They chained him by the neck to the stone wall of the arena. A dog on a leash. Mlik did not hear the crowd. Hatred, the only sound thundering in his heart, drummed against his tympanic, reverberated over his malleus to vibrate the cortex of his mind. Nothing else mattered. Mlik's black eyes reflected the faces of two of the men standing before him. His gaze never left them.

Askari, his opponent, stood freely beside his General. Another man stood with them. He wore a red turban and a black and gold wide striped djellaba covered by a brown burnoose. The long loose hooded garment lifted as a gust of wind caught, and then swirled it around the man's legs.

Omar Jannat looked the fighter up and down. He was tall and lean with a work hardened body. Every muscle flexed with adrenalin. A tattoo signifying his ownership stained the skin on his shoulder, bicep and chest. There was a scar running half the width of his torso along the base of his left pectoral, another ran across the top of his left cheek bone. Omar guessed the man who had brandished the knife, had done so, out of spite.

While General Dehbi and Pasha Akbar talked, Omar walked slowly around to the opposite side of the slave. He expected the man to follow his movement with his eyes. Instead, they stayed fixed on his master and lieutenant, though Omar was sure, it wasn't due to devotion. As he rounded the man, Omar saw his back had the markings of having been whipped many times.

Pity filled Omar; this man was now a creature fed on abhorrence. He had seen this before. A method used on beasts to get them to do as they are bid. It was not too late. He could be brought back to life. Looking over at Pasha Akbar and his lieutenant, Omar wondered which of them, had exercised the whip.

Pasha Akbar bowed his head at the Moroccan General. Khalil standing behind him also lowered his head in honour. Akbar smiled. His yellow teeth were stained black from chewing tobacco. "As you can see our fighter is an animal. He is revered as King of Slaves. We fight till the death."

Omar caught the pasha's words and stepped towards him. "We do not." He tilted his head in respect. "Our man, is worth too much to our sultan, to sacrifice his life." He looked at General Dehbi for back up. When he got it, in the form of a nod, he focused back on Pasha Akbar. "If our man loses, you may keep him. If your man loses, we will take ownership of him."

Akbar laughed. In his arrogance he did not give his lieutenant Khalil, the curtsey of a glance but spoke, taking full credit for his fighter's ability. "Mlik has never lost. Do you not hear the crowd call his name?"

Omar bowed his head again. "Yes. I hear it." He glanced at Mlik. "He does not."

"What does that matter?" Akbar scoffed Omar's words aside. "He will fight to kill. If you want to save your man, then you had better have soldiers ready to pull Mlik from him."

"Do we have a wager?" Omar ignored the comment and cocked his head. "If he is such a fighter, by the end, you will gain another." He took hold of Akbar's hand and bent over it, waiting for affirmation.

"Yes. We have a wager." Akbar beamed and clapped his hands sharply. "Let us begin."  

This Omar seems a decent sort.  I wonder if he can help Samuel.

Top image taken from the movie Son of God.

2nd photo copyright - Rosa Frei Photography

Middle painting copyright - Hexen.