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The combatants were wearing nothing but loincloths, colored red, like the clothing of everyone else in the stands. These were not the diaper-looking things worn by some plebians back home, either, but perfectly fitted to their bodies, with flattering, sword-shaped strips running down between their legs at the front and back, adorned with various symbols that no doubt had special meanings to their owners.
He’d never seen wrestling before—Mestibes favored the nobility of the relay over anything so uncivilized as hard wet bodies slamming together.
It appeared he had been missing out. The men were stunning.
Muscles bulged as they crashed together like red deer stags. Sun beat off black hair and olive skin, several shades deeper than found in sun-fearing Mestibes. They glistened with the sweat of combat and the effort of their training. And all around the square came the sounds of exertion and triumph and fury.
The sound of men. Real men.
“Ardoran society divides all families into two: the Reds, which are the fighters; and the Greens, which are the farmers,” said Teigra, reading from a scroll she’d hurriedly snatched before they’d snuck out. “Palaestra Xiphos, located in the soldierly quarter of Kastro Machiton, serves as a wrestling school and social hub for the Reds. It says here that there is another school on the outskirts of town for the farmers, called Palaestra Ampelos.”
“School of the Vine? Do they wrestle drunk?”
“It... doesn’t say.”
Aurelius smirked. “Well, I may have to visit there as well to see for myself.”
“Oh, look. There’re women here as well,” said Tiggy.
“Is that noteworthy, darling? I know plenty of women back home who’d pay good money to see strong, sweaty men beat the shit out of each other.”
“No, not just in the stands. Women are wrestling each other.”
She was right. Among the men was a pair of sparring women, surrounded by a tight circle of the same. One of the female combatants lunged forward, only to be flipped onto her back. The dominant woman then tried to jump on top, but the other one was up in a flash, immediately locking arms.
“They’re really going for it, aren’t they?” said Aurelius.
Teigra’s face glowed for the first time since they’d arrived in Ardora. “I know! They’re hitting just as hard as the men. It says here that the aim is to pin your opponent’s shoulders to the ground for a count of three.”
As Aurelius squinted to focus on the further-away group of female combatants, there came an odd stirring in the back of his mind. The strangest recollection that he had seen the dominant one before...
Tiggy gave a shocked intake of breath. “Over there!” she said, elbowing him in the ribs. “It’s Prince Calix!”
Aurelius’s heart fluttered at the sound of the name.
She was right.
Calix was on the far side of the square, surprisingly not in the most prominent position, as would be befitting his rank as prince and strategos. Instead, he was lifting a series of heavy rocks in a quiet corner, all on his own.
Teigra had said something about that on the walk through town. Despite being a very soldierly society, the royals of Ardora weren’t shielded from the public in any way. They moved and mingled as might any other citizen. No guards. No entourage.
That certainly boded well for what Aurelius had planned.
He took the massive man in. Even though Aurelius had seen him before, it hadn’t been like this—near naked and glistening, veins snaking across his enormous body.
The man was a god! Six and a half foot. Taller than everyone else in the square, with arms that looked like they could pull an ox cart and a hair-covered chest as big and solid as the rocks he hoisted overhead. His teeth were clenched, straining with the effort of each lift. But despite this, he was continuing long after others retreated for rest.
Aurelius felt a moment of absurdity.
Crown Prince Calix was right there. He was close enough now that Aurelius could practically smell the sweat on him. After all this time plotting about what he would do with this man, of traveling all this way just to be near to him, now he was right there.
“So,” said a nearby old man to his equally elderly companion. “You putting a few drachmae on the prince to take down Kleio at the Ardoralia?”
“Hah. I ain’t wasting my coin on that matchup.”
“What? Calix’s the reigning Paliad Games champion. Best wrestler in all Dynosia. And you saw him a few weeks back. Made short work of Minta. Damn near broke the boy’s arm.”
“Oh, Calix’s got the skill, no question on that. And sure, after Sama he still seemed to have it in him—all that work he did rebuilding the Brotherhoods. I respect that. Course I do. But the last few years? Well, you’ve seen him. He just ain’t got the heart no more! Everyone says he’s come down with the ashen passion.”
