The killing of a young, untrained peasant, a stranger, one raised in some primitive village, one from some half-barbarous world somewhere, would be no more than a moment’s recreation for them, unless they chose to draw out the matter, lest the crowd be displeased, the sport too soon concluded. We may suppose that both had resolved to give the death stroke cleanly, however, as one might in butchering an animal, not torturing some hated foe, at whose hands one might have received an insult.
They did not bear him ill will, no more than the butcher bears the pig or calf ill will.
The two gladiators now made their way, one from each side, along the circuit of the wall, toward the privileged seats, within which was the throne box.
The match, if there were to have been one, would commonly follow the salute.
But there was to be no match, unless one might speak so of what was projected, a judicial butchery.
“Wait!” called the peasant.
The gladiators, before the throne box, turned to face him. It was hard to see their faces, because of the helmets.
“Look!” cried a woman in the stands.
Then there was applause.
“He has come to join in the salute!” called another woman.
The peasant solemnly made his way forward.
“He wishes to show his respect to the empire, before he dies,” called another woman from the stands.
There was applause.
Such a gesture, its nobleness, its magnanimity, in one who might expect in a moment to die, had not been expected by the crowd, not in such a rude youth.
There was more applause.
Tears were in the eyes of more than one woman in the stands.
As he came forward, barang in hand, he noted the throne box, and, within it, the mayor, the judge, and the officer of the court, the daughter of the judge. All were on their feet.
“Do not salute the empire!” cried one of the kneeling adherents of Floon.
“Repudiate the empire!” called another.
“The empire is evil!” cried another.
“Down with the empire!” called another.
“Be silent!” cried men and women in the crowd.
“It is only the koos which is important, and Floon!” cried another.
“Repent!” cried another.
“Declare for Floon!” begged another. “The forgiveness of Floon is available to all who request it.”
“Be good!” called another. “Kneel to die. Floon will protect you!”
“Kneel, and commend your koos to the keeping of Floon!” wept another.
“Silence, silence!” chided the crowd.
But then the peasant had strode through the kneeling adherents of Floon, of which there were some fifteen to twenty left, not seeming to hear them.
“Hail!” called the two gladiators, facing the throne box, their swords lifted, “hail to the emperor, to the empire, to all governors and prefects, to all who serve her!”
The mayor, in her civic capacity, on behalf of the power of galaxies, lifted her small gloved hand, acknowledging the salute.
The second portion of the salute was an ancient one, one which dated back to the early days of the empire, indeed, shortly after the dissolution of the republic, a consequence of the third civil war, and its replacement with the imperial dignity, and the efficiency of the imperial administration. I shall use a familiar salute, in order to achieve familiarity, for which I have striven in many cases in this narrative, but it is one which will convey, in my view quite adequately, the drift of the salute actually given in that small arena on Terennia, which was, indeed, the same salute which would have been given on a Telnarian world itself.
“We who are about to die salute you.”
Such sentiments, you see, in such circumstances, tend to appear.
A cry of horror rose from the crowd for the peasant, instead of joining in this salute, had smote away the head, and part of the upper body, of the gladiator to his left, these things tumbling, the head in the helmet, to the wall. There had been two reasons for selecting the gladiator on the left for the stroke. First, the peasant was right-handed and thus could bring his blade into play most quickly from that position, and, secondly, and doubtless more important, the gladiator to his right was right-handed, which meant that his sword hand was on the side away from the peasant. By the time the gladiator on his right had turned about, then, the peasant had returned to what, within his limitations, might be characterized as a defensive position. At this point the peasant began to back toward the center of the arena.
He had few doubts about the likely talents of a professional arena fighter, and did not care to meet him there, blade to blade, before the privileged seats.
The gladiator who had been to the peasant’s right had spun about instantly, his buckler forward, his blade back. This was a matter of honed reflexes. He had reacted before he understood what had happened. It was almost like the movement away from a suddenly appearing snake, the sudden drawing of the hand away from fire, reacting, not thinking, only thinking later.
The second gladiator did not immediately pursue him. He stood there now, breathing heavily.
It was only then that he began to understand what had happened. It was only then that he was stunned.
The blow, in itself, as it had taken part of the upper body away, and not merely the head, might have given anyone pause. It was a prodigious one, something that might have been done not by a man, but by the lateral stroke of some motorized killing blade, the sort functioning as appendages on gas chariots, used to keep order on certain of the farther worlds.
Too, quite possibly, he was dismayed.
He looked at the parts of the body, and the head, still muchly in the helmet.
“Cortus!” he suddenly wept. “Cortus!”
He knelt in the sand.
It seemed he was shaken with disbelief.
The two, you see, were of the same school, or house, and therein shared the same table. Often they had fought, on one world or another, side by side, sometimes back to back. There is often a bond, a sort of brotherhood of the blade, you see, among the men of the schools, or houses, though, to be sure, it is occasionally expected that they will, if matched, kill one another.
“Kill him, kill him!” cried the crowd.
The gladiator rose slowly to his feet. He regarded the peasant. The peasant, now, had retreated to the vicinity of the slain vi-cat, where it lay, and the hunters.
“Kill him!” screamed the crowd.
How outraged it was.
The mayor, the judge and the officer of the court, the judge’s daughter, were on their feet, as was the crowd.
The judge’s daughter seemed to waver. She had her right hand at her breast.
“Wait for me,” said the gladiator, his voice carrying across the sand. “Do not make me chase you about the arena.”
The peasant stood still, as though ready, bravely, to comply with the fighter’s request. Or perhaps he was too afraid to run. But, as now seems certain, he was where he was, and stayed where he was, because it was in accord with his plan.
“Kill him!” screamed the crowd.
The gladiator approached him slowly, treading the sand with care, each step a sure one.
“Stand where you are,” he called. “I will make it quick.”
“Kneel to die!” cried one of the adherents of Floon.
“Do not resist!” counseled another.
“Floon will protect you,” said another.
“You have done enough!” said another.
“Declare now for Floon, while there is still time,” called another.
Then the gladiator, half-stripped, his loins bound in heavy black leather, in the black, metal-crested helmet, with the darkly sheathed arm, and the black buckler, and the short blade, double-edged, was through the kneeling adherents of Floon, past them, and the strewn bodies about them.