll over and rise quickly to his feet. He did so, somehow ignoring the sharp pain in his spine and the dull but equally blinding agony that still pulsated from his crotch. Gaining his feet, however, he again found himself overwhelmed by the sight confronting his eyes.

Ptolomy had assumed his opponent would immediately attempt to don the glove; this was not what so surprised him. It was the speed and dexterity with which Clavius was performing the operation that so stunned the younger man. Whereas Ptolomy had donned identical gloves a dozen times in training, Clavius had done so several hundred times for real gladiatorial contests. As he watched the older man's fingers manipulate the leather loops and straps, Ptolomy recognized for the first time what an advantage Clavius' years of experience might prove.

Again the young gladiator wasted too much time marveling over his opponent's actions. His quickness in regaining his feet might have allowed him to stop the older man from completely donning the glove, but by the time he started to move forward, the wicked garment was very nearly in place. Ptolomy had no choice but to turn and sprint toward the nearest dagger.

He had lost a great deal of steam from his initial sprint, and after a moment could hear the heavy footfalls of his opponent approaching in pursuit. Still, Ptolomy managed to reach the east wall first and yank the dagger mounted there free. He did not, however, even have a chance to turn before Clavius crashed into him. This time the younger man met the stones face first, crushing the cartilage in his nose and widening the gash already seeping in the middle of his forehead which had been opened by his opponent's headbutt. Again the air fled his lungs in an anguished burst. He was pressed flat against the wall, his beautiful body registering an assortment of agonies. And then, as if to compound his suffering, he felt his opponent's gloved fist strike him in the small of the back.

Ptolomy cried out and the dagger dropped from his grasp. He squirmed helplessly against the dirty stones as the spiked fist was twisted back and forth, shredding his flesh. Wildly, desperately, he threw back his elbow, swinging high, aiming at Clavius' head. But the older gladiator, completely in command, deftly ducked below the attack. Poor Ptolomy found his torso twisted a quarter of the way around, pulled by the momentum of his unconnected blow. Clavius rose and kicked his right foot up into the young fighter's stomach. Ptolomy doubled over, and felt himself sliding slowly down the wall toward the sand.

It seemed to Ptolomy that the wall must surely have been a hundred feet high, for he felt as if he slid down it forever. He longed to reach the burning ground, even the pain of humiliation he would surely experience in finding himself so easily dominated would be assuaged by the numbing comfort of simply being able to lie down. This, he knew, was a horrible debut. His master and trainers had pinned such high hopes to him; he would be a champion, they had told him. And Ptolomy had readily believed them-not just because they were obviously experts, but because he longed to be a champion with all his heart.

But clearly they had been wrong. The novice gladiator had made error after error. Ptolomy could see now all of his mistakes, the gravest of which had been to believe he ever had any chance.

Just before he settled into the sand, Ptolomy felt the familiar grip reassert itself in his hair. He was yanked back up onto his knees, and his naked buttocks settled heavily atop his ankles. His head was pulled back until he found himself staring at the sky. Then he saw the ominous figure of his opponent loom over him. Clavius had taken up a position right behind the younger man, holding him roughly by the hair as he brought the dagger down toward Ptolomy's handsome face.

The young gladiator screamed as the tip of the blade penetrated his torn flesh. It was not so much a stab as a methodical exploration of the open wound already marring his forehead. Nevertheless, both fighters knew it was a mortal gesture if this dagger was the one that had been treated with poison. That was why Clavius did not slit his opponent's throat; he wanted to give the paralyzing poison a chance to take effect.

Ptolomy raised both hands in an attempt to fend off the surgical torture, but, as he groped blindly above his head, his opponent merely decided to change tactics. Clavius cast aside the dagger and grabbed each of his victim's wrists. He pulled the younger man's muscular arms back until they were completely extended. Then he lifted his right foot and placed it between Ptolomy's shoulder blades.

The young man cried out anew as his arms were stretched straight back and his torso pressed forward. It was a punishing hold. He struggled valiantly up onto his feet, knowing that if the poison had been introduced to his blood he had only a few more moments to fight. He was desperate to do something, to show that he was not a complete loser. He saw little hope of turning the tables at this late point, but, when this fight was recalled, he wanted there to be at least some mention of his prowess. He did not want to go down in the annuls of gladiatorial history as the young man who had been slaughtered one day by the great Clavius Eraxus.

The foot slipped down off his back, and Ptolomy took heart. He had not thought the older man would be capable of balancing on one foot with his victim upright. In that, at least, Ptolomy told himself, he had been correct. Now, the young man need only figure some means to free his arms.

But, in fact, the novice had been wrong about the disappearance of the foot from his back. Clavius had not removed it for balance, but rather to put it to another use. He viciously kicked it up between Ptolomy's legs. Again the younger man's scrotum was brutally assaulted, this time by Clavius' hard shin.

Ptolomy groaned and sank back down onto his knees. He felt the last of his strength leave him in an humiliatingly painful rush. With it went the last of his will to fight. When he felt the leathery sole of Clavius' foot return to the middle of his back, he knew he was finished.

The veteran gladiator had no trouble pushing his opponent forward and face down into the sand. He stood over the younger man, still holding his wrists, still stretching his arms, only now Ptolomy seemed to be reaching hopelessly toward the sky. Clavius slid his foot up onto the back of the young man's head. He pressed down, forcing Ptolomy's bloody face into the sands. The young man began to squirm and then thrash, slowly suffocating.

Finally, gradually, Ptolomy stopped struggling. Clavius released him and stepped back. He circled the young gladiator slowly, looking for signs of life. But Ptolomy was utterly motionless, lying face down on the floor of the arena. The older man reclaimed the dagger-discarded when he had opted to grab hold of Ptolomy's wrists-and then moved back over beside his prone opponent. Using his foot, Clavius rolled the downed man over. Ptolomy flopped limply onto his back. His mouth was open and filled with sand. His face was encrusted with a mask of blood and more sand. Only his eyes were clear-open and staring with glassy blindness at the blue sky overhead.

Clavius placed his dirty foot atop his opponent's face, raising his arms in victory. The crowd cheered him enthusiastically-praising him fittingly for having shown himself so far superior to a much younger fighter. Finally he lowered himself to one knee, preparing to use the dagger to slice open Ptolomy's chest.

Suddenly a spray of sand erupted from the younger man's mouth. His head jerked up. Startled, Clavius tried to pull back, his eyes wide. But he was too overcome by alarm. Ptolomy grabbed the old man's wrist with both hands, twisting Clavius' arm back. With a sudden jerk, the veteran gladiator was forced to stab himself in the belly.

Clavius staggered back, groping at the hilt of the dagger protruding just an inch left of his navel. Quickly, Ptolomy rolled over and struggled to regain his feet. The two fighters glared at one another and for the first time Ptolomy saw fear on the older man's ugly features. Clavius knew he had been outsmarted. When the novice fighter had realized there had been no poison on the blade, he had pretended to be overcome, luring his opponent into lowering his guard. Now, with the blade firmly implanted in Clavius' gut-poison or no- the tables had indeed been turned!

But Ptolomy wasted no time now. He knew his real chance lie in reaching the other dagger first!

The two men raced a final time. Ptolomy's speed was only a memory; he was barely limping. Clavius withdrew the dagger from his belly and started in pursuit. With a hand covering his wound, he came alongside Ptolomy. Slowly he pulled ahead. The young man cursed. Was his single brilliant strategy of the day to be rendered futile by his weakened body? Did his one chance come too late?

Clavius reached the west wall and claimed the blade, turning with it clenched in his fist. But Ptolomy did not slow; he was too close and too desperate. Completely overcome by madness, he drove into the older man and smashed him against the wall. Clavius groaned, but would not relinquish his new weapon. Ptolomy grabbed his opponent's wrist and they began to struggle, each driven by the knowledge that whoever was cut by the blade would surely die.

Suddenly the younger man jerked his right knee up into his opponent's groin. It felt remarkably good to the novice to finally pay the older man back for his earlier below-the-belt assaults. Clavius, for his part, went completely ashen. The strength left his arms. He knew he could not stop Ptolomy from driving the poisoned blade home. But he was not completely senseless. His many battles had taught him to think on his feet. He dropped the blade and it landed in the sand between them.

The younger man nearly smiled, recognizing the desperation in the veteran fighter's decision. He was also, however, insulted. He knew he had made some mistakes in their battle-he was quite prepared to own up to them-but if Clavius thought him fool enough to go after the knife the old goat was badly mistaken! Instead, Ptolomy used his finger. He drove it deep into the puncture wound on his opponent's belly, twisting and turning it as Clavius began to cry out. Finally the young fighter growled: "I don't need a blade to finish you!" Hooking his finger, he tore a large ragged gash in his opponent's belly.

Clavius abruptly grew quiet, his moans gurgling in his throat. He looked down in disbelief. He whimpered, and suddenly a flood of bright crimson bubbled over his lips and down his chin. Ptolomy stepped back. The older man covered his stomach with both hands, trying to hold his innards in as he sank to his knees. But it was useless. Blood gushed from the wound and, with it, came pieces if displaced tissue. Finally Clavius abandoned the effort and let his arms fall to his sides. He slowly looked up at his conqueror.

Ptolomy stood over his fallen foe watching with interest. He had only rarely seen a man gutted, and never at such close proximity. He was fascinated-all the more so as he had himself done the gutting. Suddenly, however, he saw his opponent's arm jerk. Sunlight glinted off something metallic in the older man's hand. Clavius had picked up the poisoned dagger! As Ptolomy watched in horror, the veteran fighter was somehow managing to swing it up toward him!

Only at the last moment did Ptolomy manage to spring clear. The poisoned blade sliced the air just inches from his thighs. A split second more delay might have spelled the end for both fighters.

The young gladiator sprawled onto his back, ashamed that his wily opponent had nearly managed to outsmart him a final, lethal time. He lifted his head and looked over at the other man just in time to see him collapse. Clavius' desperate attack had opened his wound wider and his small intestine was unraveling onto the sand. The older fighter fell first to his side, then over onto his back.

Ptolomy rose slowly, stepping cautiously toward his opponent. The older man's eyes were open and directed skyward. Occasionally he blinked. His lips were moving but with no more effect than to turn the blood coating them into foam. Ptolomy stepped closer. Calvius' chest shuddered, but there was nothing so rhythmic to its motions as to indicate breathing. The poison dagger lay discarded again a few inches from his hand. Finally, Ptolomy settled his right foot in the center of the older man's chest, raising his arms.

The crowd cheered.