A Death for Lilah
by J. Edward Ritchie
Gannicus assessed the weight and balance of his gladius with the keen eye of a master craftsman. The sword was his instrument of creation, his accomplice, and his livelihood. Even when sheathed, he felt its hilt nestled in his grip like a phantom limb. Though the austere blade had been forged anew after each bout, a phoenix resurrected in flame, its edges hummed with grisly memories. Men were such brittle creatures.
A cuirass emblazoned with a snarling wolf fortified his chest like a leather exoskeleton. Wraps and gaiters padded the old injuries on his limbs––all cloth, no metal. Traditional gear offered only the perception of safety. He had seen too many men crushed and entombed within bulky armor. Movement was crucial. When done properly, killing required modest precision, not pomp and bluster.
Gannicus heard his name announced in the arena, not his birth name but rather a persona earned upon the sand. The din of twenty thousand raucous fans flooded down the stone corridor, crashing into him like waves upon a breakwater. He’d been in the same position twenty-eight times prior, and twenty-eight times he defied death. As a gladiator, he’d reaped unprecedented wealth and notoriety. He was legendary among bloodthirsty enthusiasts, and loathed by hypocrites whose morality only applied to the iniquity of others. Nothing remained for him to accomplish, so why take the risk?
Because she loved to watch him work.
The arena hushed. Darkness tempted him like the embrace of an immortal mistress.
It was time.
Gannicus made his entrance without escorts or fanfare. Silence was his harbinger. The rhythm of his deliberate steps echoed, its tempo increasing with his heartbeat. Breaths came in short bursts like steam forced from a bull’s nostrils. Leaving his humanity behind, he sprinted down the corridor and burst into––
Madison Square Garden. Spotlights clapped on, focusing on him like the scrutinizing eyes of God. His senses were aflame with data. The stomps and shouts of drunken fans vibrated his eardrums. Fetor from pools of blood and viscera left by the undercard fights crept up his nostrils. The sand compacted under his boots as if in deference to his notoriety. Fifty-foot banners with his face undulated from the ceiling.
Damn, it was good to be home.
Gannicus acknowledged every section of the stands with a reserved bow. Humongous monitors projected footage captured by drones swooping overhead. The bout was streaming to more countries than had watched the Moon landing. In the decade since gladiator bouts were sanctioned by athletic commissions, his reputation had swelled to overshadow the biggest names in combat sports history.
The announcer’s gravely voice blared from the speakers, extolling Gannicus’ record. Career highlights from past decimations in the Garden brought him neither pride nor nostalgia. For all the people he’d buried, only one face presided over his thoughts. He glanced up to the skyboxes where promoters and moguls behind the event were already counting their blood money, and raised his sword. The gesture wasn’t one of respect, and it certainly wasn’t for them.
Gannicus conjured an image of his late wife watching from the skybox. She had been at all of his fights, sharing her strength without betraying an iota of the fear that would crush any rational soul. Her love gave more protection than any shield or helmet. Perhaps it was morbid to kill another man in her name––Lilah––but every win was for her.
“Come back to me,” she would mouth from the skybox, hand over her heart.
“Always.”
The mood in the arena curdled as Gannicus’ opponent was announced––Spiculus, a heavyweight champion that adopted the name of a gladiator from Nero’s era. Fighting in the sledgehammer malleus style, the Beast of Bucharest brutalized his opponents with savagery rather than skill. He was a toxic sadist, on and off the sand. Millions of dollars were thrown at potential opponents, but no one had the grit to fight him.
Gannicus didn’t need this fight, not for the money or his legacy. He challenged Spiculus solely because Lilah would’ve despised everything the man represented. Negotiating a record purse for the bout, Gannicus had the entirety of it put into a fund she’d established for the families of fallen gladiators. But Spiculus flaunted his wealth and excess on social media like a child, giving nothing back to his fellow man.
“What you achieve on the sand makes you a gladiator,” Lilah would remind Gannicus when pride got the better of him. “But what you achieve in the world makes you a man.”
Spiculus entered amidst an obnoxious spectacle of pyrotechnics befitting his arrogance.
A celebrity entourage trailed behind the seven-foot Beast like coattails. Sycophants on his payroll shouted boasts and insults at the booing crowd. The repulsive excuse for a gladiator flexed and frothed across the arena while smashing divots in the sand with a hefty, custom maul. True to his epithet, Spiculus was more animal than man.
Sometimes, an animal needed to be put down.
Man versus Beast. Hero of the People versus Sin Incarnate––that was the bout’s narrative, one devised and implemented two months prior at the first press conference.
#
A throng of reporters crowded the open-air pavilion of Los Angeles’ most luxurious outdoor shopping center. Local fans and diehard supporters from Bucharest crammed together, agitated after waiting three hours in the sun for a glimpse of the gladiators. The powder keg of bodies simmered in the sweltering heat, a mere spark away from igniting into a riot. Barricades separated trainers, promoters, family, and other VIPs from the crowd.
Shrill chants from protestors buzzed in the air like gadflies. Every gladiator bout had been met with harsh (and futile) criticism. Greedy officials and corrupt legislators ensured that any legal opposition was held up in the courts indefinitely. There was too much money to be made for ethics to get in the way. Besides, what was more personal and sacred than a man’s own life? Freedom to live, freedom to die––the new America.
After the usual tirade of sponsors and promotional hoopla, Gannicus and Spiculus met for the first time. They were positioned on either side of a podium as the CEO of Sand and Blood Productions hyped the bout. Groundbreaking. Historic. Mythic. An event for the ages. Gannicus didn’t hear one hyperbolic word. Instead, he studied the nuances of his opponent’s mannerisms. How his eyelid twitched each time Gannicus was praised. The way his foot tapped incessantly from bottled rage aching to be loosed. And evidence of wounds inflicted during an inhuman training regimen kept under wraps by his promoters.
The Beast wasn’t a façade. Life had flayed his heart until only Spiculus remained.
When called to the microphone, Gannicus exuded the same poise that had served him well throughout his career. As all of his opponents had learned, calm didn’t mean weak.
“I have nothing left to prove in this sport, and it is a sport,” he directed at the protestors. “But my toughest fight has been enduring this last year. Getting up and forcing myself to live, every day. So why, why would I return to the sand after…”
Gannicus trailed off as the pavilion darkened like an eclipse. Lilah hovered over the crowd, currents of silken love radiating from her celestial visage. He shut his eyes, counted to three, and opened them.
Lilah was gone.
“Because she would want me to. Because you, the fans, demanded it. We’ve all had enough of this man disrespecting the sport that she loved,” he said and thrust a finger at Spiculus. “Death is our job, and I’ve never come up short. Get your affairs in order.”
The crowd bellowed at the threat, reposting footage of it on the Internet before Gannicus could sit. Spiculus crunched a paper of pre-written answers as his team tried to calm him. He stormed the podium, nearly crushing the microphone in his meaty grip.
“Twenty men you kill on sand,” he said in broken English, squeezing the words out between clenched teeth. “But you cannot protect own wife. She die in street like dog.”
A collective gasp emitted before a vacuum of horror silenced the pavilion. Gannicus had anticipated the low blow. What he didn’t expect was how it rattled him. He wanted to leap over the table and squeeze the gray matter from Spiculus’ skull, but he’d long since learned how to curb his impulses. Channel them when appropriate.
Lilah reappeared, recumbent and absent her light. Gannicus supported her head with one hand and held in her riven guts with his other as the crazed fan fled. The police never found him or the murder weapon.
“She didn’t die in the street.” The ferocious subtext was implicit as his voice fell to a whisper. “She died in my arms.”
“Your fault. Family? Friends? Distraction. I am gladiator. I have no life. Only the sand.”
“Then that’s where you’ll die,” Gannicus warned.
He stood and stepped through the agonizing mirage of Lilah to address Spiculus directly. Intimately. Voice recorders were shoved in his face, and bulbs flashed to capture the moment. Security officers reached for their stun guns and pepper spray.
The spark was imminent.
“But not like a gladiator. Like a dog.”
#
“Madison Square Garden, are you ready?” the announcer bellowed, syllables drawn out for dramatic emphasis.
The crowd regressed to a primitive state of mania, waving foam swords and spilling their ten-dollar beers. Two decapitations and a disembowelment during the undercards hadn’t satisfied their bloodlust. A four-piece brass band that traveled to all of Gannicus’ bouts looped a custom theme song they’d composed for him.
“Gladiators, are you ready?”
Gannicus and Spiculus approached each other, halting a dozen feet apart. Gladiator bouts had discarded all elements of combat sports deemed unnecessary or detrimental to the action. Rounds and judges were eliminated, guaranteeing that bouts ended in death or mutilation. Rules became non-existent. With the exception of banning modern weaponry like firearms, everything was permitted on the sand. Finally, even referees were phased out after a handful of unfortunate accidents. What remained was pure––two men (or women) pitting their guts and will against each other without interference.
Spiculus sneered, his mammoth chest heaving with fury. “Today you join dead whore.”
“And who’s waiting for you?” Gannicus asked to no response. “That’s what I thought.”
A bell commenced the bout, the last to be heard until one man emerged as the victor.
The gladiators didn’t tap weapons in the traditional sign of respect. All that existed between them was animosity. They circled, feigning strikes to gauge the form and speed of their opponent. Who would draw first blood?
Gannicus was dispassionate and patient. An opening always presented itself, sooner or later. His bouts had gone ten seconds. Ten minutes. A half hour. He’d battered gladiators with his bare fists, clawing and scraping out wins that left him at death’s door. Others he had felled in a single, disappointing blow that made the mismatch feel like murder. Spiculus was a worthy opponent, in skill if not manner. He used his maul to control the range and pace, needing to land but a single pulverizing strike. Gannicus did his best work at mid-range, and whether or not he could get within striking distance would determine the course of the bout.
Drones flew around the arena, streaming every pore of the gladiators with obscene clarity. The crowd grew restless from the lack of action. Spiculus lowered his maul and taunted Gannicus to attack. Impatience bred weakness. The Beast fancied himself invulnerable, that no toothpick of a blade could piece his flesh.
Fool.
Gannicus was a surgeon with his sword. His knowledge of anatomy surpassed many of the doctors that had treated him post-fight. He darted forward and slashed Spiculus’ belly where the flesh should’ve been softest, expecting to spill entrails as if unzipping a bag. He held the pose, back to Spiculus, scarlet droplets raining from his outstretched sword.
The Beast didn’t fall.
Spiculus grinned. The cut on his belly was bloody but shallow. Layers of hardened scar tissue from self-inflicted wounds had thrown off the sword’s trajectory.
The maul swung down at Gannicus to burst his head like a rotten cantaloupe. He sidestepped with no room to spare, and it struck the sand instead. The force caused him to tremor from toes to teeth. Before Gannicus could stabilize his wits, Spiculus released his maul and threw a haymaker that would’ve turned the sturdiest jaw to glass.
Gannicus turned his face with the fist’s momentum to lessen the impact. Knuckles like steel struck his eye socket. Broken. He’d felt the Beast’s power once before and thought he could absorb anything dished out.
He was wrong.
#
The weigh-in was held that morning in a ballroom, after so many years of fighters rehydrating beyond their class overnight. But weight classes were little more than a promotional formality to create the illusion of champions for sanctioning bodies. If a little guy wanted to take his shot at a heavyweight––and there was money to be made––then the fight would happen. Hell, it had happened, usually with disastrous results.
Fans didn’t care about the science of combat anymore. They sought visceral thrills, the gorier the better. Gladiator bouts were resurrected because viewership for combat sports had decreased in direct proportion to the increase in regulations, rules, and oversight. One man had the idea to eliminate such interference and backdoor politics, marking a return to form that would elevate fighters back to mythical status. Dubbed Caesar, the weigh-in was a key factor in his vision––an invaluable bridge between gladiator and fan.
Weigh-ins were dangerous affairs. Two men primed for battle––having spent weeks vilifying their opponent and training for their death in every way possible––are placed within inches of each other. Fucking insanity, and the world couldn’t get enough of it.
Gannicus was first on the scale. He weighed in at a lean two hundred and thirty pounds evenly spread over his six-and-a-half foot frame. Spiculus scoffed like he was an emaciated dwarf, but muscle was visually deceptive. Gladiators who looked like bodybuilders lacked the agility and stamina to compete at the highest level. Gannicus could predict when an opponent would wilt simply by their muscle distribution. Spiculus, however, employed a team of nutritionists that had sculpted him to perfection.
Spiculus stepped on the scale and topped off at two hundred and ninety pounds of uniform brawn. At just under seven feet, he was hewn from a slab of marble and polished by hardship. Gifted from on high with pristine genetics, few specimens of such evolutionary excellence had graced the sport. If Gannicus’ myth was that of a god, then Spiculus was a titan.
Gannicus and Spiculus came together for their face-off. He stared into the Beast’s dead eyes that were devoid of soul. Felt his foul, moist breath huffing from pursed lips like a caged animal. Though they embarked on a multi-city press tour, the gladiators had been kept far apart.
Now, Spiculus towered over Gannicus with a pompous smirk, muttering choice barbs about his deceased wife.
Weeks of insults and disrespect churning within Gannicus like magma suddenly vented. Caught in the eruption, he shed his trademark poise and punched Spiculus in the mouth. The unprofessional assault could’ve derailed the entire event. Spiculus had every right to call off the bout and hit Gannicus with a torrent of career-ending lawsuits…
But Spiculus absorbed the illegal punch like a machine, not budging. Not blinking.
He responded with his own hook that launched Gannicus into the reporters. Camera shutters clicked, his swelling face reflected in their lenses.
The weigh-in became chaos as security intervened. Gannicus was pulled to safety while executives tried their best to downplay the mishap to the commission.
Shaking off the cobwebs, Gannicus was encouraged to find Spiculus’ power ordinary for his size. Painful, yes, but manageable. Hours later, an orbital fracture from a similar blow would force him to concede the intelligence of Spiculus’ choreographed deceit.
Gannicus was meant to lose and pass the torch to a new star, one that burned bright with youth and ambition. He’d served himself up on a platter, and Spiculus was starving.
#
Gannicus’ right eye blurred, likely from a detached retina, but he had plenty of experience fighting with impaired vision. Time to get to work. No excuses. Even without the support of his trainer (who had passed shortly after Lilah), he knew how to proceed. A bigger man had to be dismantled, tendon by tendon. Joint by joint.
Gannicus whirled around Spiculus like an acrobat, employing pirouettes, rolls, and feints to frustrate his opponent. While the maul pounded at him like a piano hammer striking keys, his sword became a scalpel. Streamers of blood spewed from methodical cuts behind Spiculus’ knees and ankles, slowing the Beast and enthralling the crowd.
Spiculus pounded his chest, huffing and stamping, about to charge. His maul dinged a drone hovering overhead. It spun off course like a crashing helicopter and sideswiped the stands. The propellers sliced open a fan’s face, spritzing bystanders. They hollered with deranged glee as if being sprayed by champagne at a concert.
With few exceptions (such as a terrorist threat), nothing halted a gladiator bout. This wasn’t the first instance of fan injury or death. Waivers signed by all attendees spelled out the risks, from weapons flying into the stands to fatal technical malfunctions. Some fans considered their wounds to be a badge of honor, like catching a foul ball.
Gannicus used the distraction to plot his next move. Spiculus was weakened enough for him to attempt a decisive stroke, but the Beast had the same idea. They put distance between each other and then galloped on a collision course like knights in a medieval joust.
Spiculus spun and whipped his maul out at its full length…
Gannicus arched his back to slide under it on his knees, slicing upward…
An arm tumbled through the air, still clutching the maul. Beads of blood seemed to hover as though suspended in zero gravity. The arena held its breath, watching the limb’s flight until it plopped on the sand. The revolting squish broke the tension, rallying Gannicus’ fans.
“Gan-ni-cus!” chants washed over him like solar flares of adoration.
Most gladiators would blanch and clutch their limbless shoulder, but not Spiculus. He scowled at his severed limb as if disgusted by its failure…and pressed his attack.
The fight entered close quarters where Spiculus walloped Gannicus with one fist. His blood coated them both as their bodies intertwined. Doused, Gannicus’ sword slipped from his grip. He tried to tie up Spiculus but couldn’t stall the relentless bludgeoning. Headbutts, knees, elbows––Gannicus was tenderized like deli meat.
Ribs pierced vital organs. Shots to the liver wobbled his legs. Stunned, he saw the uppercut coming but couldn’t command his body to respond.
Gannicus’ jaw shattered and dangled open. He broke away to get his bearings, but the arena spun around him. His sight was reduced to a pinpoint at the end of a tunnel. Spiculus reclaimed his maul, creeping like the shadow of death at the perimeter of Gannicus’ vision.
Twenty pounds of metal hit him in the spine, crunching the vertebrae as if struck by a car.
Gannicus fell. His body was dead below the neck.
“Beg for mercy,” Spiculus said, maul casting a shadow over his broken foe, but Gannicus only beamed with ecstasy. “Why do you smile?”
Lilah beckoned him from the skybox, shimmering in all her golden perfection.
Waiting for him.
“Come back to me.”
Gannicus raised a hand, the life emanating from his fingertips like gossamer tendrils drawn to his wife.
“Always.”