The red sun shone behind his figure. He was dirty, he was panting, and blood was dripping down over his eye. The scimitar and the shield were left to the dirt, for he was far too dizzy to carry any weight aside from his own. But he was alive, and it was the best circumstance he could find himself in.
Skirt-chasing is an innocent business, for a pair's pleasure and no one's loss. But past a certain point, it can lead to consequences that are not exactly desirable. Laying with a merchant's daughter once had been fine. Laying with her several times had been fine. But did he really have to go to her father and ask for her hand? Him, a soldier, who held nothing and would never hold anything?
The twenty-years-old Ghali thought it was a good idea, he imagined it would have gone well, and he was utterly wrong. The face of the older man had turned from black to red, in anger, and the only thing keeping him from flipping the table had been the strong arms of two of his wives. The outrage had torn his honour, and only blood would mend it: he challenged the boy to a duel. A win would mean that nothing would have changed: he would not marry the girl, but he would not be forced away from her; losing also had no consequences outside the duel, but losing a duel meant death.
The rules were decided the next day. The weapons would be a sword, a shield, and a dagger, and the two fighters would wear no armour. Of course, the merchant was allowed to pick a champion, but the young Ghali had to fight for himself. The date was set to seven days later, and they were to meet just before twilight.
Ghali spent the entire week preparing for the fight, assisted by two of his brother's slaves. But on the sixth day, it was no time to exercise. He had to rest, and he had to clear his mind of all distraction. He ate and drank to his heart's desire in the morning, and spent the whole day staring blankly the carpet upon which he sat. He ate almost nothing at supper, and spent half the night laying with the slaves.
He rose late the next morning, and ate a good amount of honey and dried fruits, and drank a good amount of water. He would not touch meat or alcohol, for they could bring him ill fortune: the first came from death, the second could bring it. The slaves washed him, and trimmed his beard. They brushed, and combed, and oiled his hair. He was given fitting clothes for the occasion: a simple linen tunic of a vibrant blue - his favourite colour; a belt with a gold buckle; and a veil of silk on his head. The sandals were comfortable, softened by use but still good in both shape and appearance.
He arrived at the place of the meeting, where a small crowd had already gathered. Among them, his older brother, his father, and the chief-coordinator of his unit were waiting for him, holding his tools. He confronted his opponent, a man taller than him but not much broader, and not much older either. They locked eyes and they pulled up the hems of their tunics, girding up their own loins. Then they came apart again, and each one returned to his place. The first to approach Ghali was his father, who gave him his curved dagger.
"If you are to kill, honour your family in doing so."
Ghali bowed shallowly, and he secured the sheath and the knife to his belt. Then it was the chief-coordinator, who gave him his scimitar.
"If you are to die, do so as a soldier."
He bowed shallowly and he took the scimitar out of the sheath, leaving the leather to the man. Lastly it was his brother, who gave him his round shield.
"If anyone is to ward you, let the blood of your blood do so."
He bowed a third time and he took the shield. His brother fastened the buckle around his arm, then he went behind him, he removed his veil and tied his long hair with a leather string. Without a word, he went back to the crowd, leaving the young Ghali alone again.
The red sun shone behind their figures, and they were sweating like pigs. The blades had clashed many times, and even more were the times they had been stopped by the shields, yet no bind occurred and no blood was drawn. They were sweating like pigs, and while their bodies were not yet strained, they were both weary of the fight. They were alone, one against the other, with no one on their side and no one encouraging them.
The opponent came forward again. Ghali caught his blow with his shield and striked again, but the opponent closed in, aiming at his forehead with his own shield. Ghali's sword slided against the opponent's side without doing much damage, and the shield grazed his forehead tearing some skin, but the momentum knocked him to the ground. The other swung his blade to finish him, but he did not take care to ward his arm. Ghali took the chance to cut at his forearm, cleaving into the first bone but not past it. The blow was stopped, and the blade was dropped with a deafening cry of pain. The opponent ditched the shield and took out his dagger in a last desperate attempt to survive, but Ghali was already back on his feet. With range to his advantage he pressed on, missing with the first four blows but cleaving into the other's leg with the fifth. As he fell down, the younger man quickly disabled his off hand too with another cut. Ghali ditched the scimitar and the shield, and he took out his dagger, which then found its way between the other man's ribs.
The red sun shone behind his figure. He was dirty, he was panting, and blood was dripping down over his eye.
